by Mallory Rush
"My fee is fifty dollars an hour."
"Why don't we make it an even five hundred for the day?" Rand shelled out the cash and laid it on her appointment book. "This shouldn't take ten hours but I'd like to compensate for interfering with your schedule."
She looked from the neat stack of bills to him, a startled expression animating her face before she quickly disguised it. Rand decided then and there he had himself a good actress—a little unseasoned, but lots of potential. He tucked the fact away, should he need it for future reference.
"Well," she said slowly, appearing to debate. "I suppose I could break free since this seems to be urgent. Have a seat and we'll pick up where you left off."
"If you don't mind I'd rather discuss this over lunch." Not that he was hungry, but putting her at ease in a relaxed atmosphere seemed a better way to lure her in. He didn't like to get overly personal with people, but from what he'd seen of Rachel, she might respond best to exactly that. "Tell me what you're hungry for and we'll head out." Rand went to the door, not giving her time to balk.
When Rachel hesitated he twisted the knob. She made her decision, quickly stashing the money into her wallet and rummaging around for her keys. Five hundred dollars! Enough to pay the back rent and buy groceries for the month. If Rand Slick wanted to eat lunch on her time, she was in no position to quibble.
She just wished he'd quit throwing her equilibrium off, not to mention getting her side-tracked by the way he was waiting, shoving his hands into his pockets so that his shirt strained and causing his pants to do the same. Lord, she hoped she looked calmer than she was.
"How about a sandwich at the corner coffee shop?" she suggested, relieved her voice was deceptively steady.
"How about a nice place on the other side of town. No offense to the neighborhood, but I prefer other surroundings. We can flag a taxi if you're uncomfortable driving in a car alone together."
She was uncomfortable, but it came from the proximity of their bodies as they stood too close at the door. She could feel strange laps of energy generating an even stranger heat between them, feeling like radio waves riding the air and tuning in on the fine hair prickling her neck.
Rachel did her best to ignore it. He'd paid in advance and the least she could do was show some good faith by allowing him to drive. Besides, in a taxi they'd be forced to share a cramped seat.
"Starting now we're on you're time, Rand. My office is officially closed for the day. Since my car's in the shop we don't have to flip to see whose wheels we take."
He smiled, seemingly pleased, but the quirk of his lips only managed to make her awkward. Cool Hand Luke she was not at the minute, and she cursed softly when the keys slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor.
"I'll get them," he offered.
They almost knocked heads. Their hands connected at the keys. For breathless seconds she couldn't move. Meaning to laugh the accident off and pretend there wasn't something so physically startling in the contact it snuffed out her remaining composure, she slowly raised her face.
His breath was on her. There was a dark room behind his eyes, one that was as unchaste and ominous as it was lush with invitation. Leather and lace. Black velvet sheets and white silk curtains trailing the floor. Haunting. Erotic. And so dark she was momentarily blinded by his slate-eyed eclipse.
Rachel blinked, trying to get her balance. What was she doing? Decorating his bedroom and checking out his lighting scheme? Rand was way out of her range of experience and this was a professional meeting, even if her tummy rolls insisted it was more.
She took an unsteady breath and managed a faint smile.
"Not a smooth move, huh?"
"I like the way you move."
Rachel quickly raised up and shoved the key in. Damn, why couldn't she get it to lock? She was jiggling it in a frenzy when he caught her hand. Her breathing was not normal. Nothing had seemed normal since he'd walked through the stupid door she couldn't get locked.
"Let me." His hand glided over hers, working the key. It clicked. For several seconds they remained still, but then he broke the contact and Rachel exhaled the breath she'd been holding so long her lungs shuddered with relief.
"Thanks," she said, as Rand led them away, guiding her by the arm. His grip was polite but firm, and disconcertingly provocative in the subtle pressure of palm to elbow. "That's a testy door," she added to fill up the taut silence. "It takes a special touch to get it to cooperate."
"Reminds me of some people I've known." He grinned devilishly and Rachel felt like she'd just tripped over something. She glanced down, almost expecting to see one of her internal organs—her stomach most likely since her heart seemed to be hoofing a tap dance. "Take me for example." He chuckled. "Believe it or not, I can get testy."
"Why, surely you jest." Rachel laughed, glad to break the tension. "And here I thought you were always laid back."
"Laying back is something I could be tempted to indulge in—given the right person and circumstances."
Rachel looked at him sharply. If Rand had picked up her not so unsubtle reaction to him, he was certainly being forward about letting her know. Or maybe she was just so shaken by it herself she was getting her signals crossed.
"Why don't we talk about the circumstances and people in question? That is, faraway places and your sister."
"Here we are." He opened the passenger door to a Mercedes convertible. She got in without getting her answer and Rand lifted an edge of skirt trailing the ground, then draped it over her lap. "Buckle up. I've got a vested interest in keeping you safe."
The door shut and Rachel shook her head, hoping to clear it. For some reason she'd never felt less safe in her life; or so aware of a man, as the one in question climbed behind the wheel. Rand put in a CD, surprising her with his selection. Water music: dipping flute notes, the rippling cascade of a sitar. Winding. Mellow. A musically sensual ache wisping round her mind with tantalizing images.
"Do you like it?" He glanced at her keenly as he negotiated the early afternoon traffic.
"It's very exotic."
"Tell me what it reminds you of, what picture it draws in your imagination."
The low, mesmerizing appeal of his voice blended into the hypnotic lull of the clear, undulating notes. She closed her eyes and for a moment she was transported to a faraway world.
"I see... camels, people in long white robes, sand and palms." She laughed softly. "A hookah on a carved teakwood table next to a brass lamp that might belong to Aladdin. Persian rugs, dark rich silk. It's a scene from the Arabian Nights."
"And do you smell anything?"
"Sandalwood, incense, and..." Bay and night spice. Rachel's eyes snapped open. Good heavens, she'd almost described his cologne! Feeling her cheeks grow warm she rushed on, "My dad always did say I had a vivid imagination. I get carried away with it sometimes."
Rand stopped the car and she realized they were parked in front of an exclusive establishment, the kind of place she was afraid she might not know which fork to use. She'd just watch Rand and follow suit; she was good at bluffing when she had to be.
Like now. The exotic setting was still with her, catching her up in the tendrils of music which continued to play. Rand was studying her closely and not making his expected move to get out. And why was she sitting here, mooning over a potential client she was pretending to share the sense-thick scenario with? Reminding herself this wasn't a date, Rachel reached for the handle.
"Wait." He caught her hand. There was something distinctly intimate in the gesture. "Your imagination's more than vivid, Rachel. It's very close to reality. Have you ever heard of a small Middle East country by the name of Zebedique?"
"No," she said quietly, acutely aware he didn't release her hand. Could he feel her small shake, the one that hummed to a sweet vibration through her nervous system? This was not appropriate to the situation, not in the least. Hadn't her father trained her better, taught her never get involved with a client?
She wi
lled immunity but failed. Failing that, she tried to withdraw from the hand that felt too good holding hers. Only Rand didn't seem inclined to let go unless she pried it loose.
"I'd like to tell you a little about Zebedique," he said, running his thumb so lightly over hers she might have imagined the brush. "It's very similar to the place you described. Rich, a little excessive, and hedonistic. I own a house there. Quite a bit different from my place in New York."
"A vacation getaway?" And what was he doing in Vegas when New York was home? His sister, she supposed. The sister she'd almost forgotten about. Rachel winced, upset with herself. This was no way to start out her new practice.
"I guess it could be. But that's not why I bought it."
"You think your sister's there?"
He nodded. "I do. And I need a woman to get us connected. A very special woman who's savvy and brave and can pose as my—well, someone who has access to areas where only women are allowed. It's very segregated and men can't approach other men's, ah, territory."
He watched closely for a reaction and Rachel managed not to show her apprehension. He was choosing his words carefully, obviously not wanting to scare her off. No need, she thought, she was scaring herself enough, suddenly realizing she was now stroking his thumb in no imaginary way. With a mental slap of ruler to wrist she stopped the nonsense.
"Go on, Rand. You're paying me to listen. I'm all ears." And sweaty palms. She felt his fingertips glazing over the moisture, making her nerve ends leapfrog then collide as they jumped. She needed to get her hand back.
She left it in his slow rubbing care. Rachel told herself that he held her captive with his grip. The fact she was a willing prisoner was something better ignored.
"Okay, I'll be blunt. I have a plan that can get you in, as, shall we say, a desirable acquisition. No one would buy you but me and once I did no one else would dare touch you. You'd be considered my personal property."
"Your... personal... property?" Rachel stared at him hard. Surely her imagination was going berserk. All this illicit hand touching must be didling with her brain, shading his words with intimate overtones. "You're not telling me that women are being sold there for sexual purposes to the men who buy them?"
"Not just any men. Wealthy men from around the world. I understand virgins go for a premium, given supply, and American women are especially in demand because the slavers are afraid to risk many abductions. The ones they do seem to be without family to trace them. A local casino is where Sarah disappeared."
For a moment she was beyond speech. Beyond that was a surge of sympathy for Sarah, while her heart went out to Rand.
"How horrible for you. You must be worried sick."
"Worrying doesn't solve anything, action does. I need you, Rachel. Once we're there and the transaction's made, I can protect you since you'd belong to me." Something troubled and haunting was in his gaze and she puzzled it, and then she puzzled the desire to soothe it away. "Experience has taught me to take care of what's mine, no matter the opposition."
"Sarah?" she said softly.
His nod was curt. She left it alone.
"You mentioned a house in Zebedique?"
"Where we'd live—the two of us. We'd have to give the appearance of our expected roles." He smiled, that disarming smile of his that scrambled her mental faculties and made her wonder what hid beneath the smiling surface. "You can act, can't you Rachel? It wouldn't be unpleasant. The house has quite a lay out. I've got an office already set up, there's a pool, a sauna, servants around to do the cooking and cleaning. You'd have your very own handlady. I understand she used to be a masseuse. Just think, in your off time you could get back rubs."
He patted her hand and if it was meant to be comforting it was anything but. Back rubs and strong masculine hands provoked other images.
"But our roles. What would they entail?"
Rand reached for his door and she followed suit; he caught her wrist.
"For one thing it would mean I act like the sultan of the house while you pretend to stroke my ego. If you're half as good at that as you are in the hand holding department, I'll be strutting for a month."
Rachel flushed. She jerked her wrist from his grip.
"Now," he continued, drumming her clenched fist with his fingertips, "Just in case we can strike a deal what say we give it a little practice? You stay put and I'll come around to get you. Then once we're in the restaurant I'll order for us both and you look like you're hanging onto my every word when I bore you silly talking about my arbitrage business."
"Do I have to laugh if you tell a bad joke?"
"I understand all good concubines do."
"Concu—"
His door slammed shut and Rachel stared at it, mouth agape. Concubine! Hadn't that word gone out with the Old Testament? The CD shut off and Rachel was left with the uneasy impression that the music and the word went together strangely well.
As well as his hand in hers and the lingering ripple that meshed warmth with a dark, forbidden thrill.
Chapter 3
Rand topped off their champagne flutes while Rachel excused herself to the lady's room. He watched the alluring combination of slender ankles, shapely legs and hourglass curves that swayed in tandem with her gliding stride. He liked her walk. It had an attitude.
Fact was, there was a lot he liked about her. Maybe a bit too much. He'd have to be careful or she might slip under his skin, which was more than he could say for the string of women and affairs that had comprised what he supposed was a personal life.
Rand sipped his champagne, mentally toasting his good fortune. If he was going to buy a woman Rachel was definitely the one he wanted to own. He hadn't gotten her to agree yet, but he would.
If exposing himself enough to evoke her compassion and playing on the surprising physical tug between them didn't work, money would do the trick. In his experience, it always did. Then again, Rachel didn't seem to act on that modus operandi. For some reason that bothered him. Maybe because it made him feel devalued, reminded him of something he'd lost along the way: emotions he couldn't afford and qualities that didn't have a price tag.
"Now where were we?" Rachel smiled and he felt an unfamiliar throb penetrate his senses. Before she could reseat herself he got up and pushed in her chair. "Imagine, a bona fide gentleman when chivalry's supposedly dead."
She laughed softly and it felt like effervescent bubbles seeping into his pores. Natural. Wholesome. Lush. Whew.
"Imagine, a woman who accepts it as chivalry and doesn't growl `You chauvinist.'" He saluted her with his glass and she hit him with a hearty burst of laughter before he'd recuperated from the after effects of her full lipped grin. "What's so funny? I haven't even told you a bad joke yet."
"When you said growl it reminded me of a silly toast my dad used to say." She giggled and sipped at her champagne. When she looked over the rim her eyes sparkled. Rand was startled to feel something jolt him dead-center like a bulls-eye zap into a runaway target that thought it would never get hit.
"Now I'm curious." And a little shook while I'm juggling an arousal that's got nothing and everything to do with getting you to agree to share sleeping space with me. "You were going to tell me about your dad and how you grew up anyway, so why don't we start with his toast?"
"I couldn't possibly say it in here."
"Why not?"
"Because this place is so classy."
She glanced around and he noticed she seemed ill at ease. He'd also noticed the way she had emulated his choice of fork or knife during the meal. Discreetly, with a PI's ability to play a charade, but he'd deliberately used an incorrect one and she'd followed suit.
He knew. Rachel had a sharp eye but a lack of protocol savvy. He related to that. Years ago he'd spent many a hard earned dollar to order salad and soup in ritzy places like this. Watching. Assimilating. Mimicking the manners of the elite then returning to his hole in the wall to wolf down a sub-standard pizza or hotdogs with pork and beans.
&nb
sp; No, she didn't fit here any better than he did and it gave him a sense of something shared. Sure was a strange feeling, but he did find it a pleasant one. Alluring, even.
"Look, Rachel, you're classier than that high-brow bitching at her husband at the next table and I'm a paying customer. I'd say that gives us the right to say anything we damn well please." Rand lifted his glass. "C'mon, indulge me. Then you can indulge me some more and tell me about your dad."
She shrugged. "We still have a lot to discuss. You're sure this is how you want to spend your time?"
"We will. I am. And let's hear it. Sultan's decree."
"In that case, touch your glass to your nose."
Rand did as instructed though his attention was on the cute way Rachel's nose turned up and crinkled as the tiny bubbles tickled it. She had a light sprinkling of freckles across the delicate bridge, making her appear younger than the twenty-three years he'd learned she was.
"Next you have to growl." She demonstrated and he growled along with her, a low animal sound that provoked thoughts of similar noises in the heat of passion. His lids dipped to half-mast and hers opened wide.
"Uh, that's—that's very good, Rand. A little ferocious, but definitely into the spirit. Kind of."
"Maybe you should show me again," he suggested, pulling his chair next to hers. Leaning in close he inhaled her unique scent, unencumbered by cologne. Money smelled good; Rachel made money smell like dirt. "Growl for me. Soft but deep in your throat."
Something that sounded like a faint squeak emerged.
"You can do better than that, Rachel. Once more, but with feeling. C'mon, I'll even do it with you."
He made a mating noise under the pretense of a growl. She hesitated, then joined him, and this time he heard a sweet undulation sift into a kitten like purr.
"Purr-fect," he whispered. "What's that old saying, something about the cat's meow?"