by Mallory Rush
She quickly reached for her champagne. Rand intercepted her and put the glass to her lips, raising it slightly so that a trickle escaped the side of her mouth. And what a mouth, he thought with a sensual pang. Made for kissing and kissing back until her lips were even fuller than they already were.
He felt the shift of his body, his tongue dancing against his teeth. Craving to lap the stray drop, he bit down before he could act on the compulsion. Quickly salvaging the linen napkin she was twisting in her lap, he dabbed the liquid away.
"Rand," she said in a strangled voice. "Rand, those people are watching us."
"Oh? Then let's do the toast since we've hooked an audience. Maybe it'll give them something to talk about besides what they were arguing over."
"But it's for a noisy bar or a party with friends."
"Then let's be friends and have our own private party." Friends. He'd like that with her, he realized. And then he found himself exposing his truer colors, feeling his mouth forming the words while his ears could scarce believe he was lowering the guard that was his constant companion.
"Pretentiousness doesn't score many points with me," he heard himself say, "And believe it or not, I'm more at home in a corner bar than hobnobbing with the likes of our fellow diners. I like you, Rachel. Just the way you are."
"Rocky," she said, almost to herself. He quirked a brow in question and she claimed her glass. "Okay, here goes: Look Out Mouth." His gaze settled on her lips. She wet them and he managed not to try for a taste of her little pink tongue. "Look Out Gums. Open up throat. Here it comes!"
Rand nearly choked on a growl while a belly deep laugh tickled his grinding lust. Oh, to laugh, it did feel good. If Rachel only knew it was like a gift tied with a bow of joy.
"Lady, you are dynamite."
"I am?" Rachel couldn't believe what she was hearing. Mouths, gums, and throats weren't exactly crème de la crème.
Whatever his standards were of judging people, they sure weren't the norm. Then again, Rand was anything but the norm himself. They were a pair in some way she couldn't finger. Him, with his brutish, suave exterior; her, with her bungling attempts at sophistication that only magnified how out of synch she was in this up-tight, budget stiffing joint.
The Caesar salad was stuck in her throat while something called Pate du Gras and Beef Bourguignon stamped down on it with the feel of fussy toes in a grape vat. As far as she was concerned, the lettuce was wilted, the pate stuff was fancy chopped liver and beef whatever-you-called-it reminded her of Dinty Moore with some Carlo Rossi stirred in for good measure.
"I think maybe you mean Rice Crispies, Rand. I'm closer to snap-crackle-pop than dynamite."
"Says who? You? Or some significant other I'd like to know about if there's one hanging around."
Rachel hesitated as his eyes narrowed on her. Rand Slick wasn't someone to toy or flirt with. If she was smart she'd nip this in the bud, tell him she was heavily involved with someone who didn't exist. That's what she'd do, lie. Lie and get this meeting back on track. Forget his dark charm, ignore the delicious push-pull that felt like buckshot zinging between them too fast, and settle for the safety of echoes.
"No significant other." Rachel closed her eyes, angry with herself. She'd lied right nice, just to the wrong person. If hell was paved with good intentions she ought to be frying any minute.
"In that case, you are definitely dynamite. A lit stick that's giving me a charge I haven't had in... well, maybe never." A waiter appeared and took his plastic. "Now tell me how you turned out this way. I get the impression that dad of yours taught you more than a toast and how to frisk a hood making a statement."
Rachel laughed self-consciously, reminded of their hands-on intro. Those muscles of his were... better not to remember.
"He raised me. My mother died before I was old enough to remember much about her."
"And did your mother have beautiful red hair?"
"She had red hair." Rachel smiled, greatly pleased by his compliment. She touched her hair, then stroked her fingers through it before she realized what she was doing. Preening! She was preening for him and wishing he was doing the touching instead of her. Rachel jerked her hand away. Rand looked as if he longed to pick up where she'd left off.
"Anyway, Daddy did the best he knew how bringing me up. He signed me onto a softball team when I was six and taught me to throw a punch when the boys said I pitched like a girl."
"Did he teach you to throw the ball too?"
"You bet. Especially when I almost got kicked off the team for bloodying the biggest bully's nose."
He laughed and she enjoyed the deep sound; a far different kind of pleasure than the illicit one she'd felt in hearing his sexy growl. She liked to make him laugh. Maybe because she was pretty sure the faint lines fanning his eyes weren't owed to laughter.
"Was he protective when you started dating?"
"I'll say. He told me boys had one thing on their minds and he should know since he was one of them. He had this test for judging them. Handshakes. Said you could tell a lot about a man by the way he shook hands. A limp handshake? Wimp. A firm handshake meant guts."
As he chuckled, Rand stretched. Her gaze slid to his chest. Without his suit coat on she could discern the width and proportions of his musculature. Again she was reminded of a street tough with a smooth veneer. Rocky. Slamming his punches into a side of beef instead of a punching bag. The underdog coming out on top, compensating for life's short-comings with grit and character. She hadn't tested his handshake but she was certain he had guts and then some.
"I can understand his wanting to be protective. It's something I've felt in the past. The distant past." His expression let her know he hadn't missed where she'd been looking and rather liked catching her at it. "So. Besides playing ball, throwing punches, and screening your dates' handshakes, what else did you pick up from your dad?"
"Target shooting. Hanging around his office, learning the business. Sitting in on poker games with him and the boys while they drank beer and swapped jokes. If you were expecting fancy dresses and cheerleading practice, I don't qualify. Disappointed?"
Rand tapped a finger to his lips. She wished he'd quit doing that. It kept drawing too much attention to his mouth. In fact, everything he'd said and done had drawn too much attention to him as a man, her as a woman, and too little to the real reason they were here. It should bother her; it bothered her that it didn't.
"Disappointed? Hardly. Intrigued? Very. But I can imagine it must have been hard growing up like that. Setting you apart from other kids your age." He hesitated, but then she felt his hand cover hers. "I know what that's like."
A small silence fell between them, one that was easy but not. She felt a sense of sharing a common bond, while she could feel him pulling back, as though he'd confessed more than he wished he had and was struggling to understand why.
The waiter broke into their tentative liaison before she could explore this lure of the unknown. How much of the exterior masked a protective nature, a past that marked him as different from others? It tugged at her, just as the marvelous sensation lingered that Rand found her intriguing.
As they walked to the car, he kept his hand at the small of her back. The light touch sparked a tingle at the base of her spine then shot in opposing directions. It felt like the feather of kisses traced by the tip of his tongue and why was she thinking such a thing?
Some PI she was. Her conduct in the restaurant had been anything but professional and her thoughts had been even less. She felt miserable about it. Miserable and fantastic, what with this glow that packed the punch of ten hot toddies in a single gulp. It simmered then expanded as his hand shifted to settle at her waist. Then she felt a slight squeeze that was pure mmm... Magic. Madness.
Distance, she had to get it and quick. If she hit that nerve of his maybe he'd keep the distance she couldn't summon.
"You didn't tell me about how you grew up. Or how you came to lose your sister."
For a
fleeting moment something so poignant it was tortured softened his features. But then he erased it, his expression as blank as a washed down chalkboard. Rocky was transforming into a renovated highrise, all the cracks and damage disguised by plaster patches, fresh coats of paint and tightly sealed windows. One-way windows. The kind designed to look out but deflecting the view of anyone trying to look in.
Funny thing about windows, she thought. They had a way of getting broken or left open. Glass was fragile and accidents did happen.
"I lost Sarah to fate, Rachel. As for growing up, my home was on the streets. Alone."
"And?"
"And arbitrage is a risky business with big returns if you've got a knack for juggling two things at the same time. I buy and sell securities simultaneously when I detect a discrepancy in the going price. The way I operate is by getting rid of what I buy almost before I acquire it. In rare cases I hang onto something for myself. If you're good, and I am, big profits are reaped. If you screw up, and that's easy to do, it's immediate death."
She frowned, disappointed. In him, for being so stingy and then giving her the distance she needed. But most of all she was upset with herself, for telling him too much and so freely while she wanted more than he gave.
"You think I told you nothing, don't you?"
"You explained your line of business but left out much of personal importance."
"Wrong. Read between the lines, Rachel. After all, you're a PI. You should be good at this." He waved her into the car and she got in. Rand leaned in close, bay and night spice evoking water music images. "While I drive you can think me over. Who knows? Maybe you'll figure me out, which is more than anyone else has ever pulled off."
"I don't guess you're feeling generous enough to spare a hint or two?"
His lips thinned, and then slowly shifted to a sly smile. "Think of me as a Rubric's Cube. But even if you solve it, the colors won't quite line up because a few slots are missing. Oh, and the hinges are stubborn too. Comes from some jagged edges on the inside that've been there too long to give from their old groove."
As he drove, Rachel stole glances at his profile while she puzzled the maze. Missing: Sarah. But what else? And what had caused the jagged edges he seemed more comfortable with than exposing even a small bit of himself?
The music hovered between them, slipping into the crevices of her mind and playing tricks on reality. She could see him dressed in a sheik's flowing white robe, autonomous and mysterious, until he shed it and revealed all his missing pieces, rough edges, and multi-colored hues to a special woman. She saw her in a sari of white gauze, her arms open wide and trembling as he slipped away her veil.
Rachel couldn't see her face. Yet she couldn't deny that more than anything, she wanted the woman to be her.
Chapter 4
Rand stretched then leaned back into the cushions of Rachel's old couch, feeling an odd delight in simply being close to her after their first meeting had been cut short. He'd had to rush back to New York after their lunch to straighten out a potential mess on a high-stakes acquisition.
Two things had struck him in their three day separation: For once, he resented the intrusion of his work, finding the manic pace annoying rather than exhilarating. Add to that, he'd caught himself calling her on several occasions with tidbits of information that could have easily waited.
Truth was, he liked the sound of her voice, the kittenish freshness of it. But most of all, that breathless little catch that made him think they were sharing this peculiar sensation of lightheadedness—like the earth had changed the rules of gravity, causing his jaded senses to buoy on air while his feet moonwalked the New York concrete that had as much substance as a marshmallow.
Staring at her bent head while she studied Sarah's file, Rand marveled at this internal out of synchness. He'd all but run to her front door, anxious, and yet certain he was imagining the whole crazy thing. And then he wasn't certain of anything, not even his name because she'd knocked the supports out from under him with a single dazzling smile.
Whump! He'd felt the ground tilt while a soft, tingling blow clobbered him right between the eyes. He didn't know what the hell it was. Not lust; it went beyond that. And surely not love. He'd never been in it, never expected to be, and he most certainly didn't believe in love at first sight.
Rachel's brow was furrowed when she suddenly looked up.
"You're staring at me."
"Caught me. Want me to stop?"
"No—I mean, yes. You make it hard to concentrate."
"Do I? Sorry," he lied, then managed a half truth. "I'm trying to judge your reaction to what you're reading." He leaned over and tapped a well-thumbed page. "I see you've gotten to the meat of the matter."
"The investigator you hired did a good job. Several slavers operating under a single umbrella and shipping to one port. Zebedique." She tossed several photographs from the file onto the coffee table. "I thought you said you didn't have any other pictures of Sarah. I do assume this is her—or at least what I can see of her, covered from head to foot in the local costume."
"That's her. The men I hired to keep Sarah under surveillance managed to snap those before her guards joined her. As to why I didn't show you these before, two reasons. First, there's not much to see. Just a pair of eyes peeking out and the rest of her face under a scarf. Second—"
"You thought it might scare me off if I got a look at these too soon."
"Bingo. You do have to admit our first meeting was enough of a shocker as it was." Fearful of the effect the Polaroid images could still have on her decision, he tried to get a fix on their impact. "I felt the nature of these photos were more graphic than if she'd been wearing nothing. Maybe you can understand why I held out on you."
"I do, and it was probably a smart move on your part. Even knowing what I know now I can hardly believe what I'm looking at. It's another world and not one I'd ever care to be in. Imagine, living without the freedom to walk alone or even choose how you want to dress." Rachel studied the pictures a moment longer before replacing them in the file. She shook her head and said bluntly, "This is a very nasty business. It needs to be exposed, Rand."
"As soon as I've got Sarah. Any tip off before then would implicate the one casino manager who's rolling in his dirty pay-off dough. If I finger him now and he squeals on his crooked buddies, any chance Sarah's got is snuffed."
"But this has been going on too long. Sarah disappeared months ago and who knows how many women were abducted before her. Surely there's another way besides the one we've discussed."
"Don't you think I've considered every other angle? I've kept round the clock surveillance in Zebedique since I traced her there. They've located the house—"
"Conveniently close to the one you bought when you went to check the country out yourself?"
"Of course. Unfortunately, she's too heavily guarded to make a successful snatch. Unless you can come up with a better idea, I see no other way but to make the connection at the bath house she's taken to every Friday."
"Women only, right?"
"That's right. Massages, whirlpools, saunas. I understand from one of the servants I hired—the masseuse that would be your guard—that the concubines are left unattended in the sauna."
"They're not afraid their prisoners might escape?"
"Hardly. Not when they're naked and have to be covered from head to toe just to walk down the street."
Rachel tapped the pen she'd been using to take notes and he stared at her hand, taken again by the delicate structure of tapered fingers he would love to feel sifting through his hair, flexing against his neck, reaching for his...
She abruptly stopped the tapping. And then he remembered his unbecoming little speech that first day. Pat. Abrasive. Typical of the man he'd become, that didn't quite seem to be the same man within the skin that felt an inexplicable need for her touch.
"This handmaid, or guard," she said.
"Jayna."
"How do you know she was telling you
the truth? That she wasn't suspicious and might be setting you up?"
"Because she's under the impression I'm going to take up residence with a concubine of my own and I wanted to be sure said concubine would have no chance of escape. She's retired from the bath house and I'm paying her well. Jayna has no need to be suspicious and every reason to draw a generous paycheck."
"You've been thorough."
"So have you." He smiled when she arched an expressive brow in surprise. "You checked up on me while I was gone. Were you satisfied with what you discovered?"
"I was impressed," she admitted. "You're very high-profile. Respected. Successful to the point of embarrassment. But even the business magazines say you're as much a mystery man as a wunderkind. No one knows where you came from. There doesn't seem to be a trace of your whereabouts until you hit the arbitrage business eight years ago. You've been elbowing and plowing your way to the top ever since."
"Surely you don't believe everything you read."
"No. But apparently you found out I made a few calls. I was left with the impression that you're not necessarily liked by your competition, but you are feared. Even by other cut-throats in the business. You have quite a reputation, Mr. Slick, for playing dirty pool."
He usually regarded such a comment as a compliment of sorts. But coming from her, he felt a sudden need to defend himself.
"I play to win, Rachel. It's the only way I know to survive. And before you swallow someone else's sour grapes, keep in mind we're all by-products of our circumstances."
"Meaning?"
"It's true I'm less merciful than most, but maybe it's because I have reason to be hungrier than they ever thought about being." He could see her weighing this, turning it this way and that and emerging with something that might have been sympathy.
Sympathy for Sarah's case he wanted. Any other kind he wanted nothing of.
"Sliding that around the Rubik's Cube? Careful of the jagged edges, Rachel," he warned. "My competition is and they're ten times tougher than you."