He had to admit she had pretty damn fine taste, though. Those suede pants she had on looked like the guy had tanned the leather right onto her body. He rolled the cold bottle across his forehead.
“She’s getting to you,” he muttered. No, no, she wasn’t. Her leather pants were getting to him. And her slinky silky shirts, and those fuck-me-now heels she wore. And it wasn’t her doing the begging, either. What was it about spike heels—on legs like hers—that made a normally aggressive alpha male want to be tied up and whipped just for grins?
“Jesus,” he groaned, then pushed away from the cool steel doors. Just the mention of some dressmaker wrapping her up in God knew what kind of creation had made him take a moment to regroup. And it was a moment he couldn’t afford. She was a very intent person. It would be a lot easier if she was just some rich, self-centered, spoiled brat whose thoughts were solely focused on “What can I have and where can I get it?” But he was discovering that was not Tanzy Harrington.
Oh, she was definitely rich—and with her own earnings, he’d learned. She didn’t even need Millicent’s millions to bankroll those shopping sprees he was learning were as crucial to her as water was to human survival. And yes, maybe she was a little bit spoiled. She was aggressively focused on what she wanted, and how she was going to get it, and more often than not, she succeeded. But there was nothing wrong with being hungry, motivated. Which was precisely what got to him. He identified with that drive, that hunger. It was what had gotten him to the NFL. And it was that same discipline, if not exactly a hunger, that got him through job after job with his dad.
The one thing Tanzy wasn’t was self-centered. Quite the opposite. In fact, she missed nothing. Maybe that was what made her so interesting in print. She had an eye for details, paid attention to nuance. And all with a sense of humor so wry and sharp a man could bleed to death if he got too close.
Of course, there were other elements of her hunger that got to him, too. Just for a moment there, in the hall, he swore he felt her staring holes in his back. Big, hungry, Could-I-have-him-if-I-wanted-him? holes. It was the tiny flicker of disappointment he’d felt when she’d opted for the stairs that had driven him straight to a cold one. Or three.
He tugged the steel door back open, but opted for one of Tanzy’s stash of Cokes this time and fixed himself a roast beef sandwich. Heading upstairs, he thought he might catch a bit of the Lakers game before digging into work and making his call to Millicent. Ernie was working on the employee listings from the service provider and he hoped something would pop from there. He was so deep in thought, he almost ran flat into Tanzy on the turn just before the third-floor landing. She stopped short, as if not quite prepared to see him, either. “Hi,” she said after a momentary pause.
“Good evening,” he replied, just barely remembering his persona in time. He moved to one side to let her pass. Praying like hell his stupid pleated sheep trousers were baggy enough to hide his half-aroused real wolf self. Suede pants should be outlawed, he thought, trying like hell not to look at them. Surely they endangered some form of wildlife.
Yeah, he thought, men.
He started to continue up the stairs, when she cleared her throat and said, “Um, Riley? Do you have a moment?”
He turned, opting to say nothing.
A moment passed, then another. “I, uh, well—”
How interesting, he thought, biting down on the urge to smile. What could make the normally word-savvy columnist so tongue-tied? And what in the hell did it have to do with him? His urge to smile faded. “Is there a problem?”
“Actually, sort of, yes.” She smiled then and gave a little self-deprecating laugh.
And damn if he didn’t understand exactly why men threw themselves willingly under those spike heels of hers.
“Millicent has asked me to attend a little function in her honor. One of her foundations awards scholarships every year and this time she can’t be there to hand them out, so she asked me to do it. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in being my escort for the evening, would you? It’s this Sunday evening. Very last minute, I know, but she just sprung this on me.”
And everyone she’d apparently spent the last fifteen minutes calling couldn’t fill in, he thought, not sure why he was irritated to be her absolute last choice. Wasn’t the end of the line exactly where he was supposed to be?
He should be happy she’d been forced to ask. He’d have had to tail her anyway. This would make things much easier on him. “I could work something out.”
She smiled in surprised relief. “Thanks, I really appreciate it,” she said, sounding sincere. “I don’t know about you, but I just couldn’t face doing the single thing at holiday time. What is it about this time of year anyway? Must be all that mistletoe.” She paused, considering him, and for a split second, he wondered if she was thinking of finding some mistletoe and taking him for a test drive beneath it.
But before his libido could kick into full gear, she went on.
“Wait a minute. You are single, aren’t you? I mean, don’t feel that because you work for Millicent that you have to—”
Stupid. He was a mercy date. And, no matter that it was the best thing for both of them, he was really beginning to hate this whole sheep idea. “It will be fine.”
She cocked her head and looked as if she was going to push—after all, it had been a nonanswer—but in the end she shrugged and favored him with another one of those morning-after smiles. God, how did she do that? Practice, most likely. Still, he was forced to shift ever so slightly. Shift and pray she didn’t glance down.
“If you’re worried about what to wear, don’t,” she added quickly, misinterpreting his frown. “The designer Millicent is sending over will take care of it.” Just then the imperial gong Millicent favored as a doorbell resounded up the stairwell. “And there she is.” She slipped past him, down the stairs. “I’ll buzz your room when it’s your turn. Thanks, Riley.”
He stared down the empty stairwell. Buzz his room, would she? Millicent wasn’t the only one who’d perfected the hit-and-run approach to getting her way. He swore under his breath the rest of the way up the stairs.
The Lakers were down by six and he hadn’t even booted up his computer when the phone rang. “Great.” He’d almost managed to forget about the fun and excitement in store for him this evening. About as much fun as getting a tooth drilled. He snatched up the phone on the third ring.
“We’re ready for you, Riley.”
Which wasn’t the question at all, he thought. Was he ready for them? That was the question.
“The torture chamber is set up in one of the guest rooms on the second floor,” she said dryly, as if reading his mind. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
Despite wishing that he were anywhere else at the moment, he found himself smiling as he hung up.
But once inside said torture chamber, it took less than five minutes for Riley to realize there was going to be a problem. He could hardly stay in disguise if he had to strip down in front of Clarisse.
Fortunately, that problem was swiftly dealt with when she had summarily dismissed Tanzy from the room as Riley strode in. He’d enjoyed the brief look of surprise that had crossed her face, but his amusement had faded all too quickly once Madame Clarisse got busy.
She was a trim woman, barely five feet in her heels, with expertly coiffed strawberry blond hair framing a face that could only be described as manicured. She was anywhere from forty-five to sixty. Obviously not still sporting the facial structure she’d been born with, but wealthy enough, vain enough, or both, to afford to slow down the ravages of time without caricaturizing herself in the process. She was French, though he doubted she’d been born speaking the language, despite the cultured accent. And she hadn’t a lick of modesty.
He winced, trying not to flinch as she measured his inseam with a quick zip of the tape measure, a tool she wielded as ruthlessly as a lion tamer wielded a whip. He’d rather face the lion.
“Your
trousers.” She made a tsking sound as she snapped the tape around her neck and straightened. “Is off the rack, no?” She waved a hand. “You have the frame to carry a double-breasted style, though I will insist you take off your jacket for the measurement.
“Your legs, they are long and lean enough,” she went on. “Perfect for a single-pleated placket, seam pockets to keep the look clean.” She shook her head as she ran her gaze over him once again. “Why do you wear such clothes? Surely Madame Harrington, she pays you enough to get your suits fitted?”
Which brought him back to the problem. How frank could he be with Clarisse? He should have contacted Millicent and discussed this, but he hadn’t foreseen this particular problem. Nor had he mentioned his disguise to Millicent in their last several phone conversations. She’d approve, he was certain. But how to explain it to Dragon Lady here?
Maybe he could claim some horrible dermatological condition that precluded him from wearing properly fitted clothes. Or maybe you could get over yourself. Surely the nerd hair and Coke-bottle glasses were enough. It wasn’t like he was a lady-killer in a tux anyway. Of course, he wasn’t butt ugly, either. And maybe there was a tiny part of him that would enjoy strolling into the room, totally decked in full-tilt wolf attire, just for the pleasure of watching Tanzy’s mouth drop open.
Of course, there was also the chance she wouldn’t even blink.
He settled for saying, “I prefer my clothing to be roomy.”
“Roomy? What is roomy?”
“Loose-fitting. I don’t like to be constricted.”
She slid her glasses down her nose and looked right . . . there, then nodded and said, “You have a point.”
He was pretty sure well-traveled, thirty-two-year-old men didn’t blush. But then he’d challenge any guy in the locker room to five minutes in a room alone with Clarisse and see if they didn’t.
“I will take care of this for you.”
Riley shook his head. “I don’t mean to be rude and I’m sure you’d make me a tux that would rival Armani.” She sniffed, and he quickly amended, “Put Armani to shame. But I have other . . . specifications. Why don’t you take care of Tanzy’s dress and I’ll take care of finding something suitable to wear.”
She shook her head. “Madame Harrington was very adamant.”
That raised his eyebrows a fraction. So, Millicent had wanted him as the escort all along. He swallowed the little grin of satisfaction as he pictured Tanzy’s frustration when her other choices hadn’t panned out and she’d been forced to do Millicent’s bidding. Again.
“You tell me these specifications you desire and we will see what can be done,” she instructed.
“You will be discreet, I trust?” She looked so offended, he relaxed a little. He eyed the closed door, then sighed and slipped off his jacket.
“Oh my.”
“Can you adjust the cut to hide this?”
She looked at his shoulder holster like one might look at a deadly snake, but quickly regained her professional bearing. He could see the multitude of questions in her eyes, but she asked none of them as she went about measuring his arms and back.
He relaxed completely. Or as completely as one could around Clarisse. He should have known Millicent would have seen to this detail as she’d seen to so many others.
“The jacket, it will not have as good a line here.” She zipped her fingers down along his shoulder blades. “But you have broad enough shoulders to carry it off.” She shook her head. “A shame really, to hide such a frame as this.” She circled to the front of him, took his chin in her hand, and turned his head this way, then that. Another snort of disgust. “A waste.” She turned then and began making notes on a small pad.
Riley stood there, but she didn’t say anything else. Finally she turned and seemed surprised to find him still standing there. “You will have delivery Sunday by noon.”
He shrugged back into his jacket. “Do you need help with this?” He gestured to the narrow rack that held a number of zippered garment bags.
“If you will wheel it to the elevator,” she commanded dismissively.
He was tempted to salute, but he managed a nod. He rolled the rack to the elevator and out the front door to where a driver and car sat idling. He’d assumed Millicent had sent the ride, but the efficient way the driver dismantled the rack and carefully stowed the garment bags said otherwise. Clarisse came bustling out of the house a moment later. Riley thought she was going to blow right by him, but she paused at the last second and looked up at him.
“You are good at your job?” she asked quietly.
“It gets one hundred percent of my attention.”
She peered in his eyes, then nodded. “I would not like anything bad to happen to these people.” She jerked her pointed chin toward the house.
“Me, either.” He slid his glasses off and gave her the grin he’d been hiding since he got here. “Bad for business.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed shrewdly. Her smile was equally sly. “You’ll do,” she said, without a hint of an accent, before sliding into the car and disappearing behind tinted glass.
Replacing his glasses, Riley gave her that salute, then watched the car ease away from the curb before glancing up to the turreted tower window in Tanzy’s corner of the house.
She stood there, silhouetted by the lamplight. She didn’t wave, nor did she move away. She simply stared down at him. Riley held her shadowed gaze for several long, very unwise moments, before finally heading back into the house.
Her door remained shut as he passed by. He let himself into his own rooms, flicked off the game, and booted up his computer. And reminded himself that giving one hundred percent to the job was exactly why he was only allowed to look.
And never touch.
When did ballroom dancing cease to be a viable form of foreplay? Even a waltz, the most basic one-two-three one-two-three dance there is, when done with the right person, is more arousing than the naughtiest lambada. With the wrong person? About as stimulating as doing the wave.
Chapter 6
Tanzy paused at the top of the final sweep of stairs. Riley waited for her below. He was no Carmine, but he didn’t look half bad. He had a sort of Clark Kent in a tux thing going on.
“Is the car here?” she asked as she descended the remaining stairs. He looked up, exactly as she’d known he would. She tried to casually assess the impact her dress had on him. She had to admit that Millicent had done well by sending Clarisse. Strapless, form-fitting, with a definite movie star vibe to it. Not that she was all that glamorous, but if a dress could make the woman, then for a night she was Julia Roberts. Hell, she’d settle for Julie Andrews.
Riley, on the other hand . . . well, he was more Hugh Grant than Hugh Jackman—even Clarisse’s talents could only do so much—but beta men did have their uses. Tonight being one of them.
However, if the flame-red sheath had any effect on him, he didn’t let it show. She smiled as her inner Julia took his blank look square in the ego. Honestly, Tanz, what did you expect? That he’d fling off his glasses, peel out of that tux, and take you right here on the stairs?
And why did she think she wanted him to?
There might not be a big red S on his chest, but he was a gentleman. And a genuinely nice guy for doing her this favor. She had to get over this unexplainable fixation she had with getting him to notice her.
She turned, presented her back—and the spine-baring rear cut of the dress—as he held up her wrap. “I hope Millicent didn’t make you feel obligated about doing this,” she said sincerely. He draped the silk-lined shawl around her shoulders and she couldn’t help but notice he’d managed to do so without touching her once, not even a skimming brush of his fingertips. It was only the deflating sense of disappointment that revealed just how much she’d anticipated having his hands on her.
Remember the limp handshake, she thought, and still wished she’d had another moment for comparison.
“I just want you to know
how much I appreciate you going through this, especially at the last minute.”
“It’s not a problem,” he said, with no inflection indicating whether it truly was or not.
She resisted the urge to stamp her foot in frustration. Could a man really be so . . . so . . . vanilla?
Riley held the door for her as she strolled out in front of him. No noticeable aftershave or cologne, she noted. And yet, despite her mental talking-to, she still had this undeniable urge to pause next to him, lean in a little, push things. Just to see if she could get a reaction from him. Any reaction.
God, this whole last-bridesmaid thing was obviously getting to her. That, and the holidays, and the special dinners, and the whack emails, and the house-sitting. It was no wonder she felt so off balance. Any other time she’d have let him drift into the background and stay there, where he obviously wanted to be, without a second thought. Much less a third. Or a fourth.
She’d never been one of those women who needed the attentions of every man in her immediate orbit. In fact, she was often glad to be in the background. It was her business to be an observer of the ebb and flow of the serendipitous gender dance that swirled through people’s lives. The little moments of awareness that could be enjoyed innocently and just as quickly forgotten . . . or acted upon and possibly end up as something memorable. She enjoyed watching it almost as much as she enjoyed the dance herself.
From the innocent flirtatious banter with the guy at the gas station pump, to the harmless ten-second fantasy about what she might do with the man in the elevator if they happened to suddenly get stuck, to the occasional double glances when brushing past a member of the opposite sex on the way into a bookstore. Everyone had them, it was all a matter of how aware you were of them—and what you did about them—that made them important.
Mostly she wrote about them. Amongst other things. And maybe that’s what Riley was. Potential column fodder.
The Big Bad Wolf Tells All Page 6