And then it clicked into place. That’s exactly what he was, exactly why she was so intrigued by him. He was a prime opportunity to do a more in-depth study of her sheep theory. To discover what it was about the beta man that made women give up their independence for I Do’s, honeymoon sex, and sonograms of baby penises. And after all, when was she ever going to get the chance again to actually observe one this up close and personal?
Excited by her little epiphany, she slid into the limo and Riley followed, sitting diagonally across from her. Clark Kent, she mused again. It was an apt comparison now that she thought about it, and found herself wondering how he’d stack up under closer observation. Of course, Clark Kent had been the ultimate wolf in sheep’s clothing. Could that be the case with Riley? Could that be what her radar was detecting? Hmmm.
Observation Number One, she noted mentally. He has long legs. She’d never noticed before. Probably the relaxed cut of his clothes. But stretched out as they were now, right next to her, they were hard to ignore. That prompted a sole check. Hmm. Interesting. Medium to thick. He shifted his feet just then and she darted her gaze up to his, flashing a quick smile to brazen her way past being caught checking him out. But he was looking out the window.
Observation Number Two. Not a bad profile. Strong chin. Decent nose. Forehead not bulgy, hairline not receding. He still needed a decent stylist. The parted-on-the-side look definitely didn’t work for him. Something short, natural, would define those cheekbones. Which led to the glasses. What would he look like without the Magoo lenses? Why doesn’t he go for contacts? Or laser surgery?
The limp handshake came to mind again. Maybe all the laser surgery and fashion makeovers wouldn’t help. Maybe there was no inner Superman here. Even in the tux, he was pretty much All Clark, All the Time.
“Have you been to events like this before?” she asked, expanding her unscientific little study beyond the physical to the personal. With what little she’d seen of him since moving in, she really knew next to nothing about him.
He glanced briefly in her direction, just enough to be polite. “Similar.”
Tanzy nodded, smiled, but was privately sighing. Had she ever met such a nonstarter? Was he shy or merely retiring? “For the most part, you don’t have to do anything but nod and shake hands with people. Oh, and I don’t know if you’re much of a dancer, but as Millicent is the key contributor, I should warn you that we’ll probably be expected to at least make a showing on the dance floor. I should have mentioned it sooner.” For heaven’s sake, she was almost babbling, and why? It wasn’t as if she was nervous. Riley would handle himself fine. She had a greater chance of being bored to tears tonight than anything else.
So the sudden spike in her pulse rate when his gaze shifted to hers again took her totally off guard. It must be that tux. Clarisse was truly a wizard.
“It’s not a problem,” he said evenly, almost absently, but his gaze held hers steadily. Not remotely shy. Or retiring.
Again, her fingers twitched with the urge to do something rash. Grab him, shake his absolutely unshakable demeanor. Or maybe she was imagining this enigma factor. Had her new solo single status thrown her so badly for a loop that she’d become desperate for entertainment?
Then there was that moment the other night, when he’d glanced up at her window after seeing Clarisse off. It had been too dark to see his eyes, but as ridiculous as it sounded, she swore something had passed between them in that moment. Yeah, she thought, jealousy. She’d watched his easy camaraderie with Clarisse, their bent heads, his little salute as she drove off. There was nothing easy like that between them. In fact, there was nothing at all. And then he’d glanced up.
And she’d been thinking about him ever since.
The limo slid smoothly to the curb in front of the domed City Hall at the Civic Center, and the door was opened for them a moment later.
She wasted half a second hoping he’d slide out first, then reach in for her hand to draw her out. After all, those courtly manners of his should be good for something. But Wainwright, Millicent’s longtime driver, was the one to reach in for her hand. Riley merely nodded and shifted his long legs to the side so she could slip out.
All the way through the grand marble lobby and up the wide sweep of stairs, she found herself wishing he’d put his hand on her lower back, even the lightest of touches, ever the polite escort. But he remained just a hair farther apart than polite society dictated. And the hell with being polite, she thought disgustedly.
She’d nodded hello to several of Millicent’s acquaintances she was familiar with, had even said a surprised hello to Martin and his wife, who she’d never met before. Giselle. Funny, she’d never thought of Marty as having a wife with an exotic-sounding name. She’d pictured a Betty or a Barbara. Someone with June Cleaver hair and a Doris Day smile. Giselle had neither. In fact, she didn’t look all that thrilled to be here. Tanzy had forgotten her editor was one of the many supporters of the foundation. They’d both made polite introductions, but Martin had privately flashed her a surprised look at her choice of escort. Which only went to prove she was insane for thinking Riley could ever be more than he was. A sheep recognized his own kind.
Mr. and Mrs. Marty—which was how she’d think of them, regardless—moved on and Tanzy and Riley stepped into the crowded room. Pausing just inside the doors, Tanzy did the automatic single-girl visual scope of the place. Gorgeous marble floors and pillars gleamed, a perfect backdrop to the swirl of silks and diamonds floating about the floor. She didn’t notice any of it. Tall, dark, and tuxed was what usually caught her eye. And it would be just her luck if every available gorgeous wolf on the prowl was here tonight. Carmine would have worked it out, as she would for him. Instead she got to be The Lady in Red for the one guy who wouldn’t appreciate it, but would keep anyone else from appreciating it, either.
Observation Number Three: Nice guys ruin everything.
Jesus, she even made the soles of his feet sweat. What the hell had he been thinking to agree to something like this? Oh yeah, being her escort would be easier, sure. No one had bothered to tell him she’d be dressed like Santa Claus’s personal sex elf. Hell, if sex with Santa turned her on, he’d don the jolly red suit right here and now. Beard and all.
His knuckles ached from keeping his fingers so tightly tucked against his palms. It was that or grab her and drag her back to the limo. See if that silky skin of hers tasted as good as he knew that silky dress would feel. He’d been doing a pretty damn good job with the aloof bit so far. She likely thought he was an asshole, if she thought about him at all. Probably not, seeing as she was looking everywhere but at him. Though he was damned if he didn’t want to get her attention. The more she ignored, avoided, and sidestepped him, the more he perversely wanted to get in her way. Highly unprofessional, but there it was.
Maybe it was genetic after all. That was a hell of a thought. Though he’d rather be tortured before ever admitting even thinking it. To Finn, or himself.
Then she’d had to go and mention the dancing. Fancy shindig like this, he doubted it was the kind where partners didn’t touch each other. He sent a private thank-you to his college coach, who’d insisted his players take a semester of dance to enhance their footwork. Only that had been a decade ago. He could only pray it was like riding a bike. Or sex.
He watched Tanzy shake hands and smile her way across the main room as they weaved to their table. The head table. Jesus, what was he doing here? He’d been lying through his teeth when he said he’d been to functions like this. Sure, he’d done fund-raisers with his teammates, for the organization and for charity, even some high-end stuff for the team owner. But the key word there had been team. Like awkward adolescents at homecoming, they could all hang together, grin a lot, and hope like hell no one asked them to dance. Those had been the times he’d been glad he wasn’t a superstar, recognizable to all.
Still, it had been years since he’d even donned a tux. And, as it turned out, it wasn’t like sex at all
.
He made the best of it, nodded when introduced, tried to look interested as everyone chattered on about how wonderful it was that Tanzy had come in Millicent’s place, pasted on a smile when absolutely necessary . . . and scanned the place almost desperately for a glass of something other than fizzy sweet champagne. What was wrong with serving cold beer at fancy functions? he wanted to know.
He should be working the room himself. This place was a veritable smorgasbord of the rich and richer. He could probably muster up enough charm to bullshit his way into a dozen or so contacts and potential clients before the night was over. Unfortunately, he’d cast himself in this stupid sheep role, which precluded him from schmoozing the guests.
Or her.
Which only reminded him of what his father had been doing in Santa Rosa for the past couple of weeks. And not alone, most likely. When Riley agreed to partner up with his dad, he’d made it clear that if Finn wanted a retirement nest egg, then professionalism was key in turning Parrish Securities into a real player in the field. But his dad was a player of an entirely different kind. Not that Finn minded hard work, as long as hard play was incorporated on a regular basis. Which was all fine and well, except Finn incorporated his work directly into his pleasure. And he never seemed to understand why this was a problem.
The food was served, and the four-course meal kept them all thankfully busy. Afterward, Riley had to admit he enjoyed watching Tanzy up at the podium, handing out the scholarships. As much to watch her normally confident demeanor turn a bit flustered beneath the lights and attentions of a ballroom full of people as to watch the delighted expressions of the recipients.
He knew how much it meant, the chance for higher education. He owed his to his skills on the gridiron. He’d have never gone to college if he’d had to depend on Finn financially to get him there, but his father had certainly pushed him hard enough. Of course, Riley’s degree was in physical education, and here he was, an investigative security specialist. Still, he could relate to the starry eyes and dreamy smiles of the young people as they gratefully accepted their endowments.
That didn’t keep him from being intrigued by the dichotomy of Tanzy Harrington. Femme fatale with men, single-woman heroine to her readers, quick-witted in interviews, poised on her taped talk-show spots, and downright brazen on the radio . . . but totally unaccustomed to the actual spotlight.
And then she was seated next to him again, a bit breathless, her cheeks flushed and her eyes a bit starry as well. “I can certainly see why Millicent gets off on this,” she said, trying for that jaded wit she did so well. But Riley heard the honest excitement in her words, saw it on her face. “I felt like a total fraud up there, though,” she went on. “My name might be the same as the foundation’s, but I don’t have a single thing to do with any of it. It’s all Millicent’s work. Hard work, too, from what everyone has told me tonight.”
“So why don’t you get involved?”
His quiet question startled her into silence. He hadn’t meant to ask it, to cross even the most intangible line from professional into personal. But before he could retract it, she responded, and quite honestly if her expression was any gauge. And that was one thing he was learning about Tanzy—good or bad, she laid it out there for the world to see.
“Maybe I will. I’ve never wanted to before. In fact, I’ve done my best to run in the opposite direction where my ancestral obligations are concerned.” She glanced at him, that clever, daunting smile curving her lips once more. One-on-one, she was definitely in her element. “Preferring to build my own heritage, as it were. Less to answer up to that way.”
“You seem to have done all right for yourself. I’m sure your aunt is proud of you.”
“I’m not entirely sure of that,” she stated with her typical innate frankness. “Oh, she’s happy enough for my successes. But I know she’d be happier still if I took an interest in the family end of things.”
Riley managed to curb most of his instinctive smile, but not his tongue. “I don’t know. I think your independent streak is part of your heritage as well. I’m not so sure Millicent would be all that fond of having another cook in the kitchen. As it were.”
Tanzy laughed. “You have a point. My fervent wish has always been—and I’ll hunt you down if you tell her this—that she will leave everything to her charitable foundations when the time comes. Although, like I said before, if anyone can outlive us all, Aunt Millie can.”
He was trying like hell to remain restrained. But not responding to her natural vivacity and drive was like trying to resist taking his next breath. He was beginning to sympathize with all the poor saps she talked about in her column. Perhaps he should have taken Millicent’s warnings about her grandniece’s effect on the opposite sex a tad more seriously.
“I can be trusted to keep all confidences,” he said, summoning whatever was left of his inner sheep.
Her lips curved. And he wanted badly to howl. Right after he tasted them, at length. Danger and genetics be damned.
“I don’t suppose my aunt would have hired you otherwise,” she said. “And when did Millicent hire you anyway? I don’t really keep track, she has a hefty staff on retainer, but I think I’d have remembered you.”
Which is precisely the kind of thing you don’t want to hear her say. Time to rein it in, and rein it in hard. Be the sheep. “I’ve only been in her employ recently.”
“And before that?”
He merely looked at her. “I was employed elsewhere.”
Tanzy rolled her eyes. “Pretty mysterious for a personal assistant.”
“Most of my employers prefer the low profile I provide.” He’d meant to say it dismissively, but somehow it sounded . . . suggestive. He made a mental note to never, under any circumstance, think role-playing was a fun way to beef up an assignment.
She propped her elbow on the table, rested her chin in her hand, her expression quizzical.
“What?” he asked, unable to help himself as her silent perusal continued.
She shook her head, and straightened in her seat. “You’ve strung together more words in the past ten minutes than I’ve heard you utter in the two weeks I’ve known you. Or is that all part of that low-profile thing?”
“We haven’t spent much time together.”
“Maybe we should work on that. And that low profile of yours.”
Riley never thought he’d be so thankful to hear the orchestra play their introductory notes, but at that moment he could have kissed every one of them. Until it occurred to him that dancing was going to be even worse torture.
As the other foundation members at their table stood, then looked at them expectantly, Riley clamped his jaw and stood. He gestured silently to the dance floor with a polite nod.
Tanzy allowed him to pull her chair out for her. But as she stood, she sent him a private wink and whispered, “I’m sorry,” as she passed him. Apparently he was as easy to read as she was. He’d have to work on that.
As the floor was rapidly crowding, he was forced to place his hand on her back to guide her. Her excruciatingly beautiful and very naked back. She found a small spot and turned gracefully toward him, letting her hand easily come to rest on his shoulder as he took her other hand in his own.
Think limp, he schooled himself. And he wasn’t just focusing on his hands.
Fortunately, the crowd made any real movement impossible, allowing him to basically just shift his feet to the music. Unfortunately, the crowd also pushed them together. Often. He did the best he could to move them apart as swiftly as possible after each contact, careful to send an apologetic look her way, but otherwise staring past her shoulder.
He knew he was being aloof bordering on rude, especially after their table conversation. He also knew she’d noticed, gauging from the tiny lines at the tightened corners of her mouth, despite her pasted-on smile. A smile he knew she only maintained because of the constant nods aimed in their direction as the throng ebbed and flowed around them. Which was all
fine with him. If she thought him stiff-assed, maybe she’d lose the interest he’d unwittingly sparked. Okay, not so unwittingly. Uncontrollably maybe.
But as the music continued, he found his thoughts wandering, to the feel of her slender hand in his, the narrow waist his palm spanned, the rustle of her silk dress, the smooth flow of their movements as she matched her rhythm to his. And, despite never thinking himself much of a dancer, much less ever using the dance floor for seduction, he allowed himself several long moments of imagining what it would be like if he weren’t here under false pretenses. Imagined smiling down into her direct and very knowing gaze as he guided her around the floor, the two of them so wrapped up in each other that the rest of the world faded away. It was just her, in his arms, following his lead . . . on the dance floor, then off.
And then he realized he was staring at her . . . and that she was very intently watching him stare at her.
“What?” she asked, although with the orchestra in full swing, he could only tell what she’d said by reading her lips. Lips painted as red as that siren song of a dress Clarisse was torturing him with. And then he was leaning, closer to those lips, closer to finally tasting what he so badly wanted to sample. Their bodies slowed almost to a stop as his mouth hovered just above hers.
Only at the last fraction of a second, when he felt rather than heard her indrawn breath, did he shift his mouth to her ear and say the first thing that came into his head. “My feet are killing me.”
She paused, looking more than a little nonplussed, then pulled back and pasted that damnably fake smile on her face. Her laugh was forced. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
He didn’t respond, as sorry he’d stopped as he was relieved he’d managed it. He focused on edging them closer to the side of the floor as they continued to dance, returning his attention to the blur beyond her shoulder. Her smooth, softly curved, and enticingly bare shoulder.
She bumped up against him again as other pairs of dancers weaved in and out of their path. Each time he carefully set her back, and just as carefully refused to look at her. Just get the hell off the floor, where you can keep your hands to yourself, he repeated silently.
The Big Bad Wolf Tells All Page 7