The Big Bad Wolf Tells All

by Donna Kauffman

  Their table was mere yards away, yet it might as well have been miles, for all the people clogging their path. Again and again, she was pressed against him, her soft breasts pushing up against his chest, her knees rubbing against his, her breath fanning his throat. He fought the growing need to say the hell with it, clamp an arm around her waist, and pull her tight up against his quite aroused body. Let her know once and for all she wasn’t dancing with a damn sheep.

  And just as his fingers tensed on her waist, as his gaze shifted to hers, inexorably drawn there no matter what he willed, the music ended on a thrumming crescendo.

  His mouth was descending toward hers anyway, beyond caring that the dancing had stopped, when she broke their locked gazes and stepped easily and all too quickly out of his arms, lightly applauding the orchestra with the rest of the dancers. He managed to clap as well, then balled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her again.

  His only thought was to get them off the floor before another number began. He turned . . . and walked right into the one problem he hadn’t foreseen.

  “Hey there,” a portly tux-clad gentleman announced with a jovial shout, hand outstretched and a smile curving his fleshy lips.

  But it was the look of recognition in his eyes that had Riley’s brain doing a last-minute tango of its own.

  “Aren’t you—?”

  Riley quickly turned to Tanzy and guided her a bit abruptly toward their table, which was only steps away. Then, leaving her staring confusedly, he turned back to the man, stepping forward so that both of them were absorbed into the edge of the crowd.

  God save him from football fanatics. His name was known to dedicated fans of the Pioneers, but his face was not. Still, every once in a while, one crawled out of the woodwork that did more than read the stats on the Pioneer website. “Hello,” Riley said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Parrish,” the man said, quite happy at his surprise find. “Saw you play that blowout against the Saints. Hell of a runback you made. A real shame about the knee.”

  Riley smiled, praying like hell Tanzy was still at the table. The NFL didn’t breed too many sheep. “Thanks, appreciate it.”

  “What brings you here tonight? Saw you at the head table. You lending your name to the foundation?”

  Riley would have laughed if it wasn’t so pathetic a question. Why was it that everyone thought all football players were millionaires? “Actually, I’m just here as Miss Harrington’s escort.”

  The man’s grin turned a bit sly and he gave Riley a little mano a mano punch on the arm. “Nice work if you can get it, eh?”

  Riley worked hard to keep his gritted teeth looking like a pleasant smile. Besides, who was he to get angry? Hadn’t he been thinking exactly that about this job? “I’d better get back.”

  “Tell her hello from Sam Dupree. My daughters read her column. I’ll bet she keeps you hopping,” he added with another knowing little wink. “You athletes get all the hot ones.”

  Riley managed a tight nod and got the hell away before he said or did something he’d regret. Despite the years he’d spent in a very physical sport, he wasn’t often driven to violence off the field. But there were always exceptions. He strode back to their table, wondering how often Tanzy had to put up with this kind of crap. Even though he’d been hip deep in the whacko side of her occupation for weeks now, he hadn’t really thought about the social, one-on-one element she dealt with on a daily basis.

  He smiled, thinking she probably handled it a hell of a lot better than he would. A clever little comeback, a witty rejoinder, a dry smile . . . and they were probably left drooling and kicking themselves for revealing themselves to be such shallow assholes.

  His smile faded when he spied her, pale and stiff, staring at a note she’d just unfolded. The rest of the table was back on the dance floor, leaving her sitting alone. Jesus Christ, Riley swore silently, covering the remaining distance between them in a blink. Leave her alone for one minute— He shut off that unproductive train of thought and pulled out the chair next to her. It was only at the last second he remembered to play his role.

  With all of his other buttons having been pushed in the past hour, it took what little control he had left to rein it in. “Something the matter?”

  She folded the paper quickly, awkwardly, as if her fingers weren’t operating right. Her smile was smooth, but her eyes were overly bright when she turned to him. “No, no, just a note from a fan.”

  Riley went rigid, digging his fingers into his thigh to keep from snatching the note from her hand. “I suppose you get a lot of that out in public.”

  Carefully and as casually as he could, he settled himself back in his chair and scanned the room as he sipped some water. SoulM8. You sick son of a bitch. Where the hell are you? Every hair standing up on the back of his neck told him that was who the note was from.

  “Sometimes,” Tanzy said, also taking a sip, but in her case it was the champagne she reached for.

  The liquid barely shimmied in the glass and he admired how swiftly she brought herself under control. He was also glad to see that the note, whatever it said, had rattled her. Millicent had made it clear that Tanzy was very stubborn when it came to acknowledging the potential downside of her growing recognition. The elder Harrington had been very concerned that Tanzy hadn’t taken these kinds of threats seriously in the past.

  When Tanzy had mentioned this one by name, Millicent had worried that perhaps there was more to it than there usually was. And when talking to Tanzy about it hadn’t given her peace of mind, she’d had a private talk with Tanzy’s editor, who, as it turned out, knew nothing of this latest “extreme fan.” Rather than have Martin confront her, which would only make her backpedal even faster, knowing she’d refuse to believe she could ever really be a target, Millicent had taken matters into her own hands.

  But after going over all the evidence, Riley had tended to agree with Tanzy’s assessment. SoulM8’s activities fit the general pattern of the harmless percentage of the lunatic fringe.

  But now he’d made contact. And everything had changed.

  Now it was personal.

  Dependable and stalwart are attributes you look for in a dog, not a lover. And then things change, the world stops making sense, and suddenly dependable starts looking incredibly sexy.

  Chapter 7

  She’d had her hands on him . . . and she still couldn’t picture him naked.

  At the moment, however, all thoughts of whatever wolf might be lying in wait beneath that double-breasted jacket of his—naked or otherwise—had vanished. Replaced by a few simple words.

  You’re beautiful. And soon, very soon, you will be mine. All mine.

  How could a handful of words strike such terror in a person’s heart? She forced a sip of champagne, determined not to give away how shaken she was. Where was he? Was he still in this room? She restrained the urge to wildly scan every face in the crowded ballroom. It was an impossible task anyway.

  Leaving, however, was not.

  She placed her long-stemmed glass overly carefully on the table, then folded her hands in her lap. On top of the folded note that had been waiting for her after her dance with Riley. Which she’d been deliciously anticipating analyzing even before the song had ended. Only now she couldn’t remember a second of it. All she could see were those scrawled words, a black slash of ink on white paper. So innocent, yet so menacing. Very soon. She shivered. What in the hell did that mean? Not the words of an obsessed fan willing to accept the limitations of easily deleted email. Instead they were words that put her stupid sheep/wolf theory, this dance, her fantasies about Riley, and even her column in relative perspective.

  SoulM8 had just crossed the line from Extreme Fan . . . to stalker.

  “Um,” she began, then wet her lips and pulled herself together. With a bright, hopefully not too bright, smile, she leaned over and said, “I’ve got an early call in the morning, radio show. I think we’ve done our official duty. If it’s okay w
ith you, I’d like to say our good-byes and head home.”

  Riley nodded, looking vastly relieved, and instantly stood and moved behind her chair to assist her. Any other time she’d have felt that twin reaction that was becoming all the more typical when she was around him. Intrigued, even flattered, by his constant gentlemanly manners. And frustrated that there didn’t seem to be any depth to his oh-so-still waters. One minute he appeared to be completely disinterested . . . and uninteresting. The next, she’d swear there was this spark arcing between them. Sexual spark. Any other time, she’d have been fighting the urge to reach up and tug those glasses off, look straight into his dark eyes, and see for herself, once and for all, what, if anything, lay beneath.

  But at the moment, all she wanted to do was get the hell out of there with the least amount of notice.

  She stood as Riley slid out her chair, and nodded to the guests who had filtered back to the table. She managed gracious good-byes to the organizer of the event and the few other board members she could easily locate, before mercifully heading to the nearest exit. She hoped Riley was keeping up with her, because nothing was going to stop her.

  Then his hand came to the small of her back as they navigated the edges of the crowded dance floor. His chest, somehow broad and reassuring, was right at her back; his breath, warm and steady, fanned the curve of her neck. If she hadn’t been so intent on getting the hell out of there, she might have wasted a moment or two wondering why he made her feel safer. Wasn’t that an alpha trait? Of course, at the moment, any warm body at her back would probably make her feel somewhat safer.

  Still, even knowing he was right there with her, her heart was pounding, and she wished desperately it were in anticipation of getting him inside the dark and intimate interior of their limo. Instead she was surreptitiously checking out every person they passed. Was that man smiling overly familiarly? Was there a psycho gleam in that waiter’s eyes? Did the doorman stare at her too intently? She searched for a friendly face. Where was Marty when she needed him anyway? Not that she’d confide in him even if he did magically appear in front of her. He was here to enjoy himself. Even if his wife was not. No point in ruining what was left of his evening.

  Besides, the last thing she needed right now was the celebrity safety lecture. He was overprotective enough as it was, even more so lately with all the attention her new column’s tangent was getting. Another empty-nest kickback, most likely. But she could handle this herself. She just needed to get out of here and as far away from whoever put that note on her table as possible.

  She all but gulped the night air as they finally pushed through the doors to the wide front steps. Limos lined the curb and Tanzy was tempted to leap into the first one.

  The gentle but firm pressure of Riley’s hand on her back steered her down the line instead, until Millicent’s driver appeared like a savior.

  “Wainwright, there you are.” Too breathless, calm down. “I hope you can get us out of here with minimal trouble.” She was still rushing her words, clenching her purse too tightly as he nodded and smoothly opened the door for her.

  Finally they were both inside, with the door shutting them in . . . and shutting immediate danger out. She let out a long, unsteady breath.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” she said, knowing her skin was flushed and she likely looked anything but. Now that they were heading home, she was starting to feel a little silly for her headlong flight. Did she think she was starring in a James Bond movie? She’d had too much champagne and too little of the pasty chicken and rubber beans, was what it was. One little note, probably from some harmless sixteen-year-old or something, and she’d gone completely around the bend. “I’m not much for those kinds of functions.”

  “You’d never suspect it.”

  She looked at him now, surprised by the personal, non-Riley-like observation. But then, he’d been surprising her all night. She found him gazing out the window at the passing lights. Not looking at her. Again, the yin and yang of Riley. Attentive, yet aloof. It was maddening.

  “Thank you,” she said, still studying him. “You looked pretty relieved to be getting out of there yourself.”

  He glanced at her, a small smile hinting at his lips. “I’m not much for those functions, either.”

  “You’d never suspect it,” she responded in kind, and just as sincerely. “I want to thank you again for doing this for me. I know it’s not in your job description.”

  “I didn’t mind.” He shifted his gaze away again and she found herself wishing he hadn’t.

  They rode in silence for another couple of minutes. Her fingers began a restless tapping on her handbag and her thoughts returned again to what lay inside. A joke, she told herself. Just a sick joke from someone with way too much time on his hands. Probably had a good laugh over her white-faced reaction and was even now typing some message to a fan bulletin board somewhere, crowing about it. She wished like hell she could believe that was all it was.

  The events that had led to her finding the note played through her mind. She remembered Riley looking like he wanted to kiss her—again—leaning toward her. It had taken all her will to step away, ending her own little fantasy before he could dump cold water on it by whispering some other totally mood-killing thing in her ear. My feet are killing me. Jesus, had she really been so deep into her little obsession with him that she’d misread the signals that badly? Twice?

  They’d left the dance floor then, Tanzy thinking Riley’s feet must really be killing him, as he all but dumped her into her chair. Then she’d looked over her shoulder, half tempted to make some pithy, smart-ass remark, only to see him disappear back into the throng, pumping the hand of some older, shorter man. Still trying to figure him out, she’d absently reached for her glass, and discovered the note propped against it, instantly forgetting all about Riley, their dance, and his newfound acquaintance.

  Only now, on rethinking the sequence of events, she found herself wondering if the older man had purposely pulled Riley away. Did he have something to do with the prank? It had to be a prank. Sick, twisted, and totally unfunny, but people could be all those things and still not be dangerous.

  Keeping that thought uppermost in her mind, she asked, “Did you run into someone you knew? At the dance?” At his blank look, she added, “I saw you talking to someone.”

  “Oh. Yes, I did.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Just someone who recognized me from some previous work I’ve done.”

  “Oh,” she said, relieved. It had nothing to do with her, then. Good.

  “He said to tell you hello.”

  She stiffened, her thoughts scattering, and was only vaguely aware of the way Riley’s attention sharpened. “That’s . . . nice. What was his name?”

  “Sam Dupree. Said his daughters read your column.” His gaze grew more intent. “Do you know him?”

  “No, no, I don’t.” Now she looked out the window. She finally had his focused attention, just when she wanted it the least. “Probably just another person who thinks they know me from reading my column.”

  “Sort of like the person who left you that note?”

  She hoped her flinch wasn’t too apparent. If it was a prank, it was a damn good one, as it had certainly done the job. Of course, the prankster couldn’t know about the emails, about SoulM8. He’d just gotten lucky. “It happens,” was all she said.

  “Does it happen often?”

  She shook her head. It was all she could manage without giving away her state of mind. Which was rapidly moving back to the James Bond scenario. Because things like this didn’t happen all the time. Or any of the time, really. Sure, people acted overly familiar with her on occasion, feeling that they knew her because of the intimate details of her life she shared with them on a biweekly basis. But those people, while occasionally obnoxious, were harmless. Or had been, anyway.

  “What does your editor think about things like that? Do they ever provide securit
y for you when you’re out and about?”

  “Oh, believe me, if it were up to Martin, he’d be escorting me personally to every taping and radio show. Which is why I don’t go to him with things like this. It was just an innocent little note from a fan. No sense in letting him make a big deal over it.”

  “Can I ask you what it said?”

  She darted a look at him, suddenly suspicious. He was awfully interested in this, which was odd for a guy who, up till now, didn’t seem interested in anything having to do with her. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “No reason. I suppose I’m a bit starstruck. I don’t meet too many celebrities.”

  Now she laughed. “Yeah, right. You? Starstruck?”

  He looked offended. At least, she thought he did. Those damn glasses muted everything. And the dim glow of the tiny recessed running lights inside the limo did little to help.

  “Is that so odd?” he asked, quietly sincere.

  God, he was an enigma. Oh-so-formal-and-smooth, bordering on bland, and yet there would be these glimpses of . . . something else. “I guess not,” she answered, though she wasn’t really entirely sure. Of anything. “You just don’t strike me as a guy who cares about that sort of thing.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Good question, she thought. She slid her purse to the seat beside her, thankful to put both literal and figurative distance between herself and the note. “You seem very . . . self-contained.”

  He seemed to think about that, then nodded. “That’s a fair assessment. But that doesn’t make me immune to the out-of-the-ordinary.”

  She grinned, on far more familiar ground now that he was responding to her, talking to her. Flirting she understood, even if she didn’t understand the man she was flirting with. Yet. “Are you saying I’m unusual? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not.”