The Big Bad Wolf Tells All

by Donna Kauffman

She made a mental note to never agree to anything Millicent suggested ever again. Surely if she was home in her little Russian Hill row house right now she’d have a much better grip on all this.

  One thing was for sure. If she were at home, she wouldn’t be thinking about Riley. Certainly wouldn’t be thinking she needed him. Emotionally or physically. Definitely wouldn’t be thinking about those lips of his, how surprisingly much she’d wanted—ached, even—to have them on her. Wanted his hands on her, too. Wanted—

  A knock sounded on her bedroom door and she jumped. Then flushed hotly when she heard his voice on the other side of her door.

  “Tanzy?”

  Annoyed at her guilty reaction—What did she have to feel guilty about? She hadn’t gone to him, had she?—she looked up at the ceiling. “What is this, a test?” A ring of fat, sassy cherubs were smirking back at her. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Very funny.”

  He tapped again. “Tanzy? It’s Riley.”

  And who else would it be? she grumbled silently. And why did hearing him say her name in that rumbly deep voice of his make that buzzy little hum scoot down her spine again? Surely he’d said her name before.

  Thinking about it, though, she decided maybe he hadn’t. Hmm. Why now? And why did he want to talk to her at—she glanced at the clock—almost midnight? He’d never come to her room before. Shoot, she barely saw him in the rest of the house. She’d spent more time with him in the past twenty-four hours than in the entire couple of weeks she’d been here combined. But they had spent a lot of time together since last night. And last night he had kissed her hand. And now he was at her door. At midnight.

  As a friend? Or potential lover?

  “Don’t forget door number three,” she reminded herself pointedly as her pulse sped up. Employee. She left her office and crossed to her bedroom door.

  “Yes?” she asked, keeping the door closed between them. Partly because she was wearing her usual late-night working attire: a well-worn Niners football jersey, ancient slippers, no makeup, and a hairstyle that could only kindly be described as bedhead chic. Cameron Diaz might be able to pull it off, but on Tanzy Harrington . . . not even a Dolce & Gabbana gown would save her with this ’do.

  But her shabby-chic fashion sense notwithstanding, mostly she kept the door shut because she wanted so badly to open it. To do exactly what she’d just convinced herself she could never do. To push this tension between them that she knew damn well was becoming increasingly sexual.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her hand clenched in an indecisive death grip on the doorknob.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  That made her pause. For all that he didn’t sound alarmed, he didn’t sound like her Riley, either. Her Riley.

  That was hardly the case.

  Hadn’t he pointed out, very clearly in fact, just this morning, that she really didn’t know anything about him?

  Well, you could change that. Just open the door.

  “It’s late,” she hedged, hand clenching and unclenching the knob. And I’m right on the verge of opening this door and dragging you in here by the lapels of your perfectly pressed jammies.

  She heard him clear his throat.

  Which meant what? Was he nervous about something? Was that why his outrageously sexy voice sounded so uncharacteristically edgy and therefore even more multiorgasmic? Was he standing there, not two inches from her right this very second, wanting what she wanted?

  Why else would he be at her door at this time of night?

  She was turning the knob before she could come up with all the arguments for why she should be locking it instead.

  Then he said, “If it’s not too much trouble, could you meet me downstairs?”

  And her hand fell away from the knob as she stood there, stunned. Would she ever read this man correctly? First his feet were killing him, now he wanted to chat in the kitchen. Probably over warm milk. “So, it was door number three after all,” she muttered, then to him she said, “Is it that important?” She sounded a bit pissy now and she didn’t care. So what if he’d simply asked to speak to her and she’d been the one running off on some wild sexual-fantasy scenario? “Can’t this wait until morning? I was just going to bed.” Alone. Again. Dammit.

  “Yes. Yes, it can.”

  She paused again, surprised by the annoyance in his tone. Why on earth was he annoyed at her?

  “Good night,” he said abruptly, sounding frustrated and somewhat, well, angry.

  “Hey!” she called out defensively, “I didn’t ask you to come banging on my door in the middle of the night.” She flung said door wide open and stepped—okay, stomped—into the hall. “So why in hell are you irritated with me?”

  He stopped, turned, but said nothing. And neither did she. It was impossible, what with her tongue lodged in her throat and all.

  Because Riley—her Riley, anyway—was not the Riley currently standing in the hall outside her door. This Riley . . . well, she must still be in sexual fantasyland.

  She gawked. She couldn’t help it. But since she was obviously hallucinating, what did it matter, right? First off, he had a five o’clock shadow. It did amazing things to his jawline. And his hair. It wasn’t parted on the side and ruthlessly combed into place. It was . . . tousled. Wavy, sexy, wolfish even. But what really struck her was the combination of the hair and the bristle with the fact that he’d left his glasses in his room.

  Dear God, the man was a hunk.

  She was hallucinating!

  Then she realized that he was staring at her just as intently as she was staring at him. She was still so caught up in his transformation that she forgot what she was wearing, or that she should be mortified. But this was her fantasy, so who cared how she looked?

  Then he raked a hand through his hair and swore beneath his breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  It was such a frustrated, totally un-Riley-like gesture that she snapped out of her hormonal daze and stepped toward him. “Wait a minute.”

  He paused, but didn’t turn this time.

  That’s when she realized he was wearing sweats. Sweatpants. Riley. It simply didn’t compute. Like picturing him naked in the shower.

  And damn if they didn’t look good on him. Then there was the faded blue muscle T-shirt . . . and damn if the man didn’t have a chest under those suits, as well. And shoulders. And—dear God have mercy—triceps. She was a sucker for well-defined arms, and his were so nice they’d tempt even a good girl to want to run her tongue right along the lovely indentation, right beneath those—

  “What?”

  She blinked, trying like hell to remember what it was she’d said. Jesus, she felt like she’d been ambushed. Did he always look like this during his off hours? “Uh. Why, um . . .” She had to pause, claw her libido from her throat. It took a great deal of willpower to stay where she was. Normally, with the tension arcing like this—and honestly, had tension ever arced like this?—she’d have upped her advantage considerably by closing in on his personal space. She wouldn’t have even thought about it. It was instinctive prowling behavior.

  She gripped the doorframe. “Is there an emergency of some kind?” Like, you simply had to come give me multiple orgasms or die with wanting?

  “No,” he said after what felt like an eternity. His voice was as rough and raspy as his jaw. And it abraded her senses just like his whiskers would abrade her neck. Or stomach. Or inner thighs . . .

  She clenched her teeth against the little moan threatening to slip out. And clenched her thighs together for good measure. Just go into your room and close the door. This is simply a late-night aberration. She’d never forgive herself if she acted on impulses that would go away with a good night’s sleep.

  Her libido just snorted. She would have, too. But Riley was turning to face her. And every muscle in her body tightened in anticipation.

  “It’s about the fan letter,” he said.

  Every muscle went sl
ack. And the breath she’d been holding came out in a whoosh of disappointment and disgust. The latter self-directed. Mostly. “Well, at least you didn’t say your feet were killing you,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Which was exactly what was ever going to happen between them. Nothing. And she’d be smart, not to mention a damn sight less sexually frustrated, if she could just get that one simple message through her thick, hormonally fogged brain.

  “We need to talk about it,” he reiterated, frowning now.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that. It’s not really your concern,” she said, blunt to the point of rudeness. No matter that she’d just been thinking about discussing that very thing with him. It had obviously been a rationalization for giving herself a shot at seducing him. Which was never going to happen. Ever. God only knew what ego-mortifying thing he’d blurt out then. And she’d be damned if she’d give him another chance.

  “Actually,” he said, surprising her with the challenging tone. “We do need to discuss it, and we will. Just not tonight. I’m sorry I bothered you. Good night.” He turned and walked down the hallway toward his room.

  Well, that snapped it. She was after him before she knew what she was doing. Her hand was on his arm, stopping him, turning him around, before she could question her judgment. Or lack thereof. “Just who in the hell do you think you are?” she demanded, and realized once she had just how badly she wanted an answer to that. Because it was clear he’d been very right. She had no idea who he really was.

  He carefully took her hand from his arm, almost too carefully. A glance from his hand on her wrist to his face revealed the tic of a pulse at his temple, the tightened skin at the corner of his jaw.

  “We’re going to talk about that, too,” he said calmly. Only this controlled calm was nothing like the smooth, emotionally removed tone she’d heard from him before.

  “But we’re not going to do it here, and we’re not going to do it now.” He took a step back and it was like a shield dropped over him. “I’m sorry I bothered you with it tonight. It will wait until morning.”

  But no matter that it was the old Riley talking, it wasn’t the old Riley standing in front of her. When he turned, she moved to block his exit. “You just expect me to waltz back in my room and go to bed like a good little girl? After this . . . this little display?” She waved her hand, gesturing toward his hair, clothes, the whole thing. “I don’t think so.”

  He shocked her by moving deeply into her personal space, so deeply she had to tip her head back to look up into his face. Had he always been this tall? Or maybe it was just that she’d never faced him down in bunny slippers.

  “If we both know what’s good for us,” he said quietly, “we’ll go back to our separate rooms. And stay there until morning. Because we both know you’re not a good little girl.” He stepped back. “And though you might not believe it, I was never all that good of a little boy.”

  His door shut moments later with a quiet little click, leaving Tanzy standing in the hall, mouth hanging, wondering what in the hell she was going to do about it.

  Is there such a thing as a wolf/sheep hybrid? Or only wolves in sheep clothing? Or more interesting still . . . is it possible for a sheep to doff the fleece for a fur coat? Even temporarily? I guess what I’m really asking is, can a sheep get his inner wolf on? And, while he’s at it, get me off?

  Chapter 11

  Riley flipped his bacon and scraped at the scramble of eggs frying on the massive stainless-steel griddle. Any other time he’d have been drooling over what amounted to a three-foot-square frying pan.

  But it wasn’t any other time. It was morning. The morning after, to be more specific. The morning after he almost blew the best chance Parrish Securities had to climb permanently out of debt and start to become the successful company he’d been telling his father it always should have been.

  Not that Finn seemed overly concerned one way or the other. Riley sighed and scraped the eggs in the other direction. At what point, he wondered, had everything stopped making sense?

  He’d always thought it was the moment his knee had connected with John Rockingham’s helmet, ending everything his life had been focused on since he first picked up a football at age seven. Then he’d come home, teamed up with his dad, and convinced himself that maybe things happened for a reason. That maybe the two of them would find a deeper satisfaction building something together, both professionally and personally. But, while he knew his dad loved him, Finn didn’t seem as interested in building something as he did in getting a little something-something.

  “And, apparently, you’re not much better,” he muttered disgustedly, flipping the bacon, then swearing when hot grease spattered his arm. He’d had no business going to her room last night. His rationale had been that she’d be more open to listening to him at the end of what had been a long day. Tired, exhausted from party planning, anxious over the note, over what had happened at the station. He’d somehow convinced himself that it was best to deal with it, with her, right then, straight out.

  Then she’d opened the door. And what in the hell was it about that faded old jersey and those damn ridiculous bunny slippers anyway? He might have had no earthly clue, but his body sure had. In fact, it had stood right up and saluted the whole ensemble. Of course, it had probably been at half mast before he’d left his room. A good indicator he’d had no business going anywhere near her, no matter the rationale.

  “Something smells good.”

  It took willpower not to look at her. It took even more not to swear when the grease spattered him again. “There’s enough for two, if you’d like.”

  God, he sounded like Sheepman Riley even when he didn’t mean to. Maybe it was a defense mechanism.

  Then she moved in behind him and his entire body tightened. And he realized that not even the best offense in the NFL could get him out of this one unscathed.

  “Looks that way,” she said, observing the mound of eggs and raft of bacon sizzling in front of him.

  So maybe he had gotten a little too enthusiastic about the griddle. Better he was too carried away with eggs and bacon than with her.

  “That is, unless you’ve got a football team coming over to help you out,” she added dryly.

  Football team. There was an opening if ever there was one.

  Then she darted a hand past him and snatched up a piece of bacon. He reached instinctively to block her. “Watch it. That’s hot!”

  She just smiled and crunched down on her pilfered slice—hard enough and with just enough gleam in her eyes to make him think about switching to defense.

  Green eyes still glittering, she added, “And here I seem to recall you making it clear that, in your opinion, hot things don’t bother me overly much.”

  “That’s not what I said.” He knew. He’d spent a sleepless night trying to forget the stupid things he had said.

  She ignored him. “You also mentioned something to the effect that you weren’t impervious to the occasional . . . hot element yourself. Or you implied as much.” She snapped another chunk of bacon between white shiny teeth.

  He turned his attention back to the griddle, deciding retreat might be the best strategy at the moment. She was in rare form this morning and he wasn’t prepared for this yet. Any of it. He’d hoped for a nice, hearty breakfast, followed with a rejuvenating shower and shave, by which time he’d have miraculously figured out exactly how he was going to handle this whole thing. He hadn’t even gotten to the hearty breakfast part yet.

  Time for a draw play. Divert and conquer. “I thought you slept in on Tuesdays.”

  “Really. And you would know this how?”

  He paused, then turned off the heat before carefully placing the spatula on the counter. It was too handy a weapon. He turned to face her, arms folded. “You know, I was going to handle this calmly, rationally, with great finesse and charm,” he said evenly.

  “That would be predictable,” she said.
“Except for the charm part.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Thank you, I try. But you have to admit you take calm and cool to a whole new level.” She looked at him consideringly. It made him edgy. “Until last night, anyway.”

  “I believe I apologized for that.”

  She threw her hands up. “Okay, I give. Which guy are you? The calm, polished professional, or the sweats-wearing dude who looked at me last night like he wanted scrambled eggs with me on the side instead of bacon.”

  Riley just stared at her. It was a good question. He thought he’d been playing a role. But somewhere along the way the sheep Riley and the real Riley had intersected, until he had no clue which part was what. He shrugged and decided to run the ball straight up the middle. He looked her dead in the eye and said, “Maybe I’m a little of both.”

  That shut her up.

  Which was great, as it gave him a whole split second to huddle up and draw his next play.

  She still snapped the ball early. “So you didn’t come to my room just to talk last night?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. Dammit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered when he’d lost total control of the ball. Pretty much every time she comes within three feet of you. Great. He took a deep, calming breath. “I wanted to talk. I knew I wasn’t going to sleep until I explained everything. I should have waited.”

  Now she folded her arms. “ ‘Everything’ being what exactly?”

  He ground his teeth. “If you’d give me half a chance, I’d tell you.”

  She nodded at the grill. “Well then, why don’t you serve us both up a plate and I’ll get some drinks, then you can explain to your heart’s content.”

  “Fine.” With barely restrained, very unsheeplike violence, he snatched another plate from the cupboard and slapped it smartly on the counter, muttering under his breath as he heard her open up the Mighty Fridge. “Try to explain things and you can’t because they won’t let you, then they get all pissy because you don’t explain things.”

  “I heard that,” she said.