Baring It All (Mills & Boon Temptation)

by Sandra Chastain

  “You want to do what? I thought you were listening, but apparently you weren’t. She’s dynamite, ready to explode and you’re the match. And you’re going to get burned by her fallout.”

  “I certainly hope so” was the comment he made under his breath. “Lottie, listen. Think about it. Using Ms. Clary to kill Lord Sin once and for all is a smart idea. And I want you to tell her the story we planned.”

  “You think she’s going to believe that he’s gone to the Riviera where he lives like a king on his millions? Well I don’t. It might fly for the dummies in your audience but not under that redhead’s scrutiny.”

  “You’re right. I’m going to have to give her proof. She’s an investigative reporter so I’ve come up with a way for her to get the truth, at least the truth as I’ve arranged it. I’m taking her to Isabella’s birthday party. Isabella will tell her that she’ll put in a word with Lord Sin.”

  “And you don’t think this smart reporter will think it a little odd that you’re friends with two ex-strippers?”

  “No, she’ll just think that Ryan Malone has a wide range of investments, including Rainbow House.”

  “Forget about her, Ryan,” Lottie pleaded. “Taking her there is a mistake. Give it up. Don’t see her again.”

  “I don’t seem to be able to do that,” he admitted. “She’s a very intriguing woman.”

  “It’s her body you don’t want to give up,” Lottie snapped. “You’re having a mid-life crisis and you’re not even forty. Listen to me, loverboy, I’m going to tell you what to do. Go buy yourself one of those plastic blow-up lady dolls, the lifelike kind, and put a red wig on it.”

  “What makes you think a blow-up lady doll would work?” he asked, laughing.

  “Well, the boy dolls do.”

  RAINBOW HOUSE WAS the most elegant retirement home Sunny had ever seen. The dreamy lyrics of Guy Lombardo wafted from the ballroom off the lobby and she could see people dancing, senior citizens. A muscular young man in jeans and a T-shirt greeted her from the reception desk. “Hello, you’re Sunny Clary. Welcome.”

  “Well…yes, I am. And thank you. My photographer will be here in just a moment. We’re here to meet—”

  “Ryan. I know. He said to bring you right in. Miss Isabella is pretending she’s upset because you’re going to videotape her party. But she isn’t. She’s been saving her strength for this afternoon.”

  Sunny watched Walt come through the doors, take one look around and roll his eyes in dismay. “If she really doesn’t want to be on television, we don’t have to do this,” Sunny said to the receptionist.

  “Oh, she’s excited about being on TV. Isabella is an old pro. She just doesn’t want anyone to know how old she is. She hates her wheelchair, but she tires easily. Come on, I’ll take you to Ryan and the others.”

  Inside the ballroom, beneath an arbor decorated with greenery and red roses, Sunny spotted the guest of honor among the guests. She was wearing a turn-of-the-century lace dress with a narrow waist, a slim skirt and a flare at the bottom. The crown and the scepter she carried completed the regal look. But there was something about the twinkle in her eyes that warned Sunny she might not be what she appeared. Miss Isabella would have been right at home on the Titanic. She could have been on the Titanic. She had to be a hundred years old.

  “Miss Clary!” Ryan Malone walked toward her, his long stride pulling his jeans tight against long slim legs, making her think about her dream. He nodded at Walt, gave her a long, amused look, then asked, “Do you think that will make a difference?”

  “What?”

  “The change in your appearance? Sometimes being concealed is more appealing than being exposed.”

  “It’s you who likes fantasies. I prefer the real thing. And what you see is what you get.”

  He lifted one dark, wicked eyebrow. “Oh? When?”

  She frowned. Though Walt hung back, pretending to ignore the conversation, something about Malone made her words come out wrong and she actually blushed. “I thought this was a party,” she said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to the birthday girl?”

  He glanced indulgently at the older woman who wasn’t even trying to conceal her impatience. “I’d better or she’s going to crack my head with her baton.”

  Sunny took another look at the honoree. Her crown looked like the real thing but her throne was a wheelchair and the scepter actually was a baton. “Don’t tell me she was a cheerleader.”

  “Well, she was an entertainer. Isabella, this is Sunny Clary. Sunny, Isabella is a friend of Lord Sin’s.”

  “I saw you on TV last night. Reminded me of myself a few years ago. Course, you might want to avoid the wind in that dress you were wearing. You’d look great on stage but those folks at the party you were attending might be a little prissy.”

  Sunny couldn’t hold back a smile. She was going to like Isabella. “Thank you for inviting me to your party,” she said. “Walt—” she nodded at her cameraman who’d come up behind “—is a genius with a camera. I hope you’ll let him tape the party for the viewers of WTRU.”

  “I’d love it. But why would anybody want to watch me and my party when they can see Madonna on MTV?” She laughed. “I would have said Blondie but that would show I’m not up to date, wouldn’t it?”

  Ryan let go of Sunny’s arm and walked over to Isabella to drop a quick kiss on her forehead. “You’re never behind the times, Belle. Listen, I think they’re playing our song. Would you care to dance?”

  The music was supplied by a disc jockey who played records on request. The song was an old ballad. Sunny remembered the melody, but not the words. Ryan had waited until the tune was half done before he held out his hand.

  “I would indeed, you rascal, but you know that’s not my kind of music. I like something with a beat.”

  “Well, I like something slower and romantic.”

  “If you want romance, Ryan,” she said as she took his hand, “you’re asking the wrong girl to dance.”

  Sunny nodded to Walt. “Get this.” She’d videotape an intro back at the station once she had a better handle on the story. The guy from the reception desk came and stood beside Sunny. She watched as Malone led the elderly woman slowly around the floor. He was a very good dancer, a rarity in today’s world. Malone did most of the moving and he did it in such a way that Isabella didn’t have to. Sunny had to admit that his brand of gallantry was as seductive as Lord Sin’s elaborate performance, and just as magical.

  The other dancers gradually stopped and moved back to watch. As the floor cleared, Sunny realized that among the party-goers, there were a number of well-built older men wearing jeans and T-shirts. “Are all these men employed by the center?” she asked.

  “Yes. Most of our residents are women and they get tired of each other. Mr. Malone came up with this idea of hiring senior citizens and a few college kids to supplement the women caregivers. It seems to work well.”

  Sunny smiled. “I’ll bet the ladies like that.”

  The boy gave her a wide grin. “Some of them like it a little too well.”

  It took Sunny a moment to understand what he meant. She rolled her eyes and pulled out her notepad. Was every story she was covering going to turn into some documentary on sex? “What’s your name? And how long have you been here?”

  “I’m Ron. I’ve been here two years—one more ’til graduation, then I’ll be a physical therapist.” He grinned. “The ladies like that and I like the money.”

  “It sounds as if you’re some kind of gigolo for hire.” She stared at him stonily. “Exactly what kind of therapy are you offering them?”

  Ron’s expression narrowed. “You misunderstand, Ms. Clary. I meant that physical therapy and exercise are a valuable part of our service. As you can see, our ladies are in remarkably good shape and that’s all due to Ryan Malone’s generosity.”

  To cover her embarrassment over the implied insult she’d just given, Sunny studied her notes, then said, “I’m sorry. I’ve
had a rather unusual introduction to my job but I had no right to let that carry over to this assignment. You said Mr. Malone came up with the idea to hire men. Does he own Rainbow House?”

  “One of his companies does.”

  “None of this makes any sense.” When she realized that Ron was frowning, she changed directions. No point in making an enemy. “Can you give me the guest of honor’s full name?”

  “Isabella Giovanna.” He told Sunny that Isabella had come to Rainbow House right after the facility changed owners, two years ago. “Since then, the improvements have been amazing. All the ladies have to do is mention something to Isabella and the next thing we know, it’s done. Mr. Malone is a remarkably generous man.”

  She’d tried not to look at Ryan admiringly but it was hard. Short of making a spectacle of herself, she had run out of excuses not to watch. He was wearing a blue chambray shirt with the hip-hugging jeans and a tweed jacket. He was a real, breath-stealing soap opera bad boy; he was also a mystery. His good deeds were extolled in every newspaper, along with pictures of him and whichever lady he was escorting for the evening. But she’d seen nothing about Rainbow House and no mention was ever made of a family or a past.

  Maybe Isabella was a relative. Watching her move, Sunny decided she must have been a showgirl, too. Maybe she was a friend of Lottie. Or Lord Sin. Then it made sense. Malone had brought her here because Isabella knew Lord Sin.

  Malone looked at her and smiled, then looked away. He just glanced at you, Sunny. She had no excuse for the breathless feeling that temporarily cut off her air flow. With the hand he had placed behind Isabella’s back he motioned to the master of ceremonies to end the song and for someone to bring Belle’s chair. The music stopped and, as if he were escorting a real princess, Malone brought Isabella to the center of the floor where Ron waited with her chair.

  “Isabella is going to entertain us now,” Malone said. “Ms. Clary, you might want to get this on tape.”

  “Of course she’ll tape it,” Isabella quipped, “but five will get you ten, the station won’t run it.”

  “Why wouldn’t we run it?” Sunny asked.

  A spotlight circled Isabella and the other lights were dimmed. Walt stepped forward. Isabella steadied herself with one hand atop the back of her chair and began. With surprisingly nimble fingers, Isabella twirled her baton. But it was what she did next that brought the party-goers to their feet. “I’ll show you. Turn off that camera, young man. This is private.” When he’d complied, she tossed the baton aside, batted her false eyelashes and began to recite a limerick, accented with exaggerated eye movements, bumps and grinds.

  “There once was a man named Lord Sin,

  Who was my personal friend.

  I taught him his moves,

  From his eyes to his…. shoes.

  Now that he’s gone we have to pretend.”

  She lifted her baton and became Carrie Nation.

  “So lift a glass, my ladies, for the man we’ve lost.

  Let’s all unite, say a prayer tonight.

  Send us more sin…

  We all need Sin. Amen.”

  She bowed her head reverently. Her voice was thready but coy. And when she burst out laughing at the shock on the faces of the guests, Sunny knew she’d met a jewel. “So I’m no poet,” Isabella chuckled. “I’m a dancer and I know my men, both of them.”

  Sunny couldn’t stop herself from smiling. This was a woman who knew performing, how to capture an audience. As Isabella sat down, she gave Sunny a wink and Sunny understood instinctively that Isabella truly did know Lord Sin. That Malone was living up to his part of their bargain and Isabella just might put in a good word for her with Sin. But it wasn’t just his help she appreciated. Any man who befriended lonely old ladies couldn’t be all bad. It took her a few minutes to figure out she was thinking about Malone—not Lord Sin. She was confused.

  And she refused to consider her part of their bargain.

  The residents and guests applauded and Isabella blew a kiss. “Now, Ryan, you naughty boy, dance with your girl while I catch my breath.”

  His girl? What had Malone told Isabella? Sunny took a quick step back. “Sorry. I’m working.”

  “Nonsense,” Isabella said. “This is a party, my party and everyone here has to dance.”

  “I’m not his girl, Ms. Giovanna,” Sunny protested. How in hell had she allowed this to get all turned around? The focus of the story was Isabella and the retirement home—not Sunny and Ryan or Lord Sin. Even a first-year reporter knew that the press didn’t interact personally with the public.

  “It’s your birthday. That makes your wish my command, Belle,” Malone said, and pulled Sunny onto the floor.

  “Don’t do this, Malone. Walt, don’t you dare video this.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Isabella said. “There’s no reason you can’t have a little fun. If your employer is that much of a Simon Legree maybe you ought to find another job. You know everyone in Atlanta, Ryan. Pull some strings.”

  Sunny’s protest fell on deaf ears. She was tall, but Malone was taller and he was stronger, too. She glanced up at jet-black eyes and they turned up the heat she’d already felt when he’d taken her hand. “I think you ought to know. I’ve got you figured out,” she said, “and this isn’t going to work.”

  “Oh? And what have you figured out?”

  “It’s obvious that Isabella is another friend of Lord Sin’s. Isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to believe that Lord Sin is a kind and generous man who deserves his privacy.”

  “He is.”

  “And you want me to accept your motives as being just as pure. What I think is you’re a kind of emotional con artist, and this way of doing things isn’t going to work with me. My father trusted people. I don’t.”

  “Tell me about your father. Are you close?”

  “Now we are. After my mother died, he threw himself into his work. He didn’t know how scared I was. I know now he was scared, too.”

  “Who looked after you?”

  “Well—nobody. I was twelve and I looked after myself.”

  “But you missed him, didn’t you?”

  “I was lonely,” she admitted, that confession coming out of the blue. She’d never let anyone know that—not even her father—not even during her monthly visits to the prison where he’d been confined. By that time she was in college and she didn’t want to worry him.

  “I know about being lonely,” Ryan said. “But don’t worry, you don’t have to be lonely anymore. You have me.”

  He pulled her closer. She stepped on his foot and was rewarded with a groan. “What’s the matter, Ms. Clary? Didn’t you ever learn to dance?”

  “Oh, I learned but like most people, my dancing was learned to the beat of groups like the B-52s and REM,” she shot back. “In other words, I don’t waltz. Where’d you learn to dance? Miss Isabella’s Dancing Classes for well-brought-up young men?”

  He stiffened. She didn’t know how close she was to the truth. Then he nodded. “So you think I’m out of date? Let’s see.” He danced her over to the disc jockey and said, “Play something hot. The lady wants to bounce her booty.”

  Before Sunny could escape, the Smashing Pumpkins screamed across the ballroom. Seconds later the floor was full. Malone turned into John Travolta and she was sorry she’d ever poked fun at the waltz. If she expected to keep up with him, she’d never do it in the shoes she was wearing.

  “What’s the matter, Sunny?” he asked over the blare of the music. “Didn’t you take your Ginseng this morning?”

  She didn’t like being goaded. She didn’t like being made to look like a fool either. She reached down, slipped off her pumps and moved into a hip-hop step that would have made Puff Daddy weep.

  The music, her anger and his challenge drove her. But he matched her, step for step. Before she knew it, he’d drawn her close and was using her body in a thrusting motion that touched her more intimately than her
dream lover. From the sidelines, she heard a vague clapping that grew in intensity to the heat of their dance.

  She made a move to draw away.

  He quickly pulled her back. “What’s wrong, Sunny? Can’t you keep up with a master?”

  “You’re no master,” she gasped, making one last ineffective attempt to regain control.

  “But I’m good,” he said with a grin, grinding her hips against him once more.

  “Not as good as Lord Sin,” she said and jerked away. “Maybe he’d give you some lessons.”

  The music ended. The crowd applauded wildly and Walt mopped his brow. “Wow, lady!” he said. “Miss Isabella might have been right about turning off the camera. This may be too hot for the viewers in Atlanta.”

  “Miss Isabella is always right,” the birthday girl called out. “Lord Sin knows it but I’m still working on Ryan Malone. Where’s my champagne?”

  “No champagne,” Ryan said, trying to catch his breath. “The doctor said no.”

  “When the doctor is as old as me, he can tell me what to do. That was some show you put on, young lady. Where’d you get your training?”

  Sunny tried to focus her attention on Isabella. All she wanted was to get off the floor, out of the retirement center and back in her safe, organized life. “Training?” she repeated. “No training. I was an athlete as a kid.”

  Ryan Malone looked skeptical. “And what sport would feature those moves?”

  “It wasn’t the sport, it was the people I trained with. They taught me to dance. I was a tumbler,” she snapped. “I took gymnastics from third grade until I turned eighteen.”

  Malone didn’t take his eyes off her. They seemed to cut into her, reading her scrambled emotions in spite of her attempt to conceal them. “Why’d you stop?” he asked. “You must have been very good.”

  “I grew five inches between my seventeenth and eighteenth birthday. Height is fine for basketball but death for gymnasts and ice skaters. Besides, my life went another direction and I became a reporter.”