She was alone a couple of times, as Colin was drawn off to discuss business with one client or another. But neither time lasted for long. Whatever else these society people might be, they were polite. And, at least on the surface, quite friendly with the new woman among them whom they considered one of their own.
She chatted some. But mostly she listened. And embarrassed herself with her seemingly obsessive need to keep an eye on Colin. Her only consolation there being that he was embarrassing himself, as well. Anytime she looked for him, looked at him, he was looking right back at her.
“It seems you’ve got his attention, but good.” A woman in her mid-forties appeared at Chantel’s left, reaching for the sip of wine the vintner poured as she approached his station. Having already swirled, smelled, sipped and spit, Chantel had been about to move on.
“Excuse me?” she said instead, softening the words with a smile. She’d like to think it was the generously fruity red blend that was bringing out the wildness in her. She’d have had to swallow it to even be able to pretend to believe that one.
“Colin,” the woman said, sniffing, sipping and swallowing the wine in her glass. “I’ve known him his entire life, and I’ve never seen him as interested in anyone as he is in you...”
Heart aflutter—because she was getting too much into the Johnson part, she assured herself—Chantel chuckled. “I’m sure you’re imagining things.”
“I’m equally certain that I’m not.” The woman was smiling, too, in a friendly way. As Chantel moved away from the vintner’s table, hoping to leave the idea of luscious flavors gliding across her palate like silk behind her, the woman stayed with her. “I’m Cora Ashbury,” she said. “And don’t mind me. I’m what everyone calls a busybody. You know, telegraph, tell Cora...” Her tone was dry. The sparkle in her eye was not.
“I’m Chantel—”
“—Johnson, from the New York publishing Johnsons. Yes, I know,” Cora said. “It’s really quite an anomaly that it’s taken me this long to meet you,” she continued. “My husband and I were away on a cruise, and when I got back and heard that we had someone new in our midst...well, I told Kenneth that we just had to be here tonight...”
The town busybody. A woman who prided herself on knowing everything about everyone and didn’t seem to be remiss in sharing what she knew. Fate again stepping in to give Chantel a hand.
Forcing her gaze to stay away from the man she could feel in her blood even from across the room, she turned to face Cora fully.
“It’s good to meet you, Cora,” she said, holding out a hand and then wondering if society women shook hands. “I’ve only been in town a few weeks, so you didn’t miss much. I’m afraid everything’s pretty much still a blur to me at this point.”
Cora’s fingers were soft against hers, her grip light. “Yes, well, if there’s anything you need to know, just call me. I’m always happy to help. We can be a tough bunch to get to know, but with Colin at your side, you’ll be fine. He’s a good man...”
She leaned in closer to add, “I’ve always felt bad for him, you know? His parents dying so young, back-to-back like they did, leaving him, not even out of law school to take over the firm, with a teenage sister to care for. You’d think that folks would have looked out for him, but no, everyone with a daughter anywhere near marrying age stepped in and tried to bring him into their families. And not out of any real regard for what was best for him or that sweet sister of his—though she is a bit of an odd one, isn’t she? Shameful, really, the way he’s been treated like an Arabian stallion on the auction block. It’s kind of fun, seeing him hook up with someone none of them even know. Anyway, there I go again, carrying on and on. Kenneth says that I was born without a shutoff valve, but I do mean well...”
Apparently, society or no, there was one in every crowd. In her world, they called them informants.
Opening her small black clutch to pull out Johnson’s cell phone, Chantel was about to ask for the woman’s contact information when Cora, who also had a hand in her beaded clutch (real pearls, Chantel was sure), pulled out a card and held it out to her.
Colin was on the move. She’d caught his black-suited shoulders out of the corner of her eye. And tried to ignore another surge of hormonal overload where he was concerned.
As she reached the next station—where there was a chardonnay that apparently shied away from an oaky buttery style—Chantel didn’t just swirl. She didn’t spit. She swallowed.
If she thought there could be something—anything—between her and Colin, she was wrong. He wasn’t personal.
Yes, she was with him. But only under pretense. It wasn’t real. None of it was real.
Real was a boy crying for help in the only way he knew how—through artwork at school. A woman whose husband was probably beating her and had it in him to kill a family member. Real was Julie Fairbanks sitting at home alone because her rapist was most likely in the room with Chantel tonight, sipping wine.
“Seriously, if you find yourself at a loose end or just want to go out for lunch with someone who doesn’t put as much weight in how other people feel about her as she does about how she feels about herself, give me a call.” Cora had been speaking all along. Chantel wasn’t sure she’d heard everything the woman said. “You can ask anyone—I talk a lot, but I’m harmless.”
Taking the card Cora still held, Chantel smiled, made some appropriate—she hoped—reply and tucked the contact information securely into her clutch. Busybodies had a lot to say, but rarely was second-and third-hand information completely accurate. Still, if she reached a dead end in her investigation, if she got desperate, she could always call Cora.
She was on track. Working the room.
And working Colin Fairbanks, too.
Because he was her cover.
Cora Ashbury probably wouldn’t be pleased if she knew.
He’s a good man. Cora’s words wouldn’t get out of Chantel’s head. Whether she was at his side or trying not to ogle him from across the room, she was aware of him every single second. Johnson’s insides burned for him.
Harris, at the same time, just kept hearing Cora Ashbury’s words. He’s a good man. People had been using him, or attempting to do so, most of his life. And still, He’s a good man. Standing among crooks. Manipulators. Power-hungry, powerful people. And other good men.
He joined her at a merlot booth and took her hand as they swirled, inhaled, sipped and spat side by side. Her skin burned from the inside out.
He’s a good man.
It was ironic that a self-professed busybody—a woman people had probably long ago learned how to tune out—would have such an effect on one pretty-much-hardened cop.
At the next table, serving a merlot blend with, according to the three people already standing there having a haughty discussion on the complexities of the one sip they’d just poured across their palates, a tobacco component, Chantel had an attack of the guilts that practically consumed her.
Colin didn’t do anything particularly heroic, just handed her a crystal wineglass containing a taste of burgundy-colored liquid. He picked up a glass for himself, clinked it against hers and, holding her gaze with a warmth that was more liquid than the wine in their glasses, sipped with her.
She swallowed. Again.
* * *
COLIN TOOK THE long way home—driving along the coast instead of through town, to the resort where he believed she was living. Most of Johnson’s things were there, in the room that was being comped to the department. Whenever she had the time, Chantel was getting ready at the resort for her undercover assignment. It helped her to get into character.
And why waste a great room? It wasn’t like she’d ever be able to stay in such luxury on her salary.
Because no matter what she wanted Colin Fairbanks to believe, she wasn’t Chantel Johnson. She was Chantel Harris
. A cop on duty.
A cop whose senses were tuned in to Leslie Morrison’s absence that night.
“I looked for Leslie,” she said, gazing out into the night. “I was going to tell her I finished a rough draft of the script.”
She’d finished reading it and thought it was pretty damned good. Considering.
“Someone said that Ryder had the flu,” Colin said. “I’ll have Julie call to see if Leslie needs to have the meeting at her house instead of the library. There are few enough of us on the committee, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
He was holding her hand in the car. Johnson’s hand. She liked it. A lot.
Liked, too, that he seemed to be certain that Leslie would be holding the library committee meeting as scheduled the next day, even after news of Ryder’s “flu” had broken.
Which meant that she couldn’t be too obviously beaten up, if she’d been hurt at all. Kids did get the flu. Enough that it wouldn’t be a coincidence to have it happen on a night his parents had been scheduled to go out. Especially considering the social schedule the Morrisons seemed to keep.
“I was reading up on some of the local charity boards today,” she said, making herself focus on the job at hand. Not the man at the wheel. Or where they were headed. “There was one, The Lemonade Stand. Do you know of it?”
“Sounds familiar. It’s a women’s shelter, right?”
“Yes. Anyway, there’s a doctor who’s pretty closely associated with it—a woman who’s made it her cause to support victims of domestic violence. She works at the Santa Raquel hospital and used to be in the emergency room. I wondered if maybe it was the same woman who helped Julie...” A bold-faced lie, and if she hadn’t been desperate to help, she’d have been ashamed of herself.
“Was it Dr. Albertson? I could see her advocating for a women’s shelter. She’d be perfect for it actually.”
“Albertson?” Frowning, Chantel shook her head. “No, it was...Montoya, or Martin. Something like that.”
“I’m not even sure Dr. Albertson is still around.”
“You never heard from her after that night?”
“Once we signed the papers, I told Julie that we weren’t to speak with anyone who had anything to do with the incident. I didn’t want to risk the other side claiming that we were breaking the agreement.”
“Better safe than sorry,” she said. Itching to call Wayne. She had a name!
“I was already sorry,” Colin said. “I just wanted to keep Julie safe.” He looked over at her. “You’re so serious all of a sudden. Didn’t you have a good time tonight?” His smile sent her pulse racing again. Just when she had herself under control.
“I had a great time,” she said before she could check herself. She couldn’t have him thinking that they’d had a failed date. “Truly.” She allowed herself to meet his gaze as he briefly turned his head. “More than I’ve enjoyed myself in a long time.”
His clearly self-satisfied grin told her she’d missed another land mine.
All of the investigating in the world wasn’t going to reach fruition if she lost her cover before she had her answers.
Content to be fully on alert at the library committee meeting the next day, when she could see Leslie without raising suspicion, Chantel tried to relax.
But she kept feeling those fingers threaded through hers. A foreign object integrating with part of her body. Her very lonely body...
“I enjoyed myself tonight, too.” Colin’s voice, soft and deep, fell into the quiet intimacy of his luxury sedan. It was just a little after ten, but there were very few cars on the road, very few headlights coming at them, illuminating his features.
Or hers.
“I’m glad.”
She could hide in the darkness. Pretend, just for a few minutes, that she was on a real date.
That she was allowed to enjoy the man at her side.
A man who was so different from anyone she’d ever known. Compelling in a way she’d never experienced and couldn’t explain.
At least, not to her satisfaction.
“You want to know the best part of the whole night?” he asked, glancing her way before returning his attention to the road.
She did. Badly. And she didn’t. Unless it didn’t have anything to do with her. And then she did. And she didn’t. “Yes.”
“Knowing you were there.”
Yeah, she hadn’t wanted to know that.
And she had.
“That’s a new one for me,” he continued, as though he’d already determined not to give her a chance to respond.
Saving her from herself. Not that he’d know that.
“I’m the guy who’s always free to come and go. Who answers to no one. I’ve often been told and pretty much believed that I’m the envy of just about every other guy in attendance.”
He would be again. Soon.
“But tonight I understood something. I’m not the lucky one. The guy with a woman who is looking for him while he’s looking for her is the lucky one. The guy who has someone in the room who cares that he’s there...”
He could be taking a lot for granted. Chantel needed that to be the case. But she feared that it wasn’t.
“You bought a bottle of wine from that last guy,” she said, sounding more like the lowly cop she was than some society beauty. But she kept thinking about that wine.
How Colin had looked at her when the vintner had told him that if he wanted to drink it that night, it would be good warm.
How that look had leaked a pool of desire between her legs that wasn’t dissipating.
“I’m hoping to share it with you.”
Throat dry, she ran her tongue along her lower lip. Saw him glance her way in time to catch the act. And wondered if his penis was growing in proportion to the wildness coursing through her.
“Where?”
They were heading toward her resort.
“Your choice. The beach. Or your room.”
Oh, God. He wanted to have sex with her. Not that she hadn’t already figured that one out. She wanted to have sex with him, too.
Something told her it would be the most incredible sex she’d ever had. Way better than any she’d fantasized about having before meeting him.
She was working. Working. Working.
“I told you, Colin, I’m...not here for long.”
“You said until you finish your book.”
“Right.”
“How far along are you?”
What if he asked to see it? Or the laptop upon which she was supposedly writing it? She’d play the author-confidentiality card. And if that didn’t exist, then the author-paranoia one.
“Further than I expected to be at this point, but I’m not putting a page or chapter count on the finished product. I’m just writing until the story is told, and then I’ll go back and pay attention to particulars during the revision process.”
She remembered listening to her aunt as a kid. She’d been editing a nonfiction self-help book. She’d been telling Chantel’s mother that she understood the initial writing process but that the author had skipped the revision process.
His fingers were climbing up the inside of her arm.
“We might only have weeks.”
Pulling into the resort lot, Colin parked and turned off the car. “Then I suggest we make the most of them,” he said and leaned over, planting his lips firmly on hers.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THERE MIGHT HAVE been hesitancy in Chantel’s words, but there was absolutely none in the kiss she gave him. Or in the fire in the tip of her tongue as she used it against his, luring him to travel with her to that compelling place they’d both been but never together.
“I say we skip the beach,” he told her, breaking away long enough
to look her in the eyes. “And yes, I’m fully aware that we might only have weeks together.”
He wasn’t going to borrow trouble. If they were meant to be more than burning embers, if the flame didn’t fizzle out, they’d find a way to bridge the distance between New York and California. He was a millionaire. What better way to spend his money than to commute by air from work to home?
“I...” She broke off, confusion and...something else in her gaze.
He kissed her again. Long, tempting kisses. And then, with his lips barely apart from hers, he said, “We’re consenting adults, long past adolescence,” he told her. “Let’s just go where this is taking us for tonight. And worry about the future tomorrow.”
“You want to make love, no strings attached.”
Not really. But for starters... “That’s what I’m proposing.”
He’d do it any way she wanted if he could just get his aching penis out of his pants and feel her body holding it. Binding them together. Making her as much a part of his life as any woman had ever been.
It occurred to him that he was rushing things. Lawyer that he was, he looked for the why. And didn’t like the obvious answer.
If he was rushing things because he didn’t trust himself to be able to trust her long enough to take things slowly, then that wasn’t good. But if he was hurrying because their time was limited and he wanted to make the most of what they had?
“For tonight,” he added. “That’s what I’m proposing for tonight.”
He could feel the struggle going on inside of her and waited. He could convince her to have sex with him. After the way she’d just kissed him, there was no doubt in his mind about that.
But he didn’t want her to regret sleeping with him. Or to allow him into her body if she wasn’t sure she wanted him there.
“Can we just take a walk on the beach?” she asked him. “Maybe bring a glass of wine with us?”
If she’d been any other woman he’d been hoping to get into bed, he might have been disappointed. “Of course. We can stop at the bar for a couple of glasses,” he told her, reaching for the wine he’d purchased that evening.
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