by JoAnn Ross
Personally, Michael doubted that.
As he placed the room service order for a bacon double cheeseburger, sides of fries and slaw, and chicory coffee, he decided that the movie star he’d agreed to baby-sit was turning out to be a royal pain. Obviously, he was going to earn every cent of the outrageous fee Shayne was charging the studio.
Lorelei was tempted to order the most expensive champagne on the room service menu, but decided it would be a childish gesture. In the end she settled for a pot of tea, then went into the adjoining room to hang up her clothes while they waited for the order to arrive. Seeming determined to stay by her side, Michael followed.
“I do hope you plan to give me some privacy?” Negligently, she pulled a stack of lingerie out of the smaller bag and tucked it away in the top drawer of a very good antique reproduction of a Queen Anne walnut chest. “Although that tub is admittedly large enough for two, I’m not accustomed to sharing a bathroom.”
The sight of all that lace and satin frippery made his mouth water. When he found himself fantasizing about unfastening the scarlet-as-sin bra, Michael knew he was in deep trouble.
With a mental shake, he rid himself of the tempting vision and brought his mind back to her question. “I only join women in the bathroom when invited.”
“How reassuring.” She smiled easily. “And since I’m not in the habit of sleeping with the help, I suppose we have no problem.”
“Did anyone mention sleeping?”
She tossed her hair back. “I was speaking figuratively.”
“So was I.” His grin, the first he’d given her, was quick and wicked and all too memorable. For a fleeting moment Lorelei wondered why she’d mistakenly thought Shayne was the more handsome brother.
Shayne O’Malley brought to mind those European jet-setters who populated the sunny beaches of Cannes during the annual film festival. He exuded a Cary Grant or James Bond type of sophistication she suspected most women would find irresistible.
But Michael—ah, she mused, feeling her blood pressure rise—Michael O’Malley was sex in the raw. He reminded her of some Renaissance statue. But not marble. Marble was too smooth. Too finished. This man could have been carved from an enormous piece of rough-textured granite. Although he’d undoubtedly shaved this morning, his stony jaw was already darkened with a blue-black shadow. His mouth was full and firm and appeared ruthless, even when he allowed one of those rare smiles.
“Well.” She tossed her head. “So long as we understand each other, we shouldn’t have any problem.”
“None at all.”
There was a knock on the adjoining door. As he went to admit the room service waiter, Michael was forced to consider that, although he had the scars to prove he’d survived a lot more trouble than a single 110 pound woman could possibly represent, Lorelei might just be the greatest challenge of his career.
She heard the door open, a murmur of voices, the squeaky wheel of a serving cart, the door closing again. When the unmistakable scent of fried fat wafted into the room, her stomach actually growled.
Not that she was hungry, Lorelei assured herself as she tossed the red lace bra and matching panties into the drawer. Then, knowing that she had no choice, she returned to the living room to resume the inquisition.
She’d stayed in Whitfield Palaces all over the world and knew them to be the epitome of luxury. Indeed, the slogan of the international chain was When Deluxe Will No Longer Do. Since the company was based in New Orleans, making this the flagship hotel, she was not surprised by the snowy white linen, heavy sterling and crystal that accompanied Michael’s burger and fries. A Waterford vase with a bloodred rose claimed the center of the small table.
Michael took off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, then lifted the metal cover off the plate and eyed the burger with a look of lust Lorelei was accustomed to having directed at her. “What did I tell you? Terrific.... Sure you don’t want some?”
She dragged her gaze from the leather shoulder holster his jacket had hidden to the oversize hunk of meat and kaiser roll filling the plate. “I told you, I don’t eat meat.”
“How about shellfish?” He poured a cup of tea from the porcelain pot “You can’t come to Norluns—!” he drawled it in the native way she hadn’t heard for years “—without indulging in some oysters or crawfish étouffée.”
Lorelei hadn’t realized taste buds had memories. All it took was the mention of two of her favorite dishes to start her salivating. “Cajun food is so fattening.” Murmuring her thanks for the cup of tea he extended toward her, she sat down on the corner of the couch.
“That’s what’s good about it. That and the hot sauce.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “I have to watch my weight. The first time I saw myself up on that huge screen, I felt enormous—like Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians.”
“You were undoubtedly the only person in the world who felt that way.” He remembered almost swallowing his tongue when the camera had first zeroed in on her, rising out of a sun-sparkled blue swimming pool like Venus on her half shell, her long platinum hair tangling like wet seaweed over her shoulders.
Lorelei shrugged, trying to ignore the enticing aroma of melted Monterey Jack cheese. “The camera adds pounds. As Brian Wilder pointed out last week, I’m not being paid for my Shakespearian talents.”
“Wilder.” He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “The screenwriter.”
“That’s him. And he doesn’t gamble.”
“Nor drink or do drugs,” Michael agreed. “In fact, from what I could dig up, despite his swinging bachelor image, the guy’s so squeaky clean he doesn’t even seem to jaywalk.”
His obvious disbelief irked Lorelei. “Not everyone breaks the law.”
“That’s your opinion.” He dipped a French fry into a dish of ketchup and popped it into his mouth.
“But not yours.”
“Honey, I’ve been around the cop business long enough to know that there’s no such thing as a totally law-abiding citizen.”
“Really?” She smiled coolly over the rim of her cup. “Well, for your information, Mr. Law and Order, you just happen to be looking at one.”
Michael didn’t immediately respond. Instead he picked up the heavy fork, scooped up a serving of slaw and gave her a long, probing look as he chewed.
“Say a clerk gives you back the wrong change,” he suggested. “What do you do?”
“Point out the mistake, of course.”
“How about taxes? Surely a rich lady like you must have fudged a bit on the bottom line?”
“I have a good accountant.” She refused to be intimidated by his steady gaze. “He’s well paid to find legitimate deductions—”
“Loopholes.”
She lifted her chin. “Deductions. Don’t forget, I appeared in that remake of Al Capone’s story. The fact that the IRS guys were the only feds who were ever able to convict him sunk in.”
“Cheating on your taxes is a national sport. But it’s for chumps,” he agreed. “How about speeding?”
“How about it?”
Another French fry, dripping with thick ketchup, stopped on the way to his mouth as he heard the hesitation in her voice. Lorelei could practically see the Gotcha! sign light up his dark blue eyes.
“You’ve been known to fudge on the limit.” It was not a guess.
Her smile was practiced, designed to disarm. “Are you saying that all those white-and-black signs along the freeway aren’t suggested speeds, Officer?”
“I’m saying that next time you get sent to traffic school, you might want to take in one of the comedy ones. I hear they’re a riot.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You actually had the gall to check me out?”
“Sure.” He popped the fry into his mouth and chewed with such relish she was tempted to slug him.
“Surely you didn’t suspect me of stalking myself?”
“Now that you bring it up, the thought did occur to me.”
“What?” She caught herself before she could sputter. “I can’t believe even you would be so cynical.”
“Not cynical. Thorough. You’re currently making a film about a woman who’s being stalked. The movie happens to have run over schedule and over budget—”
“That’s not my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was,” he said, undeterred by her interruption. “However, the fact is that Eric Taylor, the man who called the cops in the first place, is also on the verge of having the guys in the Armani suits in the executive offices take control away from him.
“If something happened to gamer a lot of publicity—let’s say that life started imitating art—well, hell, even a guy like me who doesn’t know anything about the movie business could guess that would boost the potential audience right through the roof.”
“I would never, ever, agree to participate in such a ridiculous scheme.”
He shrugged and reached for his coffee. The porcelain cup looked small and fragile in his large hands. “I don’t remember accusing you of that.”
“But you implied it.”
“If I have something to say Lorelei, I say it. I don’t imply. Yeah, I think that some actresses might do anything for publicity. And although you’re not as snowy white as you first tried to make me believe, a lead foot on the gas pedal of that sporty little Mercedes convertible you bought last year doesn’t mean you’d try to manipulate the police to garner a few extra minutes on ‘Entertainment Tonight.”’
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But just because I don’t consider you a suspect doesn’t mean that the scenario isn’t workable.”
“Eric wouldn’t do that.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’d stake my life on it.”
“You realize, of course, that may be exactly what you’re doing.”
Angry at him for remaining calm while doing such a bang-up job of jangling her nerves, Lorelei jumped to her feet “This is ridiculous! The man, whoever he is, is obviously obsessed. But I can’t believe he’d want to kill me. He says he loves me.”
“He wouldn’t be the first guy to attempt to love a woman to death.”
His expression, rife with grim memory, cooled her fury. “You’re talking about Desiree,” she guessed.
“Yeah.” He dragged a hand down his face, recalling how close the woman who’d been his lover and had remained his friend had come to being killed by the French Quarter rapist. “The first guy was sick, but although I was more than happy to send him away, I still believe he was pretty harmless. All things considered.”
“But the second?” she prompted quietly.
“He’d killed before.” He hadn’t been able to stop the murder of a teenage runaway. Michael figured that would always gnaw at him. “And he would have kept killing.”
“If you hadn’t stopped him.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you...” She paused, carefully framing her words as she realized that Eric hadn’t given her the entire story. She glanced at the black leather holster. “Shoot him?”
“Yeah.”
For a man who claimed to be outspoken, he definitely wasn’t a font of information. “Did you kill him?”
“Someone had to.”
Since she knew that Desiree was now married, Lorelei realized that the story had a relatively happy ending. Nevertheless, the fact that Michael had been forced to shoot to death the man who had stalked his lover, and the realization that she might face similar danger, made her suddenly go weak at the knees. She sank down onto a Queen Anne chair upholstered with birds and flowers.
For such a large man, Michael proved capable of quick action. One minute he was seated at the table, the next he was standing over her, his fingers splayed against the back of her head.
“Put your head between your knees.”
“I don’t need to—”
“Shut up,” he said equably. “And do it. I’m being paid big bucks to take care of you, Lorelei. I’m not going to let you ruin my reputation by fainting on the first day.”
“I never faint.”
“Good for you. Let’s keep it that way.” He was pushing down, the pressure of his hand gentle, but determined. Since it was difficult to argue while little white dots were swimming in front of her eyes, Lorelei did as instructed.
Her vision gradually cleared.
“Feeling better?”
“A bit” Although her head was no longer spinning, his absently caressing touch was causing new havoc to her equilibrium.
“Here.” He shoved a glass of water in front of her. “You’re probably dehydrated from the flight. Take a long drink.”
“I’d forgotten how bossy you can be,” she muttered. She was also mildly irritated when the ice water tasted better than the finest vintage French champagne.
“And I’d forgotten how stubborn you could be,” he countered mildly. “You always were spoiled rotten, Lorelei.” She’d been rich, beautiful, pampered, and he’d been crazy about her. “Obviously all those folks in Hollywood continued where your parents left off.”
Lorelei had always felt a little guilty about the difference in their life-styles. Although Michael certainly wasn’t poor—his father, she remembered, was a famous, prizewinning news photographer—she’d been born into wealth and privilege while he’d always seemed to be working. And trying to keep Roarke and Shayne out of trouble, which she suspected had been a full-time job all on its own.
She lifted her head the rest of the way and looked straight into his eyes. “I didn’t get everything I wanted.”
Her tone was soft, almost a whisper. But Michael heard her loud and clear.
He’d thought the ashes of their love affair had long gone cold. But as she looked up at him, and he looked down into those wide silver eyes, Michael could feel the stir of old embers warming.
“You’re not alone in that.” He returned to the table and began stacking some French fries onto a giltedged plate. “Here, you’ll feel better if you eat something.”
“I told you, I have to watch my weight.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. You eat enough to keep yourself from fainting and I’ll watch your weight.”
He might be bossy and chauvinistic, but Michael possessed a strong independent streak that made him so different from the men she knew. Men who spent so much of their time and energy playing Hollywood games.
“I have problems seeing you working on the police force.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t I inspire confidence?”
Forgetting that she had no intention of eating the fries, Lorelei picked one up and absently chewed on it as she cocked her head and studied him “Of course you do. But that’s not the point I just can’t see you following orders.”
“Neither could I.” He shrugged and took another bite of fry himself. “That’s probably why the brass didn’t try too hard to keep me on the force.”
“It was their loss.”
He arched a brow. “Am I mistaken, or did a compliment just escape those petal pink lips?”
The lips in question curved. She felt both her mood and her spine loosen. “I suppose I’ve been a bit overly defensive.”
“That’s understandable, given the circumstances.”
“Yes. Well.” She took another bite of French fry that had been cooked to perfection—golden brown and crunchy on the outside, white and flaky on the inside. “It’s not that I’m frightened—”
“You should be,” he interjected in a neutral tone.
“I suppose so.” She sighed again, then reminded herself that she had no intention of letting some sicko get the best of her. “However, since Eric has now hired the intrepid O’Malley brothers to baby-sit me, I’m going to let you and Shayne worry about the details.”
“That’s what we’re getting paid for,” he agreed.
“And very well, too, I hear.”
He shrugged. “You’re undoubtedly worth it.”
She couldn’t help
smiling again at that. “Undoubtedly.” Her expression sobered as she picked up another fry. “Could I have some ketchup with this?”
He put the dish on the tripod table beside the chair.
“It’s the lack of control.” The ketchup was thick and clung to the wedge of fried potato. When she popped it into her mouth, she detected the unmistakable fiery taste of tabasco sauce that invoked old memories of clandestine trips with Michael to his uncle Claude’s bayou fishing cabin.
She took a drink of water to cool her tongue. “I’ve learned to live with the fact that there’s very little control in the business I’ve chosen. But this...” She shook her head and grimaced. “This is my life we’re talking about, Michael. I’ve worked hard to keep my personal life private. And he’s invaded it.”
“I know.” Because he was struck by a sudden urge to pull her close, to stroke his hand down her back, to bury his lips into the silky fragrant slide of her hair, to bury another part of him into her tight warmth, Michael sat back down at the table and took a huge bite of the hot juicy burger that could not satisfy this new hunger.
“I won’t let you down, Lorelei,” he promised grimly.
He’d said those words to her a decade ago. The night before she’d flown to Los Angeles, the night he’d promised that they’d be married, make a home, have children. And then, by the time she’d come home for Thanksgiving, he’d conveniently forgotten her and the vows they’d made to each other one star-spangled moonlit night.
They’d both been young, she reminded herself. She’d been foolish to expect an eighteen-year-old boy, even one as responsible as Michael had been, to tie himself down to one girl. They’d moved on with their lives, as their parents—who’d been against the youthful romance in the first place—had predicted they would.
But now fate and some obsessed fan had brought Michael back into her life. And the twinges of desire she’d been feeling were definitely not for any handsome, serious boy.
She wasn’t yet prepared to trust him with her heart. But she could, Lorelei knew, trust Michael O’Malley with her life.
“I’m going to get him, Lorelei,” his deep voice broke into her contemplative silence.
She looked up at him, her tangled emotions in her eyes. “I know,” she said, relieved to discover that she honestly believed that he would.