The concierge studied her. “I pride myself on my ability to take charge of any situation, Miss Madison, but are you quite sure you want this man removed? I mean, most young women in your place would be screaming bloody murder and demanding someone throw the bum out instead of worrying about him.”
“There’s really no other choice, is there?” Her smile was rueful.
The concierge reached to pat her hand where it rested on the counter. “Not unless you are in the mood for a little adventure.”
Live dangerously. Race had said that; she could hear the words echoing in her head in his deep, seductive tones.
All her life she had been sensible, conscientious, and law-abiding. Her clothes had always matched as a child; her closet had always been tidy. She never walked on the grass, never crossed against the light or exceeded the speed limit. She always made and finished her To Do lists, and double-checked her addition without fail. Her bank account balanced to the penny, not to mention the books she kept for others.
She had played it safe, and see what it got her: a fiancé who was a cheat and a solo honeymoon.
She was tired of it. She had also had it with men who thought they could move in on her as they pleased, treat her as they liked while she did nothing about it.
Her gaze narrowed as she stared at Tyrone. “You think I should risk going back up there?”
“Here, now, that’s not exactly what I meant.”
“But you said I might enjoy the adventure.”
“I said—What did I say? No matter. You must realize, Miss Madison, that I am here only to serve you, not to advise you.”
“Thank you,” Gina said, a slow smile lighting her face. “You’ve really been very helpful.”
As she turned and walked away, she thought the concierge stood staring after her. And why not? She must be insane. She could not be thinking seriously of going back upstairs and playing along with the man in her shower? No. of course not.
Could she?
Perhaps she might. Just for an hour or two.
To give herself a little more time to think, she turned to make a circuit of the mezzanine balcony that overlooked the Glass Garden. Though she glanced over the railing, she scarcely saw the luxuriant palms and bromeliads, the sparkling fountain, or the fairy lights twinkling along the limbs of the ficus trees. The music drifting up from below was a Caribbean rhythm that put a lilt in her steps and provided a reckless undertone to her thoughts.
Race Bannister had not seemed threatening, she told herself. In fact, he’d appeared the cowboy-rancher he claimed to be. He even smelled like one; there was about him the scent of horses and the honest sweat of a healthy male who had been working in the great outdoors. You couldn’t fake that, surely.
So there was a mix-up. She could find out what it was, couldn’t she? He would explain then everything would be fine. She and Race would spend the evening together, and that would be that. It was no big deal, not really.
All things considered, she loved the idea of being seen in Race’s company. Bradley would be flabbergasted. He seemed to think she must be miserable without him; he’d been so careful when he talked to her on the phone, as if afraid she’d descend to hysterical tears and pleading.
He needn’t have worried.
She was ready for something different in her life, for someone different. She should be thanking her lucky stars that Race Bannister had shown up instead of getting ready to send him packing. If he came with a little mystery attached, well, that could be a good thing. Maybe it would get her out of her rut, away from her dull, too-safe life.
Change, excitement, and yes, adventure. That was what she needed. She was going to live dangerously.
Yes, she was indeed.
Gina shivered, and could not be sure if it was caused by the thrill of it all or sheer, undiluted terror. In any case, it was banished an instant later by another consideration altogether.
Race was getting into a tuxedo. Where did that leave her?
True to her usual organization, her honeymoon trousseau had been packed weeks in advance. She had only to grab the suitcase on the way out of the apartment. Regardless, nothing in it remotely resembled an evening dress. With Bradley, the most she had expected to need was an understated outfit of the kind she wore to church. Something told her that more would be required to keep up with Race. Besides, being an adventuress seemed to call for a drastic change of style.
She’d noticed a boutique tucked into a corner near the hotel gift shop. That was her only hope. If she gave them her gold card and an option on her firstborn son, they might let her take a few things up to her room on approval. Face set in determined lines, Gina turned in that direction.
: : :
Race was standing in the middle of the sitting room when she let herself back into the suite. Dressed in a pleated white shirt that hung open over black tuxedo trousers, he was struggling with a cuff link.
He glanced up with a flashing smile. “I wondered where you got off to.”
Gina tore her gaze away from the section of muscle-wrapped chest revealed by his unfastened shirt. It was gilded with curling hair the color of old gold. A little breathless, undoubtedly from her haste, she gestured toward her burden of dresses draped in mint-green plastic. “Would you believe I didn’t have anything to wear—at least anything formal?”
“We could have gone more casual.” There was a trace of concern in his eyes.
“No way,” she returned as she headed toward the bedroom. “I’ll try not to take too long. When you’re done, help yourself to a drink at the wet bar.”
Intent on watching her, he fumbled the cuff link in his fingers, dropping it. He bent in a swift, lithe movement to pick it up. “Could you give me a hand here first? I never have been any good at fastening these things.”
To come that close to him didn’t seem like a real bright idea, but Gina could think of no way to avoid it. Draping the dress bag across the arm of a chair, she moved toward him. She took the plain gold link he held out to her and reached for his arm.
His wrist was taut and strong, with its molding of muscle and sinew. He held it rock steady while she guided the post of the cuff link through the holes in both sides of his silk shirt cuff. It was her fingers that had a tendency to tremble.
Standing so close, she inhaled the soap freshness of him, also the scent of a subtle aftershave that hinted of wild canyons and desert nights. The warmth of his body reached out to her like an invisible caress. Feeling it, her skin prickled with the sudden rise of goose flesh.
“I called down for reservations at the Terrace,” he said, his voice slightly husky. “I hope that’s all right.”
“Fine. I’m glad you thought of it.”
“That’s my job, to make things easier for you.”
She swept her lashes upward, searching his face. He was watching her, his dark blue gaze intent in its measuring curiosity. His pupils widened slightly, as if to better absorb her, while a pulse began to throb in the strong column of his neck.
His hair, still damp from his shower, curled a little across the tops of his ears. The dark gold stubble of his beard was just visible under his smooth-shaven skin. A thin scar above the center of one brow gave it a small quirk that saved him from vapid perfection, lending an air that was quizzical and cynical by turns.
The firm contours of his mouth were finely molded and finished at the corners with the small indentations of omnipresent humor. They deepened, reaching toward the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, as his lips curved in a slow grin. Voice soft, he asked, “Think you’ll know me next time you see me?”
“Maybe,” she answered, lowering her lashes like dropping mini-blinds in a single, swift fall, “if I ever do run into you again after tonight.”
“Oh, you will. I’ll see to it. Personally.”
The words were simple. Still, spoken in his quiet, even drawl, they had the sound of a vow.
Or a threat.
:: Chapter Three ::
&n
bsp; The dress was like nothing Gina had ever worn before in her buttoned-up, buttoned-down-collar life. A black knit with a bolero jacket set off by jewel-colored beading sewn in Arabesque patterns, it was a shade too form-fitting, a bit too revealing at the top, a little too short, and a great deal too sparkly. It made her look like Dolly Parton, Madonna, and Mata Hari rolled into one. But it made her feel like the Queen of the Night.
She must have a heretofore undiscovered split personality, she decided with an ironic twist of her lips. She usually preferred simple, comfortable styles, though she had a hidden romantic streak that showed up in things like her Victorian nightgown and the lacy nothings in rich colors that she wore under her business suits. Yet this outfit with its hint of drama seemed right for the moment. She felt daring in it—daring and sexy. It was possible, of course, that her mood had something to do with the man waiting in the sitting room.
It was also possible she was overreacting by even considering such a thing. Feelings did not come into this, no, not at all.
Regardless of the reason he was here, the time with Race Bannister was limited. One evening and he would be gone. Finis. Which made it all the more necessary to find out as soon as possible just who had sent him and why. If a new dress would help the situation, then she didn’t begrudge the price of it.
More than that, it would show Bradley what he had missed. She mustn’t forget the original purpose for this charade.
“Wow.” Race got to his feet as she walked into the sitting room. His gaze moved from the shining waves of her hair, which just brushed the tops of her shoulders, to her slender waist, emphasized by the bolero jacket, and the length of her shapely legs exposed by her skirt. With a slow shake of his head and bemused expression, he added, “Stunning.”
His reaction was so gratifying that she gave a low laugh. “I could say the same for you. If men only realized how absolutely fine they look in black tie, they would never wear anything else.”
“Yes, well,” he said as a hint of color rose under the bronze of his skin, “it isn’t too practical for riding a horse.” Swinging away, he moved into the foyer, where he opened the door and held it for her.
She had disconcerted him. The fact that she could did odd things for her confidence. She walked a little taller as she passed in front of him on her way from the suite.
It was almost possible to forget, as the evening advanced, that theirs was not a normal night out. Conversation was easy; they talked with hardly an awkward moment from the time they left the room until their entrées were placed in front of them at the restaurant table.
The major credit for the sense of ease was due to Race. He seemed genuinely interested in her thoughts on any and every subject under the sun, in her likes and dislikes, her opinions and convictions. Discovering her ready sense of the ridiculous, he exercised a droll wit and a wicked talent of observation, which made her laugh. His comments were not vicious, however; in fact they indicated a bedrock of tolerance that was amazingly attractive.
At the same time, he was attentive. To hold her chair for her, inquire about her taste in wine, offer whatever she might like in the way of condiments or hot breads—even the black olives from his salad when he discovered she loved them—seemed natural to him. He set his pace to hers, seemingly in no hurry whatever to have the evening end. Since she did much the same, the time between the courses stretched longer and longer.
Race Bannister, Gina had to acknowledge, was a captivating companion. But then, he would be, wouldn’t he? It was his stock-in-trade. She should not need to remind herself of that last fact, yet she did.
They were halfway through their broiled shrimp with white asparagus and baby carrots when she noticed Bradley. How long he and Sandra—the supposed new Mrs. Dillman—had been at the table on the far side of the room, she didn’t know. Since the tables were set within booths with high backs that provided a great deal of privacy, she’d managed to forget the other diners, even those visible from where she sat. It was actually the way her ex-fiancé stared in her direction that drew her attention.
For Bradley to finally show up felt like an intrusion. It gave her a start to realize she was annoyed with him for it.
“What is it?” Race asked, his expression alert as he watched her face.
“The idiot.” She tilted her head in the direction of the other couple. “Otherwise known as my former fiancé, Bradley Dillman. The woman with him was to have been my maid of honor.”
“Right.” Race reached to take her cool fingers in his warm clasp while his lips curved in a smile of infinite appreciation. “Curtain going up.”
It did, too, at least in a manner of speaking.
If she had thought Race Bannister was attentive before, it was nothing compared to the sudden acceleration of his concentration upon her. Eye contact was increased. No opportunity was lost to touch her. He made her laugh with his intimate comments. He even fed her bites of the cherries jubilee he ordered for dessert. When she used her fingertip to catch a vagrant drop of melted ice cream, he reached for her hand and took away the stickiness with a flick of his tongue.
The firm grasp of his hand, that warm, wet-velvet abrasion, made her feel a little dizzy. Or perhaps it was the wine; she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she could easily drown in the liquid sea-blue of his eyes. On top of that, if he licked her finger one more time, she might well dissolve into a puddle like the melting ice cream of his cherries jubilee.
This would not do. “I think,” she said with some difficulty, “that we had better call it a night.”
The small triangular scar above his left eyebrow arched diabolically. “Why? The evening has just started.”
“Yes, but this—it could get out of hand.”
“Could it?” The question was innocent, but the gleam in his eyes was not.
She moistened her lips. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Playing bridegroom,” he said, still smiling. “And looking forward to dancing with you. On the patio, maybe, in the moonlight.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“And here I was thinking it was one of my best.” His smile turned whimsical. “All for Dillman’s benefit, of course. It should convince him that he’s the farthest thing from your mind.”
He was, and that was what worried her. To call it quits now, however, would mean that she might never discover who Race Bannister was or how he had found out so much about her. She had somehow lost sight of that aspect of the situation in the last hour or two.
“You’re right,” she said, her tone abrupt as she turned to glance around the room. “What became of our waiter and the check?”
Race’s smile faded. Glancing behind her, he signaled, then indicated that the check would be forthcoming in a few minutes. He leaned back in his chair before he spoke again. “Have you known Dillman long?”
“Long enough,” she replied, her attention on the last bite of chocolate indulgence that was her chosen dessert.
“How did you happen to meet him?”
“He was a client at the firm where I work when I started there. I was assigned his account, but had trouble getting the information to keep his books properly. When I chased him down at one of his fast food places to discuss the problem, he took me to lunch.”
“And you worked things out from there.”
“More or less,” she said with a small shrug. “What about you? I suppose you’re involved with someone?”
Race’s brief smile said he recognized the evasive tactic; still, he answered easily. “Not right now. My job doesn’t exactly encourage it.”
“I can see how it might make things a little difficult if many of your evenings wind up like this.”
“Not many do.” The words were short and a little cryptic. An odd expression flitted across his face, as if he might have surprised himself with his answer. “You enjoy being an accountant?”
“Most of the time. It’s one of the few jobs where you can line things up
in neat rows and columns and always have the answer come out as it should.”
“But it doesn’t always, does it? Isn’t there sometimes a discrepancy in the figures?”
She gave him a sharp look. There was no time to answer, however, as the waiter materialized beside their table and placed a leather folder at Race’s elbow. He flipped the folder open with a practiced motion and glanced over the check while reaching for his wallet to extract a credit card.
“No, wait,” Gina said in haste. “Let me sign for it.” She reached for the check.
Evading her grasp, Race tucked his card inside the folder before handing it over to the waiter. “My treat,” he said in firm refusal.
“What about the ranch’s vet bill?” She studied him, a frown between her eyes, as the waiter turned smartly and walked away.
The Rent-A-Groom Page 3