Downright Dangerous

by Beverly Barton

  Alyssa placed her fingers over Troy's mouth. "Are you sure your sister will let us live with her? What if she kicks you out? Daddy won't let us live with him. I know he won't."

  "Elsa won't kick me out. She won't be happy about us—our getting married and expecting a baby, but she'll help us." God, he hoped and prayed he was right, that Elsa would once again—for the millionth time—stand by him and support him. But this time it wouldn't be just him, it would be his wife and child.

  Hadn't Elsa sacrificed enough for him and Milly and Sherrie? Here he was expecting her to take on the responsibility of helping him take care of Alyssa and their child. She'll do it, he told himself. You know Elsa. She'd fuss and fume and call him a fool, but in the end she wouldn't let him down.

  "When—when are we going to do it?" Alyssa asked. ' 'It needs to be fairly soon. I mean, we should get married before I start showing."

  Troy started the truck so the heater would kick in and warm the interior, then he buttoned his shirt and put his arm around Alyssa. He kissed her temple and said, "I'll get tomorrow night off from work. Elsa has a date with Harry Colburn and she'll be distracted. I'll tell her I'm bunking with one of my buddies tomorrow night after a party. You make up some excuse your dad will believe. Don't pack a suitcase or anything. We'll pick up whatever we need later. We can't get married here in Maysville, but we'll do it this weekend. We got the license over in DeSoto County today, and with no waiting period, we can get hitched tomorrow. All we gotta do is find us a preacher."

  Tears welled in Alyssa's eyes. "I want to wear a pretty dress. And you could—would you wear your suit?''

  "Yeah, sugar, I'll wear my suit. And I'll stop some­where and get you some flowers, too. Maybe a real bridal bouquet."

  Alyssa gulped back the tears, valiantly fighting not to give in to her emotions, but Troy realized she needed to have a good cry. He hauled her up against him and rubbed her back tenderly.

  "Go ahead and cry. I know it won't be the wedding of your dreams, but—I swear I'll be a good husband to you and a good father to our baby."

  She clung to him, her tears dampening his shirt front. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this happened."

  He caressed her gently, loving her more than he'd ever loved anyone in his entire life. If only he could make things right. If only there was a way to make all of Alyssa's dreams come true. But he wasn't a magician. All he could do was the best he could do. And that was to marry her so they could be together and keep their baby.

  Despite what a lot of people thought about her, Leenie didn't make a habit of one-night stands. As a matter of fact, this would be her first. As she hummed to herself while she emptied the omelettes out onto her best china, she told herself all the reasons why a smart woman wouldn't go to bed with a man—someone who was little more than a stranger—on their first date. Heck, tonight really wasn't a date. Frank Latimer and his associate had been using Elsa Leone's office during their investigation, and the guy had simply stayed late at the station and waited around until her midnight talk show ended on WJMM radio.

  She had to admit that she'd been surprised when he'd produced a bottle of fairly decent Merlot and half a dozen long-stemmed red roses seemingly from out of nowhere when they started to leave the station. At least the guy had class. Although he knew as well as she did that this pre­dawn breakfast would end with the two of them in the sack, he'd made an effort to create the fantasy that this was actually a date.

  Licking her lips to moisten them, since she hadn't taken the time after her show ended to freshen her makeup— she'd been too eager to meet Frank—she swept through the kitchen door into her small dining room and placed the Lennox china down at the place settings across the table from each other. She had ordered fresh flowers for the centerpiece yesterday, and the arrangement of mixed roses and baby's breath added to the romantic atmosphere she'd tried to create. The linen tablecloth, napkins, good silver­ware and shimmering candlelight completed the scene. In the background, soft music played from her living-room CD player. She had chosen instrumental melodies by Gershwin.

  Frank had already opened the bottle of wine and poured some into each crystal glass. After she set the plates down, he walked up behind her and pulled out her chair. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him.

  "Smells good," he said. "And I'm starved. I haven't had anything but coffee since lunch."

  After assisting her, he took his seat across from her and looked down at the food in front of him. Ham and cheese omelettes—her speciality. Leenie wasn't known for her cu­linary skills, but she could whip up breakfast, if it con­sisted of eggs and toast.

  "I'm not much of a cook," she admitted. "But—"

  Frank reached across the table and grasped her hand, turned it over and rubbed her palm with his thumb. Her breath caught in her throat. "I'm not here to check out your talents as a cook."

  She swallowed. "No, I didn't think so." He was here to check out her talent in the bedroom. But what had she expected? She'd practically jumped his bones two seconds after they were introduced.

  He released her hand and picked up his fork. She hadn't realized how intensely she was watching him until he grinned at her and said, "See something you like?"

  Yeah, she did. Him. All six-three of his big, lean body wrapped up in a rumpled navy-blue suit, which he'd no doubt bought off-the-rack, and a cheap, hideous tie with colorful cartoon characters on it. The knot in his tie was crooked, and she could tell he'd fiddled with it enough to loosen the tie and shift it sideways.

  Leenie giggled. Heavens, was that silly sound she heard coming out of her mouth? She didn't giggle. She was fa­mous for her sultry, deep-throated laughter. This guy had reduced her to teenage giggles. And to top off that stupid­ity, he had also apparently rendered her speechless. When she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

  Frank sliced a piece of omelette, speared it with his fork and placed it in Leenie's open mouth. So startled by his actions, she came close to choking, but managed to save what was left of her dignity by chewing and swallowing. All the while she kept looking right at Frank and he kept smiling at her. He put the second bite of omelette into his own mouth and sighed.

  "Delicious."

  "Glad you like it," she said, then nervously lifted her glass of orange juice.

  "I have a feeling I'm going to like everything about you." Without missing a beat, he continued eating. As if he were dining on prime rib, he seemed to savor each bite while he finished off the meal and then lifted his glass of wine.

  Suddenly Leenie realized she hadn't eaten a bite, except the one Frank had fed to her. But she had managed to down half a glass of orange juice. Her omelette and toast rested untouched on her plate.

  "You aren't eating, Slim. Aren't you hungry?" Frank asked.

  Hungry? She was starving. But not for food. She was thirty-eight and far from a virgin, but she'd never been so hot for a guy. Not ever. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out what it was about this big, untidy ruffian that appealed to her. Maybe the very fact that he was so dif­ferent from her customary boyfriends—sophisticated doc­tor and lawyer types—with sleek sports cars, hefty bank accounts and self-centered cockiness. Her bet was that Frank's car was probably an older model, maybe even a classic, and although she didn't know exactly what a Dun­dee agent earned, she didn't figure him for a millionaire. Although he exuded an air of complete confidence, he didn't come across as the least bit cocky. He was simply a man comfortable with his masculinity, with nothing to prove to anyone.

  "I . . .I guess I'm not hungry. But I am thirsty." She picked up her glass of wine and took a swallow. Don't drink on an empty stomach, an inner voice reminded her. After that one unladylike gulp, she set her glass back on the table.

  Frank stood, removed his jacket and tossed it into the chair he'd just vacated. He eased back her chair and held out his hand. "Dance?"

  She nodded then, stood and went straight into his arms. He didn't pull her so close that their bodies touched,
but close enough so that she felt his heat and sensed his arousal. Odd, she thought, how absolutely right it felt to be in this man's arms, dancing intimately in her dining room at three o'clock in the morning.

  "Should we bother with idle chit-chat?" she asked.

  "That's your call," he told her. "You invited me, re­member?' '

  "So I did." She took a deep breath and looked up into his eyes. She was a tall woman, but even though she still wore her heels, he was several inches taller. "You prob­ably won't believe this, but . . .I've never done this before."

  He chuckled. "Never done what before?"

  She laughed. Thank God, this time it was her usual sexy laugh. "No, I don't mean I've never. . .well, you know . . .had sex. It's just you'll be my first one-night stand, but I bet I won't be your first, will I?"

  He eased her closer until her breasts pressed against his chest and his arousal pulsed against her mound. "Slim, I have a feeling that whatever experiences we've had in the past are going to pale by comparison come daylight."

  Her heart stopped. She was sure that for half a second her heart stopped. When she gazed into his eyes, Leenie became lost in their smoky-gray depths. He was sucking her in, drawing her into a whirlpool of pure lust.

  He kissed her. It was soft. Tender. Nonthreatening. The sweetest kiss she'd ever known. And the most seductive. She sighed. He kissed her again. And when she kissed him back, the whole world disappeared, leaving only the two of them and the hot, passionate desire that pulsed between them. The kiss deepened, expanded, turned into something wild and all-consuming. They tore at each other's clothes, leaving a trail of garments on their way to Leenie's bed­room. Her last coherent thought was that she was glad she'd changed the bed linens.

  Naked, except for his boxer shorts, Frank laid her down on the silky Egyptian-cotton sheets and ran his hands over her slowly, exploring every inch of her. When he had her completely naked, she yanked on his shorts, which he whipped off and flung halfway across the room. Merciful heavens, he was something to behold. Big, hard and ready.

  They kissed and touched, their hands and mouths in con­stant movement. They tossed and tumbled, exchanging dominate positions over and over again until Frank flung her on her back and came down over her. She had sus­pected that beneath those cheap, wrinkled clothes lay a to-die-for body. She'd been right. The man was all lean mus­cle. Large, rugged and one hundred percent male. He lifted himself up off her and grinned.

  "You're one gorgeous woman, Slim." In the dim glow of her bedside lamp, his gaze traveled over her from head to toe, then reached out to the nightstand and grabbed a condom.

  "When did you . . .? Where did . . .?" She hadn't noticed when he'd removed a couple of shiny foil packets from his pants pocket and laid them on the nightstand. "You came prepared."

  "It's the Boy Scout in me."

  "You were never a Boy Scout."

  "Cross my heart. An Eagle Scout." Using his index finger, he crossed himself.

  Leenie laughed again. And while she was laughing, Frank sheathed himself and thrust into her, deep and hard. She gasped when he filled her completely, stretching her to the limit. Oh, she knew it would feel like this. Glorious. Absolutely glorious. All he'd done was enter her and she was on the verge of a climax.

  "Let's not talk anymore," she said, and went at him like a madwoman.

  He responded with equal wildness. Their climaxes oc­curred within minutes. And simultaneously. They lay to­gether, side by side, their bodies damp with sweat. Panting. Smiling. Frank reached over and touched her. She quiv­ered.

  "I brought three condoms," he said softly as he nuzzled her ear. "If we run out, I'll make a quick trip to the nearest drugstore."

  Rafe hadn't slept a wink. He had tried, but to no avail. He'd acted like an ass last night. A bossy control freak who had put his two cents in where they weren't wanted. Who Elsa dated, who she married, what she did with her life was none of his business. So, why did you open your big mouth and insert your foot? he asked himself. Damn good question!

  Admit it, you care about the woman. From the moment you saw her in the alley behind the riverfront warehouses in St. Camille, trying valiantly to fight off a couple of teen­age hoodlums, she got to you. Somehow, some way, she brought out all your possessive, protective instincts.

  So what? So he wanted Elsa. And wanted her to want him. Maybe he was jealous of Harry Colburn and even Ellison Mays and would probably be jealous of any man Elsa might show an interest in, but that didn't mean he was looking for something more than sex with her. And a woman like Elsa wasn't looking for an affair. She wanted a society wedding, a honeymoon in Europe, a big fine house with hot-and-cold-running servants. She wanted se­curity—the kind only wealth and privilege could afford her.

  So why does that surprise you? he asked himself. Elsa wasn't the only woman who felt that way. Hadn't Kendra wanted exactly the same thing? Hadn't she set her sights on him because she'd known he came from the Knox County Devlins? He'd been such a fool, believing that she loved him for himself, that she'd fallen for a Knoxville cop and would have been happy living on a cop's pay. But he'd been wrong. Boy, had he been wrong. He had thought he knew her. Had trusted her as he'd never trusted anyone else, except maybe his sister, Sandy, and his mentor, Roy Dutton.

  So maybe the reason he was being so hard on Elsa was because he was projecting Kendra's selfish, manipulative gold-digging personality onto Elsa. But they're two dif­ferent women, he reminded himself. Elsa is nothing like Kendra. There is a strength and a vulnerability in Elsa that had not existed in his former fiancée. Elsa isn't hiding anything from you. She's not trying to deceive you. Her attraction to you is genuine. And she's fighting it as hard as you are. Elsa has no idea that you're a multimillionaire.

  Rafe climbed out of bed, slipped into his jeans and walked out into the hall. Elsa's door, per his instructions, was open. Wide open. He glanced inside. Her bed was empty. His heart lurched to his throat. Where was she? Was she all right?

  He entered her room without knocking and halted abruptly when he saw her curled up on the window seat and staring out the window. She looked so small and del­icate, her dark hair glistening blue-black against the pale­ness of her pink pajama top as moonlight illuminated her slender form.

  "Elsa?"

  She jumped and gasped.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I'm okay. I just couldn't sleep." "Neither could I."

  She didn't respond and didn't look his way; she just kept staring out the window.

  "Anything I can do for you?" he asked. "Anything you need?"

  She shook her head.

  "Elsa?"

  No response.

  "I'm sorry."

  He waited for her to say something. She didn't. He heaved a deep sigh, then turned and walked back across the hall to his room. Apparently a simple apology wasn't enough to suit her. So be it. If she thought he was going to grovel, going to beg her forgiveness, then she had an­other think coming.

  Chapter 8

  When Elsa came down to the kitchen at five-thirty that morning, she fully expected to be alone. No such luck. Rafe sat at the table, a mug of coffee in front of him, his face hidden behind the morning newspaper. She skidded to a halt just inside the door and almost turned and fled, not wanting to confront the man and what had happened between them last night. No! This was her house, her kitchen. And she wasn't running away. Not from Rafe. She'd never been a coward, never tried to escape from life's problems. She'd always faced the tough things life had handed her, faced them head-on and dealt with them like an adult, even when she'd been a child. But this thing with Rafe was different from anything she'd ever experi­enced, just as having to accept the fact some lunatic wanted to kill her was a new and frightening reality. Why was it that just when her life had finally turned around completely and she was on the verge of getting everything she'd ever wanted, fate had thrown her not only into a deadly situation but into the arms of a man who
was down­right dangerous?

  "Are you coming in or not?" Rafe asked, his voice flat and unemotional. Neither warm nor cold.

  "I had no idea anyone else would be up." She eyed the coffeemaker on the counter. Half-empty. Apparently Rafe was on his third or fourth cup. "Have you been up long?"

  He laid the newspaper on the table and looked up at her, then lifted his mug and saluted her with it. "About forty-five minutes." He eyed her leisurely, scanning her from head to toe, making her very conscious of the fact she hadn't run a brush through her hair and there were prob­ably dark circles under her eyes. Gripping the edges of her housecoat, she overlapped the velour material across her breasts and tied the belt that had been hanging loosely from the loops at either side of her waist.

  "Why didn't you turn the thermostat up?" she asked as she noted he wore a heavy cable knit sweater. "It's chilly in here."

  "You can adjust the heat now that you're awake." He took a sip of coffee.

  "I've been awake most of the night," she told him. "But I suspect you know that already."

  He nodded. "If it makes you feel any better, I got less than two hours sleep myself."

  "That's two hours more than I got." She walked across the room, removed a mug from the cupboard and poured herself some coffee.

  When she sat down across from him, he tapped his fin­ger on the newspaper he'd folded and placed in front of him. "There's a write-up about last night's MGS meeting and about you."

  "Hmm." She took a sip of the hot dark brew and sighed. There was something special about that first cup of coffee in the morning. Especially after a rough night. "We usually give an update on the morning newscast on WJMM's Early Show about the MGS monthly meeting. The Good Samaritans have become the fastest-growing or­ganization in Maysville." "Thanks to you."

  "I take partial credit," she admitted. "It was my brain­child. But only through the efforts of the group as a whole have we accomplished anything."