Keeping Company

by Tami Hoag

  “No, you are,” she retorted. “I think we’ve already established that fact.”

  “Lady, you’re not making any sense at all,” Dylan complained somewhat absently, conveniently forgetting that he had been speaking what must have seemed to her to be a foreign language up to this point. His quick wit was wandering … all over Andora.

  Warmth flashed beneath the surface of his skin as she shifted against him. Nuts or not, Princess Andora had one hell of a body, and strategic parts of it were melting beneath strategic parts of his. His anger evaporated in the heat of sudden desire.

  “I’m not making sense?” Alaina questioned, her husky alto reduced to little more than a hoarse, indignant whisper.

  She should have been terrified, but she wasn’t. She didn’t really feel threatened by him. She felt … something else altogether. A strange wave of confusion rippled through her normally sharp mind as equally strange tingles ran through her body. Under that weird getup this crazy guy had some kind of physique! The thighs that flanked hers were solid muscle. So was the chest that was pressed to her own, flattening her suddenly sensitive breasts. Her gaze fixed on his mouth, and she wondered dazedly why God would put such sexy lips on a maniac. They were cut just right—not too thick, not too thin—and perfectly arranged on his wide mouth. And they looked firm and kissable.

  “No,” Dylan muttered, his eyes magnetically drawn to the beautiful upper slopes of her breasts, which were accommodatingly bared by the neckline of her costume. Who was he to accuse anybody of not making sense? Staring at Princess Andora was unleashing a sensual fog in his own brain that could have put London’s to shame. Still, she was the root of the problem. “You’re not making a bit of sense. What are you, a lawyer?”

  That cleared her head. Alaina gasped in outrage, further heaving her cleavage up beneath the man’s nose. “Just what kind of a crack is that?”

  “Oh, no.” Dylan groaned, making a face. The tide of disappointment left him feeling weak. Without thinking, he sagged a little deeper into the exotic-smelling feminine form he had sandwiched against the car. All these lush curves on an attorney. What a waste! What use did a lawyer have for ripe breasts?

  Her heart sinking along with her temper, Alaina tried to swallow down the knot in her throat. She felt the oddest sense of blighted hope. But what had she been hoping for? She wasn’t in the market for a man.

  Shoving the question aside, she considered her situation. Just her luck. She had to be attacked by a lunatic who had a beef with lawyers! He’d probably been committed to the nut hatch by one. Who could imagine the atrocities running rampant through the man’s maladjusted mind? He’d no doubt been dreaming up sordid forms of revenge all during the course of his incarceration.

  “This is so humiliating,” she muttered, more to herself than to him as her anger reached the boiling point. “I’m a member of Phi Beta Kappa. I graduated with honors from Notre Dame. I was the youngest partner in the history of Abercrombie, Turtletaub, and Flinch. I had an apartment on Lake Shore Drive that people would sell their children for. And I threw it all away to move here, only to be murdered by a poorly dressed maniac!”

  “I am not going to kill you,” Dylan announced. “Lord knows, the world would be a better place with fewer lawyers in it, but I’m not going to kill you.”

  “Ha! Not in front of a cop, at any rate!” Alaina’s eyes lit up as her gaze fastened on the squad car that was pulling to the side of the road. She gave the man a malicious grin. “You’re in for it now, Jack. They’re going to put you away until your teeth fall out.”

  He rolled his eyes as he stepped back from her and planted his hands on his lean hips.

  The deputy emerged from the car slowly, making a great show of sliding his nightstick into his wide belt and adjusting his hat. He was plump and jowly and looked like Jonathan Winters in a khaki uniform.

  “Deputy,” Alaina said, heaving a huge sigh of relief that made her breasts jump and fall. “Thank God you happened along.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d be so glad to see me,” the man said with a rude snort.

  “You know her?” Dylan asked, hooking a thumb in Alaina’s direction.

  “I know her kind,” the deputy answered in a Joe Friday monotone. He stuck his thumbs behind his belt buckle and rocked back on his heels, nodding sagely. “They’re pretty much all alike.”

  “You can say that again.” Career women. Dylan shuddered. He should have taken one look at that BMW and run like hell.

  The cop shot him a look. “You ought to know, huh, bub?”

  “You can say that again.” Obviously the deputy had heard about his divorce from TV news anchorwoman, Veronica Howard. Yes, he knew all about career women.

  The deputy swaggered a step or two closer to Alaina, his stern gaze running from the top of her head to the tip of her sparkly silver shoes. “Okay, sweetheart, what’s the story? Holding out money on your boss here, so he decided to rough you up, huh? It’s an old story. I’ve heard it told a hundred times. A nice girl goes bad and falls in with a bum who makes his money off women and depravity. Makes me sick.”

  Alaina stared at him for a full thirty seconds before comprehension dawned. Slowly her own gaze slid down the front of her, taking in the low-cut, body-hugging, thigh-length, metallic-silver dress. That was bad enough, but then there were the mesh stockings and the stilt shoes.

  Oh, Lord, she groaned inwardly, the man thought she was a hooker!

  “This isn’t what you think,” she said primly, discreetly tugging up the bodice of her costume and wishing for the millionth time in her life that she didn’t have such a generous bosom. “I’m an attorney.”

  “And I’m Mickey Spillane.” He pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue. “Name?”

  “She’s Princess Andora of the Zanatares,” Dylan said, completely unconcerned about the situation and more than a little amused by the black look Alaina shot his way. “Don’t you recognize her?”

  The deputy frowned at him. “Who are you?”

  Dylan grinned, pushing back the tails of his frock coat and tucking his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants. “Yes, I am.”

  “Yes, you are who?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Alaina quickly bent and snatched up her cigarettes and lighter. She shook one out of the pack and planted it between her lips. “Can we please dispense with the Abbott and Costello routine?” she said dryly as she lit up. “We’ve already done Who’s on First.”

  The deputy shook his pencil at Dylan. “Don’t get cute with me, bub. I’ll flatten you like yesterday’s roadkill. I’ll shake you so hard, your kids’ll come out dizzy.”

  Dylan’s brows lifted. He fought back a smile. This guy belonged on a sitcom. But then, this entire scene belonged on a sitcom. It was just the sort of situation that appealed to his sense of the absurd. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t think that’s gonna help you, pal. I’m not some green-as-grass rookie. I’ve been around the block. I know the score. I’ve seen the mean streets.”

  Taking a deep drag on her cigarette, Alaina just barely managed not to groan. She squinted at the deputy’s chest, trying to make out his name tag in the glare of two sets of headlights. “Look, Deputy Screwup—”

  “That’s Skrea-wupp,” he corrected her stiffly. “It’s Flemish.”

  Alaina bit her tongue, then pressed on with her usual aplomb, as if she hadn’t just made a monumental blunder. “How fascinating. Please allow me to explain what happened here. I was on my way to a friend’s party when my car broke down and this lunatic tried to attack me.”

  Dylan’s look was incredulous. “I did not try to attack you!”

  “So, you finally admit you’re a lunatic,” Alaina said, jumping on his careless omission. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

  “Yeah,” Deputy Skreawupp drawled, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. “Now we’re getting in the squad car and going to the
station. You’re both under arrest.”

  Alaina shot him her most imperious glare, knowing the effect was somewhat lost, what with her standing there dressed like a cheap thrill. Still, she had to make the effort. She had a reputation to protect. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Dylan chimed in.

  “You have the right to remain silent.”

  Chapter 2

  The Anastasia jail was an unusually pleasant sort of place. Housed in an old stone building two blocks off the waterfront, the interior had been completely remodeled. The walls were painted white, and there was a mural done in pastels depicting a sailing scene and the annual migration of the gray whales behind the front desk. All in all, Alaina thought it looked more like the Chamber of Commerce office than a jail.

  They were greeted by a smiling, cherub-faced lady in her fifties who wore a surfing T-shirt and a button that encouraged everyone to HAVE A NICE DAY IN ANASTASIA. When she glanced up from her paperwork, she beamed at the man handcuffed to Alaina’s left arm.

  “Why, hello, Dylan! What are you doing here?”

  Deputy Skreawupp peered over their shoulders. “Disturbing the peace, simple assault, and conspiracy to solicit.”

  “Goodness!” the woman said, chuckling, her blue eyes shining like sapphires. “You’ve been a busy boy tonight!”

  “This is all a simple misunderstanding, Jan,” Dylan said. His good humor had returned on the ride into town. The whole thing could be cleared up in no time, and he had to admit he had sort of enjoyed watching Ms. Career Woman hiss and sputter in the squad car. It had been a double treat, considering what she was wearing.

  Even now he couldn’t help but glance at her standing there beside him, mad as a wet cat, her arctic-blue eyes shooting daggers at everyone and everything in their path. She made one hell of a Princess Andora—regal, aristocratic, fiery. Not to mention well endowed, he thought as his gaze strayed to her heaving cleavage.

  A rueful little sigh slipped through his lips at the thought that she was exactly the kind of woman he had taken a blood oath to avoid for the rest of his life. True, he had known her for less than an hour, but the warning signs were there glaring at him with neon intensity. An attorney with an attitude and a BMW. The car had tipped him off straightaway. In his book, BMW stood for Business-Minded Woman—something he’d had his fill of during the last turbulent year of his marriage to Veronica.

  “You know this man, Mrs. Fletcher?” the deputy asked.

  “Oh, my, yes!” the woman behind the counter said. “This is Dylan Harrison. He runs Dylan’s Bar and Bait Shop down at the marina. Dylan, this is Deputy Skreawupp.”

  Dylan nodded, raising his handcuffed right hand and dragging Alaina’s left one up with it. “Yes, we’ve met.”

  Mrs. Fletcher’s little mouth turned down in a worried frown. “Dear.” Then her gaze settled on Alaina, or more to the point, on Alaina’s outfit, and her frown deepened to almost comic proportions. A blush bloomed on the apples of her chubby cheeks. “Ohhhh, dear.”

  Alaina ignored the woman and turned on the deputy, fixing him with a furious glare. “I demand you take these handcuffs off immediately unless you want harassment charges heaped on top of false arrest.”

  Deputy Skreawupp glared back at her, his double chins set at a stubborn angle. “This is a righteous bust, sweet cheeks.”

  “I was not disturbing the peace.”

  Dylan waggled his eyebrows and did his best Groucho imitation. “You were certainly disturbing my peace.”

  Alaina followed his pointed gaze to the plunging neckline of her dress. A blush crept up from beneath it all the way to the roots of her hair. Ordinarily, she would have had a scathing put-down for the man, but not one sensible word came to her mind. His hot, glittering brown eyes had suddenly thrown her into some kind of weird hormonal meltdown.

  Their gazes collided when she looked up, and the awareness that sizzled between them nearly knocked her off her spike heels. Then Dylan smiled and winked at her, and Alaina felt her knees sway. This is weird, she thought. She would have called any other man a sexist pig and smacked him one for looking at her that way. But Dylan Harrison’s gaze didn’t leave her feeling insulted. She felt strangely … hmmm, what was the word? Flattered? Attracted? Confused.

  How she could be attracted to the man was quite beyond her. He had gotten her arrested, for Pete’s sake! And the man was unquestionably certifiable. The fact that he had great cheekbones and the sexiest mouth she’d ever seen didn’t enter into it. The fact that he had a voice like warm silk was of no consequence. He had a pierced ear and no regard for proper behavior or fashion. How could she, Alaina Montgomery, consummate yuppie, levelheaded woman of the world, be attracted to such a man?

  She couldn’t. But she was. And the twinkle in his eye told her he knew it.

  “I’ll take the cuffs off,” the deputy said reluctantly, producing a key from his trouser pocket, “but no funny stuff. One wrong move from either one of you, and I’ll stop you like a cheap watch.”

  Dylan’s mouth twitched—an action Alaina couldn’t help but catch since she was staring at the firm, sharp cut of his lips. A giggle bubbled up inside her, stunning her into frowning. What did she have to laugh about? She was supposed to be furious!

  She shot Dylan a scowl as they followed the deputy through the little gate into the area behind the front counter, where old wooden chairs lined one wall and plain metal desks took up the floor space.

  “On what grounds are you arresting me?” she asked the deputy.

  “I’d say that dress is probable cause to make a man do just about anything,” Dylan murmured, tilting his head down near hers so only she could hear him.

  His low voice rolled over her skin like a sensual wave. Alaina shivered as her suddenly wild imagination conjured up intimate images—that voice floating to her ears across the width of a pillow in a moon-bright room. She could practically hear the sheets rustle. It was all she could do to keep herself from swaying toward the source of that silky voice. The handcuffs had been removed, but Dylan remained close enough so she could feel the natural heat of his body. His warmth attracted her like a magnet.

  What was the matter with her? she wondered frantically, what seemed to be the last of her sanity digging its heels in for one last stand. She didn’t react this way to men. Her mother reacted this way to men.

  An irrational fear grabbed her by the throat at the thought that she was showing signs of suddenly turning into a clone of her mother. Lord, first there had been that business with A.—for adultery—Clayton Collier. She should have somehow known that he was married. There must have been signs, but she hadn’t heeded them. Now this bizarre attraction to a man wearing an earring, a man who ran a bar and bait shop. A chill swept across her skin, and all her blood drained to her feet.

  A bolt of alarm shot through Dylan as he took in Alaina’s sudden pallor. He took her by the arm and guided her toward a chair. “Are you all right?”

  Her heart was going about two ten. She stared at his hand on her forearm. His long, tan fingers were a stark contrast against her fair skin. The heat his touch generated flowed up her arm and across her chest, pooling behind her nipples.

  Get hold of yourself, Alaina, she ordered sternly, stopping in her tracks. The only things she had in common with her mother, the oft-married Helene Barbach, were a few chromosomes and an allergy to shellfish. She herself wasn’t at all the sort to succumb to common lust; she was much too in control of herself for that sort of idiotic nonsense.

  “Princess?” Dylan asked again, a deep, genuine concern thrumming through him. “Are you all right?”

  Alaina’s head snapped up, her eyes glittering with temper. He was a threat, challenging her control with his damnable sexiness. The cad. She was as angry with him for being so darn attractive as she was at the situation his outrageous behavior had landed them in.

  “Of course I’m not all right,” she said crossly. “I’m being
arrested.”

  Dylan plopped down on a chair, looking morose. “You’re right. We’re being run in like a couple of common lowlifes. It’s the end of the world as we know it.”

  In an instant he was on his knees in front of Deputy Skreawupp’s desk, his long scarf dusting the floor, his arms outstretched in a gesture of supplication. “Please, Deputy, you can’t send me up the river to the big house! I couldn’t make it, I tell ya!”

  Alaina pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle her laughter. The man was outrageous. No matter how hard she tried to stay angry with him, he kept appealing to her sense of humor—with smashing success.

  Dylan shot her a disgruntled look over his shoulder. “Could you hold the laughs? You’re spoiling my big scene.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, biting her lip.

  He turned back to the deputy, instantly falling back into character. “I’d be a total wash in prison. I can’t play the harmonica, and I don’t know all the words to ‘Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.’ ”

  “Jeez,” the deputy grumbled, “what a weirdo.”

  “Actually, I’m a Time Lord,” Dylan said, standing and dusting off the knees of his baggy trousers. “Dr. Who.”

  “Who?”

  Alaina groaned and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Here we go again.”

  “Don’t start with me, pal,” the deputy said, shaking a meaty finger at Dylan. He narrowed his beady eyes until they were mere slits in his fleshy face. “I’ll bust you like a ripe melon.”

  Dylan grimaced. “You have a real talent for visual imagery. Have you ever thought of writing children’s books?”

  A ferocious scowl was his only answer.

  Dylan tugged down the bottom of his waistcoat, clearing his throat as he prepared to launch into his explanation. “You see, it’s this way, Deputy. I was on my way to a science fiction theme party, dressed as Dr. Who. Tom Baker’s Dr. Who, to be precise. He’s my personal favorite. Though I’m also quite fond of Peter Davison’s portrayal of the doctor.” At the deputy’s growl of impatience he decided to skip the details and get on with the story. “Anyhow, I stopped to assist this lovely lady with her car, and a huge misunderstanding ensued.”