“Yes, we do,” he agreed, “as quickly as possible.” But he knew there was a lack of conviction in his voice. It seemed the only logical explanation. And yet...and yet, it almost seemed as if a power greater than either one of them was trying to slip a message between the lines. Maybe, for some reason, they shouldn’t hurry to dissolve this union they had unwittingly stumbled into.
Rolling that over in his mind, he added, “But it is going to take a little time.”
It had only taken them a minute to sign the document. Why did it have to take longer than that to erase the error?
“We didn’t know that what we were signing was legal,” she protested.
He shrugged. “Still going to take time. The law moves slowly.”
Suspicion began to creep through her again. Cheyenne rose, her empty cup in her hand, and crossed to the sink. “And your point being?”
“I don’t have a point,” he answered, coming up behind her: “Just a feeling.”
Cheyenne turned on the water and rinsed out the cup. She shouldn’t ask. She should just keep her mouth shut and go back to her room to get her cameras. She still had photographs to take, Cheyenne reminded herself. There were less than a handful of O’Hara.
But something more than the natural curiosity she wanted to blame burrowed forward. “And that feeling is?”
His eyes touched her, skimming along her face, her hair, her body. He felt the same quickening, the same desire that had taken him prisoner last night and then again in his dreams. There was no getting away from the attraction he felt toward her.
“I want you, Cheyenne. I want you a great deal.”
Slowly, she turned around to look at him. The desire she heard in his voice made her knees feel as if they were going to buckle. She struggled to treat this the way she would any other man’s attempt to get her into bed.
But he wasn’t any other man. He was someone who had invaded her mind, her dreams, her soul with breathtaking speed, as if this time she had no say in the matter.
This time temptation, not just some vague curiosity, was pricking at her, urging her into his arms.
Into his bed.
She fought as if her very life depended on it. “Well, you can’t have me. I’m not just some commodity you can get over the counter at your local drugstore. I can’t be had for a night, remember?” Angry, frightened by the intensity of her own feelings, she stepped away, only to have him stop her with a touch of his hand on her arm.
“I remember. I remember everything you said. And everything I felt.” He tried to make her understand something that he didn’t fully comprehend himself. “I don’t know why yet, Cheyenne, and I’m groping around in the dark right now worse than I was last night.” Frustrated, he looked for words. “For some reason, I feel like...like I’ve just come face to face with something I can’t walk away from. My destiny, my future...”
“Your hormones,” she concluded tersely.
That was what this was all about, she insisted silently. Just red-blood hormones. His and hers. That was all attraction was, right? Maybe he’d even just guessed that part about the dream. She wouldn’t put it past him. Men said a great many things they didn’t believe just to get a woman into bed.
“Look, I’m flattered, very flattered—”
He wanted to hear, needed to hear, more than that. “And tempted?”
She gave him that. “Yes, and tempted, but—”
There didn’t have to be a “but.” They were two mature, intelligent adults who could have a relationship based on that. “Then why don’t you give in?”
Desperation clawed at her throat. She was struggling to convince not just him, but herself. “I already told you why not. And I thought you said you never forced yourself on a woman.”
“I don’t. And I won’t.” He let go of her hand, but his eyes still pinned her in place. “But there’s nothing that says I can’t try to be persuasive.”
She wished he would stop before she gave in. She tried to shame him out of it. “Or take unfair advantage?”
He was the one who felt as if he were being turned inside out and left out in the sun—not her. That wasn’t fair, was it? “How is it unfair?”
“Because—” she threw up her hands “—because it just is, that’s all.’-’
In her own way, he realized she was fighting this as much as he was. She was as afraid of this as he was. Funny, you spend your whole life telling yourself you are looking for something and then, when it hints at finally showing up, all it does is scare the hell out of you, he thought, banking down the panic.
He took hold of her shoulders. “Listen to me, I’m not going to say trite lines like ‘This is bigger than both of us,’ although, damn it, something is going on here, something I can’t quite figure out, and it sure feels bigger than me. I look at you and I want you so much that it scares me. I don’t understand it, can’t begin to explain it, but there it is. Now, we’re married—legally—and you said you’d give yourself to your husband.” He was putting this so badly, he thought, cursing himself mentally. Like some fumbling, hormonal teenager. “So if it eases your conscience—”
Didn’t he get it? “My conscience has nothing to do with it,” she informed him. “The reason I never went to bed with anyone isn’t because of some moral hangup once dictated by society. It’s because I don’t want to become emotionally needy. I don’t want to give every shred of me to someone who’d just be doing it to satisfy his momentary lust.”
He shook his head, feeling as if he was unraveling. “There’s nothing momentary about this.”
She noticed he didn’t deny the crucial word. “But it is lust.”
He wouldn’t be fair to her if he wasn’t honest. And the honest answer was that he had no idea what he was feeling. Only that it was overpowering. “I don’t know yet.”
Just as she thought. Feeling suddenly very tired, she crossed to the doorway. “Call me when you find out.” She began to leave, then remembered that she couldn’t get very far. “Can Jack fly me back now? I want to go to the police station with those photographs I took.”
He’d almost forgotten about that—about the photographs, the storm, not to mention his agreement with Stan. All he seemed to be able to think about was her.
Was this what his old man had felt like, falling in love? Or had Shaun O’Hara mistaken lust for love, the way Cheyenne had accused him of doing just now? Maybe a little distance would do them some good.
But Grant didn’t want distance, damn it. He wanted her. Most of all, he wanted to figure out this feeling that was plaguing him. “What about the photographs?”
“I just said—”
“The ones you were supposed to take of me,” he clarified.
Terrific, now she was forgetting her assignment as well. But she couldn’t stay here, not like this. Not when she could give in so easily.
“I’ll tell Stan that the storm wrecked your island. We’ll postpone the feature until some other time. Maybe send someone else.”
“I won’t do it with anyone else.”
Her mouth curved at the ironic choice of words. “Commitment, Mr. O’Hara?”
He didn’t bother answering. Instead, he took her arm and hustled her out of the room. “C’mon, let’s go wake Jack.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Cheyenne told him for what seemed like the dozenth time that day, as they got out of his car in front of the police precinct. “I’m perfectly capable of going to the police on my own.”
“No one’s doubting your ability to walk, Cheyenne.” He slammed the passenger door shut behind him, commandeering her arm.
Jack had flown them from the island to the airstrip, where Riley had been waiting to take them to the hotel. Grant had insisted on accompanying her to her room. She’d been half afraid that he was going to push his way in, he’d looked so angry. But he had left her at her door, informing her that he would be going with her to the police station. No amount of talking would dissuade him.
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She had hurried to change, but by the time she opened her hotel room door, Grant had already been there, waiting for her in the hall.
“But,” he continued now as they went up the stone steps to the precinct, “I think adding my voice to this claim might make them believe you more readily.”
Claim? What claim? She wasn’t just hallucinating; she had proof. “I have the photographs to back me up,” she said tersely.
He held the door open for her. “You know better than I do that they could be doctored.”
That was ridiculous. “Why in heaven’s name would I do that?”
“That would be just what they would wonder. But I have a reputation,” he said without conceit. “They know I don’t have time for games.”
And she would? Cheyenne tried to cool a flash of temper. “So I need you to make them believe me?” she asked evenly.
“You need me to make them believe you faster,” he emphasized. “After all, it couldn’t hurt to have me at your side, right?”
The smile was back on his face—and winding its way into her soul again. He was wrong, she thought. It could hurt. Hurt a hell of a great deal.
The weary looking detective with the day-old stubble on his face took her statement, and then Grant’s, as well as the photographs she’d brought. He placed them all in a slightly bent manila folder and dropped it on his desk beside his name plate: Det. Alex Moreau.
He studied the pair before him. He knew neither, but he recognized O’Hara’s name and was satisfied that this was on the up-and-up. The woman’s story dovetailed with the body of Councilman Phelps that had been found in the alley early this morning. Sanitation workers, getting an early start on the debris, left behind by revelers and storm alike, had uncovered it. There had been no clues to go on.
Though he didn’t look it, Detective Moreau was grateful for the lead. “I’d like to thank you for coming forward with this, Ms. Tarantino.” The Bayou lilt in his voice extended her name for several more syllables than it actually had. “Mr. O’Hara.” Nodding at Grant, he rose and shook each of their hands in turn.
“Please forgive my appearance, but we’ve had a real busy night here, as you can well imagine, what between the bad storm and Mardi Gras.” He looked apologetic as he indicated the folder. “I will probably need to speak to you again after I talk to the chief. Where can I reach you?” he asked Cheyenne.
That was going to be a problem. “I have to fly to L.A. tonight,” she began.
But Grant cut in before she could finish. “She’ll be staying at the Majesty Hotel, suite 2111.” Cheyenne opened her mouth to protest. “You haven’t finished your assignment yet,” he reminded her.
No, she hadn’t, and she wasn’t going to. Not right now. “I thought we decided to put that on hold.”
“You were the only one who, voted. Besides, you have to stay. You’re a material witness. Can’t go messing up the case for the police, now, can you?” He glanced at Moreau. The man looked amused, despite his rumpled condition. “Right, Detective Moreau?”
“Yeah, right.” It looked to him as if something of interest was going on here between the two, but he was too tired to pay it much mind. It had been a hell of a night, though the brunt of the storm had mercifully missed the city. Even without the winds, it had been bad. Looting, disturbing the peace, all kinds of things had gone on last night. Like a good deal of the force, he hated Mardi Gras, now that he found himself on the other side of the celebration.
Moreau ushered them on their way. “We’ll be in touch Ms. Tarantino. And thanks again for coming forward. You, too, Mr. O’Hara.”
“Our pleasure,” Grant assured him. Although pleasure might be stretching it a little, he thought, judging by the expression on Cheyenne’s face as they walked out of the building.
“Now what?” she demanded as soon as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m supposed to sit and twiddle my thumbs?”
He took her elbow and directed her toward his car. “Now I take you out for a proper breakfast.”
She knew the features on him had never materialized before because he’d always protested he was too busy to take the time to be interviewed. Why was he acting so laid back now? “Don’t you have work to do?”
He’d sent a few faxes this morning and done what he was always being pressed to do. Having surrounded himself with a staff of handpicked people who were good at what they did; he could afford to delegate without qualm now.
“I’ve decided to smell a few roses.”
She frowned. Double-talk. She might have known. “They’re not in season, yet.”
He shrugged, unfazed. “I’m early. I was never first at anything. Third son, second in my grading class, that kind of thing.” He looked at her. “I think I’d like to try my hand at being first in line for a change.”
There was that uneasy suspicion again, coupled with that same funny little thrill undulating through her. “At the florist?”
“At anything.”
But not with me, O‘Hara, she thought. “All right,” she allowed slowly. “We’ll get back to the interview. We can call this Grant O’Hara, The Day After Mardi Gras.” She slanted a look at him, fully expecting him to protest both the title and the very suggestion.
Instead, he smiled. “Works for me.” He swung open the passenger door and held it for her.
After a beat, Cheyenne slid in. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have said she was being courted.
Chapter Nine
“So,” Cheyenne said, setting down her cup of coffee and fixing Grant with a long, scrutinizing look, “do you want to get started?”
Grant pretended to look around the softly lit restaurant where he had brought her for breakfast. At this hour, there were more staff than customers. He liked it that way. Intimate.
“Right here?” A sexy smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t you rather go somewhere a little more private?” .
She took out a small tape recorder from her bag and flipped it on, determined to keep this professional—no matter what she was feeling.
“You know perfectly well what I mean. With the written part of the interview.”
A smile played on his lips. “All right. What do you want to know?”
Since in a way this was now his idea, she was going to take advantage of the opportunity. Cheyenne leaned forward, a gleam in her eye. “Anything you don’t want to tell me.”
He knew what she meant, and in that case she was going to be disappointed. “I don’t have the kind of secrets that would tantalize a bored audience, Cheyenne. No hidden love children, no employees paid off to keep their mouths shut about unscrupulous double-dealings. No insider trading. My accountants aren’t even told to cheat on my taxes. All very aboveboard.” If heretofore he hadn’t been forthcoming, it was only because, at bottom, he was a private person and he lived in enough of a fishbowl as it was. A man had to have some things that were his alone.
Nobody was that clean, she thought. Cheyenne fingered the recorder, debating whether to shut it off. There was no sense in recording this if he wasn’t going to play it straight.
Her eyes met his. “I think you’re misunderstanding the purpose of this interview, O’Hara. I’m doing a feature on you, not submitting you to the Vatican as a candidate for sainthood.”
The look in his eyes seemed to strip away the protective coating she had tried to rewrap around herself. It went straight to her heart, and she wasn’t sure she could dislodge it.
“Oh,” he mused, “I think we’ve already sufficiently proven that I’m not a saint.”
“All right, you’ve gone over what you’re not,” she agreed gamely. “Let’s cover what you are.”
He turned the tables on her. “What do you think I am?” It might help his cause with her if he knew the kind of preconceived notions she was laboring under.
That part was easy. “The son of a millionaire who’s president of his own fast-rising company.” She didn’t add any of the adjecti
ves that occurred to her, like incredibly sensual, or fascinatingly sexy. She was sure he heard that often enough. He didn’t need to hear it again from her.
“And that’s it?”
He dismissed the description as if it meant nothing, she thought. People slaved their whole lives without ever coming close to having what he had. It seemed like the wrong people were born lucky, she thought.
“By some people’s standards,” she pointed out, “that’s a lot.”
He picked up on her phrasing, wondering if she was patronizing him. “But not yours.”
“We’re not doing me, we’re doing you.”
“Oh, but I’d like to be doing you. Slowly...” His voice trailed off as the image became more vivid in his mind’s eye. Then he saw annoyance in her expression. “Sorry, momentary lapse. Back to the interview and your appallingly limited conception of me.”
He seemed to be enjoying himself too much, she thought, wondering if he was putting her on. Still, she pushed on, hoping her instincts would help her separate truth from fiction.
“All right, educate me. Tell me something to broaden the picture, so to speak.” She even gave him a beginning. “Start with your childhood.”
He thought a minute, but not much came to him. He had a gift for being able to block out the unpleasant and file it away somewhere where it wouldn’t fester. Where it wouldn’t touch him.
Grant shrugged casually, helping himself to the plate of bacon, eggs and sausage the waiter brought. “I don’t remember much of it. Just an endless string of boarding schools. I don’t remember being much of a child, actually.”
She couldn’t help it; she had to comment. “Do you know that stuff can kill you?” she said, indicating his breakfast.
Hers consisted of a bowl of three kinds of melon, their colors blending harmoniously, as they would in nature, he noticed. But she left it untouched.
Every so often, his appetite reared its head. Today was one of those days. “You got me hooked on this last night.”
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