by Julie Kenner
“I was wrong, man. You’re not charmed; you’re S.O.L.”
Taylor sighed. “So much for an easy ten grand. I guess tomorrow morning I start looking for the mysterious flying woman.”
“Hello? Mr. Bailey?”
At the distinctly feminine voice, Taylor jumped, then looked at Hoop, who shrugged. “A client?” Taylor whispered.
“Not for me. I don’t work on Saturday.”
Taylor considered arguing—after all, Hoop was at the office, and it was Saturday—then decided not to split hairs. If Hoop wanted to hand him all the Saturday walk-ins, so be it.
“Have a seat,” he called out, plucking at the damp slacks clinging to his legs. So much for an aura of professionalism. Oh, well. If Saturday didn’t qualify as casual day, nothing did. “Be right there,” he added, calling toward the main room.
He stepped into the reception area, then stopped short.
Zoë Smith. She was standing right in front of him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, looking every bit as surprised and delighted as he felt. For just an instant, he allowed himself the pleasure of seeing her again.
His Zoë.
Another man’s Zoë.
Her lips thinned and she lifted her chin. Behind those lenses, her eyes flashed lightning, the quiet joy he’d just seen replaced by anger.
“George Bailey, I presume.” One eyebrow lifted, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Or am I mistaken, Buster?”
“Buster?” Hoop repeated from behind him. Taylor whirled to see his friend leaning in the doorway to the file room, an amused expression playing across his face. “She’s pissed at you, man,” he said under his breath. “Buster’s the polite girl’s word for asshole. ‘Or am I mistaken, asshole?’ ” he said, mimicking her. “See how that works?”
“Got it,” he said somewhat ungratefully and shot Hoop a look.
“Why shouldn’t I be mad?” she asked. “He told me it was his name.”
“Asshole?”
“Buster,” Taylor corrected.
“Right,” said Hoop. “Why?”
“Funny, I was going to ask that very thing.” Zoë put one hand on her hip and waited.
Taylor opened his mouth to say something clever and pithy, but nothing came out.
He tried again, finally managing an “Uh . . .”
She scowled.
“Look,” he said. “Pretend I said something so incredibly clever that you were blown away by my wit and charm.”
Her smile was reluctant, but it was still a smile, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to run around the room doing a victory dance. Instead he just grinned like an idiot. “Maybe we should do it right this time,” he finally managed. “I’m George Bailey Taylor.”
“Nice to meet you, George. I’m Zoë Smith.”
“He prefers Taylor,” Hoop said from behind him.
Zoë gave Hoop a smile—did they know each other?—and a nugget of something remarkably close to jealousy rattled around in Taylor’s gut.
“Good to see you again, Hoop,” she said, answering his question. He frantically tried to figure out how on earth she knew Hoop. Then he put it all together. Deena volunteered at the school. Zoë knew Hoop through Deena. The bead of jealousy melted.
She trained her eyes on him. “So, Taylor, you want to tell me why you lied?”
“Yeah. Explain to the lady.” Hoop hooked a leg over the reception desk, apparently enjoying the show.
“Twice,” she said.
“Twice?” Hoop repeated, before Taylor could get a word in.
“At the school, and then last night.”
“Last night?” Hoop’s voice rose, and a devious grin spread across his face. “And so the pieces of that triangle we were discussing fall into place. . . .”
“Hoop,” he said in what he hoped was a threatening manner.
His friend held up his hands. “I’m not saying a word, buddy. You’re the one who’s supposed to be doing the talking.”
“Talking?” he asked dumbly.
“The lie?” she said. “Your explanation.”
“Oh. Right. Well, I didn’t exactly lie.”
Her eyebrows rose above her glasses. “You said your name was Buster.”
“I was undercover.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly.”
Damn but he hated seeing that look in her eyes. “Okay. So I lied. But I was working a job.”
“Not last night you weren’t. Last night you were looking for a date.”
“Yeah,” Hoop agreed. “How do you explain that?”
Taylor turned to scowl at him, then focused his full attention on her. “I didn’t think about reintroducing myself.”
“Why on earth not?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He caught her eyes and looked deep into them. “Beautiful women make me nervous.”
“Oh.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “Thanks.”
“So why are you here?” he asked, hoping to change the subject while he was ahead. He held his breath, knowing the odds that she’d rushed to find him and tell him she was no longer taken were pretty damn slim.
She grazed her teeth over her lower lip as she looked from him to Hoop, then back again. He didn’t know what, but something clearly had the poor girl agitated. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and started fidgeting with its end. Without thinking, he moved closer, wishing he could calm her fears. He knew he was unreasonably drawn to this woman, but he couldn’t help it. He could only follow the path cut by his rough-edged emotions.
“Zoë?” he asked when she remained silent, starting to get concerned. “What is it?”
Biting her lower lip, she avoided meeting his eyes. “The thing is,” she said, “I kind of need . . . well . . .”
She took a deep breath. “I need a man.”
Nine
A man? Taylor frowned, not sure he’d heard correctly. Was Mr. Wonderful out of the picture? And if so, what exactly did she want a man for?
“Not like that,” she hurried to add, a slow blush creeping up her cheeks. “I need an escort for a lawn party tomorrow. Just one night, and Deena said you needed clients.” She squinted at him. “Of course, that’s before I knew you were you.”
He tried out a weak smile. Apparently they were back to his little misrepresentation about his name.
“I was right, my man,” Hoop said, with a cocky smile. “You do lead a charmed life.”
Charmed? The very woman he’d been fantasizing about for days waltzed into his office and set her sights on him, but not because she wanted him, but because she needed a paid, platonic escort. Somehow, charmed wasn’t the word that leaped to mind.
True, he might be really close to losing the quick ten grand he so desperately needed, but he hadn’t sunk so low that he was getting paid to schlepp another man’s woman to parties. “I don’t think—”
“It’s just the one night.” Her eyes darted to Hoop, silently pleading.
“Well, that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?” Taylor said.
She squinted. “What is?”
“One night,” he said. “Just a temporary gig while Mr. Wonderful’s away. That’s my problem.”
“Mr. Wonderful?” she repeated.
“What are you talking about?” Hoop asked at the same time.
Taylor held up a hand. “I just think—”
“I’ll pay your usual rate,” Zoë cut him off.
“It is not the rate, dammit. It’s the principle. I just—”
“Please?” Her eyes widened behind those studious frames.
“Jeez, man. What the heck.” Hoop spoke before Taylor could cut him off. “Help the lady out for a night, and you’re that much closer to financial freedom.”
Taylor glared at both of them in turn. “Would you two let me finish a sentence?”
She glanced at Hoop; then the two of them both shrugged.
“Sure,” she said.
“No problem,” Hoop agreed.
“So pretend a little.” Hoop casually pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped through it. “Unless you’ve already found a buyer for that Mustang . . .”
Taylor scowled. “Now you’re hitting below the belt.”
“Me? Never.”
Taylor ignored him. “Besides,” he added, “I already have a case I need to be cracking on. Remember?”
Hoop snorted. “Like one night’s gonna make a difference.”
Zoë glanced at Hoop, nodding vigorously, then turned back to Taylor. “He’s right. It’s just a cocktail party. Then you can get back to detecting or defecting or annoying or whatever you do.” She grinned at him, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Investigating,” Taylor said, rubbing his temples. The woman made his head spin in more ways than one. “And that’s my point. I don’t do the paid-escort gig. Especially not with another man’s woman.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Hoop asked.
“She’s got—”
“A problem,” Zoë interrupted. “Please. I need your help.”
“Sorry. I can’t.”
She pressed her lips together and gave him one curt nod. “I guess I’d better get going, then.”
She turned, heading for the door, and his gut clenched.
Was it his training as a cop that always made him want to help a lady in distress, or was that instinct why he’d become a cop in the first place? Either way, his soft nature was about to set him an entire half day behind on his plan for financial freedom. Not to mention what it was going to do for his level of sexual frustration. An entire evening with a woman he craved who belonged to another man? He must be an idiot to even consider it.
Oh, hell. “Wait,” he called.
Hoop smirked, an “I knew you’d cave” expression spreading across his face.
Zoë turned back, her head cocked and her arms crossed over her chest. “What?”
“Gratis,” he said. He’d be her date, but he wasn’t going to stoop to playing American Gigolo.
“Excuse me?”
Hoop jumped to explain, pointing to Taylor. “He’ll do you—sorry, it—for free.”
Taylor shot Hoop full of holes with his eyes.
“For free?” Zoë asked in an odd tone.
“Right,” Taylor said. “Plain, old-fashioned, simple. No money changing hands. Everything normal.”
“Like a real date?”
He frowned, pushing back a wave of rising irritation. Wasn’t she supposed to be grateful? In his script, those gorgeous eyes would look at him in gratitude, thrilled he was sacrificing a day’s wage. Not in hers, though. This girl’s baby blue—and gray—looked anything but grateful. “Isn’t that what you asked for? Or is Mr. Wonderful the jealous type?” He fought to keep the annoyance out of his voice. For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to razz her about this boyfriend, as though she’d somehow cheated on him. It was stupid and juvenile, but that was how he felt.
“I don’t think—”
“Look,” he interrupted. “You need an escort, a date.” He pointed to himself. “I’m willing to do it. But I won’t take money for it.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “So. Do we have a deal?”
She blinked.
He waited for her to say something—anything—but nothing came. He sighed. “I think ‘thank you’ is the traditionally accepted response.”
She didn’t answer, just fingered the earpiece on her glasses, which had slid down her nose. Then she scowled and pushed them back up, looking every bit like a kid eyeing a candy jar.
He frowned, wishing he had a clue what was going on in her mind.
She tapped her glasses, then shook her head. “No. I don’t think that would be a good idea. It’s nothing personal,” she added, and he silently cursed her mysterious boyfriend. “It’s just that I don’t feel . . . comfortable having you do this for free.”
“And I don’t feel comfortable,” he said, mimicking her, “being paid.”
Hoop hopped off the desk and came to stand between them. “Children, children. I think you’re missing the big picture.” He aimed a grand wave toward Zoë. “The lady needs protection.”
Her brow furrowed. “I do?”
“You do,” said Hoop meaningfully. “You definitely do.”
Taylor saw the lightbulb flash on over her head.
“Oh! Right. I need protection.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “Just for the one night, of course.”
Hoop grinned. “Our door does say ‘Investigative and Protective Services.’ ”
“Uh-huh.” Taylor tried to fight his laugh, but lost. “So who exactly do you need protection from?”
“Good question,” she said, holding up a finger. “I’m working on it.” Her eyes darted to Hoop, who shrugged. “I’m hiring you because of the . . . the . . .” She trailed off, her hand twirling in the air.
“Thugs?” Taylor suggested.
“That’s good,” said Hoop. “Thugs.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the wall, looking so smug that Taylor would almost believe his friend had just disproved Einstein’s theory of relativity.
“Thugs?” Zoë repeated, then, “Oh! Right. Thugs.” She moved infinitesimally closer, and his awareness of her jumped exponentially. Once again she twisted the end of her braid around her finger.
He fought the urge to reach out and stroke her cheek, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked, then surprised himself by saying, “So tell me about these thugs.”
She looked at Hoop, then back at him. The bridge of her nose crinkled as her eyebrows drew together. Then she sighed, a long, drawn-out sound. “There’re these guys. Big guys. Huge.” She threw her arms out, illustrating their girth. “And they’ve been harassing me. And they know about the party tomorrow, and I think they might try to do something.”
He sighed. This was so obviously fake. She was still paying him to be a date, and Mr. Wonderful was still hanging in the background.
He wanted her. And she wanted a business deal.
Then again, what did he expect? Beautiful redheads sashaying in, looking to hire a guy . . . that was Philip Marlowe’s staff, not George Bailey Taylor’s.
He should tell her he had another job lined up, and just walk away. He’d he an idiot to get distracted by this girl.
Thanks, but no, thanks. And please come again.
“Taylor?” She looked up, waiting.
All his life he’d been a sucker for a damsel in distress. But this damsel caused distress, and he needed to get clear, to leave her to her boyfriend and focus on the ten grand he could be making.
And that was just what he intended to do.
He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations,” he said, blowing every one of his intentions into a billion tiny pieces. “Looks like you’ve just hired yourself a man.”
A rainbow of sparks zinged through her arm as he grasped her hand, sealing their bargain. In that moment, Zoë had one coherent thought—that she was making a huge, walloping, change-your-destiny-forever kind of mistake.
The absolute mother of all mistakes. Which brought her full circle to why she couldn’t back out of this deal. Her mother.
Zoë needed a date, and this man—this P.I. whose touch made her body snap, crackle, and pop—had stepped up to the plate.
She concentrated, unwilling to let the magic of his touch overwhelm her control, urging her nerve endings to quit singing. Breathe in, breathe out, in, out. And slowly, slowly, she felt her faculties flood back, the sparks a sweet undercurrent to the warmth of his hand on hers.
With a little moan, she ripped her gaze away from him. She couldn’t get involved with a mortal. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t. It was too dangerous, and no matter what Deena claimed, Zoë just didn’t believe that she could share something intimate with this man and then walk away. She
’d made up the boyfriend story, and she intended to stick to it.
With a tug, she pulled her hand away, hoping the break in contact would clear the last bit of fuzz from her brain.
Still, a little demon kept urging her to tilt her head down . . . to take a quick gander over the rim of her glasses. . . .
“Zoë?”
She jumped, blinking, and shoved the glasses up her nose.
Get a grip, Zo. He is just the hired help. This isn’t a real date.
Of course, considering how crazy he made her feel, even a pretend date was dangerous, but at least by paying him there was that extra distance. It could be purely professional. And he thought she had a boyfriend, which doubled the safety factor.
No risk of heartbreak, no risk of revealing her secret.
Just a guy helping a girl pull one over on her mother.
“Zoë?” Taylor asked again.
“Hmmm?”
“You okay?” He was staring at her, his brow furrowed.
She snapped to attention. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”
She flashed him a smile, knowing she was flirting with the man, but unable to help herself. “Just a little distracted, what with those thugs hounding me and all.”
“Right.” He grinned. “Those nasty ol’ thugs.”
She stifled a giggle and saw the corner of his mouth twitch. This was dangerous. Already she was having too much fun with this guy, and that had to be a bad thing.
Just being around him was making her head spin and her skin sizzle, every little tiny hair on her body practically vibrating with electricity—incredible sensations that had nothing to do with her supersenses, and everything to do with this man.
She was kidding herself to think that this bodyguard malarkey meant that their “date” would be a purely business affair. She almost snorted. Like she needed a bodyguard.
What she needed was a swift kick in the libido before she threw herself at this man, this handsome hunk who was standing in front of her, an amused expression playing across his face as though he knew how much havoc he was wreaking in her head.
She propped a fist on her hip. “What are you looking at?” she asked teasingly.
His eyes twinkled. “Apparently I’m looking at a woman fleeing in terror from a gaggle of goons.”