A Risky Affair

by Maureen Smith

  As Dane shouldered past her into the room, her fresh scent filled his nostrils—soap and a subtle trace of perfume, something exotic and undeniably feminine, like her. Resisting the compulsion to draw greedy gulps of it into his lungs, he glanced around. On the floor near the door were two large suitcases and four small cardboard boxes. Those items were the only indication that someone was checking out, not checking into the modestly furnished room. The place was immaculate, from the spotless kitchen countertops to the carefully made bed. He wondered half-incredulously what the maid could possibly do to make the room any cleaner, and didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Solange laughed.

  “My mother was a compulsive neat freak,” she said ruefully. “I learned from an early age to pick up after myself.”

  Dane chuckled. “Looks like you did a little more than pick up after yourself. You do know that the maids are paid to clean the rooms after each guest leaves?”

  “Of course.” Solange gave a dismissive shrug. “No harm in making their jobs a bit easier, though. And they’re not paid nearly enough. Take my word for it.” Sidestepping him, she walked over to one of the suitcases and knelt down to unzip it and place the envelope he’d given her inside.

  He was transfixed by a sliver of smooth golden-brown skin revealed above the waistband of her low-rise jeans. Almost at once, he saw himself standing behind her and slowly, deliberately, raising her T-shirt over her flat belly and past her rib cage until her high, round breasts—braless in this particular fantasy—sprang free, filling his eager hands. He imagined kneading and caressing them, then brushing the pad of his thumbs across her nipples until they tightened in response and a breathless moan of pleasure escaped from deep in her throat. He imagined pressing his lips to the fragrant nape of her neck, grinding his body against the lush, curvy roundness of her bottom and—

  “All set,” Solange announced, interrupting his lustful daydream as she straightened from her kneeling position.

  Dane quickly schooled his features into an impassive expression that belied the throbbing ache in his groin. “Do you have everything?” he asked huskily.

  She nodded, gesturing to indicate the suitcases and cardboard boxes. “This is it. All my worldly possessions.” Her voice held a trace of sadness that tugged on his heartstrings, and he remembered that she’d lost most, if not all, of her belongings in the house fire that had killed her parents nearly a year ago. She must have had to start all over again when she moved in with her childhood friend.

  Not wanting to arouse her suspicions by letting on how deep he’d dug into her background, Dane said, “Well, from what I understand, you’ll be well provided for at Thorne’s ranch. So not having a lot of stuff actually works to your advantage.”

  She flashed him a grateful smile. “You’re right.”

  He answered with a slow, lazy grin. “I usually am.”

  She laughed, that soft, smoky sound that sucker-punched him in the gut. “I’ll try to remember that, Mr. Roarke.”

  “Dane.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Call me Dane,” he told her. “Mr. Roarke is my father, who doesn’t tolerate being called anything else.”

  Solange gazed at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right…Dane.”

  “Much better.” He picked up both suitcases as if they were weightless, showing off just a little for her benefit. “Shall we go?”

  In no time at all, he and Solange had carried everything down to the parking lot and began loading up her car. Although it was old and rust-stained, the interior of the Plymouth was as tidy as the hotel room she had just vacated. No loose change, discarded paper cups or fast food wrappers on the floor to speak of. Dane didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled.

  Before he could decide, he was distracted by the warmth of her body as she hovered behind him, watching as he arranged one of the cardboard boxes on the backseat.

  “Does it fit?” she asked anxiously. “Can you get it in there?”

  It was too much to expect his mind not to head straight for the gutter, not with her seductive heat seeping into his bones. He cleared his throat. “It should be fine,” he managed thickly.

  “Are you sure?” She pressed closer, the soft, enticing fullness of her breasts grazing his back. Dane closed his eyes as a fresh wave of arousal swept through him, making him grow instantly hard.

  He must have grunted or made some other inarticulate sound. “Let me help you,” she offered.

  He was beyond help. “It’ll fit, don’t worry.” His voice was a low, rough growl he hardly recognized as his own.

  Misreading the reason for his tone, Solange backed away. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t handle it on your own. It’s just that I packed the car myself before leaving Haskell, so I have a pretty good idea how and where everything should go.”

  Dane had a few ideas of his own that had nothing whatsoever to do with maneuvering boxes around the backseat of her car. In fact, right now he could think of far better uses for the backseat in question.

  “Why don’t you go check out while I take care of this?” he suggested. “It’s almost twelve.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  Her absence bought him time to load everything into the Plymouth and, more to the point, get his raging libido under control. When she returned from the lobby a few minutes later, he stood holding the car door open for her.

  Solange beamed a smile at him that made him feel absurdly heroic. “Thanks so much for all your help, Dane,” she said warmly.

  “No problem.”

  As she slid behind the wheel of the car, he closed the door and took a step backward, already thinking ahead to the cold shower that awaited him when he got home later—if he could hold out that long. Never before had another woman wreaked such havoc on his senses, making him feel as horny and restless as an adolescent boy. And yet, Dane wanted nothing more than to prolong his time with her. He knew once she drove out of that parking lot, there was a very good chance he would never see her again. With her tucked away in Crandall Thorne’s remote, secluded ranch, buried deep in the Hill Country, Dane wouldn’t be able to just drop by unannounced, claiming he was “in the neighborhood.” And even if he tried, Thorne would probably have him tossed out on his ear, the irascible old bastard.

  Solange rolled down the window to look at him. Wisps of dark hair had escaped from her ponytail to frame her exquisite face. “Well, I guess I’d better hit the road,” she said, and he wondered if he’d only imagined the trace of reluctance in her voice. Was it possible she shared his desire to prolong their time together? “Mr. Thorne’s expecting me by two.”

  Dane inclined his head. “Drive carefully,” he murmured.

  “I will. Thanks again for everything.”

  “My pleasure.”

  What occurred next could only be interpreted as divine intervention.

  When Solange turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. She frowned, trying to crank the engine a second time.

  Nothing. Not even a single click. Just dead silence.

  Solange groaned loudly, leaning her head back on the headrest and closing her eyes. “I was afraid this was going to happen sooner or later,” she grumbled. “Why couldn’t it have been later?”

  “Pop the hood so I can take a look,” Dane instructed.

  Even before he checked the transmission fluid, timing belt, battery connections and starter, Dane knew what the problem was. He’d diagnosed it often enough as a part-time mechanic in his father’s auto repair shop back in Houston. And he couldn’t help feeling a perverse surge of pleasure, as if he’d been given a rare, unexpected gift at someone else’s expense.

  Solange climbed out of the car and slowly skirted the fender to stand beside him. “What’s the verdict?” she asked warily.

  Dane straightened from leaning over the engine and gave her a slight, grim smile. “Do you want the good ne
ws or bad news first?”

  “Start with the bad, I guess.”

  She looked so forlorn that he felt guilty for thinking only of himself a moment ago—well, almost. “The bad news is that you need a new engine. The one you have has finally given up the ghost.”

  She nodded, closing her eyes as she wearily pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What’s the good news?”

  If she’d been looking at him, she would have seen the wicked gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he answered, “The good news is that after your car has been towed, I’ll drive you to Thorne’s ranch myself.”

  Chapter 7

  “Are you absolutely sure I’m not keeping you from important business at the office?” Solange asked as she and Dane headed out of town in his black Dodge Durango, which had accommodated all of her belongings with room to spare. By the time the tow truck had arrived, nearly two hours had passed.

  Dane slanted her an amused sidelong glance. “For the last time,” he drawled, “you’re not keeping me from important business. It’s Saturday. The only thing I was going to do at the office was catch up on some paperwork. Quite frankly, taking a scenic drive through the country sounds far more appealing.”

  “If you’re sure….”

  A half smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “There you go again.”

  “Sorry,” Solange said with a rueful grin. “Another bad habit I picked up from my mother—being overly considerate of other people’s time.”

  Dane shook his head slowly. “One thing you’ll learn about me,” he said silkily, “is that I rarely, if ever, do anything I don’t want to. Always remember that.”

  His words, like a seductive promise, sent a shiver through her.

  “Now stop worrying,” he said, “and just relax and enjoy the ride. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  Solange had to agree. The sun shone brightly against a cloudless, vivid blue sky. There was only a slight nip in the air to remind them it was December, not September. On the stereo, Nat King Cole crooned the timeless lyrics to “The Christmas Song,” evoking her favorite childhood memories of decorating the giant spruce tree with her mother and baking homemade apple cobblers her father would exclaim over. To her surprise, remembering her parents didn’t make her sad, as it had every other day for the past eleven months. And despite everything that had happened with her car that morning, Solange felt a sense of peace wash over her.

  She turned her head to study Dane Roarke beneath her lashes. She was struck once again by how handsome he was, how powerfully male. He wore a black T-shirt, dark jeans that clung to the strong, corded muscles of his thighs, and a pair of black Timberland boots that looked enormous. She’d been utterly shocked to open her door that morning and find him standing there, especially since she’d spent the past two days trying—unsuccessfully—not to think about him. She had no intention of becoming involved with him. She was on a mission to get her life back on track, to save enough money to realize her dream of attending law school. Romance did not factor into her plans, and a man like Dane Roarke would prove to be way too much of a distraction. Beneath his dark good looks, sinfully sexy smile and raw animal magnetism beat the heart of a dangerous man, the kind Eleanor Washington had always warned her about. Dane would never have to go out of his way to hurt any woman. He’d break her heart in the time-honored way preferred by most gorgeous, charming men: by simply being unattainable.

  Solange had no wish to become one of his hapless victims. God knows she’d had more than enough of unavailable men. Yet she hadn’t put up too much of a fight when Dane had insisted on driving her to the ranch. Against her better judgment, she’d wanted to spend more time with him, to explore the heat and attraction that had sizzled between them from the moment they met. She blamed it on hormones. It had been a while since she’d had sex.

  “How do you know so much about cars?” she blurted, shoving aside the unwelcome reminder of her prolonged sexual drought. “The mechanic who arrived with the tow truck agreed with your assessment about the engine.”

  Dane sent her a crooked smile. “You sound surprised.”

  “I guess I am, a little,” Solange admitted. “Not too many men nowadays know about cars and things like that. At the first sign of trouble, they run to the nearest dealership for help.” She made a face. “Most guys I know haven’t the faintest idea how to change the oil, let alone how to diagnose a bad engine.”

  Dane chuckled softly. “Maybe you don’t know the right men, Solange,” he said, sliding her a heavy-lidded look that made her pulse quicken. It was the first time he’d spoken her name, and hopefully it wouldn’t be the last. The way he said it in that deep, intoxicating voice of his made it sound like the sexiest, most exotic name in the world.

  He was right. She didn’t know the right men. She’d definitely never encountered one like him before.

  “Is that important to you?” Dane asked idly. “Being with a man who knows about cars?”

  “I don’t know.” Solange frowned, giving the matter careful consideration. “I’m not saying he has to know the latest advances in fuel injection systems, but if we’re out on a date and we get a flat, he should at least be able to change the tire without requiring my assistance—especially if I’m wearing an expensive dress and three-inch heels.”

  Dane threw back his head and roared with laughter. The deep, rumbling sound was so pleasant, so downright infectious, that Solange found herself joining him. And it felt good, really good. She hadn’t had much to laugh about since her parents died. It didn’t occur to her to question why it felt so natural to rediscover her sense of humor with Dane Roarke, a virtual stranger.

  When their laughter finally subsided, Dane looked over at her and shook his head, dark eyes glittering with mirth. “Not exactly a feminist, are you, Miss Washington?”

  She grinned unabashedly. “Hey, I’m as independent as the next gal, but I make no apologies for having certain basic requirements of the men I’m dating.” She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “What can I say? I grew up on a farm where, like it or not, the division of labor was largely determined by gender. That means on any given day, my father might have been out in the field tending the crops while my mama and I fed the horses, washed laundry and prepared dinner.”

  As she spoke, Dane’s dark, intent gaze roamed across her face. Afraid that she’d turned him off with all her farm talk, she started to say something clever, something hip, when he murmured, “So you’re just a simple country girl at heart.” There was no mistaking the appreciation in his voice, the quiet sense of wonder, as if he thought she was a breath of fresh air.

  Solange warmed with pleasure at the unspoken compliment. “I guess you could say I am.” She shot him a look of mock severity, adding in an exaggerated country drawl, “But that don’t mean I’m a wide-eyed innocent, sport for you fancy city folk. Don’t ever try to pull a fast one on me jes ’cause you think I’m gullible enough to fall for it. You’ll rue the day you was born, y’hear?”

  Dane grinned. “I’ll consider myself forewarned.”

  Solange smiled, enjoying the teasing banter between them—perhaps a bit too much.

  Soon they were heading down an endless stretch of highway flanked by lush, green pastures dotted with grazing cattle and horses. These were familiar sights to Solange, not like the bustling freeways and urban sprawl they’d left behind in the city. She knew she’d feel right at home at Crandall Thorne’s country estate. She hoped so, anyway.

  “My father owns an auto repair shop,” Dane said suddenly, out of the clear blue. “I worked there during the summers when I was in high school and college. That’s how I know so much about cars, to answer your previous question.” His mouth twitched. “So I have an unfair advantage over all those poor men you were berating earlier.”

  Solange laughed. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Some of those very same men I was talking about had fathers, brothers and uncles
who were mechanics, and they still knew absolutely nothing about cars.”

  He chuckled low in his throat and shifted in his seat, heightening her awareness of him. She drew in a breath of his clean-scented male warmth and struggled to keep her eyes off the way his jeans molded the hard, sculpted muscles of his thighs.

  “Where are you from?” she asked, as much to distract herself as to learn more about him.

  “Houston. Born and raised.”

  She nodded. “What brought you to San Antonio?”

  “I used to visit all the time when I was growing up.”

  “You have family here?”

  He nodded. “An aunt and three cousins. My cousins—Kenneth, Noah and Daniela—are actually the owners of Roarke Investigations. I’ve only been there a year.”

  “Where did you work before?” When he sent her a bemused sidelong glance, she said quickly, “I’m sorry. Was that too personal?”

  He shook his head, but a solitary muscle tightened in his jaw. “I worked out of the FBI field office in Philadelphia.”

  Solange waited, brows arched expectantly. When he offered no more, she tipped her head thoughtfully to one side and studied him. “You don’t like to talk much about yourself, do you? That’s very interesting coming from a man who makes a living investigating the lives of others.”

  “I don’t mind talking about myself,” Dane countered evenly. “But some things are more personal than others.”

  Solange got the message loud and clear. Whatever had caused him to leave the FBI was not open for discussion—not with her, anyway. She told herself she was crazy for feeling a sharp pang of disappointment.

  “Are you going to buy a new car?” Dane asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  Solange sighed heavily. “I don’t know. The Plymouth is way too old to pour any more money into.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he agreed. “Besides, you might not need your own vehicle. Unless I’m mistaken, one of the perks of being Crandall Thorne’s personal assistant is unlimited use of a company car.”