A Risky Affair

by Maureen Smith

  “He can wait another—”

  Tomas’s expression turned beseeching. “If he sees you helping me with the horses, he’ll think I’m not doing my job. Por favor, señor. You have to go.”

  After wavering another moment, Dane reluctantly handed over the reins, then turned and started toward the entrance to the stable as Crandall appeared, his nostrils flaring with displeasure—from the stench of the animals or from having to search for Dane, he couldn’t be sure.

  Either way, it gave Dane a surge of perverse satisfaction. As far as he was concerned, any man who was tyrannical enough to cause a fifteen-year-old kid to quake in his boots deserved to have his nose rubbed in a little horse dung.

  “There you are,” Crandall growled as Dane approached. “We’ve been waiting for you back at the house. We didn’t expect Miss Washington to return without you.”

  “Yeah, well, she was in a bit of a hurry,” Dane drawled.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously on his face. “What did you do to her?”

  Dane let out a choked laugh. “That’s the second time in ten minutes someone has asked me that question. If I didn’t know better, I would think y’all didn’t trust me.”

  Crandall scowled. “I don’t trust you, Roarke. Not where beautiful young women are concerned.”

  “Touché,” Dane quipped, brushing past him on his way out of the stable. “Then I suppose I should thank you for letting me go riding alone with Miss Washington.”

  “I didn’t let you,” Crandall sourly reminded him. “I got suckered into it by that matchmaking busybody housekeeper of mine. Damn meddlin’ woman.”

  “Hey, that’s no way to talk about Ms. Rita. Besides, it’s not her fault you can’t say no to her.”

  “I say no plenty of times,” Crandall grumbled, but without much conviction. “Anyway, Gloria’s here with your cake. So I guess that means you can hit the road.”

  Dane arched an amused eyebrow. “In a hurry to get rid of me?”

  Crandall looked him square in the eye. “Let’s get something straight, Roarke. I like you well enough—”

  Dane snorted rudely. “Coulda fooled me.”

  Crandall pinned him with a look that had undoubtedly made jurors quake in their chairs. “Solange Washington left her home and everything she knew to come work for me. That means I have a vested interest in her welfare. If you think I’m going to stand by and watch you amuse yourself with her until something prettier and shinier comes along, think again.”

  Dane held his hostile stare for a prolonged moment, then chuckled softly. “Relax, Thorne. Even if I had less-than-honorable intentions toward Miss Washington, she made it perfectly clear she’s not interested.”

  Crandall gave a brisk, satisfied nod. “Good. Then she’s even smarter than I thought.”

  “Yeah, she is.” Reliving the explosive kiss he and Solange had shared, Dane muttered under his breath, “One of us had to be.”

  Long after Dane left the ranch and returned to the single-story bungalow he’d been renting from his cousin for the past year, his mind kept replaying the conversation with Thorne. He supposed he couldn’t really blame the old man for behaving like a pushy, overprotective father. If he had even an inkling of just how badly Dane wanted Solange, he’d probably ban him from his property or get a restraining order.

  As much as it killed him to admit it, Dane knew Thorne was right about him. Although he wanted nothing more than to make love to Solange, to possess her body in a way neither of them would ever forget, he had no intention of getting serious about her. Not because there was anything wrong with her. On the contrary. She was smart, beautiful, funny and sexy as hell, the kind of woman that could, without even trying, make a man lose his damn mind. God knows he’d already lost more than a few precious hours of sleep thinking about her, fantasizing about her, imagining their naked, sweaty limbs entwined in his bed. Kissing her had only fueled his craving, making him want her the way an alcoholic craved his next drink.

  But he couldn’t have her, because even if he’d wanted more than a sexual relationship with her, and even if there was the slightest chance of her dumping her boyfriend in favor of him, he wasn’t sure he could let go of his personal demons in order to let her inside, to trust her completely. He knew what it was like to trust the wrong woman, to let down his guard only to be betrayed in the worst imaginable way.

  It wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

  Dane frowned, peeling off his turtleneck and kicking off his jeans as he headed into the bathroom to take a shower. It was the third time in less than a week he’d found himself reliving the devastating circumstances that had led to his abrupt departure from the FBI.

  And this time, as he twisted on the shower faucet and stepped into the glass-encased stall, he let the old, painful memories flow as freely as the hot water that sluiced down his body.

  He’d joined the Bureau right out of college and spent the next fourteen years working hard to ensure no one ever questioned his right to be there. He’d served on various task forces and had been instrumental in the capture of several Wanted fugitives. Although he’d resented the bureaucratic wrangling that often made it difficult for agents to do their jobs, and had been told by more than one supervisory special agent that he had problems with authority, Dane had enjoyed his work and looked forward to a long, fulfilling career with the Bureau.

  When he was asked to serve on a task force investigating a local crime syndicate suspected of committing sports bribery, Dane never imagined that he, along with his partner, Stan Rupert, would become the targets of the investigation.

  The task force was headed by Rosalind McCray, a senior agent who’d recently been transferred to the Philadelphia field office from Chicago. Tough, beautiful, intelligent, with a sharp-witted sense of humor that had helped her to survive in the male-dominated agency, Rosalind was a breath of fresh air. She and Dane, as the only African-Americans assigned to the investigation, had hit it off immediately.

  Late one night, long after the other members of the task force had packed it up and gone home, Dane and Rosalind had found themselves alone in the old warehouse that served as the group’s base of operations. Over greasy slices of takeout pizza and stale beer, they’d talked about everything from their families to career aspirations. Rosalind told him in no uncertain terms that her top priority, next to catching bad guys, was climbing the ranks in the Bureau, for which she made no apologies. Dane had raised his bottle in a mock toast to her, and she’d laughed. The next thing he knew, they were kissing and groping each other. His staunch rule against dating colleagues had crumbled like a cracker the moment her blouse came off. They’d made love that night, and although they both regretted crossing the line afterward, it wasn’t long before they wound up in bed again.

  Over the next several months, Dane had wined and dined her, and because she claimed to share his love for sports, he’d surprised her with courtside tickets to NBA basketball games, courtesy of the home team’s star player, who happened to be an old college buddy of Dane’s.

  He had no way of knowing that such an innocent gesture on his part would someday come back to haunt him.

  When the sports-bribery indictments came down on several bookies and members of a notorious crime syndicate who had conspired with two basketball players to shave points in a series of playoff games, Dane was stunned to learn of his partner’s involvement in the illegal scheme. He was even more shocked to find himself being interrogated by Rosalind, who claimed to have incontrovertible proof of his guilt. The so-called evidence, as it turned out, had been planted by his partner in an effort to cover his own tracks. Doctored phone and audio recordings, manipulated computer data, falsified eyewitness statements—you name it, Stan Rupert had thought of it.

  It had taken an intense series of Justice Department hearings, and months of having to endure the scrutiny and suspicion of his colleagues and the media, before Dane’s name was finally cleared.

  But by then it w
as too late. The damage had already been done. Not just to his career and reputation, but to his personal life as well, namely his relationship with Rosalind. Even if he could have forgiven her for her complete lack of faith in him, the fact that she’d suspected him of criminal conduct for months and had continued sleeping with him while secretly building a case against him was more than he could stomach. As far as he was concerned, any woman capable of that level of deception was nothing but poison. Although Rosalind had apologized profusely, wept and begged his forgiveness, Dane had not relented. Even the sight of her on her hands and knees—an astonishing act from such a proud, fiercely independent woman—had failed to keep him from walking out the door and never looking back.

  While in federal custody, Stan Rupert, overcome with guilt for trying to frame his former partner, had taken his own life. His rambling letter of apology to Dane arrived on the day of his funeral.

  Dane was too numb to curse, or mourn, the man he’d once considered a close friend.

  But Rupert’s death was the straw that finally broke his back.

  One day he was receiving job-promotion offers from the contrite management, the next day he strolled into his supervisor’s office and handed in his letter of resignation, then simply walked away from his life as an FBI agent.

  In the two years since, whenever he allowed himself to reflect upon all that had happened, Dane realized that what bothered him the most—even more than his partner’s treachery or the loss of his job—was Rosalind’s betrayal. Not because he’d loved her or hoped to have a future with her, but because he’d trusted her, and in his book, once trust was violated, it could never be restored.

  Frowning darkly at the thought, Dane shut off the water and stepped from the shower. As he reached for a large bath towel, the phone in his bedroom rang. Grabbing the towel and wrapping it around his waist, he left the bathroom and crossed to the nightstand as the phone trilled a third time.

  He couldn’t help but smile at the number displayed on the caller-ID screen. Lifting the receiver, he said, “Hey, Aunt Pam.”

  There was a startled pause on the other end, followed by Pamela Hubbard’s warm, familiar laughter. “No matter how many times you do that to me, boy, I’m always caught off guard.”

  Dane chuckled. “How’re you doing, Aunt Pam?”

  “I’m doing just fine. Of course, I’ll be even better if you tell me you’re on your way over for brunch.”

  He smiled. “I’m on my way over for brunch,” he said, though he couldn’t fathom eating another large meal after stuffing himself on Rita’s big country breakfast that morning. But no way was he telling his aunt, who’d always been like a second mother to him, that he’d cheated on her with another woman’s cooking.

  “Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “The gang’s already here. Daniela, Riley, Janie and Lourdes are helping me put the finishing touches on the meal, and Caleb, Noah, Kenneth and Kenny Junior are waiting on you to play basketball. Everyone would have been so disappointed if you couldn’t make it again.”

  Dane held the phone away from his ear and grinned at it. No one did emotional blackmail better than Aunt Pam. Well, except maybe his own mother. And his cousin Daniela. Not to mention Veronica, his passive-aggressive sister-in-law. Hell, it seemed every woman in his life had it down to an art form.

  His grin widened at the thought. “Don’t worry, Aunt Pam,” he said, returning the receiver to his ear. “I’ll definitely be there. And I’ll even bring dessert.”

  Chapter 13

  At seven o’clock the next morning, Solange was summoned to Crandall’s library, where he’d apparently been up for hours poring over a stack of legal briefs, a half-empty mug of black coffee cooling on a corner of the cluttered desk.

  She’d barely uttered a word of greeting before he told her she would be attending an Alamo City Chamber of Commerce meeting that morning, where a state senator named Richard Allen Vance would be speaking.

  “He’s running for reelection next year,” Crandall informed her without lifting his head from his paperwork. “He’s been criticized for not doing more for poor blacks in his district. I want you to attend the meeting on my behalf and report back to me on what he has to say.”

  Solange nodded. “What time does the meeting begin?”

  “Eight-thirty. Which gives you an hour and a half to get ready and make the drive into town. Here’s the address and directions to the convention center.” As she approached the desk, he peered at her over the wireless rim of his glasses, openly dissecting her beige V-neck sweater and gray wool slacks. “Is that what you plan to wear?”

  The way he said it made it clear he expected her to change into more appropriate attire. “I, uh…I’ll find something else,” Solange said before backing quickly out of the room.

  She dressed in ten minutes flat, donning one of the best business suits she owned, a navy blue number with a fitted high-cut jacket and a pencil skirt with a modest slit up the back. She shoved her feet into a pair of matching pumps and hurried from the house before she could be subjected to another inspection.

  The Alamo City Chamber of Commerce was an African-American organization that had been founded to provide, encourage and promote programs that contributed to the economic growth and development of minority and small businesses throughout San Antonio. In addition to a monthly meeting, they sponsored an annual leadership institute and were planning to launch a youth entrepreneurship program in the near future.

  Their meetings were held at the Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center in downtown San Antonio. Even with the detailed directions Crandall had provided, Solange still managed to get lost. The downtown she was used to consisted of one main street that boasted a sprinkling of tiny shops and eateries, while downtown San Antonio was much larger—a labyrinth of meandering streets lined with historic buildings and Spanish colonial missions, old whitewashed structures that sat empty, Mexican restaurants on every corner and lushly manicured parks. It was a colorful maze that bustled with morning commuters and early-bird tourists aboard red-and-green streetcars.

  By the time she found the convention center, located on the famed Riverwalk, and pulled into the parking garage, she had seven minutes remaining before she’d be late. Bypassing the old elevator, she sprinted up the stairs and hurried through the large building in search of the right conference room.

  When she reached her destination, she was relieved to find people talking and milling about, while others helped themselves to coffee, fruit and breakfast pastries arranged on a table in the back of the room.

  With a small sigh of relief, Solange made her way over to the table and poured herself a cup of pulpy orange juice. While she munched on a raspberry Danish, she surveyed the roomful of strangers. Although most were dressed in business attire, she noticed that a few attendees wore jeans, T-shirts and sneakers.

  No one’s looking down their nose at them, she thought, still somewhat irked that Crandall had made her change before she left the house. If he intended to hassle her about her clothes every time he asked her to go somewhere, she’d have to splurge on a brand-new wardrobe with her first paycheck, which hadn’t been in her plans.

  Something told her when it came to dealing with her new employer, she’d have to get used to doing a lot of things that weren’t in her plans.

  At that moment, her gaze was drawn to the door, where a handsome man in his midforties, with skin the color of almonds and neatly cropped hair dusted with gray at the temples, had entered. She knew by the expensive cut of his dark suit and the small entourage that accompanied him as he strode purposefully into the room that he must be Senator Richard Allen Vance, the guest speaker.

  A hushed silence swept through the room as conversations came to an abrupt halt and people headed quickly to their seats. Balancing her cup of orange juice and a notepad, Solange made her way toward the front and claimed an empty chair in the fourth row.

  “Is this seat taken?” inquired a deep, masculine voice. A voice that had echoed th
rough her dreams all night long, joined by images so carnal she’d awakened more than once drenched in perspiration and panting for breath.

  Solange glanced up sharply. Her heart thudded at the sight of Dane Roarke standing there in a double-breasted navy blue suit with a crisp ivory shirt and a blue-and-burgundy-striped silk tie. He looked so incredible, so powerfully male, that Solange could only stare at him in awestruck silence.

  That sensuous mouth twitched. “I’ll take that as a no,” he murmured, and before she could react, he lowered himself into the chair beside her. As he did, his warm, hard-muscled thigh brushed hers, sending a rush of tingling heat through her entire body. She jerked away as if she’d accidentally touched a hot burner.

  “W-what are you doing here?” she demanded in a tone that inadvertently accused him of following her.

  Dane chuckled, low and soft. “Same thing you’re doing. I came to hear the senator speak.”

  Of course. It was a free country. He had just as much right to be there as she did. She’d have to be a paranoid idiot to imply otherwise. “Are you a member of the Alamo City Chamber of Commerce?”

  “Roarke Investigations is. My cousins and I take turns attending the monthly meetings. Guess I drew the lucky straw this time.” He smiled at her, slow and sexy, and her pulse accelerated. “What about you?”

  “I’m here on Mr. Thorne’s behalf.”

  Dane nodded. His lazy gaze ran the length of her, lingering for a moment on her tightly crossed legs sheathed in sheer nylon, before returning to her face. “Look at that,” he said huskily. “We’re wearing the same color. We must have read each other’s minds this morning.”

  When her nipples puckered against her lace bra, Solange blamed it on the air-conditioning, and not on the way his dark, heavy-lidded eyes and hypnotic voice were wreaking havoc on her nerve endings.

  “Maybe you should sit somewhere else,” she lightly suggested. “That’s what women usually do when they show up at a party wearing the same dress—they stay as far away from each other as possible.”