Body Heat (Vintage Category Romance)

  He laughed. “Oh, hell, you’ve been one of a kind, Blaire. One of a kind.”

  She leaned into him, placed her hands on his arms, and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be a good girl tonight, Daddy,” she whispered into his ear.

  When she drew back to look in his face, she thought she almost glimpsed a tear, but he quickly pulled away and swiped at his eyes. “Just stay away from the salsa senator, okay?”

  Hands on hips, Blaire grimaced. “He’s going to be here?”

  “Afraid so. I think he’s after a second chance.”

  Blaire groaned. “Back me up?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely.” He turned and looked toward the entranceway as the doorbell rang and then back to her. “Oh, and Blaire, you did see The Sun yesterday, didn’t you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been really busy. I don’t think I took time out to read it. Why?”

  “It’s that case you were working on, the MacGlenary case. There’s a write-up on it.”

  Blaire felt her frame freeze solid. “What? What did it say?”

  “I think it’s in the den.” He stepped toward the door. Sylvia and Arman Abercrombie were being welcomed by the butler. “Why don’t you go read it?” He waved to the Abercrombies and sidled toward them.

  Stunned, Blaire stepped past the guests entering the house and across the hall to the den. It didn’t take her long to find the newspaper, and the article, in the small town’s chatty-catty social column.

  Long Lost Heir Returns for his Fortune, the headline read. Blaire brought the paper closer to her face and plopped down, most unladylike, on the sofa. She continued to read:

  Eighteen years ago Darian MacGlenary left his affluent Oxford home and never came back. For years, his grandfather and his aunt, socialite Reva MacGlenary, his guardian, searched for him, offered rewards for information as to his whereabouts, and prayed for his return. After seven years, Reva had him claimed legally dead, but his grandfather never gave up hope that he would come home.

  As we all know, in late September of this year, Maximillian MacGlenary died, leaving his entire estate to his grandson. Darian, much to Reva’s dismay, some say, returned last month to claim his estate and toss his aunt, the woman who lovingly took care of him from the time of his parents’ deaths until he unscrupulously abandoned his family, out on her ear. Rumor has it that he left her penniless, to live in a shabby apartment somewhere in the bowels of New York City, while he wiles away the hours in luxury at the MacGlenary estate.

  It has also been brought to this reporter’s attention that Darian has fired all employees at the estate and is turning into an eccentric recluse. Some far-fetched reports state that he may possibly be turning the estate into some type of commune or Hare Krishna retreat.

  Sources also insist that local private investigator Blaire Kincaid, daughter of Vermont Senator Mastin Kincaid, hired by Reva MacGlenary, initially located the missing heir and is somewhat enamored of the man, but Miss Kincaid refuses to comment on the matter.

  It would seem that Darian has just been waiting in the wings for his grandfather to die so he could simply step in and take over, anxious to spend his millions, but that is not for us to speculate. And we’re still trying to figure out what part Miss Kincaid plays in the picture. Ah, well, time will tell.

  The only other question this reporter has is this: Where in the world has Darian MacGlenary been all these years?

  Blaire jerked the newspaper away from her face. How dare they print this garbage. Enamored? Where had that come from? And had they called her? No! And she wouldn’t have answered their damn questions anyway. Was this what her father referred to? Did he think she was enamored with Darian?

  Standing, she let the paper slide to the sofa as she stared off into the room. Had Darian read this? It certainly doesn’t put him in a good light, does it? So, what do I care? It’s nothing to me.

  Would he think she put someone at the paper up to that article? Who else knew about her, about him? He would think it, wouldn’t he? She was going to have to talk to him, to explain she had nothing to do with it. To tell him that she was indeed not enamored with him. Enamored, hell! She hardly even thought about him anymore.

  Stepping across the room toward the entranceway, she tried to dismiss the article. Yes, she hardly did think about him anymore. She glanced from right to left at the crowd mingling toward the larger room at the end of the hallway, the party room, her father called it. She mingled, her mind on things other than the party, shuffling along with the crowd, greeting her father’s cronies, until she stepped over the threshold and into the din of the crowd. And still, that one phrase kept resounding through her brain.

  I hardly ever think about him anymore.

  It was large room, with a buffet of food and a bar set up on one end, a rise for a small orchestra on the other, the carpets removed for dancing if some wished. Crystal chandeliers sparkled. Highly polished wood furnishings shone. And the people in attendance accented the mood graciously. All around Mastin Kincaid was elegance.

  But the room fell silent around as she stepped into the crowd. For when she did, her eyes were met from across the room by the one man she never expected to see at one of her father’s affairs. Darian MacGlenary, outfitted in a black tuxedo and crisp white shirt, stared back at her with steel gray eyes that penetrated her very spirit.

  I hardly ever think about you anymore, she repeated as she watched him take a step closer.

  She turned then and walked away, knowing full well that she was a liar. I think of you all the time. And she hated herself for it.

  ****

  Darian fully expected that if he ever saw Blaire Kincaid in make-up and a gown, outfitted in jewels and emanating expensive perfume, that she couldn’t be any more beautiful than she was that night in his bed. But this was close. Damn close. She was a goddess. And it was almost more than he could stand.

  Involuntarily, he drifted toward her. His heart tripped faster in his chest. And he felt the pain as she turned her back on him and walked out of the room. Damn! What did he expect?

  This was a mistake. A foolhardy mistake. He should have followed his instincts and ignored the invitation Mastin Kincaid had had delivered to his home this afternoon. But something had told him that Blaire had sent it, and he wondered, was she trying to tell him something? Did she want to talk? Was she willing to let him talk to her? The last few weeks had indeed been lonely. Lonely enough for him to think about the precarious position in which both their lives had been placed.

  No. He could tell by the look on her face when their eyes met that his presence was a total surprise. Yes, he could tell. And now there was only one thing to do. Go home. It was obvious, he’d run Blaire off. She didn’t want him anymore.

  So he continued across the floor, dodging couples dancing or mingling, servants with trays of food and drinks, and made his way toward the door. He was nearly there, when someone grabbed his arm.

  “Aren’t you Darian MacGlenary?” the soft voice purred. He glanced toward the voice and viewed the body attached to it, an essence of fluff in a cloud of cologne, with ruby lips and a Snow White complexion. Her dark hair hung long and straight down her back, a style too young for her age, he thought, which was probably a few years older than his. A cigarette dangled from the red manicured fingertips of one hand, her other still rested on his arm. She smiled broadly at him, her lips stretched across large white teeth.

  “Yes,” he gruffly spat back at her. “I am.”

  “I thought so,” she returned, still smiling. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “I was just…” he lifted his gaze down the hall to a doorway that led to the left and saw Blaire step out. Again, their eyes met. He glanced back to the vision in pink fluff, a color that was definitely not her, and smiled. “I was just looking for someone to dance with. Is your dance card full?”

  She turned and tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. “Darling, I threw away my dance card years ago. And it was alway
s full—but then again, I always made room for one more.” She winked and Darian grinned back, chuckling under his breath. They turned and walked to a spot near the orchestra and just as Darian took her into his arms, he saw Blaire enter the room—with a look that could kill flashing over her face.

  Blaire had had enough. Enough! She had endured his treating her like scum after they’d made love. She had survived after he’d left her alone in the cabin. She’d made it through the initial pain of him believing she’d tried to seduce his money out of him and then the audacity of his trying to pay her off to stay out of her life! She’d even handled her present crisis, bearing the burden alone of carrying his child, well. But now—now—she was not going to endure the humiliation of his dancing at her father’s party, in her father’s home, with the woman who had slandered both his and her names in the Trenton Sun the day before!

  Had he no integrity? Didn’t he know what she was doing? Could he not realize that come tomorrow morning he would be front and center of Emiline Harris’ society page? On Sunday, at that?

  Serve him right, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she watched them. It’s none of my business. I should stay out of it. She turned to step across the room to her father. She’d be damned if he’d run her out of her own party. To hell with him. He’s a big strong man. He can fend for himself.

  But as she took a step, she heard the high-pitched giggle that echoed off the walls from their direction and she slowly rotated her head toward the noise.

  Emiline’s head was thrown back, her hair fanning out in waves behind her as she laughed, her milk-white throat thrust up at Darian. And him, he was playing the utter fool. Disgusted, Blaire turned her entire body toward the scene and placed her hands on her hips. He was laughing right along with her! And his eyes, his eyes were playing along the ridges of her neck and trailing down to the cleavage between her breasts, which jutted out between the pink feathers floating around her bodice. She saw him draw her closer as Emiline pulled her head upright and wistfully stared into his eyes. Then she reached up and touched the close-cropped beard, letting her fingers linger at his earlobe.

  Blaire took a deep breath. Enough. She stalked across the room. Enough, damn it! He’s made a fool of me one too many times. She took a step in their direction….

  “Blaire!” Someone grabbed her arm from behind and spun her in the opposite direction, crowding her body up against his. “Blaire, I’ve been looking for you.”

  And now she was face to face with Alan Cromwell. “Alan…” she tossed her head back to Darian’s direction just long enough to see him dip his head lower to Emiline’s.

  Alan swept her away from the scene and placed one arm around her waist; with the other hand, he grasped one of hers. “Dance…?” he questioned.

  Blaire brought her gaze back to his when she realized that they were doing just that. “Uh…okay,” she replied.

  “So where have you been keeping yourself?” He pulled her closer. Much too close.

  She swung his body around so she faced Darian and Emiline fully over his shoulder, not missing a beat to the music. “Uh…working.”

  He boldly nuzzled his chin into the crook between her neck and shoulder. Blaire hardly even noticed, her eyes still on the couple across the floor. “I’ve been thinking, Blaire,” he whispered in her hair. “We got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over?”

  Blaire tightened her grip on Alan’s hand. Emiline Harris will die! She watched as the hussy swept a hand through the grown-out length of Darian’s hair in the back and then caressed his jawbone and laid her hand seductively on his shoulder. She felt Alan tighten the grip around her waist.

  “I’ve been calling you, you know. There have been times during the day when I just needed to hear your voice. Just to hear you say ‘hello.’ Did you realize that was me? You could tell, couldn’t you?” He blew a warm breath into her ear.

  Suddenly, Blaire focused on the senator and stopped dancing. “You what?”

  “I’ve been calling you. Ever since your father showed me your picture in D.C., I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to ask you out.” He pulled her closer to him again, his hand making circles on her lower back, and started to brush his cheek alongside hers. “Let’s start over, baby,” he whispered and then stuck the tip of his tongue into her ear.

  Blaire forcefully pushed him away. “Get away from me!” she screamed.

  He lunged for her again; she slapped him. Then before she realized what she was doing, a number of guests watching her progression across the room, she found herself directly beside Darian and Emiline. She cuffed him on the shoulder.

  “Darian, we need to talk,” she ordered.

  They stopped dancing and he stared blankly at her. “I’m dancing, Blaire. You’ll have to wait your turn.” She watched as he turned back to Emiline and smiled and then swept her to his right, away from Blaire.

  She followed and then grabbed his left arm. “Now, Darian. We need to talk now.” Her gaze flashed from Emiline and back to him, trying to send him the message.

  “Darling, another time, didn’t you hear? We’re dancing,” Emiline purred sweetly.

  Blaire mocked her voice back at her. “Darling, I don’t think so.” She pushed Emiline out of the way and shoved her body between Darian and the tramp. She grabbed his lapels. “We’ve got to talk.”

  He grasped her upper arms, pushed her out of the way, and glared into her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  He reached for Emiline.

  Not thinking, Blaire shoved her again. This time, the woman stepped backward on Carolyn Van der Meter’s heel, who screeched and threw the contents of her wine glass on Harold Wittenberger, who then bellowed loud and long about his new Armani suit. By now, quite a crowd had gathered. She turned her attention back to Darian. “Yes, I do think so.”

  “Blaire,” Darian began quietly. “You’re making a scene.” He smiled over her head at the other guests.

  “I am not!” she returned.

  “I think you are, Miss Kincaid.” This came from the cotton-candy queen to her left.

  Blaire threw a nasty look Emiline’s way. “You stay out of this.”

  Emiline stepped forward. “A little possessive of your little finding, aren’t you Miss Kincaid?”

  Blaire knew exactly what she was doing and she didn’t care. “Possessive? I don’t possess Darian, Miss Harris, and neither do you. He’s a man with quite a mind of his own. And if you can penetrate that beast of an exterior, then you’re a better woman than I.”

  “Without question. Oh, and is that an invitation?”

  Blaire watched with wide eyes as the twit sidled up to Darian and lifted her face to him, turned his face to hers with a light fingertip touch at his chin, and planted an extremely wet, extremely long kiss on Darian’s lips. And he let her. Blaire’s blood boiled; the crowd murmured.

  “Don’t you know what she’s doing, Darian?” she urged, looking at the red lipstick smudges around Darian’s lips. By now the music had stopped and everyone, yes, everyone was gathering around. Blaire didn’t care. Not at all. She would just have to apologize to Mastin in the morning.

  Emiline turned a saccharin smile back to Blaire then and smirked. Blaire’s anger was out of control. Way out of control. “That, was a kiss?” She stepped up to the two of them. Without a thought or a moment’s hesitation, she punched Emiline in the nose with her right fist, knocking her into Alan Cromwell who was standing behind her. Blaire took advantage of the element of surprise, swiped two fingers across his lips to rid them of Emiline’s Passion Red, and grabbed Darian’s label with both hands. Pulling him into her body with such force she thought they’d both land on the floor behind her, she let loose with one hand and jerked his head down to hers.

  When her lips met his, she thought she’d been overcome by heat. Fire raced through her as his lips softened and nibbled and rubbed across hers. Then the kiss deepened, his tongue thrust into her mouth and mingled with hers. She felt his hands snake u
p her back and tangle in her hair, pulling her closer into him. Her body rubbed against his torso and she could feel him, arousal and all, as she melted into him. Before she realized it, her arms were around his neck, his lips were devouring hers in a kiss so sweet she thought she might die, and she felt light-headed from the thought of where this kiss might lead.

  Breathing heavily, she finally broke away and frantically glanced around the room until she found Emiline. Alan was holding a handkerchief up against her bloodied nose. Each woman glared at the other. “That was a kiss,” Blaire spat. “Put that in your column tomorrow.”

  “You—little—bitch…”

  Before Blaire knew it, Emiline was on her. She hit the floor with a thud, cracking her head on the oak flooring. Women screamed; men shouted. Panic seized her. The baby! “Get her off me!” she screamed. Someone pulled Emiline off, and suddenly she felt herself hauled away by some brute who had hands exactly like Darian.

  She kicked. He held on tighter around her middle, her back to the man’s chest. She yelled at him to put her down as he carried her through the astonished crowd and out the door, her last glimpse of the scene was of her father helping Emiline up off the floor and Alan Cromwell shaking his head in disgust.

  Then the brute shifted her to a new position over his shoulder and carried her like a sack of potatoes toward a car. She kicked and screamed all the way, sure she was being kidnapped and not quite understanding why her father was doing nothing to help her. Then suddenly, she found herself tossed into a tiny sports car, the door slammed shut behind her. The brute got in on the driver’s side.

  The brute was Darian.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded

  “You said we needed to talk.” He looked ahead and started the ignition.

  “I didn’t say you needed to kidnap me.”

  “You were causing a scene.” He accelerated, shifted into second and gained speed down the driveway.