What she didn't know, however, was exactly which side he was on.
#
The second the door closed behind Holland, Joanna flew to the bedroom and her white satin robe. She stuck her hand in the pocket and found a folded piece of heavy vellum paper, the kind stacked on top of Cynthia's desk. At least he wasn't the kind of man who left Post-It notes attached to your pillow.
"Duty calls," it said in a sprawling script that slanted upward to the right. "I wish it didn't. Ryder."
Brief, to the point, noncommittal. She didn't expect a declaration of love and wouldn't have believed one were it offered, but this carefully worded note irritated her. She crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket near her dressing table.
Like a psychedelic dream, things that happened in the darkness changed shape in the daylight until nothing was left but the memory. Maybe what she'd felt – what she thought he'd felt – had been nothing more than lust and the talk of helping Rosie simply the pipe dreams of a man on an adrenaline high.
To hell with men, she thought as she dressed for the studio.
Maybe Holland had the right idea after all.
At the moment, the Sisters of the Celibate Poor sounded like the answer to Club Med.
#
Ryder was feeling more depressed than a man who had just saved the lives of twenty-six schoolkids had any right to. On the flight back from Chicago, Alistair had chatted with the two other PAX members on board, trying to lure Ryder into conversation, but he was having none of it.
The feeling of elation that his success should have brought to him was missing, and he felt curiously flat, like an empty champagne bottle after the party was over. He'd wanted to stay with Joanna, to be near her all night, to wake up with her in the morning.
The timing couldn't have been worse. He knew her fears, knew how much it took for her to take a chance on a man who seemed as aimless and useless as he did, and there wasn't a damned thing he could say or do to ease those fears. Not while he was still in PAX.
When this business with Rosie Callahan was over, Ryder would pack up his equipment and get the hell out of the Carillon before he hurt Joanna the way he'd once hurt Valerie.
He might be his father's son, but he wasn't a total bastard. At least, not any more.
He was about to knock on Joanna's door when Rosie Callahan's cheerful voice stopped him. "So how was Illinois?"
He turned around and looked at Rosie, who was standing in her doorway dressed in a pale blue Chanel suit that, knowing Rosie, was probably the real McCoy.
"Terrific," he said, bending to kiss her cheek. She smelled, appropriately enough, of Chanel No. 5.
"I feel like I should be smuggled out at midnight," she said.
"Don't worry about Stanley," Ryder said. "He's gone to Atlantic City for a few days. Just worry about your assignation with Bert."
"You do have a way with words, honey." Rosie laughed and ushered him into her apartment. Two leather suitcases rested near the door. "I'm waiting for my ride to the airport."
"Did you leave your key with Joanna?"
"That I did." She gave him a sly grin. "I also told her about the note."
He wagged a finger at her. "Don't even think of asking, Rosie."
She feigned dismay. "How could you even think of such a thing, Mr. O'Neal? I am the soul of discretion."
"Not to mention tact," he said, remembering some of her questions that morning. He should never have given that message to Rosie but he knew there wouldn't be time for another phone call and he was desperate to make certain Joanna knew he wasn't a hit-and-run artist.
"Besides," Rosie continued, pouring them each a glass of port, "I don't even have to ask. Joanna blushed redder than my hair used to be and you look altogether too pleased with yourself."
"It's all in your imagination, Rosie," he said easily. "You read too many romance novels."
"I read mysteries," she countered, "and you're the biggest mystery I've ever encountered, but this time you're out of luck, Ryder. I can read you like a book."
He grinned but said nothing. The doorman buzzed three times and Rosie told him to come up for her bags.
"You two be careful now," she said, kissing Ryder. "I don't want to be reading anything about any accidents here at the Carillon while I'm away. Not on my account."
"Don't worry," he said, walking her out into the hall where the doorman was piling her suitcases onto a hand truck. "This kind of thing is right up my alley."
Rosie's eyes lit up. "Am I finally going to discover just what it is you do for a living?"
They stopped by the elevator and he kissed her on the forehead. "I'm a drifter," he said. "Just a high-priced drifter."
"I'll find out one day, Ryder O'Neal. Mark my words."
Before he could come back with a retort, the elevator doors closed and he heard the sweet sound of a woman's voice behind him.
"I'd like to know your secret, too, Ryder O'Neal."
Joanna Stratton watched him from her doorway and the elation he'd searched for in Chicago zeroed in on him in New York.
Chapter Fifteen
Idiotic though it was, Ryder was speechless for a moment. The sight of her, cool and elegant, in the doorway of her mother's apartment sent his entire body into overdrive and he found it difficult to marshal his thoughts.
"Hi," he said, moving toward her. "I missed you."
She didn't say anything, simply stepped aside as he went to take her into his arms.
"How was Illinois?" she asked instead, opening the door wider and ushering him into the foyer.
"Cold." He slipped out of his leather jacket and hung it from the doorknob.
He followed her into the living room, enjoying the way her black skirt clung to her hips and thighs. It was hard to believe that this sophisticated, self-possessed woman was the same woman who had lain in his arms the night before. He was beginning to feel as if he'd been dropped back in a parallel universe because this one sure as hell didn't seem the way he remembered.
"Business trip?" she asked as she poured him some brandy.
"Unexpected."
She arched an eyebrow at him as she sat next to him on the couch. "Evidently."
"You got my note, didn't you?"
"You're a man of few words, Ryder."
He tried to remember what exactly he had said in the note but came up blank. "Did I put my foot in my mouth?"
She sipped her own brandy. "Not at all."
The chill in that room was worse than anything he'd found in the Windy City. "Believe me, Joanna, I didn't want to leave." Her eyes were level and grave as she watched him and he resisted the urge to pull her into his arms. "It was an emergency."
"I didn't know private detectives had emergencies."
There was something about the tone of her voice that put him on alert. "Don't you watch TV? Emergency is a P.I.'s middle name."
"Did it have anything to do with that hostage thing in Chicago?"
How in hell could he have been this sloppy? Only a damned fool would have mentioned exactly where he was going. He forced a laugh and prayed it sounded more natural to her ears than to his own. "Do I look like the kind of guy who could disarm terrorists?"
"Yes," she said. "You do."
"I'm flattered," he said, although that was the last thing he'd wanted to hear. "I hate to burst your James Bond bubble, but I'm a lowly private eye, Joanna. The most exciting thing I do is track down wayward husbands to the Dew Drop Inn." He prayed she didn't see the beads of perspiration slithering down his right temple.
"Then answer this: Why did Alistair tell Holland he was a stockbroker and you were a computer whiz?"
"That's our standard cover," he said, telling the truth for a change. "He just happens to be more secretive than I am." And a hell of a lot more professional.
"Why is it I still feel you're holding something back?"
"What can I tell you? I guess it's this dishonest face of mine."
"You're probably telling
the truth, but –" The look she gave him was too sharp, too assessing for his peace of mind. "Forget it. Why would you lie about something as unimportant as that? I guess it was just the product of my overactive imagination."
The hell it was. It was the product of a woman with a brain that matched her beauty, a woman who could see through these idiotic lies and reach the heart of the matter in an instant. Not for her the life of half truths and extended trips, of never knowing if it was business or betrayal that kept him away from home.
If there was no escaping his commitment to PAX, then he would make damn sure he escaped Joanna Stratton before things got any more out of hand.
That is, if it weren't already too late.
He was smack in the middle of something more dangerous than bombs, more lethal than bullets, more powerful than ambition. He was falling in love with a woman he could only hurt, a woman who needed dependability and security and all those things a man in his position couldn't possibly give.
All those things he wanted for himself.
Their love was pointless. Useless. Doomed to failure. There was no future at all for them – there never could be. A smart man would turn back and head for higher ground.
But he'd never been that smart . . . and deep water had never seemed more seductive.
#
He was a thousand miles away, Joanna thought as she looked at him. Whatever it was that had taken him from her bed last night still exerted a pull on him, drawing him away in spirit if not body.
Sitting there next to him on the couch, it was hard for Joanna to believe they had become lovers less than twenty-four hours ago. Surely several lifetimes had passed between the moment of their first embrace and this endless interlude of uneasy chatter and awkward silences.
If it was a mistake, if what they had begun had already died a merciful death, then say it. She would still work with him to get the goods on Stanley and he'd never have to know her heart was breaking in the process.
"I think we need a few ground rules," she said, finally. "If we're going to be working together to help Rosie, I think we should –"
Before she could finish her sentence, she was in his arms and whatever it was she was about to say disappeared like a flash of lightning.
"Hello, Joanna," he murmured. "I've missed you."
The feel of his breath soft against the inner curve of her ear sent shivers of pleasure throughout her body. She smoothed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and, fool that she was, moved closer.
"You missed a wonderful breakfast," she said, trying to ignore the violent physical and emotional effect his nearness was having on her senses. "I make terrific French toast."
"Maybe next time."
"Who says there'll be a next time?"
It was Ryder's turn to move closer. "There will be," he said. His hands moved to her breasts but stopped just short of touching her. Waves of desire radiated through her lower body and she swayed slightly, her hardened nipples brushing the palms of his hands. Even through her silk blouse, she could feel his head and she closed her eyes against it.
"How can I count on a next time?" she managed. "Maybe next time you'll be called to Hawaii."
He brought his mouth down on hers, tracing the outline of her lips with the tip of his tongue until she moaned softly. "There'll be a next time," he said. "That's something you can count on."
"We have things to discuss," she managed, pushing him slightly away, a last desperate attempt to regain control. "Rosie . . . her apartment . . . oh, God, Ryder –"
He eased her back against the arm of the sofa, his lean, strong body almost covering her own. "Not now," he said, unbuttoning the top button of her shirt and kissing her collarbone and the hollow of her throat. "There will be plenty of time for that later."
This isn't forever, she told herself. This was no more real than the daydreams she entertained, no more substantial than the illusions she created for the camera.
"I'm not looking for permanence," she managed as her hands greedily slipped his sweater over his head, baring his marvelous chest to her eyes. "I never stay in one place very long." One last chance at protecting herself from the inevitable.
"Then we're in agreement." He drew her close until the tips of her breasts grazed the thick mat of dark hair on his chest. The February cold outside was no match for the heat they were generating between them. "I'm a wanderer, too."
"No commitments." She unsnapped his pants and began easing them down his legs.
"No strings." He slid her skirt up over her thighs.
"When it's over, it's over." She lifted her hips so he could slide her panty hose off.
"No guilt." He threw his jeans and briefs on the floor. "No recriminations."
"Just some fond memories." She let her silk blouse drop over the side of the couch.
He grasped her by the waist and positioned her over him. "A modern relationship."
Her mind was spinning somewhere near the ceiling. "Yes," she managed. "No empty promises."
He cupped her behind and drew her closer. "The perfect friendship," he said as she eased herself onto him. "No broken hearts."
She opened for him and he entered her, filling her in a way that sent her mind veering out of control. She could no more keep her heart from breaking when this was over than she could stop the wild, sweet madness that enflamed her senses every time he came near.
And, for the first time in years, she didn't care if what they shared lasted four minutes or four days or for eternity.
#
When the phone rang at five p.m., Holland knew in her bones that it was Alistair. She picked it up on the third ring, took a deep breath, then did her imitation of an answering machine.
"You have reached the home of Holland Masters. Holland is not available right now. Please leave a message and she will return the call as soon as possible. Beep."
"Beep?" Alistair said. "If you're going to impersonate a machine, Holland, at least learn to do it properly."
"Keep your criticisms to yourself," she said. "Just leave a message."
"An answering machine that talks back. What will American technology come up with next?"
"I don't want to talk to you," she said. "You're in Illinois."
"I'm in New York. I'd like to see you."
"Then watch As the World Turns a week from Thursday, channel 2, 1:30 p.m. I play the woman who dented Lisa's Mercedes."
"I'd rather see you, Holland, not a character you play."
She said nothing, just watched traffic rushing by on the street below. What was it about this man that kept her perpetually off balance?
"I apologize for cutting our last appointment short. It was unavoidable."
"I'm sure it was. Stockbrokers always have midnight emergencies."
"It was a family emergency."
"I thought your family was English."
"My late wife was American."
"I didn't know you'd ever been married."
"You never asked, Ms. Masters."
"Are there any little Alistairs running about playing croquet someplace?"
"If there were, they'd be in their thirties and more inclined to sit by a pool nursing a gin and tonic."
The sudden image of five baby Alistairs sitting around a pool in three-piece suits and short pants made Holland laugh out loud.
"Progress," Alistair said. "Your good humor has been restored."
"Lucky for you," she said. "I'm really quite angry with you, Alistair."
"Would dinner at the 21 Club help soothe your soul?"
"It might." Dinner at McDonald's, as long as it was with Alistair Chambers, would soothe her soul but that was the last thing she was about to tell him. Men had enough ammunition in the battle of the sexes. She wasn't about to provide him with any more.
"Say around seven."
"Say around seven-thirty," she said.
"I'll come by taxi."
"No," she said, grinning. "Come by Rolls."
His low, amus
ed laugh made her toes tingle. "You're a mercenary woman, Holland Masters. I like that."
Then that makes us even, she thought, because I like every damned thing about you.
"One more emergency phone call and our relationship is over," she warned him instead.
"Don't worry," he said. "This time, my beautiful lady, there won't be any interruptions at all."
A voluptuous shiver rose from her toes and, for the first time, Holland Master knew she'd finally met her match.
#
If Ryder thought about it for long – and he was doing is damnedest not to – his capacity for lying was pretty disturbing.
No strings. No commitments. And the ever-popular no broken hearts.
How he'd managed to keep from choking on that hideous string of lies baffled him. He glanced at Joanna, who was sitting cross-legged on the carpet in Rosie's living room, watching as he wired the ceiling for the camera he would be installing behind the enormous lithograph on the far wall. The rush of feelings as she smiled up at him nearly knocked him off the ladder.
Thinking of the past two hours spent in her arms made him alternately euphoric and despondent. She was a wildly passionate woman and he wanted to believe her passion grew out of something greater than lust, more powerful than desire. He wanted to believe that she sensed the same greater force that he did, the same unaccountable yearning toward the future that made the impossibility of the situation that much harder for him to bear.
Love made a man a hell of a lot more vulnerable than he would have thought.
"Hand me the electrical tape," he said, pointing to the end table on her left. "And the needle-nosed pliers."
Joanna grabbed the tape, then sifted through the tools in the pouch next to her. "These?" she asked, holding up a wrench.
"Pliers," he said. "Don't you city girls know anything?"
"Why do you think we have superintendents? We're more concerned with survival on the streets. We let the apartment take care of itself."
He climbed down and grabbed the pliers from the tool kit. "That's how bastards like Stanley get all their power," he said. "You're at their mercy."
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