Danger in a Red Dress

by Christina Dodd

  It was Sunday, wasn’t it?

  Unhurriedly, she opened her eyes—and Gabriel was watching her.

  She was instantly wide-awake, stiff and still as a rabbit beneath a mountain lion’s scrutiny. “Hello.” Great conversation starter.

  “You look better.” He leaned on his elbow, in her personal space again.

  “Thanks, I guess.” She dragged the covers up to her chin and sat up.

  “No use being modest. You’ve been sleeping next to me for three days.” A half smile played on his lips. “If there’s anything to see, I’ve seen it.”

  She glared down at him, offended, while he lounged around on her half of the bed.

  “There is nothing to see,” he reminded her. “You’re wearing my pajamas. They’re boring.”

  “Right.” He wasn’t looking at her like they were boring.

  “Besides, if I’d had any thoughts of frolicking, the snoring would have put me off.”

  Her teeth snapped together. “So you’re a sensitive soul.”

  “I don’t think so, but women don’t usually sleep while they’re in my bed, so I don’t know for sure.” He laughed.

  But it was probably true. “You really are a jerk. And get over to your own side of the bed!” With her good hand, she shoved at his chest.

  He tumbled over, still laughing, and when she went to give him a smack for good measure, he caught her wrist.

  Her irritation faded.

  His amusement died.

  As they looked at each other, her breath caught in her throat, and she felt something she hadn’t felt since . . . well, since a year ago Halloween. The memory of Trent, and the party, and that one brief, magical dance, had the effect of making her snatch her hand away. “I . . . need . . . to . . . use . . . the facilities.” She inched off the bed, never taking her eyes off Gabriel.

  Because he never took his eyes off her, not even when she turned her back and hurried toward the bathroom. She knew, because she felt his gaze.

  She shut the door behind her. She locked it, although why, she didn’t know. He probably had a key. But he also gave off vibes like, on the briefest pretext, he’d join her in the shower. She believed in sending a message, and that message was no.

  She took care of the most pressing matters, then saw a new pair of women’s gray cotton lounge pants and a cornflower blue racer-back shirt laid out on the counter. A plastic bag, the perfect size for wrapping her wrist, and a rubber band had been placed on top of the clothes.

  Was Gabriel trying to send her a message?

  She looked in the mirror.

  Probably he was. She’d been sleeping for days, waking only to eat, a lot, and brush her teeth, and now she looked like Rip Van Winkle without the beard.

  She flipped on the shower, covered her cast, and headed into the huge shower stall.

  It was great. It was beyond great, with showerheads that squirted her in all the right places and some of the wrong ones, an overhead rainstorm that sprayed at random times, and a dozen different shampoos and soaps.

  She was in love . . . with a shower.

  She also, for the first time in a year, felt like herself. She wasn’t exhausted. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t scared. She was Hannah Grey, and standing here in Gabriel Prescott’s shower, she realized she had to make plans to do something besides run. She stilled, and thought hard.

  She could not scuttle across the face of America forever. Even if Carrick hadn’t found her, she was slowly wearing down, becoming someone driven by fear and sorrow, always running and going nowhere. She had to make a plan. She had to do something that would stop this madness.

  She had to go to the cops or the feds or . . . someone.

  She took a long breath of steamy air.

  And she would. But first, she was going to enjoy her shower—she sniffed all the shampoos and decided on bitter orange—and take a moment to luxuriate in this time of safety. Not even the bothersome bandage could lessen her pleasure as she soaped and scrubbed and finally stood there in bliss.

  One thought disturbed her peace.

  What was she going to do about the unwelcome sense of closeness she experienced with Gabriel? For three days, she’d slept with the guy. On the rare occasions she woke up, he was always stirring, and he personally poked food down her throat as if he was an eagle and she his chick. She didn’t know him, but at the same time . . . last night, some instinct brought her to consciousness. She lay on her side, facing away from him, tucked into his body, his arms around her. He had been breathing deeply, as if he was asleep, but at the same time, a hard-on pressed against her rear.

  She knew guys got involuntary erections at night. More important, she was wearing his pajamas and he was wearing underwear and a T-shirt, so they were well clothed. And he had never touched her intimately; he’d never twitched a finger toward sexual harassment. But that erection made her realize a couple of things she’d been steadfastly ignoring.

  He was a strong, healthy, normal guy with strong, healthy, normal appetites that no gunshot wound was going to hinder.

  She was a strong, healthy, normal woman with strong, healthy, normal appetites that had, frankly, never in her life been appeased. Not that she’d tried too hard, since in high school and college guys were a disappointment, and while batteries could satisfy the basic urges, they left a lot to be desired when it came to affection afterward.

  And for all she and Gabriel had nothing in common except getting shot at, still they shared that smoky sexual awareness that tugged like a burnished chain between them.

  It was something that would have to be dealt with. She simply didn’t know how.

  When finally she stepped out of the shower, she could hear Gabriel talking to somebody. Nobody answered him, so she figured he was on the phone.

  She dried and dressed, then cracked the door and stood listening to him, not the words, because that would be eavesdropping, but the affectionate, bantering tone that made her heart ache a little with envy. When he hung up the phone, she stepped into the room. “You have a family.”

  He looked startled; then he withdrew, and she realized she hadn’t meant to, but as far as he was concerned, she had invaded his privacy.

  Then he relaxed against the pile of pillows under his back. “I have three foster sisters. That was Pepper, and somehow she heard I’d been shot.” His mouth quirked ruefully.

  Hannah took another step toward him. “She wasn’t happy.”

  “She ripped a strip off my hide.”

  When he said stuff like that, she could hear the echo of his Texas upbringing in his voice.

  “I told her not to tell the other two, but I guess it’s way too late for that. I’ll be getting more phone calls.” Now he grimaced. “I hate when they yell at me.”

  “You could have called them.” Hannah wandered closer. “You know, while I was snoring.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you. Besides, they’d tell me I need a safer job.”

  Hannah opened her mouth to ask what his job really was.

  He didn’t give her a chance. “The thing is, they’ve got a thing about not losing me again.”

  “Again?” Now this was interesting. Hannah perched on the side of the bed.

  “Remember I told you the Prescotts took me in when I was eleven? Mr. Prescott was a minister.”

  “You were raised by a minister?” Hannah thought about all her suspicions about him, and wondered whether that meant she should discard her suspicions or consider them confirmed.

  “In a small Texas town. Yeah. His wife brought me home like a stray cat and announced they were keeping me. And they did, which was a big scandal in that town. Half Mexican, half God knows what, all trouble was the way the big ol’ gossips described me.” Gabriel didn’t like the ol’ gossips. She could tell by the way his lips, usually full and inviting, got thin and turned down at the corners.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I had no background. I spent the first part of my life being
knocked around the foster-care system, knowing no one wanted me and knowing why—because I screamed in temper all day and screamed with nightmares all night.”

  Nightmares. She would ask . . . but not yet. Not while he was talking.

  “Then the Prescotts took me in, and I was home. If I screamed in temper, they took me aside until I could control myself. If I screamed at night, they were there to hold me. They told me . . . Mr. and Mrs. Prescott told me that God was always there for me, and when the nightmares came, I could pray and God would comfort me. They told me that God valued me as much as the white kids who lived in their big houses with their parents, who were married, and they told me to look around. They asked me if I thought those kids who had parents who pushed them to be the best in baseball or gymnastics were happy. If the kids whose parents divorced were happy. If those kids who made fun of me for being a nobody really thought they were better than me, or if they were compensating for something.” Gabriel laughed. “Mr. Prescott said that, straight-faced, and Mrs. Prescott scolded him, and he said I didn’t understand what he meant, and I assured him I did.”

  “Oops.” Hannah struggled to contain her amusement.

  “Right. He gave me a look, and later, he told me that sometimes telling the truth doesn’t mean you have to say everything you know.” Gabriel laughed again. “I realized then he liked having me around. He had three daughters and a wife. I was the other guy in his life. He took me hunting, taught me to shoot. He took me when he had to buy a present for his wife. He dragged me along to the men’s group at church. Some of it sucked, but in the end, I knew it was cool. I belonged.”

  “That is cool.”

  “Until I was thirteen.” A sudden onset of pain made him pale, and Hannah didn’t think it was his wound that was bothering him. “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott were murdered.”

  “Murdered?” She hadn’t been shocked to hear he’d been in foster care. He had the self-sufficient air of a man who’d been on his own his whole life. But this . . . “Why?”

  His eyes half closed as if he were weary, and she felt suddenly guilty. His wounds were so much worse than hers, and she felt so strong now. Selfishly, she’d kept him awake and talking.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you’ll have dinner with me tonight, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  “Who else would I have dinner with? I mean, we’re stuck here in the condo together. . . .”

  He watched her from beneath those heavy lids, and she realized—he didn’t mean dinner. He meant dinner.

  She sat very still. He was dangling an attractive piece of bait, but in her experience, bait always concealed a hook. In this case, she knew very well what that hook was . . . yet the bait was so very, very attractive. She took a slow, careful breath, intending to say the right thing, say no, keep this relationship on a safe footing. Yet instead she blurted, “I would love to have dinner with you.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Hannah had a date.

  She had moved into the bedroom where she had first slept, and now she leaned her hands on the cool granite countertop in the bathroom. She looked into the mirror at her own shining eyes, and told herself to calm down. It was just a date, and she was stupid to be so thrilled, especially when she’d slept with the guy she was dating.

  Okay, technically she had only slept with him, nothing more.

  But she wanted him and he wanted her, and right now she was balanced on that razor’s edge between excitement and fear, between hoping they would make love and knowing if they did, she would pay a price.

  Picking up a brush, she ran it through her hair, wished it was blond again, wished she could have it styled, wished her wrist didn’t hurt. . . . She dropped the brush on the counter.

  The gunshot wound ached all the time, and when she twisted her wrist, pain shot up her arm. Nevertheless she refused to take anything more potent than aspirin. Not now. Not tonight. Tonight, she needed her wits about her.

  Gabriel Prescott was a powerful man, with powerful appetites and a personality and presence that impressed even when he was silent. If she yielded to the urge to have sex, she knew in her bones the experience would shake everything she believed and desired—and not necessarily in a good way. Compound the physical and emotional mess with her legal problems, and she foresaw trouble.

  She splashed on a quick light coat of makeup.

  But she wanted him.

  At the very least, she wanted to hear the rest of his story.

  She dressed herself in Gabriel’s simply fabulous pair of pajamas, slipped into the terry-cloth robe Daniel had brought her, twirled in front of the mirror, and sighed. The pajamas were too big. Light green color, baggy, and calf-length, the robe wasn’t a good style. But she had nothing else to wear, so . . .

  She headed into the bedroom—and stopped.

  The door to the living room was closed. But someone had been in here, probably a large African-American fairy godfather, for laid out on the bed was a dress, and not just any dress. This was the kind of dress models wore to movie premieres.

  With reverent hands, she lifted it and held it before her. It fell to her ankles—a long, simple drape of red silk with twisted silk shoulder straps and a low swag back. One side of the narrow skirt was slit all the way up to her thigh. She’d never owned anything like it in her life, and she wanted so badly for it to fit.

  In a sudden hurry, she dropped it on the bed and tore off the pajamas and robe. Picking up the gown, she stepped into it and pulled it up. The silk slithered up her thighs, over her hips and breasts. She slid her arms into the straps.

  It fit. It fit like someone had measured her.

  Remembering the way Gabriel looked at her, she thought perhaps he had. He had measured her with his gaze and in his arms as they’d slept together. He was a man who knew almost too much about women.

  Hannah walked to the dresser. Strolled, really, because in this gown, she moved differently, all fluid grace and ease, and when she did, her leg slid through the daring slash in the silk, a sexy invitation to any man who saw her.

  To Gabriel.

  The figure in the dresser mirror looked long and lean. The thin silk molded her breasts and hips, and when she turned and looked, she saw that it swathed her rear as lovingly as a man’s hands. The back swung in a low, sexy drape to the base of her spine, and the straps clung on her shoulders. The dress was absolutely magnificent—and it absolutely required some underwear.

  She glanced back toward the bed.

  A minuscule pair of matching panties had fallen to the floor. There was no matching bra.

  She picked up the panties and scrutinized them, front and back. She would have to categorize this as a daring thong. “How could I have missed these?” she asked sarcastically.

  The empty room didn’t answer, so she pulled on the panties.

  She looked again in the mirror, then looked for a bra. No, no bra. Her nipples were just . . . out there.

  Using the hairpins she found in a box in the dresser, she gathered her hair into a careless upsweep.

  On the floor beside the bed, there were shoes, a red pair of low heels. They fit, but she took perverse pleasure in knowing they were too narrow.

  So Mr. Gabriel Prescott didn’t get everything right.

  A light tap on the door made her jump. “Yes?”

  Daniel said, “Miss Grace, I’ll be leaving for the evening, but if you’d like to come to dinner with Mr. Gabriel, I’ve served it on a table by the window.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  A pause, and then he asked, “Did everything fit? Do you like it?”

  “It did, and I do. Did you pick it out?”

  “No.” Daniel chuckled. “Not me. Mr. Gabriel knew exactly what he wanted. I simply had to find it.”

  Of course. She had known that before she inquired.

  She waited, self-conscious, a few more minutes, then walked—no, strolled—toward the door. She swung it open and stepped into the living room.

  T
he lighting was low. The music was jazzy and slow. The white-clothed table was by the window. Gabriel stood lighting the candles on that table.

  He was silhouetted against the night, a solid, strong form of a man in a dark suit and tie, and for one moment, he reminded her so strongly of Trent Sansoucy, tears stung her eyes. Then he glanced around and straightened, and he was Gabriel Prescott again. “My God,” he whispered. “My God. You’re a walking, talking dream come true.”

  She blushed at the way he looked at her. “It’s the dress.”

  “It is most certainly not the dress.” His husky voice was a seduction of appreciation.

  “Well, it’s not the underwear,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She walked—no, strolled—to stand beside him. “It really is the dress. It makes me taller and thinner and more . . .” She waved her hands. “Just more.”

  “No. It’s you.” Leaning down, he put his lips on her forehead. “It’s definitely you.”

  That was all, but he made her feel giddy and flirty. Thank God for the uncomfortable shoes keeping her sane, or she’d throw herself at him right now. “You look good, too.”

  “Thank you. This isn’t as comfortable as my pj’s, but it’s a little more formal.” He pulled one of the chairs out from the table. “The doctor won’t let us have wine, but he’ll let us have iced tea.” He made a face.

  She laughed.

  “And Daniel brought us a fabulous dinner from Café Annie. We should enjoy it while it’s warm.”

  Hannah sank into the chair, and under the cover of the table, she discarded her shoes.

  Gabriel seated himself opposite. He lifted the first two covers off the food and referred to the list at his elbow, telling her, “For appetizers, we have black bean terrine with goat cheese and a salad of seared rare tuna with roasted beets and frisée.”

  The savory odors hit her nose, and her appetite brightened for the first time in a year.

  He lifted more covers. “For the main course, we have wood-grilled Gulf shrimp with potato-and-cheese enchiladas, wood-grilled lamb chops with black olives and mint, and wood-grilled filet mignon with smoked cheddar and green chili grits.”