Best of Temptation Bundle Page 21

  A bachelor party? He hadn’t even gone to his own eight years ago. Camille had dragged him out of town at the last minute to avoid his own prewedding celebration. Even after his divorce, he’d avoided such parties. They reminded him too much of what his life lacked.

  “A bachelor party is not my style, Mr. Phipps.”

  Phipps coughed uncomfortably. “Well, we at First Investment can’t be too careful. Your predecessor…”

  Grant held the receiver away from his ear. He didn’t need to listen, again, as Phipps outlined the sins of CEOs past. The Chairman had already engraved the sordid history into Grant’s memory. The most recent Chief Executive Officer had paid off a local madam with investors’ funds. The one before him was caught on security videotape having sex with his secretary. In the boardroom. On the table. At lunchtime. Both stories broke in Wilhelmina Langley’s weekly column.

  Phipps wrapped up his lecture just as Grant spied movement inside the house. Suspicious movement.

  “Mr. Phipps, it’s eight-thirty on a Thursday night. I’m serving Cabernet Sauvignon, 1986, and the caviar canapés my housekeeper is famous for. My brother brought a tape of his favorite football game in an attempt to liven things up.”

  “Then you won’t object to my stopping by in an hour or so to drop off the papers you’ll need for the Board meeting tomorrow?”

  Grant’s stomach churned. For the umpteenth time, he reminded himself that he needed this job. His income paid for the contractors refurbishing his grandmother’s home—a sprawling Victorian he’d grown to love as much as the eighty-two-year-old, newly wheelchair-bound woman who still lived there. Only he and a hefty salary, as well as his weekly visits, guaranteed she’d spend her final days in the only home she’d ever known. Two years ago, he could have financed a complete restoration without feeling the slightest pinch.

  Then came Camille and her high-powered divorce attorney.

  Just six more months—a year, tops.

  Grant’s plan was foolproof. His ample paychecks paid the contractors. The location allowed him to visit Nanna Lil regularly. His stock options, coupled with his own undeniable talent for making money, would soon reduce his Camille-induced poverty to nothing but a bitter memory.

  He need only stay employed.

  “You’re more than welcome to stop by, Mr. Phipps. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “What could possibly go wrong?” Grant muttered once he’d broken the connection.

  Opening the doors, Grant choked on his words.

  He didn’t follow the game, but Grant knew the contact sport on the screen wasn’t football. That type of huddle didn’t happen in the NFL—at least, not on the field. The term “redskins” took on a whole new meaning.

  The porno tape was the least of his worries. No longer interested in the video, his buddies congregated near the CD player. Raucous guitar licks and pounding bass from the surround-sound speakers rattled the crystal chandelier. Rowdy whoops from his cohorts added to the clamor. Grant slammed the door behind him, crossed the threshold into the living room, and dropped the phone. Then his jaw.

  His friends weren’t whooping at the CD player, but at a petite brunette, dressed in a trench coat, who looked like a deer caught in a hunter’s headlights.

  Grant’s mouth lost all moisture. Her wide eyes, the shade of sparkling blue topaz, sought his with an unspoken plea for help. Only the fact that he’d never seen her before, and he knew his friends to be harmless, kept him from immediately rushing to her aid.

  “Moana couldn’t work tonight. She sent me to tell you.” She spoke the words directly to him, as if she hoped he’d react since the others preferred ogling to listening.

  “Aw, come on, honey.” Steve slurred, a half-empty beer in one hand, his other pawing at her belt. She stepped back and clutched her coat by the lapels, but not before he managed to slip the canvas tie from its loops. “We gotta have some entertainment.”

  Entertainment? Suddenly, the trench coat made sense. A sickening sensation coiled in his stomach. The gorgeous female fantasy on the other side of his living room was a stripper. And a terrified one at that.

  When Steve latched on to the hem of her coat and began reeling her forward, Grant bolted across the room. If Langley caught wind of this, or worse, if Phipps showed up early…if Steve touched her again… he pushed the thought away and jumped over Mac, aiming for her discarded belt. Gus grabbed Grant’s ankle, knocking him off balance. As he stumbled, he avoided an open cooler of beer partially shoved under his Queen Anne coffee table.

  The fall sent him rolling toward the stripper, who jerked from his path. Her shoulders crashed into the CD player, teetering the tall, glass bookshelf.

  Men shouted. The woman screamed. Knickknacks tumbled down like porcelain rain. In a clumsy attempt to help Grant up, Mac fell on top of him. Steve and Tom erupted in laughter. Gus belched.

  Amid the chaos, a polyurethane-sealed book hidden on the top shelf pummeled down. Right on the stripper’s head.

  And knocked her out cold.

  2

  “OH, GREAT,” GUS lamented. “She hadn’t even taken off her coat.”

  Grant squirmed from under Mac and crawled to the stripper. She was definitely unconscious, and despite the snug leather pants and jacket peeking through her coat, bold makeup and blue-black hair, she looked peaceful. Innocent.

  Carefully, Grant touched the back of her head and felt a lump. Damn. “She’s hurt. Help me get her to the couch.”

  “I’ll call 9-1-1,” Mac said, suddenly serious and sober.

  “Now you decide to act like a cop?” Grant snapped. “Where was your blue sense when you let this woman in?” Lord, he could just imagine Langley’s take on police cars and paramedics.

  “Just hold on. Don’t move her till I look at her. Get my bag, Tom,” Gus ordered, suddenly authoritative as his Hippocratic oath overpowered his hormones. “In the front seat of my car.”

  “No,” Grant amended, shifting so his thighs cushioned the stripper’s head. “Mac, you get the bag. Tom, you and Mike get Steve out of here.”

  His inebriated friend, although deserving of a little fun on the eve of his wedding, suddenly angered Grant just by being there. He didn’t want the junior broker in his living room when Phipps arrived. Drunk and obnoxious, Steve could ruin his own career—and Grant’s.

  The boiling he felt in his blood undoubtedly stemmed from that possibility. His anger had nothing to do with the way Steve had pawed the stripper. Nothing at all.

  Mac led the others out while Gus checked the stripper’s bump and then her pulse. Her raven hair, cut in a stylish shag, brushed Grant’s hand with a lacy texture. He untangled an errant strand from her long eyelashes.

  “She’s all twisted in this coat and jacket. She’s probably burning up,” Gus said. “I’ll lean her forward. Slip her arms out.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” After the glimpse Grant had of the clothing she wore beneath her modest London Fog knock-off, he knew his libido couldn’t endure a fuller view.

  Gus unfastened her buttons and unzipped the jacket underneath. “Who’s the doctor here, you or me?”

  “At this point, it’s debatable.” Reluctantly, Grant did as Gus asked. Try as he did not to look when his brother removed her coat and jacket, his gaze traveled over her leather-encased body with aching slowness. She was small, no more than five foot four, but feminine curves and softly toned muscles filled all the right places in all the right ways. Her low-cut bustier and spray-painted pants revealed more about this woman than a stranger had a right to see.

  Taking the coat off was bad enough. Taking the jacket off was a big mistake. Oh, yeah. A whopper.

  Mac returned with the bag, stumbling when he caught sight of the increasingly undressed stripper. “Hot damn.”

  Grant shoved him away. “You’re married, remember?”

  Mac jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “Marriage doesn’t kill every man’s lust.”

  “Camille did
n’t kill my lust. It died from neglect,” Grant answered.

  “Okay, boys, step aside.” Gus rolled up his sleeves. “Give the doctor room.”

  “Some doctor. You’re a podiatrist,” Grant said.

  “Med school is med school,” Gus asserted. “Grab a pillow from the couch.”

  Grant followed Gus’s instructions as he examined the beautiful young scandal crumpled on the living room floor. Grant mentally kicked himself, glancing furtively out of the front window and checking his watch. What could possibly go wrong? Sure, Mr. Phipps, come on over. Join the party. The overzealous moans from the videotape nearly drove him mad. He found the remote amid a stack of dog-eared, contraband Hustler magazines and switched the television off.

  “Grant, I need an ice pack. She’s coming around.”

  He returned just in time to see her sit up and grab the back of her head in pain.

  “Ow,” she groaned.

  Gus took the pack from Grant and pressed the cold blue gel against the swelling bump.

  “Hold this,” Gus said. “I need to check your pupils.”

  When the ice pack slipped out of her shaking hand, Grant slid behind her and held it himself. The warm scent of mulled spice nearly sent him reeling.

  Her eyes glazed with fear. “Who are you? What happened?”

  “You might have a slight concussion,” Gus informed her.

  She blinked away from his penlight. “Concussion? From what? Where am I?” Jerking from Gus’s touch, she slammed into Grant’s chest, which sent her scrambling in the other direction. Terror marred her lovely face, glossing her blue eyes with tell-tale moisture. “Who are you people?”

  She tried to stand, but her knees wobbled and she fell into Grant’s arms. He braced her against his chest, caught another whiff of her rich cinnamon perfume, and nearly lost his balance.

  “Let go of me.” She pushed weakly against his chest, until her protests were quickly spent. “My head.”

  “Bring her to the couch,” Gus instructed.

  Stepping over the litter of leather and beer cans, Grant led her to the couch farthest from the drapeless picture window. He tried not to inhale the scent wafting from her skin, tried not to feast on the generous swell of her breasts pressed against tight black leather.

  He couldn’t help himself.

  Gus gathered his bag and spoke calmly to his patient. “Miss, can you tell me your name?”

  She answered him with a blank stare. Shock, mingled with near-panic, defied her makeup and turned her skin an ashy white.

  Gus slipped his penlight back into his bag. “Oh, boy.”

  Grant’s ulcer burned. He’d thought the ailment had disappeared forever the day he’d left Wall Street. And Camille. But no. He had a captivating stripper on his couch who couldn’t remember her name, a semidrunk podiatrist treating her head injury, and a nosy pseudojournalist across the street who could destroy his career with one phone call. Stomach acid churned like an active volcano.

  “’Oh, boy?’ What does that mean, Gus?” Grant’s voice deepened as he lost hold of his calm. He gulped in air to steady his increasing rage.

  Gus shot his brother a frustrated “not now” look and returned to his interrogation. “Do you know where you are?”

  Anxiety shone in her eyes until they gleamed like faceted sapphires. She glanced about furtively, as if not wanting them to see how thirstily she drank in the details of her surroundings. She studied her palms as she spoke. “I’m here, with you. Do you know where we are?”

  “We’re at my brother’s house,” Gus answered calmly. “Do you know why we’re here?”

  The woman sat up, looked at her clothing, then again at the overturned furnishings, the cooler of beer, her discarded coat.

  “Looks like a party. Was I invited?”

  “No,” Grant snapped.

  Gus socked him on the arm like when they were kids.

  “Yes,” Gus corrected. “You were the entertainment.”

  She stared blankly at him again. “And I do…”

  Waiting for them to fill in the blanks, she looked expectantly at all three of them. Mac turned away, probably wondering how he’d explain his involvement with a stripper to his lieutenant. Gus ran his meaty hands through his prematurely thinning hair. Grant folded his arms over his chest and scrutinized her. She truly had no idea what she did for a living.

  Oh, Lord.

  “You’re a stripper,” he provided matter-of-factly.

  Her eyebrows shot up beneath her bangs. “That explains the draft.”

  Mac handed her jacket to Grant, who draped the thin leather across her shoulders. She pulled the sleeves quickly out of his hands, then yanked the ice pack away.

  “Would someone please tell me why I can’t remember anything?”

  “You were bumped on the head.” Gus leaned around her to check the swelling. “The concussion isn’t too serious, but you seem to have amnesia. It’s probably temporary. Can you recall your name yet?”

  “Who hired me?”

  “I did,” Gus admitted.

  “Then why don’t you tell me my name and we can quit the twenty questions?”

  Grant fought the impulse to smile. Even at her most vulnerable, this woman proved tough. Not like the women he’d been attracted to before—no siree. There’d be no inane small talk or veiled innuendoes with this woman. Once she regained her strength, she’d probably tell him to shove his warped country-club morality and high-society values where the sun didn’t shine.

  Straightening from his crouched position beside the couch, Gus dug his hands into his pockets. “I can’t tell you your name. That’s not how amnesia works.”

  “There are rules?” she asked.

  Gus glanced up evasively, then away from Grant’s scowl. “It’s better if you remember naturally. Besides,” he admitted sheepishly, “I don’t know who you are.”

  “What?”

  The woman and Grant stared at each other, amazed as their question rang out in unison.

  “What do you mean you don’t know who she is? Gus, you hired her,” Grant pointed out.

  “No, I hired someone else.”

  “Who?”

  This time, the stripper beat him to the question.

  Grant watched as, with effort, his brother forced his brain to work through a beer-enhanced haze. “Um…Moana, yeah, Moana was the name she danced under.”

  The woman’s eyebrows creased together. “Moana? Moana.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t recognize the name.” Grabbing her cheeks with quivering hands, she shook her head, wincing. “I don’t recognize anything.”

  Mac stepped forward, knelt on one knee and patted her arm. “Just stay calm, okay? We’re going to help you.”

  The woman didn’t seem to hear Mac’s assurance. Grant’s heart lurched, the sensation quickly followed by a sickening wave of foreboding. He couldn’t allow himself to imagine the confusion swimming in her mind, to feel the loss so evident in her eyes. He couldn’t let himself be a sucker for a pretty face in a desperate situation. That’s what irresponsible, impulsive men with a “knight in shining armor” complex did. Not Grant Riordan, Mr. Responsible Extraordinaire.

  He turned his attention to Gus. “Where did you meet Moana? If we can find her…”

  “I’ve known Moana off and on for years. Last time I saw her she worked at the Cat House in Orlando, I think. Or was it Pretty Maids in Tampa, or Deceptions down on the strip?”

  Grant threw up his hands and retreated, busying himself with searching for undamaged figurines on the plush carpet while trying to ignore his brother as he recited the names of numerous strip clubs, none of which seemed familiar to the woman on the couch. Gus frequented so many clubs, the chances of him remembering exactly where he’d seen Moana last were as slim as Grant keeping his job past midnight.

  “Do you still have her number?” Grant asked, frustrated by their slow progress as much as by his inability to stop staring at the stripper’s seductive blue eye
s or trembling bottom lip.

  Shaking his head, Gus answered, “Maybe at the office. I confirmed with Moana a week ago, and then she called me day before yesterday to jack up her price.”

  The stripper turned away, obviously trying to hide the glisten of moisture in her eyes. Unfortunately, Grant hadn’t missed a single sparkle. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t succumbed to tears yet—either out of the desperation of her situation or to gain the upper hand.

  Not that she needed tears for that. This little incident had “lawsuit” written all over it in bold, red letters. First Investment would have its next sex scandal—and Grant faced financial ruin.

  But instead of crying or threatening legal action, she took a deep, steadying breath, braced herself on the couch and stood. “Where’s the little stripper’s room? Maybe a splash of water will clear my head.”

  Mac led her toward the hallway, pointing out the door beneath the staircase.

  Grant gazed at her, speechless—as much from her outward calm as from the sensual way her hips swayed when she walked. After she disappeared, he grabbed Gus by the shirt.

  “Now what are you going to do, Mr. ‘Med-School-is-Med-School?’ Phipps’ll be here any minute.”

  Gus pulled back, nearly tripping over the coffee table.

  “Hey, back off, brother. You want to knock out my memory too?”

  Grant didn’t stop. “What memory? How could you possibly forget where you knew this Moana person from? If we knew where she came from, we could take little Lady Lawsuit there and drop her off before she sues me.”

  “She didn’t say anything about a lawsuit,” Gus reassured him.

  “Not yet, she hasn’t.”

  Mac patted Grant on the shoulder. “It was an accident, Grant. You even had the police here to witness the sordid event. She won’t file criminal charges.”

  Grant’s cynicism didn’t falter. “She could still file a civil suit.”

  “She’d have to know her name to do that,” Gus added.

  “Of course, maybe she’s faking the amnesia,” Mac wondered aloud. He paced once across the living room. “This could be a setup to extort money from Grant.”