Best of Temptation Bundle Page 22
“Extortion?” Grant, surprised he hadn’t considered that scenario himself, clenched Gus’s shirt tighter. The stripper didn’t seem that cruel or conniving. Then again, neither had Camille until they divorced. “Extortion.”
Gus pulled his shirt from Grant’s clutch. “Get real, Mac. Haven’t you ever heard about not taking your job home with you? And you,” Gus addressed his brother, “you’ve been watching too many reruns of Murder, She Wrote. I don’t think she’s faking.”
“Is this the professional opinion of a small-town podiatrist?” Grant spat out. “I suppose I can stop worrying now.”
“We can still have her checked out at the hospital.” Mac snatched the cordless phone from the floor and twirled it by its antenna.
“No, that’s too public.” Grant knew he was blowing this whole situation out of proportion, but he needed a solution. Fast. He was too close to ending his financial problems and starting fresh to have a farcical twist of fate ruin his carefully laid plans. Besides, having her in such close proximity awakened needs he’d worked a long time to suppress.
“Take her home with you, Gus.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the doctor,” Grant reasoned. “You can help her recover.”
Gus threw himself on the couch and popped open another beer. “Yeah, yeah, I can see it now.” He raised the pitch of his voice to mimic a carefree lilt, “Lisa, honey, I’d like you to meet…well, I don’t know who she is, but she’s a stripper and she’s staying with us for a few days. Why us? Well, you see, I’ve been frequenting the strip clubs, even though you told me you’d rip my throat out if I did it again, and she—”
“Enough.” Grant fell onto the cushions beside his brother and fought the temptation to join him in a brew. He needed a clear head. “Lisa will leave you in a heartbeat if she finds out.”
He looked up at Mac.
“Don’t even think about it, guys. Even if I had the space in my loft apartment, I don’t think Jenna would understand. What about a hotel?”
Grant shook his head. “Where? The Fairway Inn is the only decent place in town and Wilhelmina Langley has a direct line to their front desk. And I doubt if our guest would agree to a room in Tampa or Orlando.”
She’d be stupid to agree. In the few short minutes he’d known her, he recognized that this woman was anything but dumb. By taking her to a hotel, especially one in another city, he could wash his hands of her and the whole situation—claim never to have seen her before.
To someone else, the plan might have been perfect. But Grant Riordan practically had “responsibility” tattooed on his forehead.
The facts lay like a diving red arrow on a profits graph. Mac and Gus couldn’t help. Grant had nowhere to keep the mystery woman except with him. At least, until she recovered her memory.
“Oh!” The distinctly feminine moan beckoned the three men to the kitchen like an alarm.
They stopped dead in the doorway. Bent at the waist as she explored the contents of the refrigerator, the stripper offered a tantalizing view of her leather-clad backside. Grant felt a stirring in his groin. A man in his position couldn’t possibly be attracted to her, could he?
Sure, he could. His American red blood ran as hot as any other man’s—maybe hotter since he’d kept his needs bottled up since his disastrous divorce. Hell, he’d kept his needs imprisoned since he’d headed down the aisle. Maybe before. And now, practically gift-wrapped in black leather and needing his help, his perfect fantasy lover stood in his kitchen, eyeing his near-empty refrigerator as if it were a smorgasbord.
Before he delved further into the details of his fantasy, he strode forward and pulled her away from the door. Only then did he notice how she clutched the back of her head.
“Aren’t you cold, staring into the refrigerator?”
Startled by his presence, she crossed her arms defiantly, her wrists cradling the lower swell of her breasts.
“My head hurts. I thought a little food would help and I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
He released her, struck once again by her transparent honesty. If this woman was orchestrating a scam, he was a twenty-year veteran of the Hell’s Angels.
“I should have offered. Let me fix you something.”
Her smile lit her eyes like bursting stars. “I’ll take some wine and caviar. You’ve got quite a selection.”
Grant smirked at her disguised gibe, knowing his refrigerator held only a few staples in addition to the “entertaining” food he had purchased for tonight. Yet before he could respond to her sarcasm, Gus escorted her to the kitchen dinette.
“No wine for you, missy. You need rest. Your memory could return at any time. Most amnesia cases from a minor bump to the head are temporary.”
“What about the fish eggs?”
Grant huffed quietly, then retrieved the caviar.
“Fish eggs are fine if you’re not feeling nauseous,” Gus said, “but what if Grant whips them into one of his famous omelets? We’ll wash it down with some healthy orange juice.”
Now this is a turn of events. First, he’s practically forced into playing host to the woman. Now he’s her short-order cook? He tried to be annoyed, but the feeling wouldn’t take root—until he glanced at his watch. Phipps would arrive in less than thirty minutes.
“Would you like bacon with that?” he asked.
“No pork flesh, thank you.” She kicked her high-heeled, calf-hugging, lace-up boots onto the chair across from her.
As Gus politely asked her questions, none of which she could answer, Grant banged around the kitchen in search of pots and pans. She couldn’t remember how she arrived. A cab? A friend? The buses didn’t run in Grant’s neighborhood after six o’clock. Mac listened from the doorway until his beeper went off and he retreated to the other room to call his precinct.
Grant cracked eggs into a metal bowl. “So, what should we call you, since you can’t remember your name?”
When she didn’t answer, he glanced over his shoulder.
She stared at her open palms. When she looked up at him, her azure eyes gleamed with disappointment. “You think I’m lying, don’t you?”
He’d met many a conniving woman in his life, one in particular that he’d married, but the hurt in this woman’s voice was genuine. He immediately wished he’d softened his accusatory tone. “You’ve fallen into a pretty great setup.”
“Yeah, right. Before I got here, I knew I’d get hit on the head by a…” Her voice trailed off. “What, or who—” she glanced dubiously at Grant “—hit me anyway?”
Just as she asked the question, Mac entered the kitchen with the offending sealed book in hand and a Cheshire-cat grin on his face. “You were assaulted by the illustrated Kama Sutra. An unopened copy.”
Grant dashed for the book, tearing the thick tome out of Mac’s hands before he and Gus completely lost themselves to snickers. The stripper didn’t say a word.
“A parting gift from Camille,” he explained loudly as he marched back into the living room and replaced the book on the top shelf. When he returned, he took relish in beating the eggs to a golden froth. “She always had a sick sense of humor.”
“No, she didn’t.” Gus swigged from the beer he still held. “If she did, I would have liked her. She was just trying to psych you out.”
“Who’s Camille?” The stripper sipped her juice, but eyed Gus’s beer longingly.
“His ex,” Gus answered. “She left for Europe two years ago, and since then, the colonies have been a happier place.”
The room grew quiet until Mac blurted out, “Harley.”
“What?” Grant asked. The stripper stared at her glass as if she hadn’t heard.
“Yeah, that’s it!” Gus agreed, elated. He stood and raised his hand to Mac in a high-five, sitting abashedly when his friend failed to join in.
Grant and the woman stared at each other, both missing the significance.
“Mac, what are you talking about?” Grant asked.
The men looked at her expectantly, but she shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose that could be my name. ‘Harley.’ Sounds strippy enough. Hey, did I have any identification? A purse or a wallet?”
Mac retrieved her coat from the living room. “Nothing in here.”
She stood and checked her costume for pockets while Grant kept his attention on the sizzling omelet. He succeeded for about thirty seconds. He couldn’t resist watching Harley frisk herself. She patted her breasts and hips in quick motions—exactly the opposite of how he’d proceed if he were conducting her full body search. He’d move slowly, careful to investigate every curve, curious to discover the origin of each and every swell.
When she lifted her foot onto her chair to explore the insides of her zippered boot, she paused, as if she’d spied him watching in her peripheral vision. A faint pink blush bloomed above her breasts.
Grant snapped his attention back to the pan just as the eggs turned a golden brown, a shade darker than he preferred. So the omelet would be a little overdone. It was her own damn fault.
Harley sat and blew out a pent-up breath. “Nothing.”
Mac glanced at his watch. “When I get back to the precinct, I’ll check the computer’s missing persons network and take a look at Vice priors for anyone named Harley or using it as an alias.”
“Can that be done quietly?” Grant slid the cooked omelet onto a plate.
“No one has to know,” Mac reassured. “The file is updated regularly. Someone’s bound to report her missing.”
“Oh, wait.” Harley jumped from her seat with her juice. She dumped the orange liquid into the sink and extended the glass to Mac. “Can’t you take my fingerprints from this glass? I think I saw it on TV once.”
“Another Murder, She Wrote fan,” Gus quipped. “Don’t you people know anything about viewer demographics?”
Setting the plate at Harley’s empty place, Grant felt a jabbing pang of guilt. Her pride was unmistakable. If this were a scam, would she have been so eager to provide something as surefire as fingerprints?
Mac placed the glass in a plastic bag he pulled from the pantry. “I have a friend in the lab. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime,” he addressed Grant, “call the local cab company and see if anyone drove out here tonight. If she came from Tampa or Orlando, tracking her point of origin could be tough. Both cities have over a dozen cab companies. I’ll call you at the office tomorrow.”
“No.” Grant needed to keep any mention of Harley out of the office. “Leave a message on my home machine.”
After seeing Mac out and reinforcing the importance of total confidentiality, Grant returned to the kitchen to find Gus and Harley sharing the omelet. Laughing quietly with his brother, she didn’t look the least bit like a stripper. Sure, her clothes were provocative and she wore her makeup in daring streaks, but the lack of guile in her blue eyes and the sweetness of her smile seemed too natural and unsophisticated for a woman in her profession.
Then again, what did he know about strippers? He hadn’t been in a strip club since college, and since he’d usually gone with his younger brother, he’d never allowed himself to enjoy the experience. He was the older brother. The responsible one. The boring one.
Or did he mean “bored”?
“You staying the night, Gus?” Grant asked, only half hopeful his brother would accept. “I have guest rooms in this house I haven’t even seen yet.”
Gus pushed away from the table. “Thanks, bro, but my night isn’t over yet. I’m going to stop by the office and look around for that number. You, my dear,” he addressed Harley in a surprisingly fatherly tone, “need rest. Except for a nasty bump and your amnesia, you don’t have any serious symptoms. You’ll probably remember everything by morning.”
His smile was reassuring. Grant prayed his brother was right.
“Thanks, Doc,” Harley said. “I’m sorry I’ve caused so much trouble.”
Gus shook her proffered hand. “No trouble.”
Grant coughed.
“Okay, maybe a little trouble. But this is the most fun I’ve had in months. Just the look on Grant’s face…”
A glance at Grant’s unamused expression stopped Gus’s explanation dead cold.
“Call me if your headache gets worse,” he instructed, and then to Grant said, “Keep an eye on her. If she becomes dizzy or her pupils dilate, call 9-1-1 or take her to the emergency room.”
Grant nodded, then escorted Gus to the front door.
“You okay to drive?” Grant asked once they reached the foyer.
Gus patted his pants until he found his keys. “Actually, I’ve never felt more sober.”
“Having your brother on the verge of killing you can do that to a man,” Grant quipped.
Gus slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, Grant. You have a beautiful young babe staying with you tonight. A great scenario in my book.”
Grant preferred not to consider that “scenario,” though he did wonder how she’d look first thing in the morning, with the makeup scrubbed off and her hair in dreamy disarray. He shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. “I’ll expect a phone call as soon as possible.”
“Sure thing, bro.” Gus shuffled over to a desk in the foyer and pulled out a slip of stationery, scribbled, then folded the note as he spoke. “Wake her up once or twice tonight.”
Grant raised his eyebrows. Several delightful ways of waking a beautiful woman like Harley flashed in his mind. One corner of his mouth tilted to a grin.
Gus slapped his hand over his heart. “Excuse me, but did my celibate brother just entertain a sexual thought?”
Grant stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets and frowned. “I did not. And I’m not celibate. I just…”
“Yeah, yeah, must have been gas. It’s okay for her to sleep, but wake her up a couple of times and ask if she remembers who and where she is. It’s just a precaution. Here’s a list of things to do if you have any minor problems.”
Grant nodded and stuffed the tightly folded paper into his shirt pocket.
Retrieving his bag, Gus stopped at the threshold. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Grant pushed his brother through the open front door. “Just exactly what does that not include?”
Without waiting for an answer, Grant slammed the door and surveyed the damage in the living room. He picked up the remnants of two shattered Lladro porcelains, then quickly shoved the empty beer cans and porno magazines into the garbage, hung Harley’s trench coat in the back of the hall closet and returned the throw pillows to their places. On his way back to the kitchen, he glanced out the picture window, turned on the front floodlights and smiled.
Take that, Langley.
Grant checked his watch once more. Luckily for him, Phipps was probably too much of a gentleman to arrive early. He hastened to the kitchen to escort his unexpected houseguest upstairs.
She stood at the sink, washing the omelet pan. She’d discarded the leather jacket and bustier, leaving only the thin-strapped bikini top and tight pants. Steam rose from the faucet. When she turned to retrieve the plate from the table, her skin shimmered with moisture.
He couldn’t prevent taking a few steps closer. The circular motions of her soapy hands seemed oddly sensual. When she slipped her fingers inside a wineglass, he cleared his throat.
She glanced over her shoulder.
“So, banker-boy. When do we go to bed?”
3
“PARDON ME?”
Harley regretted her words the minute she witnessed the darkening of his eyes. The rich shade of milk chocolate, his gaze melted down the length of her body. She squirmed and leaned away until her back, bare since she’d discarded her jacket and bustier in the heat
of the kitchen, met with the water she’d dripped on the edge of the sink.
Once again, anxiety held her speechless.
When she’d retreated to the bathroom earlier to splash water on her face, she’d succumbed to a similar frenzy of fear. Who was she? Why did she strip for a living? Was she desperate for cash? On drugs? A mother with hungry children to feed? She had no answers, and wouldn’t get any as long as terror tangled her brain. So instead, she concentrated on what she did know.
Her host would help her, however reluctantly. Her presence alone was a trump card, one she’d play until she regained her memory. He wouldn’t hurt her. Amid his blatant desire, empathy warmed his cocoa-tinted eyes.
“You heard the doc.” Regaining her composure, she swallowed deeply and walked toward him. Heat rose from his flushed skin. In response, every bared inch of her crested with an unfamiliar, yet pleasant warmth. She stopped. She didn’t know him. Didn’t know herself. Yet, she gravitated toward him like a falling satellite. “I need rest. You look like you could use some sleep yourself.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed above the V-necked collar of his shirt. “What I need, Miss Harley, is to lead you upstairs before my boss arrives to drop off some important paperwork.”
Okay, so they told her Harley was her name, but it didn’t sound familiar, especially not with a prim-sounding “Miss” attached.
“Look, banker-boy, the name’s Harley. Just Harley. At least until I learn otherwise.”
“Fine, Just Harley. And since we’re on the topic, my name is Grant Riordan, not ‘banker-boy.’ I’m not even a banker, for Pete’s sake.”
Nor was he a boy. When he retrieved a dish towel from a drawer and extended it to her, she noticed the thick, curled brown hair dusting his muscular forearms. He wore a slate-blue golf shirt with short sleeves that accentuated his biceps and showed off his tan.
“Grant, huh?” She grabbed the towel by the loose end, careful not to make contact with his skin—fearing the effect would burn her with an electric shock. “Your name even sounds wealthy. You know, as in ‘loan.’” She dried her hands and tossed the towel onto the table.