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“Of course. This Hank remembered you?”

  “Seems I’m unforgettable.”

  Grant couldn’t argue the point.

  “He picked me up at a restaurant called the Village Inn on Dale Mabry Highway. He said there are several strip clubs in the neighborhood. It’s not much, but it’s a place to start. I could check out some of these clubs while you go to your rehearsal and dinner.”

  Ordinarily, Grant would never contemplate setting foot in an exotic dance club. If a client, or worse, a Board member, caught wind of Grant’s attendance, he’d be canned in a heartbeat. Thanks to Harley’s innocent tête-à-tête with Mrs. Langley, that outcome was just as good as written in stone anyway.

  He had nothing to lose. Besides, the idea of retreating into a forbidden world of sex and sin with Harley as his guide tempted the hungriest part of him more than he could resist.

  “I don’t want you to go alone. I’ll take you after the dinner.”

  Last night, he’d held back from Harley because of her condition. His conscience, although weakened by his overpowering attraction, held him fast to the conviction that he couldn’t explore his passion with her until she knew who she was. Tonight, that could change.

  Harley’s smile reinforced his decision to throw caution to the wind. “You’d do that for me? You’ve already done so much.”

  And once she regained her memory, he intended to do much, much more.

  “Yeah, well, I’m just one heck of a guy. A heck of an unemployed guy, but that’s a moot point.”

  Harley clucked her tongue as she replaced her hat with a jaunty tilt. “If you’re so worried, I’ll stop by Mrs. Langley’s on the way back and make sure—”

  “No.” The word exploded from his lips so loudly, Harley stabbed herself with her hat pin. She impaled him just as sharply with a threatening squint.

  “Sorry.” He adjusted his position in his chair. “Just stay away from that woman from this minute on. Far away.”

  Harley crossed her arms beneath her breasts, emphasizing the perfect shape of her cleavage. “Why does she spook you so much? She seems like a charming, although lonely, lady who lives on a street where she cares about her neighbors.”

  “Cares enough to ruin their careers.”

  She leaned against his desk again, this time careful to push aside his reports. “I don’t think I like you very much when you’re maligning sweet elderly women.”

  “Ha!” Her comment gave him reason to scoot his chair back, away from that tempting scent lingering on her skin. “That battle-ax is as sweet as a rancid peanut. Just ask my two predecessors.”

  Harley pulled the keys to his truck from her tiny purse, suddenly anxious to put some distance between her and Grant. “She told me about that.”

  “Did she show you the skulls and crossbones she’s carved into her computer?”

  “She showed me the articles. I read them.” Wilhelmina Langley had a particular talent for description that no doubt filled the citizens of conservative Citrus Hill with self-righteous rage. Without being graphic, the carefully crafted words suggested the details of sordid sexual escapades with the power of a porno flick. “Seems both those perverts got what they deserved.”

  Grant pursed his lips, and Harley stifled a grin. Making Grant Riordan concede a point, even the smallest one, seemed a Herculean task—though she wasn’t quite sure why. So far, he’d been more than gracious, accommodating even, to her, despite her potential danger to his career. She’d read the venom Wilhelmina Langley could spit in her column, and Grant was smart to steer clear of trouble with this woman watching his every move. But speaking with his neighbor, sharing a homemade glass of lemonade in the comfort of her parlor, clued Harley that Mrs. Langley didn’t wield her weapon haphazardly. She hunted shysters and scam artists, not hardworking, kindhearted executives like Grant.

  Of course, Grant was harboring a stripper in the corporate mansion and pretending she was his long-lost cousin from Ohio. To a curious eye, especially one attuned to scandal, the situation wouldn’t appear very innocent.

  Boy, have I screwed up.

  Grant shoved some files into his top desk drawer. “Those perverts might have deserved to lose their jobs, but the exposure of the articles ruined them. There are ways to deal with irresponsible managers without subjecting their families and friends to humiliation.”

  This time, Harley had to surrender. “I see your point. I’ll keep a wide berth from Mrs. Langley on the way back. I don’t want to cause you trouble.”

  Her teasing grin cracked the stoic expression Grant wore. “As Gus said last night, no trouble at all. How are you feeling anyway?” His tone softened, along with the rigid lines around his eyes and mouth. “You look…healthy.”

  Suddenly, her suit seemed a tad stifling. “My headache disappeared the minute I got the cab company name. Maybe my memory will return by tonight and you won’t have to worry about me blowing your reputation with Mrs. Langley.”

  Grant stood, inching toward her as he reached for a stack of files behind her. “You are pretty…convincing. Maybe ole Wilhelmina did buy your story.”

  She shrugged, trying to ignore the increased tempo her heart beat when Grant leaned even closer. The scent of his cologne, so much richer and muskier than the aroma she’d spritzed on herself this morning, permeated the air around her like an intoxicating cloud.

  She couldn’t resist inhaling deeply before she spoke. “I won’t take any more chances.”

  “That’s a good girl.” The whisper, spoken so close to her ear, singed the tiny hairs that had fallen loose from her French twist and sent a sensation like melted chocolate oozing through her veins. The warmth snaked around her nape, nearly choking her with unhampered desire.

  She sure didn’t feel much like a good girl with Grant so near. Her mind jumbled with images of desk tops and sweaty bodies. Flying clothes. Scattering papers. Groping hands and long, sensual kisses.

  Had to be Langley’s article. Reading about illicit sex undoubtedly primed her for such aberrant thoughts.

  Aberrant, but delicious.

  She took two steps toward the door, fighting the urge to gasp. “I’m sure you have work to do.”

  He only nodded, but his hesitant movement and intense stare implied much more. Had a similarly indiscreet image popped into his head as well? Was that why he’d stood so near his hot breath had practically made love to her neck?

  Three more steps and she’d nearly reached the door. The hot haze clouding her mind drifted away, allowing her to remember the message she’d meant to give him.

  “Oh, by the way, your grandmother called.”

  “Nanna Lil?” His hand was already on his phone’s receiver, his finger pressing the speed-dial before Harley had a chance to respond. “Did you speak to her? Is she okay?”

  “I heard her over your machine. She just said to call when you get home, but since you’ll be late…”

  Grant held his hand up and spoke into the phone. “Mrs. Blake? Grant, here. Could I speak to Lil?”

  He covered the mouthpiece with his hand while he waited. “She fell last year. Has trouble getting around. Mrs. Blake’s her private nurse.”

  That explained the pile of contractor’s bills stacked on Grant’s desk in his home office. Wheelchair ramps, handrails and adjusted countertops didn’t come cheap. She hadn’t meant to snoop, but she’d been looking for a phone book and the number to the cab company. He was obviously bankrolling the entire renovation to his grandmother’s home, noted on one bill as “1920’s Victorian-styled.”

  “Hey, Nanna. It’s Grant.” His grin bloomed so bright, she nearly pulled out her sunglasses. She’d never seen anyone so completely and openly happy. His little-boy expression prompted a smile of her own. “No, I’m still at the office. I just checked my messages.”

  She raised her eyebrows at his white lie. He shrugged in response. His grin never faltered.

  “Yes, I’ll be there Sunday. You tell Mr. Ross not to adjust those rails until I inspec
t the work myself. I’d come sooner, but—”

  His grandmother obviously cut him off as he fell deferentially silent. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell Mandy and Steve you said so. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Another pause. “Okay, I’ll see you Sunday then.”

  He hung up the phone, but the youthful joy in his expression lasted for the few silent moments hanging between them.

  “Are you doing construction?” Harley asked, afraid her lack of curiosity might alert him to her spying.

  His smile disappeared. “Lil’s lived in that house all her life. She was born there only a year after my great-grandfather finished it. But it’s old and not wheelchair-friendly. I’m trying to fix that.”

  “All alone? Doesn’t Gus help?”

  “When he can. He’s got a lot of debt from medical school he’s still paying off.”

  Harley nodded and dropped the subject, not wanting to prolong the melancholy suddenly shading his features. “She’s lucky to have you.”

  A semblance of a smile returned. “I’m the lucky one. I only see my parents once a year, maybe twice if they’re not traveling during Christmas break. Gus and Lil are really the only family I have. Lil’s a grand old dame, too. Southern, proud, educated. You’d like her. She’d like you.”

  “Not if she found out what I do for a living.”

  His gaze once again darkened with the shadow she recognized as desire. “Harley, you are a very alluring and charming woman.”

  The momentary break from his magnetism ceased. His voice deepened. His grin turned hypnotic. The considerable space between them suddenly resembled mere inches.

  Clearing her throat, Harley clutched the doorknob. “Are you coming back to the house before your dinner?”

  Grant tugged at his tie. “I don’t think so. I have a ton of work to finish. I should be home around nine or so. Then we’ll head for Tampa.”

  She left with a tiny wave. The minute she shut the door behind her, the atmosphere around her lightened as if imbued with pure helium. She scurried through Grant’s reception area, thankful for Mandy’s absence and the powerful air-conditioning on the second floor.

  As she opened the glass door to the lobby, she kept her gaze to the floor. She didn’t need a mirror to know how feverish and uncousinly her face looked after just a few minutes alone with Grant. Or how much she was in desperate need of a frigid shower.

  A warm blast of humid air hit her as she exited the building. Smack in the center of Citrus Hill’s small but bustling downtown, the First Investment building loomed like a monarch over the antique shops, boutiques and jewelry stores that took up retail space on either side. City Hall, just a half block down, seemed small in comparison to Grant’s company’s imposing Colonial.

  The effect was more than symbolic.

  After reading Mrs. Langley’s articles and visiting Grant’s office, Harley knew just how important Grant’s job was to the community. And to him. Amid the invoices for the renovations, she’d also found a letter from Grant’s ex-wife’s attorney. Grant commanded millions, but he had huge bills. If he lost his job because of her, she’d never forgive herself.

  On the way to where she’d parked, she crossed in front of a golf shop and caught her reflection in the plate glass window. Who was she trying to fool most, herself? She didn’t belong in designer clothes. She didn’t belong in a luxury vehicle. Mostly, she didn’t belong in Grant’s house where her presence alone threatened his livelihood.

  She hurried to the truck, got in and pulled away from the curb with her gaze trained on the road. No matter what she and Grant did or didn’t find out tonight, she couldn’t risk staying at his house past tomorrow morning. Grant didn’t need a woman like her in his life. He needed someone classy—reserved, appropriate—someone who could visit him at his office without entertaining fantasies of making love to him on his desk. Someone who’d only taken her clothes off for a man she loved.

  HESITANTLY, GRANT SLID his key into the side door lock. Through the sheers on the door’s half window, he could see Harley at the kitchen table, absently flipping through a magazine, her bare feet propped on the chair across from her.

  With careless interest, she perused the articles, pausing to read a line or two, frowning in obvious disagreement, nodding when something suited her. When she leaned forward, her breasts pressed against the slick tile tabletop, making her appear rounder and fuller in her tight, striped T-shirt. While she read, she balanced the tip of her left pinkie nail on the edge of her bottom teeth—never biting down, but drawing his complete interest to those incredibly luscious lips of hers.

  She’s sexy just turning pages.

  He’d never met anyone like her. Not really. Women with Harley’s freedom of spirit couldn’t exist in his world—at least, not for long. Rigid rules of decorum and expectations of perfection killed all spontaneity and daring. When he’d met his ex-wife in college, he’d caught a glimpse of such independence in Camille. But after the wedding and his acceptance of a position in her father’s firm, Camille molded herself into the perfect executive’s wife. By the time he’d made his first million, their marriage had become a passionless sham. His attempts to rekindle what he now admitted was a lackluster love life only hastened and embittered their separation.

  He’d quickly realized that the kind of woman he needed and the kind he wanted were worlds apart. His fantasy lover could silence a trading floor just by smiling. Could reinvigorate him after a losing day with a sultry glance. Unfortunately, women like that didn’t come along often. He’d given up looking and settled for thrills of the financial sort, especially after Camille milked him dry in the divorce. He hadn’t regretted his choice—until Harley.

  She renewed his abandoned desires. Made him ache in places he’d forgotten existed.

  And it felt great.

  He had no idea how he’d survive visiting strip clubs with her. She made his kitchen erotic. He suddenly had a very naughty thought involving a spatula and orange blossom honey. With her blatant sexuality, enhanced by such iniquitous surroundings as nude dance joints, he’d undoubtedly fall even farther toward utter dereliction of his long-held standards of behavior.

  He couldn’t wait to go.

  With an enthusiastic twist, he opened the door. “Honey, I’m home.”

  Harley flipped the copy of Money magazine closed and crossed her feet at the ankles. “I bet you say that to all the amnesiac strippers who stay at your mansion.”

  “It’s a regular catch phrase.” He froze just inside the threshold as she slid her slim legs off the chair and tucked them beneath her, causing her black mini skirt to ride up high on her smooth, tanned thighs. Before she caught him staring, he headed toward her with a Styrofoam box filled with manicotti from Don Gianni’s. “I brought you dinner. My cupboards are usually pretty bare.”

  Harley opened the container and inhaled. Closing her eyes, she shimmied her shoulders and smiled when the scent proved aromatically enticing. “Mmm. Smells delicious. But I’ll have to save it for later.” She refolded the top reluctantly. “I told you I’d make a great detective. I managed to hunt out a meal from your measly pantry. Who does your grocery shopping, Kate Moss?”

  Grant had to stop and think. He knew Kate Moss wasn’t the answer, but he truly had no real idea how staple items such as milk, bread, pastas and chips reached the bare confines of his refrigerator and pantry. Since he’d moved into the corporate mansion, the food appeared on a seemingly regular basis—enough to keep him satisfied during a rare case of the munchies. He didn’t eat at home often, opting instead for restaurant dinners with Gus or clients or home-cooked meals at Nanna Lil’s. “I suppose the housekeeper sees to the food. I’m not home much. It’s probably part of her job description.”

  “Didn’t you hire her?”

  “She came with the house. I don’t spend a great deal of time here.”

  Harley swiveled toward him, her black hair brushing against her shoulders and caressing her cheek. Her serious frown didn’t keep her from
looking thoroughly kissable. “I don’t see why you would. Is any of this furniture actually yours? This room isn’t so bad, I guess, but the rest seems so…corporate.”

  The word spilled from her lips with utter distaste. He slid his keys onto the butcher block island in the center of the room and shrugged out of his jacket. “Corporate? I don’t remember seeing that style profiled in the last issue of Architectural Digest.”

  “You know what I mean. Well decorated, down to the fine porcelain and corded throw pillows. But there’s nothing personal anywhere. No pictures of your brother, memorabilia from college, no silly gift some well-meaning client gave you that doesn’t really match anything, but you don’t have the heart to throw away.”

  So, she’d searched the house before settling in the kitchen in her minuscule skirt and adorable shoeless feet. But she hadn’t looked for valuables. Those were in plain sight, on careful display for clients or competitors he might have over for drinks before a high-powered dinner.

  Harley looked for him in the furnishings. She’d embarked on a quest for treasures of the insightful kind. Not surprisingly, she found nothing of use.

  “I have trinkets and memorabilia.” He carefully folded his jacket over a chair back. “Just not here. They don’t really belong. The house is owned by the corporation, not by me.”

  Standing, Harley slid her hands into the front pockets of her skirt and stretched her ankles, extending her height an inch or so. She cocked her head slightly and stared at him with her remarkably blue eyes. “And you don’t want to be just like the house. Owned by the corporation, I mean.”

  He shook his head and laughed quietly. “Are you sure you are a stripper?” He backed away and busied himself by filling a glass with ice and water. “I’d invest big money you’re actually a psychiatrist. Maybe doing some unorthodox research project exploring male sexual fantasies. You masquerade as a stripper for a few nights—” he took a sip of the cold liquid before setting his glass on the counter “—for firsthand experience.”

  She rocked back on her heels. “I don’t think so. But I have been meaning to ask you about that.”