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  A DREAM. A MEMORY. This time, however, she didn’t wake up. Too tired to struggle, too comfortable to fight, Harley let her mind drift deeper into the subconscious flash of pictures. A tiny bungalow, painted bright pink and sporting a seashell driveway, emerged in her mind’s eye. Home. But not home. A place where she’d lived.

  Suddenly inside the house, an uneasy tension crept through her. A fine antique lamp sat incongruously beside a plastic-covered couch. A magnificent Oriental carpet covered an unfinished terrazzo floor. Signs of tasteful opulence dotted a structure dominated by garage sale grabbers and questionable collectibles. Harley cringed at the final result.

  Then she saw a face. A boy. Sixteen or so, with a shiny metal smile reflecting a computer screen’s bright blue backdrop. Too young to be a lover, too old to be a son, this young man meant the world to her.

  And she to him.

  He missed her.

  Harley struggled to stay within the dream, fought for a clearer picture of the boy whose name she couldn’t summon. Instead, she found herself opening a closet. Her closet. Filled with costumes bedecked with spangles and feathers and translucent silks. She reached out, but the textures eluded her. She recognized the dresses as hers—but not hers. They belonged to someone else, or maybe, someone she used to be.

  Tossing in Grant’s bed, Harley felt the softness of his sheets against her bare skin. Yet the dream remained. Caught between two worlds, she struggled to see more—learn more—even if the knowledge meant losing Grant.

  The thought brought her bolt upright. Sunlight stung her dry eyes. She rubbed the sleep away, but held fast to the images fresh in her mind. Once she settled back into the cushioned pillows and fluffy down comforter, she tried to piece the pictures together and form a memory or two.

  She couldn’t.

  She gave up trying once she glanced at the alarm clock, which read eleven-fifteen. Though she and Grant hadn’t gone to sleep until somewhere around dawn, she didn’t expect to have slept so late. She’d wanted to call Moana’s number early, before she had a chance to leave for the day—if she was in town at all. She also had to figure out what to wear to the wedding this afternoon.

  If Grant still wanted her to go. Despite last night, she wouldn’t blame him for being uneasy about her appearing with him in public, forcing them to lie to so many people important to Grant’s life and career. They’d shared a private freedom she’d always treasure, but that didn’t mean they should announce their relationship to the uptight residents of Citrus Hill. Especially if she was who she suspected she was. A woman who stripped.

  The venomous words of Wilhelmina Langley’s column reverberated in her brain. Would the woman be any kinder to an exotic dancer than she had been to the paid-off prostitute? Harley dashed into the bathroom before she started composing provocative headlines in her head.

  WHEN SHE EMERGED from the shower a half hour later, she found a private invitation to the wedding draped across the bed. She lifted the royal blue silk shift tentatively, allowing the soft lightness of the fabric to slide over her fingers. With matching shoes, bag and short jacket, the outfit would highlight both her eyes and her petite figure.

  In a tissue-filled box beside the dress, Grant left her a cache of underthings that nearly made her blush. The clingy dress would barely hide the satiny thong panties, sleek demi-bra, smooth garter belt and stockings.

  Just thinking of how sensual she’d feel in such decadent clothing, she let out a low, breathy whistle.

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  Her body tingled from the raspy sound of Grant’s voice. She turned to find him standing in the threshold, leaning his broad bare shoulder against the doorjamb and grinning wolfishly, as if she wore the lingerie instead of just a towel.

  “You’ve been a busy shopper this morning.”

  She dropped the garter belt back into the box and held her towel tighter. His gaze raked over her with brazen need. Wearing only his tuxedo pants, unbuckled and swung low on his hips, his desire was more than evident. She wet her lips in anticipation. Had he stopped and bought condoms as he’d promised last night? Did they have time for a quick interlude? A glance at the clock told her noon had just passed. Her stomach rumbled, but an entirely different hunger filled her from head to toe.

  “There was a full service dress shop adjacent to the tuxedo place. I hope you like my taste.”

  She smiled shyly, her blood cooling to a steady simmer. “The dress is perfect. You didn’t have to go to such expense. I could have found something suitable in that box.”

  She glanced at the corner, surprised to see the carton of his ex-wife’s hand-me-downs had disappeared.

  “You deserve better than Camille’s throwaways.”

  She threw you away, Harley thought ruefully. The woman had to be an utter fool.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I took the box to a donation drop-off on my way out.”

  Harley nodded, then ran her hand through her damp hair. She hadn’t applied any makeup except her base and blush, and could only imagine how horrendous she must look. Judging from the expression in Grant’s warm brown eyes, however, she couldn’t look that bad. “Still want me to go to the wedding with you?”

  To the wedding. To bed. To the ends of the Earth. Grant wondered if admitting that would wipe away the uncertainty that marred her vibrant blue eyes. How could a woman so alluring be so unsure of her charisma? He’d already given up trying to fight her charm. One flash of those baby blues and he was gone, gone, gone.

  “I’d be honored to escort you to the wedding.”

  “What about our story about my being your cousin? Won’t your friends spill the beans?”

  “Not if they value their lives. They’re all coming here to meet the limo. I’ll make the rules perfectly clear then. Don’t worry about me, Harley. I can take whatever comes.”

  “We shouldn’t invite trouble.”

  “Too late.”

  She carefully refolded the lingerie, replaced the box lid and hugged the package to her chest. “I guess I’d better dress. You don’t want the guys to get the wrong idea.”

  Grant pushed away from the jamb and kicked the door closed with his heel. “I wouldn’t worry about their wrong ideas. Just mine.”

  Her smile glittered like a shooting star, burning away the doubtfulness he despised. When they made love, when he openly displayed his physical need for her, she blossomed like a flame in dry air. He wanted her to experience that power all the time, but knew she wouldn’t until she rediscovered her past.

  “I need to dry my hair.” Her words stopped him at arm’s length. He wouldn’t force the issue. Maybe after last night, she needed a break.

  She stepped into the master bathroom and tossed a coy glance over her shoulder.

  “Want to watch?”

  She didn’t need to ask twice. In front of the wall-wide mirror, Grant pulled out the cushioned stool shoved beneath the vanity. He draped a towel over his forearm and invited her to sit.

  “You don’t have to help.”

  He began massaging her scalp with the soft terrycloth. “I’m not helping because I have to.”

  “I don’t just mean now.”

  Glancing into the mirror, he wrapped the towel in his hands and rubbed it through her dark hair. “I’m not helping because I have to,” he repeated, finding her gaze and locking it with his as he spoke.

  She smiled, picked up a palette of eyeshadow and applied a skin-tone color while he rubbed the dampness from her hair. He pulled out the blow-dryer while she contoured her eyes with a darker shade of shadow and then applied mascara and lipstick. He watched her, fascinated. She did so little, but the result was startling. Her eyes appeared larger, her lips fuller. Her cheeks blossomed with the same hue as when they made love.

  He plugged the dryer into the socket and zipped up his pants. His friends would arrive any minute. He couldn’t surrender to the driving need stiffening his sex and fuddling his brain.

  “I don�
��t really know what to do with this.”

  She pulled a brush out of the drawer. “Just turn it on. I’ll show you.”

  He chose a medium setting. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, allowing the warm stream of air to flow freely through her hair. He couldn’t resist combing his fingers through the strands.

  When she picked up the brush, he followed her lead, focusing the air on the bristles, watching the haphazard array straighten into the style she favored. Her bangs softly framed her face, the sides kissed her cheeks alluringly, the back fanned her shoulders. As she laid the brush on the countertop, he clicked the dryer off.

  “You make it look so easy.”

  “Years of practice.” She spritzed her hair with a sweet-smelling spray and scooted back the stool.

  “Hand me the box, won’t you?”

  He removed the top of the box and dug into the tissue. He knew she meant for him to leave while she dressed, but he didn’t. Instead, he removed the thong panties and held them between two fingers. “I’d like to keep helping.”

  She stood, her hand locked on the knot of her towel. “Oh, you would, would you?”

  “Well, these underthings cost nearly as much as my tuxedo. I’d like to see the entire ensemble. Piece by piece.”

  “In my line of work, don’t men use their money to watch me undress?”

  “I’m different.”

  She undid the knot and let the towel pool at her feet. “I can’t argue with that.”

  He leaned against the vanity as she plucked the panties from his grip. Sitting again, she slipped her feet into the strips of satin and shimmied them up her shapely calves, over her knees, across her thighs. She stood, turned her back to him and completed the job, placing the thong securely between her cheeks.

  “Which piece next?”

  He snatched the bra from the box, tossed it over his shoulder and stepped behind her, turning her to the mirror. Cupping her breasts with his hands, he watched her nipples harden, watched her eyelids close and her lips slightly part. She felt so full and warm in his hands, he envied the lingerie.

  “Is this what a bra feels like?” he asked, pressing her breasts upward, increasing her cleavage.

  “Hardly,” she rasped, cooing when he plucked her nipples playfully.

  “Good.” He slid the bra from his shoulder and guided her arms into the devilish contraption. “Then when you wear this—” he pulled the straps over her shoulders and hooked the clasps “—I want you to think about how much better my hands would feel.”

  He slipped his forefingers into the cups and adjusted them to cover her completely. Grazing her nipples again, he smiled when she moaned in delight.

  “Can you imagine my hands all over you all night long?”

  Her eyes fluttered open. “With the right incentive.”

  He traced the satin panties with a tentative touch, then placed his palm over her mons, applying just enough pressure to gauge how she heated beneath his hand.

  Reaching back, she slid her hands around his neck, arched her back and pressed her buttocks against his erection. Despite his intention only to tease her, he dipped a finger into the tiny triangle of material, sliding through her curls to find her simmering center.

  “Is this the incentive you mean?”

  Grinding her backside against his sex, she lifted one leg atop the chair, easing his access.

  “You’re on the right track.”

  The doorbell sounded downstairs, breaking his rhythm and shattering the mood.

  “Damn.” He straightened Harley’s panties as he nuzzled her neck. “They would be on time.”

  She twisted around in his arms and kissed him gently on the jaw. “Seems their timing is just right. The object was to get dressed, not undressed, remember?”

  “I have a problem with that concept when you’re around.”

  Slipping away, she pulled the stockings and garter belt out of the box and returned to the bedroom. “You have a lot of problems with me around.”

  The comment came matter-of-factly, but the words still punched him like a left hook to the gut. He’d been trying like hell to make Harley comfortable in his life, moving her things to his room, buying her a spectacular dress to wear to the wedding, not reminding her to call Moana again. From the bathroom, he watched her sit on his bed among a tangle of rumpled sheets and stretch the hose over her shapely legs. She snapped the garters in place with little fanfare and then stepped into the dress and strappy heels.

  As incongruous and illogical as it sounded, she fit in his world more easily than he did. She adapted. She melded. Though he knew she felt the outsider as much as he, she hid her insecurities better—mainly because she didn’t seem to mind closeting her true nature. At least not for the short term.

  Yet he knew firsthand the agony of penning away one’s real self. She’d shown him—first in the gym and then again in the bathroom. He’d seen how he’d been suppressing his needs—not really for sex as much as for intimacy. He’d tasted delights of utter abandon. With Harley he bared his soul—good and bad—and she neither labeled nor judged. Not like Camille. Not like his friends. Despite their respect for him, they expected Grant to behave one way and one way only. For him to test the waters beyond perfect respectability would throw them into complete shock.

  The doorbell rang again. In a few minutes, he’d tell them he was taking the stripper to the wedding—Citrus Hill’s high society event of the week. He could only imagine the reactions.

  Dressed except for the coordinating jacket, Harley snapped him from his thoughts when she asked, “You want me to get that?”

  “No. No. Take your time.” He opened the bedroom door reluctantly, wanting more than anything to return to the timeless moment in the bathroom when nothing stood between them except the flimsy silk of her panties and bra. “I picked up lunch. It’s in the kitchen. But don’t take too long. The guys are known to wolf down large quantities of munchies in record time.”

  When he left, Harley plopped down on the bed, closed her eyes and exhaled. Her body still thrummed from his short-lived seduction in the bathroom—her heart’s pounding drowned out the muted voices downstairs. Her presence undoubtedly caused Grant innumerable problems, but he wasn’t so innocent either.

  Whenever he so much as looked at her with the slightest longing, she transformed into a sex-starved hussy. Caught in a confused tangle between desire and the truth, Harley knotted herself deeper with every moment she spent with him.

  She was falling in love with Grant Riordan.

  Correction—she’d already hit bottom.

  She hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t planned to. The idea had never crossed her mind. How could she fall in love with someone she’d known for only two days? And yet, how could she not? Despite the long list of reasons why he shouldn’t have gotten involved with her, he had—from letting her stay in his home to making love to her. Now he even insisted on parading her in front of his major investors and his boss. What if she screwed up? What if one of those holier-than-thou socialites had once seen her act and recognized her? Without saying a word, she could ruin Grant forever.

  Grant didn’t know about her dream—her glimpse into her former life. The unrefined house and closet full of skimpy costumes gave her strong evidence that she’d never truly blend into Grant’s world. While she might survive the wedding without harming his reputation, sooner or later, someone would discover her past and use her to hurt Grant.

  Grant knew the risks and surprisingly, chose to take them. Maybe because he resented interference in his private life—maybe because he was tired of pretending to be someone he wasn’t. But he couldn’t just pick up and leave Citrus Hill. His family and responsibilities tied him here. Willingly. She’d seen the exorbitant bills from the renovation of his grandmother’s house in his study and heard his Nanna’s messages as they came over his answering machine.

  Yet despite the overwhelming obligations, Grant spoke of his family, particularly Nanna Lil and Gus, with
indisputable affection. She couldn’t do anything to cause him to have to leave them. She just couldn’t.

  Sitting up, she slipped on her jacket, filled the tiny handbag with her compact and lipstick and headed down the back staircase to the kitchen. Pausing on the lowest step, she heard Grant’s muffled voice in the living room, undoubtedly reading his friends the riot act. She couldn’t decipher the words, but his tone made his seriousness clear. Her cheeks reddened.

  She went into the kitchen unnoticed, snatched Moana’s number from the counter and headed back upstairs. She dialed the number and again heard the answering machine that greeted her the night before. This time, she left a message.

  “Moana, this is Harley. If you can, please be home this evening. I’m coming over. Around nine o’clock. I really, really need to see you.”

  The desperation in her voice surprised her. But her wonderful night with Grant proved one undeniable fact. If she wanted a future with him, however unlikely that might be, she had to stop running from her past. Remembering wasn’t a distant possibility anymore. Her dream this morning proved her amnesia was slowly losing its grip. Confusing but clear, the images confirmed that her brain still kept her memories stored in some hard-to-reach place.

  More than likely, she only needed one more gentle shove—one Moana might provide—to restore her murky past. Then, and only then, could she make decisions about her future.

  9

  AT THE RECEPTION HALL, the ceiling, archways and a forest of floral topiaries blinked and sparkled with a thousand tiny lights. Silver candelabras flickered from the center of each linen-covered table. Soft strains of a classical harp floated over the rose-scented air and champagne flowed as freely as an afternoon rainshower. The antebellum clubhouse of the Citrus Hill Golf and Country Club radiated warmth and romance, despite the sea of eyes that assessed Harley from head to toe the minute she and Grant appeared in the entranceway.