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  He pulled her closer and whispered into her ear. “Honey, if you dance that way when we’re alone, I can guarantee there won’t be a stitch left on you.”

  She pushed away lightly, slightly chagrined. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  “Embarrassed me?” Grant’s bright-eyed gaze testified to his disbelief. Just as quickly, his irises darkened to their richest shade of brown. He wrapped his hands around her waist, allowing his fingers to dip just low enough to remain innocent, while reminding her of how he adored her bottom. “There wasn’t a woman in this room who didn’t want to be you just then. Or a man who didn’t want to be your partner.”

  Grabbing his hands and placing them firmly on her waist alone, she squirmed away a few inches, clipped a lock of hair behind her ear and darted her gaze over her shoulder. “Someone might see. It’s bad enough I did the Dance of the Seven Veils out there.”

  Grant licked his lips and wished Harley hadn’t chosen that particular metaphor. The image of her dancing and shedding translucent scarves until she stood naked and glorious before him came all too easily. He knew for a fact he didn’t have anything remotely resembling a veil at the house, and couldn’t think of a single place to buy any on their way home.

  Except they wouldn’t be going straight home. She’d told him on the way to the wedding about her plan to go to Moana’s apartment at nine o’clock. He checked his watch. Ten after seven.

  The night was still young.

  He crooked his finger beneath her chin and fought the urge to kiss her silly. “If that tango was any indication, I’m taking a rain check on a real veil dance, sweetheart. But now, I think I’d better see how the wedding is progressing. We can’t leave until they throw the bouquet and we’ll need at least a half hour to make it to Tampa. Why don’t I go see if I can hurry things along?”

  Harley nodded and he led her back to the table without another word. Jenna, who sat alone nursing her coffee, immediately brightened when Harley approached. He left them chatting about Harley’s dance talent and went in search of the groom.

  He found Mac instead.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  Mac shoved his cell phone back in his pocket. “Checking with the precinct. I don’t have to ask you that question. A few minutes ago, a gang of juvies could have lifted every purse and wallet in the place and no one would’ve noticed. Is there something between you and our mystery woman that you aren’t telling me?”

  Grant combed his fingers through his hair. “Yes.”

  Mac waited expectantly, then chuckled when Grant’s lips remained closed. “I get the hint. In case you’re interested, she’s still not listed as missing. And that address you got for the other stripper—very ritzy. I know exotic dancers make good money, but to afford Davis Island, I think they’d have to have some…more lucrative…business on the side.”

  Grant ground his teeth at Mac’s implication. “I don’t think Harley…”

  Mac held his hands up in instant surrender. “I didn’t say a thing about Harley. She seems, I don’t know, classy. Besides, a girl doesn’t learn to move like that on street corners or strip joints.”

  Admittedly, neither man knew much about dancing, but Grant had attended enough cotillions, balls and benefits to know a trained dancer when he saw one. Or better yet, danced with one. And while parents of all financial backgrounds enrolled their daughters in ballet, not too many other than the wealthy or socially ambitious opted for ballroom instruction.

  Another clue to add to the mystery that was Harley.

  Yet for now, her safety was his prime concern. “You think Moana is into something illegal to afford her high-class address?”

  Mac shrugged. “Either her or her boyfriend. Or both. What was his name? Maybe I know him.”

  Grant searched his memory for the name, knowing Joy had mentioned it at the strip club. “I didn’t listen closely to that part. Chuck or something. She said he was a real sleaze. Had some goons after him.”

  Searching through the crowd, Mac waved at Jenna and Harley. “Look, let me take Jenna home and then I’ll go with you to Moana’s place. Maybe Harley will stay with her and we can…”

  Grant shook his head. Keenly aware of how little attention Mac paid to his lovely new wife, he wouldn’t be the cause of more strife between them. Besides, he’d gotten to know Harley incredibly well in the last two days. He couldn’t imagine her willingly staying behind. “Harley’s got quite an independent streak. You stay here and dance with your wife. I’ll take care of Harley.”

  Mac nodded, somewhat repentantly, slapped Grant on the shoulder and headed back to the table.

  Grant scanned the crowd for Steve and Mandy, then checked his watch again and wondered if he’d made the right choice to decline Mac’s offer. An odd rumble trembled in his gut—a cross between an ulcer and a warning of danger. He couldn’t fathom exposing Harley to a perilous situation, even if the outcome might cure her amnesia.

  He wondered, though, if he’d have any choice—if he’d ever had any choice—or if he ever would again. Harley managed him with the same skill he used on his client’s investments. And, sometimes, he was sure she wasn’t even trying. Still, he surrendered to her voluntarily, with eager anticipation and total trust, completely contrary to how he’d behaved in his recent past as a world-class control freak.

  And yet, even she couldn’t derail his vow to protect her from anyone or anything aiming to hinder her invigorating spirit—Moana’s seedy troubles, Mrs. Langley’s poison pen, her uncertain past, or Howell Phipps.

  Grant groaned when he spotted his boss making a determined beeline toward him. Straightening his jacket, he steeled himself for the chastising he was undoubtedly about to receive. Grim lines marred the older man’s already wrinkled face. A frown made his jowls seem as large as a hound dog’s.

  “I hope you’re pleased with that little performance.”

  Not a bad opening. Relatively benign in comparison to Phipps’ usual rants.

  Grant cracked an irreverent grin. “I am. I always thought I had two left feet.”

  Phipps grabbed Grant’s arm and led him from earshot of other guests. “Now isn’t the time for becoming a smartass, Riordan. Your display on the dance floor bordered on shameful. You may enjoy the wagging tongues, but I find it tiresome. And don’t for one minute think I believe Miss Monroe is related to you. I don’t know who she is, but if she’s anything short of saintly, I’ll…”

  Grant tugged his arm away and shoved his hands in his pockets. The temptation to punch Phipps squarely in his arrogant face nearly overrode his self-control. “You’ll what? You’ll fire me? Since I’ve taken over First Investment, your profits have soared. Investors by the dozens have joined the firm. You can’t afford to lose me.”

  Phipps’s eyes narrowed as a red flush spread from neck to cheeks to forehead. “No, I can’t. But you can’t afford to lose your position, either. I know your situation. If I have a mind to, I can ensure that no investor in the entire southeast will give you one red cent to work with. I value your contribution to the firm, Riordan, but I’ll not have another spectacle on my hands. I won’t let another horny CEO bring my firm down.”

  Though the threat was real, Grant wouldn’t allow himself to be bullied. “I’m the best thing that’s happened to this company in a long time.” He pressed a pointed finger into Phipps’s chest. “If you plan to force me out, you’d better have something on me a lot stronger than a sensual dance with a beautiful woman. A woman, by the way, whom I respect immensely.”

  Phipps backed up a step and straightened the front of his shirt. “If she’s not worthy of that respect in the least little way, I’ll have all I need. Maybe you don’t give a damn about yourself, but what about her? Do you think she’d enjoy being the object of very public scrutiny? Think about that.”

  Howell Phipps turned brusquely away and headed back into the reception. If not for the crowd, Grant would have put a fist through the richly
papered wall. Phipps didn’t make threats he didn’t intend to follow through on, and Grant knew that first thing Monday morning, a private investigator would begin sorting through Harley’s past. Notwithstanding the danger to his own career, the embarrassment to Harley could be devastating. She didn’t deserve public ridicule or scorn like the greedy madam or indiscreet secretary involved in the previous First Investment scandals.

  He had no credentials to make a professional call, but Grant acknowledged Harley’s fragile psyche. Her inner confidence waned whenever she confronted the fact that she was a stripper. How would a front-page splash announcing her profession play in a mind already so damaged by some terrible event that she couldn’t remember her true identity?

  Grant raked his hands through his hair, tugging at his scalp as he imagined the potential devastation. No matter the cost to his personal life, he couldn’t let Howell Phipps or anyone else hurt Harley. He stepped back into the hall, for a minute unable to find Harley at the table. Soon, the crowd parted enough for him to catch a glimpse of her ebony hair, bent near Jenna’s upswept coif of burnished red. Chatting with his friends, she remained blissfully unaware of how he—the man she’d invested her entire trust in—could soon become the cause of her ultimate destruction.

  “I’M GOING WITH YOU.” Harley plucked the car door lock open manually, despite Grant’s refusal to automatically unlock the door until she agreed to stay in the car.

  “We don’t know what to expect. You should wait until I check things out.”

  Harley’s gaze impaled him with sharp anger. “This is my life. My memory. You’ve been a real prince up to now, Grant. Don’t start playing tyrant.”

  He grabbed her hand before she slipped completely off the leather seat into the well-lit parking lot. Her fingers seemed small and delicate in his large palm, her eyes innocent, despite the intestinal fortitude she’d shown from the moment they met.

  “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  Her lips twisted into something he couldn’t quite identify—not a smile, definitely, but not a grimace either. Something in between.

  “Me neither. But we’re so close. I won’t turn back—or skulk in the shadows.” She took one last glance at the address Joy had written. “Three-D. Come on. For all we know, Moana didn’t get my message and isn’t even back in town.”

  Grant released her, slid out of the Mercedes and engaged the alarm. Not that he suspected he’d need the extra security in this condominium complex. Despite Mac’s warnings of possible criminal activity, tall, well-spaced palm trees and trimmed azalea bushes gave the high-rise the air of a vacation resort rather than a residence. Bright pink lamps, reminiscent of antique fixtures, lit the spacious parking lot. Smaller lights plugged into the thick green lawn bathed the sidewalks in sharp amber. The condominium’s entrance, with double sliding glass doors and a manned security window, further convinced Grant that he’d let his imagination run rampant.

  He pulled Harley aside as a large group of people, a diverse crowd judging from the ages and manners of dress, came up from behind. He and Harley turned down no less than three invitations to the party on the eighth floor.

  “Why don’t you talk to the guard?” Grant suggested. “He might recognize you.”

  Harley eyed him doubtfully.

  “You never know.”

  She shrugged, put on her best smile, and knocked lightly on the window with her knuckle.

  “Ms. Roberts! Haven’t seen you around for a couple of days. I thought maybe you and your cousin’d gone back to Miami.”

  Harley glanced nervously at Grant, but kept her smile fixed. “I just went to Citrus Hill for a few days. Is Moa…my cousin…home? I called and told her I was coming in tonight.”

  The guard’s rounded face twisted in thought. “I haven’t seen her since Thursday. She left a key for you.” He dug around beneath the counter, grinning ear-to-ear when he produced the silver key dangling from a heart-shaped ring. He slid it through a slot between the glass and the countertop.

  Harley looked at the key briefly, then clutched it in her palm. “But she’s not back?”

  The disappointment in her voice was impossible to hide.

  “She could’ve come here earlier. I just started my shift and I’ve had crowds coming in nonstop for the party in 8-A. Let me call up.”

  When he turned around to dial his house phone, Harley mouthed the word “cousin” to Grant with a hopeful smile. He patted her softly on the shoulder. So she was the family Joy said Moana regretted leaving behind in Miami. He understood the sentiment perfectly.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll buzz her in.” The guard pressed a button somewhere below the window. “Go on up. She sounds sleepy.” He hung up the phone and winced. “I think I woke her up.”

  “I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

  Harley slipped the key into her purse and moved to the door quickly. Grant watched her hand shake as she set it on the latch and pulled forward. Once out of earshot of the guard, she whispered gleefully to Grant, “I’m from Miami. My last name is Roberts.”

  Grant fought the urge to take her hand in his and keep her from pressing the elevator button. Suddenly, the notion of discovering her past didn’t seem so cut and dried.

  “I heard.”

  Her gaze assessed him sharply, and he was careful to sustain his supportive grin until the elevator dinged and distracted her attention.

  “Harley Roberts. Harley Roberts.” She pressed the button for the third floor and closed her eyes, repeating the name with conviction, then trying to hide her disappointment when the name remained hollow and empty. “Maybe seeing Moana will help.”

  “Maybe.”

  Grant leaned back against the polished brass elevator wall and dug his hands deep into his tuxedo pockets. Words swam in a jumble of mixed thoughts and wishes. He wanted to tell her that her past didn’t matter to him—even if she did make a living taking her clothes off for other men. He wanted to assure her that neither her job nor her life-style could interfere with his professional needs and personal goals. He wanted to promise he’d never let his close-minded boss put her up to public scorn.

  Yet the words wouldn’t come. He contemplated his shoes instead of sharing in Harley’s expectant impatience. So close now to filling in the blanks left by her accident, he wasn’t sure which, if any, of those assertions were true.

  The elevator slowed, then stilled. The doors swished open and Harley bit her lip. “Well, this is it. Harley Roberts,” she spoke into the empty hallway, “this is your life.”

  She stepped off the elevator confidently. Grant hesitated. He didn’t want to know who Harley’d been before she tumbled into his life. He knew that now. She barreled forward as if world peace hinged on her discoveries. He lingered behind.

  The elevator doors started sliding back together. Grant shot forward, trying to block the mechanism from closing, but a meaty fist, attached to an equally beefy face and body, caught his hand like an underhanded pitch and threw him backward.

  “You’re going down, asshole.”

  Harley screamed, spurring Grant to regain his balance. He braced both hands between the closing doors and pressed outward. His reward was a kick to the abdomen that sent him flying into the back wall.

  His attacker, his hair a matted blond and his eyes redrimmed and glossy, stepped onto the elevator and grinned. “Now, we’re gonna have some fun.”

  10

  ONE CALLUSED HAND clamped over her mouth, stopping her midscream, while a second bit into her bare wrists, clenching her arms together like handcuffs in one thick paw. Her eyes watered in pain and fear. Who was this man? What did he want with her? Had he or his ally hurt Grant? She struggled against the bruising agony, trying to recapture her balance, fighting to yell for help. Without loosening his hold, he shoved her forward.

  “Quit fighting and keep quiet. Just gotta ask you a question. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  His tone contained a hint of laughter. Her skin rippl
ed with gooseflesh. His breath, humid against her neck, reeked of raw tobacco—the type men chomped on for hours, then spit out wherever and whenever it suited them. Her stomach roiled and she fought the urge to gag. Then again, maybe if she vomited, he’d let her go and she could escape.

  But to where? Nothing down this hall but four doors generously spread apart and marked for condominiums A through D.

  The door to Moana’s condo, the last in the hall, stood ajar. He pushed her inside, pausing until his companion entered, closed and bolted the door behind him. He released her arms, but kept his hand firmly over her mouth.

  “Sit. One peep and I’ll get mad. You won’t like me if I’m mad. Understand?”

  Harley hesitated, trying to remember what the self-defense experts said about screaming. Should she obey his order or defy him? She remembered she wasn’t supposed to get in a car with a kidnapper. Never get in the car. Right. But if she screamed? Even if someone heard her, what would they do? Ignore her? Call security? Call the police? The door was dead-bolted. Endless, painful minutes could pass before anyone could come to her aid.

  She nodded compliantly.

  “Good girl.” He released her by propelling her onto a sage-green leather couch. “Stay put till I’m ready for you.”

  She braced her fall with her hands, but still landed face down and skirt up. Though she twisted quickly to cover herself, she heard the spine-curdling sound of the other man’s lecherous whistle.

  Grant, where are you?

  GRANT SLAMMED HIS FIST into his attacker’s face with the full force of a power driver. The first four punches were for Harley. The fifth and sixth repaid the scum for Grant’s aching gut. By the time the street tough lay unconscious on the elevator floor, Grant had made the man pay for every single instance when he had held back or remained calm, professional and detached. The thug had picked the wrong night to mess with Grant Riordan. Pain shot through his arm. His fist was bloodied and sore. His lungs burned with each ragged breath.