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  Harley exhaled as her eyes drifted closed. Despite the defeated expression weighing her features, Grant saw only the clever, inventive woman he’d fallen head-over-heels in love with. She faced adversity with the same passion and fire she’d exhibited on the dance floor—and when making love to him. The same passion and fire he coveted, even emulated, solely because of her influence.

  Yet she found little comfort in her accomplishments and even less pride in her past. Whatever traumatic incident triggered her amnesia seemed to obstruct her confidence like a thick stone wall.

  “We don’t have to talk about this now, Harley. Why don’t we just go inside, pour some wine…”

  “Grant, please.” Her voice brimmed with barely checked irritation. “I don’t want wine. I don’t want to calm down. I want to tell you this so you’ll understand. So I’ll understand.”

  Grant’s chest constricted. He didn’t want to understand. Understanding meant accepting the distance Harley had already placed between them. He’d heard more than enough already to know where this tale would lead.

  Yet she took his silence for agreement and continued. “I hated leaving Sammy, but I planned to send for him as soon as he’d finished the school year and I had a decent place for us to live. On my way to the studio to pay the last part of my deposit, I decided to visit Mary Jo. She’d run away from Grace years before, but we’d always kept in touch. I went to the club where she worked, but she wasn’t there. I headed to her apartment. Not ten minutes later—” Harley rammed her fingers through her hair, then clung to the ends with brutal tension. “—I was carjacked. At gunpoint. About half a block from her place. They took everything.”

  Grant swallowed hard, pressing down the multitude of soothing words he wanted to croon to her, and the angry words he wanted to spit at no one in particular. In a red haze, he pictured a gun barrel shoved in Harley’s face. He imagined her terror. Her vulnerability. Her life could have been snuffed out by a street thug’s bullet—her body left in the street. He’d heard stories about carjackers who murdered their victims without a second thought—even those who cooperated.

  “That was probably what you didn’t want to remember.”

  She shook her head. “Only partly. The last straw was coming here. I needed quick cash. The landlord had another offer on my studio and I needed the five hundred to keep him to our deal. Mary Jo offered Steve’s bachelor party. Taking off my clothes for money horrified me, but I was desperate. I had to send for Sammy. Save my career. It was one night. I could do it.” Tenacity clung to her words as if she meant to convince herself all over again. Suddenly, her tone changed to a small whisper. “Then I saw you.”

  “Me?”

  A smile fluttered across her lips, then disappeared like a naughty sprite. “You were on the phone on the patio. I caught one glimpse of you and knew I couldn’t go through with the act. You were too powerful, too magnetic. In control. Just the type of man a woman like me should give a wide, wide berth to.”

  Now he really didn’t like where this conversation headed. He accepted no praise from her compliment. “I don’t want to control you, Harley.”

  “My real name is Hailey. Cute, huh? Hailey-Harley. At the time, Mary Jo and I thought we were so clever.”

  “Is that what you want me to call you?” He waited while she mulled his question over, hoping she’d answer “no.” As much as he wanted to learn everything he could about this woman, he already loved the part of her that would forever remain “Harley.” At least, to him.

  “You can call me whatever you like. They’re both me.”

  “I sure as hell hope so.” His tone contained more force than he’d planned and he witnessed her subtle flinch. He concentrated on softening his voice before he spoke again. “Listen to me, Harley. I’m not Paul. I’m not your aunt. I want to love you, not control you.”

  Again, she combed her hands through her hair roughly. “Don’t you see, you already control me!” Her voice crackled with despair. “From the moment I woke up in your arms, I’ve depended on you to take care of me. Hell, I insisted on it. I haven’t made a single move without considering how it would affect you and your career.”

  “That only shows how selfless you are.”

  “I don’t want to be selfless, Grant. I want to be selfish. Make my own way. Put my needs first. I’ve never done that.”

  Grant stood, and stepped back, fighting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. “And what about Sammy?”

  “That’s different. He’s a kid. He needs me.”

  “Then leaving me won’t make a difference. You’ll still be putting someone else’s needs above your own.” He leaned down, allowing himself to touch her hand. He bit back a growl when she stiffened. “Stay with me. You and Sammy are more than welcome here. Mary Jo, too, if she needs a place.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Phipps would have a field day with that scenario.”

  “I don’t give a damn about him. Just you. Only you.”

  “Lord, Grant. Don’t you see? You’re willing to put me first over everything in your life. Your family. Your career. I can’t do that. I may have my memory back, but I still don’t know who I am. What I’m made of. Until I do…”

  He held his hand up, cutting her off, silencing her painful truths. As much as he wanted to fight her, her reasoning remained firmly rooted. He wouldn’t change her mind.

  Not today anyway.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched her swipe moisture from her face. “I don’t know how to repay you for all you’ve done, for all you’ve risked.”

  His bittersweet smile felt foreign on his face. He stood, straightened his trousers, then glanced around at the meaningless representations of wealth and power all around him. His Mercedes and his Explorer gleamed from the street. His mansion loomed behind him. The entire Citrus Hill police force scrambled carefully over his lawn to ensure quick and certain justice for the man who probably directed at least some portion of their personal assets.

  And still, he had nothing of value so long as Harley wouldn’t have him in her life.

  “You don’t have to repay anything. Not now. You get your life how you want it, then look me up.” He spared her a sidelong glance, then turned his back to make sure she didn’t see the pain in his eyes. “We’ll discuss reimbursement then.”

  13

  GRANT STUFFED THE wrinkled napkin into the pocket of his slacks. The address scribbled in Mary Jo’s hurried hand matched the numbers on the converted warehouse, leaving no doubt that the brass key would unlock the building’s private side entrance. In a matter of minutes, he could end the nearly month-long separation Harley had imposed after leaving his home in Citrus Hill. Allowing her to maintain her privacy hadn’t been easy, but he’d reverted to throwing himself into his work.

  But when Mary Jo stopped by his office this afternoon on her way to pick up Sammy in Miami, he coerced her into allowing him to take her to lunch. She skillfully avoided telling him too much about how Harley was, saying he should find out for himself. Only gentle badgering and a strong dose of charm garnered a report that Harley had reclaimed her studio lease and had successfully started her therapy practice, thanks in part to the publicity generated by Mrs. Langley’s newspaper articles.

  Both Harley and Mary Jo had been careful to keep Grant’s name out of reports regarding Buck’s attack and subsequent arrest. With the long list of felony charges pending against Mary Jo’s ex-boyfriend, Harley’s assault complaint was hardly news of note for the big city papers. But the truest test came a week after Harley’s departure, when Wilhelmina Langley’s exposé dominated the front-page section of the Citrus Hill Weekly.

  He’d received an advance copy, left mysteriously on his doorstep the night before. In words Grant found surprisingly poetic, Mrs. Langley told Harley’s tale with compelling clarity and compassion. His neighbor slanted the piece into the story of a woman’s quest for independence—and made the article a three-part essay that had concluded j
ust the Sunday before. Buoyed by Mary Jo and Joy’s more tragic stories, Harley came across as the most fortunate. She’d at least found a benevolent knight in shining armor in the financial impresario who risked his standing in a conservative community to help her rediscover her path.

  The Board of Directors couldn’t have been more pleased. Their CEO was a regular hero. The percentage of female investors surged—especially among those who’d previously left in protest over the libidinous activities of the former management. Howell Phipps protested the Board’s dismissive attitude, and suffered a forced early retirement as a result. A unanimous vote promoted Grant to Chairman and CEO before he knew what was happening.

  But Grant didn’t give a damn about the good press, the firm’s growth or his new position. He only wanted Harley back.

  And now, after nearly a month of isolation, Harley wanted to see him. After she finished her burger and fries, Mary Jo slipped him the address and the key, told him to arrive at the studio at eight o’clock sharp, and left the restaurant.

  Grant glanced at his watch. Seven fifty-two. Sunset neared, casting the old brick buildings with a magenta glow. Mingled sounds of pounding bass from the blues club two doors down and the Latin cantina across the street surged in the air, lending a breath of life to the red brick streets and cracked sidewalks. In the fifteen minutes since Grant arrived in Ybor City, Tampa’s historic section nearly doubled in population. An hour more and the number would double again. Dressed in clothes ranging from power suits to spikes and leather, people of all ages swarmed the sidewalks. They pressed into Grant’s personal space, urging him to open the door leading to Harley’s second floor studio—or at least, move out of the way.

  Now, he had to admit, if only to himself, how he both dreaded and anticipated this reunion. He replayed their last conversation at least ten times daily, feeling her conviction to make her own way—alone—like a knife in the heart. He’d read and reread Harley’s interview with Mrs. Langley where she’d announced her commitment to complete autonomy from all outside influences. Now that she’d started down the road to her dream, how could she backtrack for him? How could he let her? More than likely, she planned tonight’s rendezvous as a bittersweet, but definite goodbye.

  Over his dead body.

  Grant had the door unlocked then relocked in what seemed like a split second. He took the stairs three at a time, surprisingly unwinded when he burst through the entrance to her studio.

  He didn’t know what to expect in a dance therapist’s studio, but he hadn’t expected this.

  With shades drawn, the polished wood floor caught and echoed the soft glow of violet-and-blue lights suspended from the ceiling. Sound equipment sat, silent, behind a mirrored privacy panel in one corner and large speakers dominated the other three. Four mirrored walls reflected his image and that of a simple wooden chair placed dead center in the room, directly across from a gleaming brass pole that stretched from the floor to the top of a sixteen-foot ceiling. A single red beam of light focused straight down on the seat.

  In the muted darkness, he missed the spiral, wrought iron staircase at the far end of the room—until Harley emerged through the sliding door on the landing and called his name.

  He took another step into the room, shutting the door behind him.

  “Am I late?” he asked.

  The metal landing rattled when Harley stepped closer to the edge. “If you are, it’s my fault. I should have invited you long before now.”

  Grant blinked, wishing his eyes would adjust to the light so he could see her more clearly. Her silhouette hovered above him like a dark angel—mysterious, fascinating. Sad. Like someone about to say goodbye. “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  She pulled something from her pocket and a moment later the speakers awoke. The sensuous sound of a sultry saxophone masked the noise from the nightlife outside. The brass instrument wailed in perfect stereo, slowly, soulfully, a steady bass beat the only accompaniment. Then violins. Sweet. Innocent. Classic. The contrast of sound met and mingled with the lights and the mood. Grant closed his eyes and allowed the music to penetrate and dispel his reluctance and his fears, leaving nothing inside him but love and desire for Harley.

  “Have a seat,” she directed, though she made no move to descend to the studio’s lower level.

  Grant complied, not knowing what she had in mind. The red lamp heated the seat of the chair. Feeling warmer with each second that passed, Grant slid open the top button of his shirt and unknotted his tie.

  “Comfortable?” Her voice, cast from a distance, reached his ear like an intimate whisper.

  “I’m getting more and more uncomfortable by the minute.”

  He imagined that tiny, knowing smile of hers and his discomfort increased.

  He heard her take a step down the staircase, but could barely see her with the bright red light beaming into his eyes. Scooting the chair forward an inch allowed him to break through the scarlet haze.

  “That makes two of us.”

  She wore her trench coat, which she shed halfway down, folding it neatly over the handrail. He couldn’t determine the exact style of her clothes beneath, but he prayed for something sexy, something she’d chosen just for him…something he’d rip off the moment she came close enough.

  When she took a few more steps downward, he caught the distinct gloss of black leather.

  His frustrated groan sounded distinctly like a feral growl.

  “Harley, if you’d learned anything about me, you wouldn’t be wearing that. Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.”

  She pulled the leather jacket’s collar up stiffly. “I’m counting on those consequences, Mr. Riordan.”

  Spoken in the silkiest tone, her assertion quickened his pulse, diverting his blood flow exclusively to his lower body. His lungs tightened. His palms moistened. Her spiked heels clicked on the wood floor, a devilish cadence against the cool jazz on the stereo.

  “Speaking of learning about people—” She remained just outside his line of sight. “I’ve found out a lot about myself in the last month.”

  She circled behind him. The spiced cinnamon scent she’d worn the first night they’d met teased his nostrils, spurring him to inhale despite the cramping in his chest.

  “Like how sexy you are? How irresistible?”

  “More like how stubborn.”

  Grant stifled a laugh, recalling that first night when she’d insisted on sleeping in his bed. And when she’d burst into his office. When she’d seduced him in the pool. “You’re a woman who knows what she wants. There’s no crime in that.”

  “There is when it stands in the way of love.”

  His heart skipped one beat, then a second when she stepped around him. Leaning seductively against the brass pole directly in front of him, but painfully out of his reach, she slid one foot up the sturdy shaft and balanced her spiked heel on the golden metal. Her leather pants hugged her calves and thighs like slick enamel.

  “After regaining my memory, I couldn’t see how I could get my life back on track if I stuck around your place. I thought I’d fall into my old habits, defer to you like I had to Aunt Gracie, and then to Paul, not make decisions for myself.”

  “Now you know differently?” Grant didn’t want to let his hopes soar, but neither could he let this conversation draw out any longer than a few more minutes. Watching her stand there, her body undulating almost imperceptibly to the music, made him rock-hard. At the first confirmation that she wanted him back, he planned to divest her of her seductive clothes and make love to her right there on the chair.

  Or against the pole.

  Probably both.

  Then, they’d move to the stairs. And beyond.

  Her eyelashes fanned her cheeks as she glanced demurely downward. “Making decisions for myself has its merits, but it’s lonely. Especially when I know there’s someone out there who might want to share the process with me.”

  His throat constr
icted, momentarily abating his vivid fantasies.

  “I spend all day dealing with people who aren’t sure about what they want.” He leaned forward on his elbows, the red light heating the back of his neck. “Who want my approval sometimes more than my advice. Who want me to make their choices so they don’t have to blame themselves when they make a mistake. I tire of that responsibility. I want a woman who knows what she wants, but who needs me to make the getting more…enjoyable.”

  “I may need more than that sometimes.”

  “Sweetheart, you know I’ll give you everything I have. Just don’t make me wait any longer.”

  A half smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but she managed, visibly, to keep her grin at bay. Instead, she lowered her foot and balanced her weight, as if preparing for action.

  “Isn’t that chair hard?”

  The curved wooden back did bite into his shoulders, but it was the ache troubling his groin he needed Harley to alleviate. “I’d much prefer a soft bed.”

  She pulled down the gleaming silver zipper on her jacket, exposing the pale bare skin of her throat. “You sure? The bedroom upstairs is tiny. Hardly enough room for what I have planned.”

  She spun around to the other side of the pole, undulating right and left as the music’s tempo increased. “I couldn’t strip for you that night by the pool. I kept thinking that I’d done that for other men.”

  Grant fought to take a swallow. “But you never have.”

  “Now, I want to.” She turned around, leaning her back against the pole, sliding down a few inches so the thick gold post slipped between the crease of her buttocks. “For you.”

  Sitting back, Grant gripped the edge of the chair, hardly believing how Harley, the woman he loved—the woman he intended to marry—was about to play out his most secret fantasy. “You know what you want. Don’t let me stand in your way.”

  She flipped the cropped jacket down her arms and coyly glanced over her bared shoulder. “I don’t intend to let you stand. House rules. No touching the dancers.”