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Almost A Honeymoon
Susan Crosby


Reluctant BrideWhen a leather-clad stranger forced Paige O'Halloran into a limousine, she knew her humdrum life was about to change. Then her abductor turned out to be longtime nemesis Rye Warner - hired to be her bodyguard. And in order to keep her safe, he was hiding them away in a honeymoon cottage!Unlikely Groom Rye couldn't believe his luck. He was being paid to protect the prim-and-proper Paige, the same woman he'd been verbally battling with for years. But now that he'd finally gotten a look at the elusive Ms. O'Halloran, he knew he was in for some cold showers. For suddenly Rye wanted to turn their "honeymoon" into the real thing.









Almost a Honeymoon

Susan Crosby













www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Melissa Jeglinksi, who provides focus, encouragement and laughs. I hate it when you’re right! And to Harlold & Ruth—I must have been in the “lucky” line when they handed out in-laws. You’ve been the cherry on top of my hot fudge sundae. I love you both.




Contents


One (#ud5c8a3bb-2c3e-51e7-a4c9-4f9f1864485c)

Two (#u3ca8092b-45d8-5798-82c1-ec3987662595)

Three (#u601dd036-96e6-5dd1-b4df-6da6e6967321)

Four (#u2da00399-3c4e-5cac-87cb-62ec33dd7d26)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)




One


He had been watching her for seven hours, since she’d left her Charlestown brownstone and taken a cab to Boston’s Logan airport. Maintaining a discreet distance, he’d kept her in sight as they checked in at the airlines, then they passed the next half hour in the club lounge, where he feigned interest in a paperback murder mystery as she tapped efficiently on her laptop computer, oblivious to his watchful eye. She spoke with only one person at length, engaging in a subdued debate with a fellow laptop user about spread-sheet software.

Shortly before takeoff, she gathered her belongings, and he trailed her to the airplane, his gaze touching every person, calculating who might interfere with the successful completion of his newest assignment.

Now they were a little over an hour from touchdown at San Francisco International. He’d used the long hours to append his personal knowledge of her and the written information he’d been given the day before. The facts—Paige O’Halloran, twenty-eight years old, the only child of Patrick O’Halloran, owner of the third largest shipping line out of Boston; graduated first in her class from Smith College, earned her MBA at Harvard; employed in her father’s firm for five years—current position, comptroller.

Another fact—she’d recently done something completely out of character for her, the results of which were still toppling dominoes.

From his vantage point across the aisle and one seat back from her he had passed the time by adding his own observations to the dossier he’d been given. He deduced that she was accustomed to traveling, because the moment she took her seat, she slipped off her high heels and donned soft ballet-style slippers. She ignored the movie to instead work on her computer, and no amount of turbulence fazed her. She simply steadied her computer with one hand and continued to enter information with the other. She carried no bestseller to while away the hours, instead flipped through U.S. News & World Report.

She visited the rest room twice during the flight, and he noticed with no small degree of surprise that her dark green skirt and ivory blouse never wrinkled; her medium brown hair didn’t droop a fraction from its elegant French twist; her makeup didn’t fade, except for her lipstick, which she replaced several times with the same bronze hue. She put her seat back once during the long flight, resting her eyes, but hadn’t slept. She chose the vegetarian entrée off the menu, consumed a glass of California Chardonnay, and finished everything on her tray except the two chocolate truffles packaged in a tiny box, which she dropped into her briefcase. She never failed to thank the flight attendant for his service and smiled as she made eye contact.

Her actions bespoke self-assurance and control, exactly as he had expected.

Conversely, her physical self seemed delicate, almost fragile, like a finely carved cameo, which he hadn’t expected. Although above average in height for a woman, she was small boned and pale skinned, as if easily bruised or broken. Her body was shaped more like a freeway than a mountain road—until she turned around. What she lacked in curves up front she more than made up for in the backside, her rear being nicely rounded, upside-down-heart shaped and full, her long legs the reason high heels were created.

In short, Paige O’Halloran was a woman who generally blended in with the background. Her first impression was probably no impression. Excluding the tantalizing view she offered walking away, there was nothing special to draw the eye, nothing in her mannerisms to call attention to herself, nothing that said, “Look at me. I’m special.”

If he hadn’t known about her “unfortunate adventure,” he would have guessed she was perfectly content with her life. But she had ruptured that image with her one indiscretion—and that made her intriguing, a dangerous pull in his line of work, in which allowing himself to be intrigued could mean personal disaster.

The cabin lights came on abruptly, a silent announcement of their imminent arrival. As passengers stirred, he made a quick trip to the rest room before the flight attendant served a light snack. On his return the subject of his observation dropped a floppy disk into the aisle as she packed away her computer.

He crouched to retrieve it, then paused as her scent drifted over him. He’d been blessed—or cursed, he couldn’t decide which—with exceptionally keen senses, but his sense of smell was extraordinary. Recognizing a person’s scent, even masked artificially with fragrance, had saved his hide uncounted times. He knew the smell of fear, sometimes subtle, sometimes overwhelming. He knew the smell of arousal. He had identified and mentally cataloged a staggering number of perfumes, colognes and after-shave lotions.

He couldn’t, however, identify her perfume—and that bothered the hell out of him. He breathed in several times, committing it to memory, but the fact he couldn’t give it a name irritated him; he arranged facts and observations in his mental file cabinet in alphabetical, chronological and logical order, and he liked it that way. But he could identify only elements of her perfume—an undertone of jasmine, a whiff of...rose? Maybe. But the overall effect was not exclusively floral. He’d figure it out later; he would have plenty of time.

He started to hand her floppy disk to her when his gaze settled on a subtle wrinkle of fabric along her thigh. A garter. This controlled, efficient, orderly woman wore a garter belt?

Shattered. All his perceptions of her were broken by that knowledge. Paige O’Halloran was a panty hose kind of woman; he would have bet his ample financial portfolio on it.

Her hand came into view, extended to receive the disk from him, and he noted short, unpolished fingernails, a clue to her steady use of a computer keyboard, no doubt, especially the smaller keys on laptops, but also indicative of her no-nonsense personality. He felt more comfortable slotting her into that pigeonhole.

“Thank you,” she said, her gaze sending a silent question his way as he delayed returning her disk.

Her eyes, he noted, were a kind of marbled hazel, more green than blue. Or was it the green eye shadow she wore that made them seem that way?

Mumbling something reminiscent of “You’re welcome,” he returned to his seat, willing his thoughts away from the perfume he couldn’t identify and the damned garter belt he couldn’t reconcile with the woman. He couldn’t allow himself any mental diversions.

He had orders to follow.

* * *

Paige O’Halloran slowed her steps when she spotted the uniformed man holding up a sign neatly penned with O’Halloran as she entered the terminal at the San Francisco airport. She approached the short, brawny man and identified herself.

“Are you waiting for me or another—”

“You, miss.”

She observed the placid expression on the fifty-something man who looked more like a boxer than a chauffeur. She didn’t take comfort in the once-broken-but-not-properly-set nose or the scartissue ridges scattered across his face. “I didn’t order a limousine.”

The man pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to her—a fax on O’Halloran Shipping letterhead, signed by her father, authorizing her pickup from the airport.

“I’ll accompany you to the baggage area, miss. If you would identify your luggage for me, I’ll take it from there.” He wrestled her briefcase and computer pack from her resisting hands, then he turned from her, indicating with a hitch of his head that she should follow.

It wasn’t her birthday, so why had her father arranged this surprise? She felt guilty enough having to fly first class this trip, but her need for space to prepare for the three upcoming meetings and her last-minute airline reservation had necessitated it. Her father knew she watched every penny of company expenses, never granting herself any luxuries she wouldn’t allow another employee. She called it streamlining the budget; he called it being unnecessarily tightfisted. But Paige remembered their almost endless years of struggling better than he did.

Standing beside the baggage carousel, she tapped her fingertips together, not knowing what to do with her hands, missing the familiar appendage of her briefcase. The small purse that held little more than her wallet and keys hung lightly from her shoulder, not requiring attention. She satisfied herself that her precious bags were safe with the driver, then her gaze strayed around the baggage claim area. It was close to nine o’clock at night, but midnight Boston time. People stood yawning and stretching, shifting foot to foot as they waited for their luggage to appear.

Her glance settled on a man who stood directly across from her, noticeably motionless—the man who had picked up her floppy disk on the plane and returned it to her...finally. He was big. She hadn’t realized how big, because on the plane he’d been crouched beside her. But she saw now how very tall he was—and big. A bodybuilder, undoubtedly. Military, she decided, eyeing the short haircut and smooth-shaven jaw. Except that he had a lone wolf sort of look to him. Something about him...

Sunglasses! He was wearing sunglasses on this, the shortest day of the year, at night. Talk about egotistical! Dismissing him with a toss of her head, she returned her glance to her bags before beginning a visual sweep of the cavernous area again—returning magnetically to the tall, still man.

He was a walking cliché, with his black leather jacket, black turtleneck shirt and unnecessary sunglasses, which hid what, judging from the angle of his head, was a blatant appraisal of a woman poured into a red minidress. His well-worn black jeans hugged contoured thighs and trailed long, sturdy legs, ending at—what a surprise—cowboy boots. She almost snorted at his predictability. God save us from testosterone-riddled men. At least he hadn’t caught her looking at him, thus encouraging his badboy fantasies.

Still, there was something rather fascinating about the solid bulk of him—

Mraaap. A loud, deep tone alerted them to the jerky start of the carousel. Within seconds, suitcases began spilling over the edge. Her garment bag and Pullman were scooped up by the chauffeur when she identified them, then she exited the terminal, her driver loaded with bags, her own hands empty. She felt embarrassingly helpless, so unflatteringly feminine following the overburdened man.

She trailed him to a curiously unoccupied area alongside the terminal. No one milled around, not employees or passengers or security guards. She eyed the back of the man carrying her bags, a frisson of unwanted anticipation traveling down her. Now, Paige, she cautioned herself, just because you don’t like his looks doesn’t mean he’s a threat. Stop being paranoid. Keeping herself beyond arm’s reach, she watched his every move as he stowed her gear in the trunk.

A soft, repetitious squeak penetrated the night in rhythmic cadence. She squinted into the darkness, torn between watching the driver and trying to ascertain the source of the sound. Leather boots, perhaps? Every instinct snapped to attention as the tall man in black appeared out of nowhere.

He didn’t have a suitcase—that fact struck her first. The same carryon bag that had been at his feet in the terminal now dangled from his hand, but he held no other luggage. Why had he been waiting at the carousel if he didn’t have luggage?

“Miss?”

Paige cast a swift glance at the chauffeur, who stood beside the open back door of the limousine. Relieved, she scurried into the seat. Before she could find asylum within, he filled the space beside her. Him. The man in black, who smelled of leather and menace.

The door slammed shut before she could utter a sound, much less muster a scream. She made a quick grab for the opposite door—

“Electronic locks,” he said as the handle wouldn’t budge.

Her father’s longtime fear for her surfaced. She had been kidnapped, really and truly kidnapped, after all. Digging deep for control, she fought the fear pulsating down her body as she faced her captor squarely. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He slid his dark glasses off and gave her a cool once-over. “Rye Warner. I’m your bodyguard.”




Two


“Prove it,” she told him. Proof was incidental—Paige recognized his voice, but she needed a little time to let the fear wash away completely.

The distinctive crinkle of leather sounded lightly in the confining space as he slid his wallet from inside his jacket, whisked out his driver’s license and passed it to her. Then he focused a penlight on it, spotlighting the pertinent details.

Bryan Henry Warner. Sex, M; Hair, Brn; Eyes, Brn; Ht, 6-05; Wt, 240. She calculated his age at thirty-five. A pink donor circle clung to the upper left corner above an extremely flattering picture of the man. Bryan Warner, Rye to his business associates. But to her he was—

“Warner the Barbarian,” she intoned as she flipped his license back to him.

“So, Harry, we meet at last.”

Paige settled against the luxurious leather seat, glad that the darkness hid her wince at the obnoxious nickname he’d given her during one of their many phone conversations over the last two years. “Harry, short for harridan, meaning shrew,” he had said pointedly, “although that’s being generous.”

Ignoring his taunt, she crossed her legs and smoothed the fabric of her skirt. “Why does my father think I need a bodyguard?”

“Patrick uncovered a plan to kidnap you.”

She dropped her head back and groaned. “Not again. And you believed him? Look, Warner, my father has hired bodyguards for me three times in my life, each time believing I was ripe for a kidnapping.”

“And?”

“There hasn’t been a genuine threat yet.”

“There is this time.”

Thrown by the absolute assuredness in his tone, she stalled by looking out the window but saw little through the darkly tinted glass as they traveled through the city. She felt his gaze on her.

“Why you?” she asked.

“Probably because I’m the best.”

She couldn’t stop the soft snort of disbelief. “The most expensive, anyway.”

“Now, Harry, we’ve quibbled about this for two years. My fees may be a little higher—”

“Substantially higher.”

“But I do the job in half the time. In the end, you pay the same, probably less.”

“It must be really tiresome lugging that ego around with you.”

“And it must be a real drag following rules all the time,” he countered.

Yes! she wanted to scream. But who would keep her father under control if she didn’t enforce the rules and regulations? Who would keep the company from bankruptcy?

“So, who’s allegedly after me this time?” she asked.

“Seems your fiancé got himself into a bit of financial trouble with the wrong people.”

Paige stiffened. “I do not now have, nor have I ever had, a fiancé.”

“Now there’s a surprise,” he muttered.

“Meaning?” The word skated across ice.

“Does the name Joey Falcon ring a bell?”

Joey Falcon, her fall from grace. She swallowed the embarrassment. “He asked me to marry him. I turned him down.”

“He used you as collateral.”

“How? And why would he?”

“Seems Falcon was on that cruise you took because he was hiding out from his...shall we call them creditors? He had a friend on the ship’s staff who gave him a passenger list. He zeroed in on you.”

“And here I’ve been thinking he fell for my charm and beauty.” Sarcasm coated her words, the self-deprecation genuine and lifelong, as natural to her as breathing and as likely to change as it would be for her to stop breathing.

She didn’t like a lot of change in her life, wasn’t comfortable with it. The only way to keep control was to establish and stay with a routine, physically and mentally. She spent a lot of effort adhering to the structure she enforced on her daily life, starting with a half hour of yoga in the morning and ending with a half hour bubble bath at night.

The only time in her adult life when she hadn’t followed that routine had resulted in disaster; she was sure she’d suffered a personality transformation for that single week recently because she’d substituted a walk on the deck of the cruise ship for her morning yoga, and dancing in the moonlight for her nighttime bubble bath.

Never again. She’d never, ever set aside the meditation and relaxation time she so desperately needed to maintain her inner peace merely for a frivolous moment of pleasure. Joey Falcon had cured her of that.

Paige sighed inwardly. She should have identified her restlessness before impulsively making reservations for a seven-day Caribbean cruise. She should have stopped and taken stock, written down and analyzed her reasons for going, then perhaps she wouldn’t have been susceptible to the very charming Joey Falcon. But for the first time in her life she’d acted and reacted without first weighing the pros and cons. And for the first time in her life she was embarrassed by her behavior.

Joey had leaned his arms against the railing beside her as the ship left port and had rarely left her side in the ensuing days. Usually a woman who didn’t command much notice, she was flattered by his attention, by the way he catered to her every whim. On the sixth day at sea he proposed, but by then reality had intruded. When he hadn’t been exuding charm, she’d seen a glimpse of something else—something that had made her uneasy. At the least, he’d been insincere. At the most? Not frightening, exactly, but not trustworthy, either.

He had refused to believe she didn’t want to continue seeing him and had called her daily for the past two weeks, had showered her with flowers and gifts. Her restlessness had been replaced with exasperation, followed by irritation, even a little fear.

“Actually, it’s a relief to know Joey was only greedy,” she said, breaking a long silence. “If he really was in love with me, I might never be rid of him. I assume he approached my father for the money.”

Rye shook himself to attention. Knowing Lloyd was driving allowed him to relax his guard, but Paige’s silence while she analyzed her situation had threatened to put him to sleep. “When Patrick refused to pay his debts,” he said through a yawn, “Falcon informed him that he’d been given an extension on the loan based on your engagement and the potential money available. Now he’s gone back into hiding, and his creditors want their money. Falcon insists they’ll grab you for ransom.”

“At least he warned us. That’s more than I would have given him credit for doing.”

“The report I saw indicates Falcon has major financial problems. Given a little more time, we should know in more detail what we’re up against.”

She shifted, impatient. “So I’m forced into hiding, too. Doesn’t that make my father a target?”

“He’s using a local security team.”

“How long do I have to stay in San Francisco?”

“Until Falcon’s been flushed out.”

“What if my meetings are done earlier?”

“The meetings were a ruse. You really are in hiding, Paige. You’re not to have contact with anyone but me. I’ll be in touch with Patrick.”

She held herself aloof, cool as a spring runoff, apparently unconcerned with the danger. But Rye knew her blood ran hotter than that. A little garter told him so.

And her “unfortunate adventure” told him that under that cool facade she craved excitement.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “To your home?”

“To a small, discreet hotel.”

“Why San Francisco? I know you live here, but with only a little investigating, anyone could find out you work for us occasionally. If your reputation is as farreaching as you’d like to believe—”

“I’m doing this as a favor to your father. He caught up with me by phone in London and begged me to help, so cut the insults, Paige. I landed at Logan, tracked you, then stayed awake the whole time watching over you. I’m tired.”

“If you flew in from London, you should have luggage. Where is it?”

“Being held at the airport until Lloyd can get over to pick it up.”

“This is idiotic! Why couldn’t we just hide out somewhere near home?”

“Because I have work to do. I can stay with you and also catch up on what’s been neglected while I’ve been gone.”

“You’ll be prorating your bill, I assume,” she said, her voice dripping honey.

“What?”

“Well, it’s only fair. Why should we pay while you work for other people?”

Rye didn’t know whether to laugh or explode at her relentless guardianship of O’Halloran Shipping funds. “I won’t be off the clock with you for a second, Harry.”

Lloyd swung the car into a driveway, negotiated a narrow road around a three-story house-turned-hotel, then stopped in front of a small building. The headlights offered a quick glimpse of a brick cottage sheltered by a profusion of climbing ivy and low bushes before the beams were doused, leaving only a soft yellow glow coming from a porch light.

“Wait here,” Rye ordered Paige before he left the car and followed the driver into the bungalow, which at one time served as a caretaker’s housing. A low fire gleamed from the hearth, the light casting flickering shadows around the impeccably furnished living room. “Everything secure?” he asked Lloyd, who came up behind him and deposited suitcases on the plush carpet.

“As you requested, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rye turned to look at the man, seeing past the scarred face and crooked nose to the strength of character beneath. The perpetually bland expression hid a wealth of feeling. “You did a great job, as usual, Lloyd. And on particularly short notice.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Rye shook his head, exasperated, as he inspected the rest of the cottage—a bedroom sporting a huge four-poster bed and a second fireplace, also lit, then a bathroom containing an oversize tub. “Looks good,” he said.

“You may find the couch a bit confining.”

“I noticed. I’m so tired it won’t matter at this point. I may feel differently tomorrow night.”

“Get some sleep. I’ll watch from outside tonight.”

“Thanks, old friend.” He came very close to sighing. “Well, the princess awaits. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long, long assignment.”

“She doesn’t seem to, ah, particularly care for you, sir.”

“Ms. O’Halloran and I have a history of disagreement.”

“She’s quite attractive, if I may be so bold as to say.”

“You think so? Maybe I can’t see past the nitpicking Scrooge that I know her to be.” He pressed a button on a palm-size remote control as he returned to the car, unlocking it.

“How dare you lock me in,” Paige said, low and angry as she ignored his hand and slid out of the car.

“On the contrary, Harry, I was locking others out.”

“Well, you took your sweet time coming back to get me.”

“I wanted to check out the arrangements personally.” He plucked her coat and purse from her hands and tossed them to Lloyd. Before she could take two steps, he swept her into his arms.

“What are you doing? Put me down!” She shoved at his shoulders.

“Nuzzle,” he ordered her.

“Excuse me?” If frost could burn words, it had.

“I said nuzzle me. If you don’t, I’m going to kiss you. Your choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re being watched.”

Paige glanced around. “I don’t see anyone. Who cares, anyway?”

“A white-haired lady in a pink bathrobe has focused her romantic little heart our way from the main house. Dammit, Harry, nuzzle—”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He tilted her his direction, bringing their faces close.

“Tell me why I should,” she said quickly, restraining him as she hoped the right amount of mutiny rang in her voice.

He turned a triumphant grin on her. “Because we are about to enter the honeymoon cottage.”

“You’re jok—”

He closed the small gap between them, but she jerked away after the merest graze of lips.

“So help me, Harry—”

Paige buried her face against his neck, and she smelled leather and...pure, unadulterated male. He breathed a regular rhythm, apparently unaffected by her. She wished she could say the same for herself. She wanted to cling, although whether from fear or excitement, she didn’t know. Both jockeyed for position. No one had swept her off her feet before, literally or figuratively.

“You can let go.”

His words infiltrated the battle she’d begun to wage within. She loosened her hold as he set her down, her heels sinking into a lush carpet. He continued to hold her elbow as she wobbled briefly.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Her gaze took in the loveliness of the room, with its English countryside motif and warm, deep colors.

“You seemed to enjoy your role, wife.“

Paige ignored his grin. “I’m not stupid, Warner. I know it’s to my advantage to play the game.”

“Do you take that much convincing in bed, too?”

Paige gaped at his audacity.

“Personally, I like a challenge,” he continued.

“You smug, self-centered—”

Lloyd cleared his throat and stepped into the fray. “Miss O’Halloran, I’ve placed your bags in the bedroom. Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

The momentary cease-fire helped Paige find her center of control again. She turned slowly to the driver and extended her hand. “Please call me Paige. And you are?”

He accepted the gesture of friendliness. “Lloyd, Miss O’Halloran. A light snack awaits you, as you can see. I didn’t know your preference of beverage, so you’ll find a variety to choose from. If there’s nothing further?”

“Not unless you can snap your fingers and have this mess disappear.”

“Good night, then.” He touched two fingers to his forehead in salute. “Sir.”

Rye roused himself to say goodbye. He was so tired he could hardly stand. And Paige wasn’t making his life any easier. He watched her lift the cellophane off a tray of fruit and grab a bunch of red grapes before seating herself on the couch. He eyed the sofa hungrily, starved for sleep. His gaze shifted as she crossed one leg over the other. She arched her foot until her shoe fell to the floor, recrossed her legs and rid herself of the other shoe, then bounced her foot rhythmically as she popped one grape after another into her mouth. Her chewing slowed as she caught him staring.

“What?” she asked, the belligerent tone bringing him back to awareness.

Ignoring her, he slid out of his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Slowly, he moved to fix himself a plate of fruit, cheese and crackers. He uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured a glass. “Want some?”

No answer. He turned around and found her staring at the weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

She lifted her gaze. “Where did you get that? You couldn’t have had it on the plane.”

“Lloyd passed it to me as I climbed into the car. The holster’s in my bag. Why? Do guns bother you?”

“I’ve never known anyone who had one. I guess it makes everything seem so real.”

“I don’t waste my time on games, Harry. Wine?”

“Umm, yeah. Thanks. I guess I should have offered you some food. Sorry. I can’t quite assimilate all of this yet.”

He passed her the glass. “Just work with me, Paige. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible. Maybe after we’ve spent a few days together, we’ll find a way to—”

“Days?” she repeated. “How many days?”

“I couldn’t even guess.”

“But what about...”

He sat beside her and sipped his wine before placing it on the low table before them. “What about what?”

“Christmas. It’s only four days away.”

Her voice seemed suddenly small and faraway. He wondered at it, and at the expression that settled on her face, worry mixed with hurt. A Scrooge who likes Christmas? Deciding not to taunt her with the observation, he instead held his plate toward her. “Have some, if you want. We may have you back in time for Christmas. I can’t make any promises.”

She absently picked up a slice of Cheddar and nibbled on it. “I have to be home for Christmas,” she said softly, adamantly, after a minute of silence.

Rye shook his head. He really needed sleep. He devoured the rest of the food then stood and returned the empty plate to the table. “I can’t hold my eyes open. I’m going to sleep on the couch. Lloyd will be outside for tonight, so don’t worry about anything.”

“I guess I’m being sent to bed.” She stood, sweeping up her shoes as she did so.

He brushed by her to use the bathroom, and she filled her wineglass and fixed herself a plate of food while he was gone before retreating with it to the bedroom, elbowing the door shut as he dropped a blanket and pillow on the sofa.

“Don’t use the telephone,” he cautioned just as the door clicked shut.

She pulled it open after a few seconds, having divested herself of the food and wine. “Why not?”

“There’s a lot of sophisticated tracing equipment out there. One call, and your location could be pinpointed.”

“I want to call my father.”

“It’s after one o’clock in Boston.”

“So?”

“Don’t you think he’ll be asleep?”

“So?”

Rye opened a suitcase Lloyd had packed for him and pulled out a T-shirt and sweatpants. “This isn’t his fault, Harry. He’s been notified we’re here. Let him sleep.”

She took several long strides into the room. “Why should I? Why the hell should I? He’s treating me like a child! Why didn’t he tell me what was going on? He hired you without so much as a hint to me, his very adult daughter. And you, you dragged out the charade, letting me think I was in danger from you. I’ll bet you got a real kick out of that, didn’t you?”

He stood there listening but not hearing. Promises of sleep buzzed in his ears then rolled in waves down to his toes. He pulled his gun from his waistband and set it on the table beside the couch. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

She lifted her hands and laughed without humor at the ceiling. “I see. Another Patrick O’Halloran, are you? Your timetable. Your rules.”

“Paige—” He dropped onto the sofa.

“Your tone is quite clear, Warner. �Pity the poor emotional woman. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’ I’ve got news for you—I can damn well take care of myself.”

One boot fell to the carpet, then the other. He stood and turned to face her squarely. Her belligerent pose almost drew a smile, but he held it back, figuring she would hurl another accusation at him. “Look, Harry, I’ve had about four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. I can’t deal with you right now.” He peeled his turtleneck over his head; he moved his hands to his belt buckle. “Now, you can stay here and watch if you want. I’m not particularly modest. But it would kind of shatter our professional relationship, don’t you think?”




Three


Her gaze wandered over him, dispassionately at first, then with interest. He saw the change as it unfolded, was unwillingly flattered by it, but shoved it aside. Resolutely, he unbuttoned his jeans, expecting her to run off. She didn’t budge. Her steady observation began to burn him, a core of heat that pooled low and fiery and spread through his limbs. She swallowed; he battled a desert-dry mouth.

He hooked his thumbs in the waist of his jeans and inched them down. “Sorry, I don’t have the finesse of an exotic dancer—”

Her eyes widened, as if finally aware of what she was seeing. He shoved the jeans down and off. The black cotton briefs covered the essentials, although not for much longer if she didn’t avert her eyes soon.

“Seen enough?” he queried.

She flashed a wicked smile and spun away, tossing her final words over her shoulder. “Great socks, Warner.”

Rye glanced down at his feet as the door clicked shut. Goofy stared up at him, his sister’s last birthday gift to him. Grinning, he pulled them off and slid into the sweatpants and T-shirt. He heard the sound of the bathtub being filled, then nothing.

* * *

Paige rested her wineglass on the edge of the tub and eased into the bubble-layered heat. Instantly soothed, she sighed. Physically exhausted but mentally wide-awake, she sipped her wine and faced the reality of her predicament, which seemed far more serious than she had thought at first. Rye’s presence should have been indication enough. He was never called in for light security work. He charged exorbitant fees and earned them; there was no man her father admired more. Long before she’d had contact with him, she’d heard tales of his exploits, tales so vivid he’d seemed like a mythical figure out of an action movie, tales, she’d suspected previously, rather like those of a fisherman describing the one that got away, a ten-inch fish taking on sharklike dimensions in the reenactment.

Rye Warner was no ten-inch fish. He was muscle head to toe and unafraid to show himself off. She hated brawny men, had always believed they were among the most egotistical people on earth. Who wouldn’t be when they spent hours every day preening in front of a mirror, admiring their own bodies? No, thanks. She’d take a thoughtful, sensitive man any day.

Right, Paige. Like Joey Falcon? She dropped her head back against the rim of the tub. He’d been romantic and charming, complimenting her constantly, always bringing her gifts, holding doors open, pulling out chairs—where had that gotten her? Of course, Rye sat on the other end of the scale. He probably didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, was the kind of man who wouldn’t slow down for a woman walking in high heels—the kind of man to flex his substantial muscles at the slightest twinkle in a woman’s eye.

Well, he wouldn’t find her a panting, drooling, stammering admirer. He could take his overdone pectorals and deltoids, and his bulked-up biceps and triceps, cover his rock hard buns and his...masculinity with a skimpy nylon bathing suit, oil up his rippling body and—

The image suddenly didn’t seem so disgusting. Quick, change the picture. Rye posed in front of an audience, his arms curled, one up, one down, his head twisted to one side, women screaming. There! That’s better. Egotistical jerk.

She would have to tread carefully with him. He pushed her buttons too easily, had done so from the first phone conversation she’d ever had with him, when she’d called to tell him he had to submit a detailed expense report, not simply an all-inclusive invoice for his expenses. It had been all downhill since, their rousing discussions sizzling across telephone wires. He had managed to do what no one else ever had. He’d made her lose her temper.

Until Warner the Barbarian had come into her life, she hadn’t gotten angry—ever.

Rages were her father’s expertise.

* * *

Snuggling deeper under the comforter, Paige ignored the sound of the shower running. Sharing a hotel room—or any room—with a man was unnerving. Her mind’s eye could picture the oversize man in the large tub, could picture the brass fixture he’d have to duck his head under to rinse shampoo away and the frilly shower curtain pulled around the curved rod overhead, vivid contrast to his utter maleness.

She had awakened half an hour ago, forced herself to complete her morning ritual of yoga and meditation, then had climbed back into bed when she heard Rye open the door from the living room that accessed the bathroom. She had slept ten hours, minus the times she woke after disjointed dreams starring her father, Rye and Joey in which she did a lot of running and hiding while they all searched her out.

The shower water cut off, and a variety of new sounds had her speculating on what he was doing. The silence of toweling off, the tap of metal against porcelain as he shaved, sixty seconds of blow-drying his hair, the rustle of fabric and jangle of a belt buckle as he dressed. She glanced at the bedside clock. Thirteen minutes, beginning to end, and he was done.

When she heard the latch of the door open and close, she began her own hour-long routine, eventually emerging from the room dressed in a royal blue wool skirt and pastel blue silk shell.

“Good morning,” she said as she entered the living room, determined to get off on the right foot with him today. He was seated on the sofa, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, a pen in the other. A yellow legal pad contained a list of numbered items that she couldn’t read upside down.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Paige crossed her arms over her chest and bit back a stinging response. “Did I ask?”

“You’re dressed up.”

“Pardon me. If I’d known I was going to be in need of them, I would have packed my prison blues. I was under the mistaken impression that I was here to attend business meetings.” She cocked her head at him. “Did you get up on the wrong side of the sofa?”

He slouched against the cushions and blew out a long breath. “Sorry. I had trouble sleeping. It’s been a grueling couple of weeks.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Coffee’s hot. Lloyd also brought pastries and fruit.”

After Paige served herself, she took a seat in a chair opposite him to use the same low table. “I want to talk to my father.”

“Any time. I have to route the call through another number.”

“How do I transmit data from my computer to the office?”

“You can’t.”

“But—”

“Think of this as a vacation, Harry.”

“And I’m supposed to fill my time watching you work? How exciting.” She bit into an almond-sprinkled bear claw and closed her eyes in appreciation as she savored the richness. She caught him staring at her, and looked down, expecting crumbs on her blouse or something. “What?”

He dropped his glance to the paper in front of him. “Nothing.”

She brushed the corners of her mouth, found no trace of food, then shrugged off his odd gaze. “Can’t we compromise in some way? I can’t just sit all day watching television. I’ll go nuts.”

“Do you have a printer?”

“No. I transmit by modem.”

“If I arrange for a printer, you could run things off, and I could have Lloyd fax them to your office, through another source, of course.”

“That’s fine for sending. What about receiving?”

“If you can figure something out, I’ll arrange it.”

His eyes focused on her mouth again, disconcerting her, making it difficult to swallow. She couldn’t get a handle on him this morning. He was distracted and intensely focused at the same time.

“Was the bed comfortable?” he asked as he wrote something else on the paper.

Her mouth curved teasingly. “Heavenly. It’s so big. I had plenty of room to stretch out and—”

He lifted his head. “This is the honeymoon cottage.”

“There was certainly room for two.”

He rooted her to her seat with his gaze. “I don’t suppose you’d consider trading beds? You’d fit on the couch a lot better than I do.”

“At your daily rate, you can manage a little discomfort, Warner. So, does security loosen enough to allow for maid service, or should I make my bed?”

“Management has been asked not to disturb us.”

“We can’t go out at all? Not even to eat?”

“Lloyd will keep us fed. Anything you want, just ask.”

“When does he sleep if he’s catering to us plus being a night watchman?”

Rye picked up the telephone receiver and began punching numbers. “He won’t be around every night. Just last night, because I was so tired.”

“Meaning, we pay for an extra man because you came to this job tired. No wonder your bills are so outrageous.”

“It’s all relative, Harry. What value do you put on your life?”

Paige opened and closed her mouth. He’d stumped her with logic, leaving her no argument. She drummed her fingers on the upholstered arms of the chair as she watched him punch in another series of numbers, then sit back, the slightest smile on his lips. His gaze dropped to her legs as she crossed one over the other, and she felt a tremor of awareness at the unspoken flattery in his eyes, hardly able to comprehend that such a little action could spur Warner the Barbarian’s interest.

“Warner here,” he said into the telephone before tipping the mouthpiece and saying to Paige, “Do you ever wear miniskirts, or is your standard the middle-of-the-knee look you’ve got on?”

She watched him catalog her body, zone by zone, forcing her to analyze her response to his blatant appraisal. Her nipples drew instantly into hard buds against sheltering lace that became suddenly abrasive, almost painfully so. Could he see her reaction? If she crossed her arms over her chest, would he smirk with self-satisfaction?

The longer he stared, the more she ached—and the more uncomfortable she became. She had to know what he could see.

She leaned forward to pick up her coffee cup and sent a quick glance down herself. Damn. There was no way his eagle eyes could have missed that.

“I’ve been known to expose my knees,” she forced herself to say into the heavy silence. “But since I work mostly with men, I have to be careful of the image I present.”

“It’s hard to imagine you letting down—” He jerked the receiver up again. “Patrick... No problems... Ask her yourself... All right, got it... Here, I’ll put her on.” He passed the phone to Paige.

“You all right, kid?” Patrick asked, after she said hello.

Paige welcomed the chance to divert her train of thought. “I’m furious with you.”

“What do you think of Warner? Nice touch, huh?”

She watched Rye add another line to his growing list. He’s younger than I expected, she thought. “As prison guards go, he rates a ten.” She returned a placid stare to Rye’s raised brows and a one-sided quirk of his mouth.

“He knows what he’s doing. You can trust him.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to, won’t I? Why didn’t you tell me about Joey? I’m not a child.”

“But you’re still my baby. You took care of me for a long time, honey. I’m just returning the favor.”

Paige slumped a little. “We took care of each other, Dad. We grew up together, but we’re both grown up now. I can handle the truth. Do you really believe I’m in that much danger?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you? What are you doing to protect yourself?”

“Security’s solid, honey. Don’t worry about me. Did Rye tell you not to call home?”

“Oh, yes. I got my orders.” She unconsciously watched Rye as he moved to pour himself another cup of coffee. Comparing the width of his shoulders to the slenderness of his hips made her stomach flip-flop. She looked away, willing herself to remember his ego. “Are you sure I can’t drum up some business while I’m here?”

“Rye says you need to lay low. He’s the boss.”

“What’s happening with Collins-Abrahamson?”

“The deal’s on hold until you get back.”

“Promise?”

“Have I ever lied to you, kid?”

Paige laughed briefly. “That was a joke, right?”

He sputtered. “I haven’t lied about anything important.”

“How about the other bodyguards you arranged for me?”

“Now, Paige, honey. Those were just little white lies. They weren’t meant to hurt you.”

“Uh-huh. I’m really angry, Dad. Don’t think we won’t discuss this further when I get home.”

“You’ll forgive me.”

“Don’t be so sure. Will I talk to you soon?”

“Every day, kid. Relax, okay? Pretend you’re on vacation.”

“Did you and Warner conspire? That’s exactly what he said. But as you’ll both recall, it was my vacation that started this mess.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Yeah, well, mine was a doozy.”

“It’ll turn out, kid. Keep the faith.”

She cradled the receiver softly. “This is the worst possible time for me to be away.”

“Why?” Rye finished the sentence he was writing, then looked up.

“We’ve got a big deal cooking, a potential merger. My father tends to take risks with the company he has no business taking. If I’m not there to intervene, I’m afraid of what will happen.”

“Your father built that company on risks.”

“But it’s stable now. A lot of people depend on him for work. He has to be more careful.” She stood and refilled her coffee cup before moving to stand by the mantel to stare at the fire. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll do what he wants anyway and tell me about it later.”

“Don’t you ever get messed up?”

She turned around. He had assumed a casual pose—one ankle crossed over his knee, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, a pencil dangling lightly from his fingers. She didn’t like the way he studied her.

“What do you mean?”

He gestured with a quick hand. “I mean nothing on you wrinkles or clings or droops. Not a strand of hair out of place. Would any dare?”

Rye watched her pat her hair, was interested in the way she touched an item on the mantel and examined the details before inspecting the next curio. His nose twitched at the unnamed scent that trailed her as she moved around the room. He suddenly wished her hair wasn’t so flawless, wanted to brush a loose strand behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her, to feel that little jolt between them that he chose to acknowledge and she probably chose to deny.

“Would you tell me about Falcon?” he asked.

“To what purpose?”

Rye grinned. “You must be dynamite in negotiations. Are you always so circumspect?”

“I can keep my own counsel, if that’s what you mean. I don’t let emotion interfere with the business at hand.”

“Until Falcon,” Rye said pointedly.

“Joey wasn’t business.”

He bowed his head. “Touché.”

Paige lifted her coffee cup then set it back down. “Joey Falcon is terminally cute.”

“Terminally cute.” Rye tried not to choke on the words.

“And doggedly devoted.”

“You liked that?”

“I don’t psychoanalyze myself. I guess I thought it was what I wanted, at least briefly. I don’t know. I don’t really even care anymore. I just want him out of my life for good.”

“That’s a real possibility, depending on who catches up with him first.”

Paige winced. “I don’t want him harmed. I just want him to stop being an albatross around my neck.”

She watched Rye fix a plate of food for himself and shook her head at his offer to get her something. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably.

“I was surprised when I found out your age,” he said at last. “Patrick is forty-six, right? That means he was eighteen when you were born.”

She embraced the sudden change of subject. “My mother was seventeen.”

He approached the hearth to stand beside her. “That’s what you meant when you said you grew up together. Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop...”

“My mother died when I was four. Her family had never accepted their marriage, so my parents had moved in with my dad’s father, supposedly just until Dad could finish high school. Grandad was the one who started O’Halloran Shipping. When he passed away—I was six, I think—the business was almost bankrupt. My father turned it around.”

“More than that. What kind of price did you pay?”

“Me?” Paige was startled. No one had ever questioned what she had given up through the years.

“A young father, a growing business demanding every minute of his time. Did you pass from one baby-sitter to another, one housekeeper to another?”

“I grew up at my father’s feet. The first few years, whenever I wasn’t in school, I was at the office, or following him to the docks, or traveling with him to sign deals. We made an apartment out of some office space, then as the business boomed we bought a house. I worked for the firm in various capacities until I went off to college. He came home for a few hours’ sleep each night.”

“Sounds like he didn’t have a social life.”

“He didn’t. He loved my mother beyond belief. Beyond sensibility, even. He still worships her memory.” One I will never live up to.

“Are you like your mother?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I have little memory of her, mostly things my father told me. I don’t think I look like her, not from what Dad says, anyway.”

“Don’t you know what she looked like?”

“No. In a fit of rage shortly after her death he destroyed her pictures.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you ask?”

She shook her head briefly, sharply. She was tired and on edge, uncomfortable with the emotions surfacing. If she looked at Rye right now, she’d see sympathy. She didn’t want sympathy.

“Tell me how you met my father,” she said, lifting her coffee again.

His hesitation was brief and considering. “Patrick and I met when he and a few competitors discovered consistently short shipments on certain routes. I was hired to find the source.”

“But how did my father know to call you?”

He lifted a shoulder in a brief shrug. “There is a labyrinth of information that filters among industrialists. They guard their contacts, yet they also share, especially regarding security. What affects one company often affects another.”

“Keeping a lid on the information flow also keeps your identity a secret,” Paige said. “Without anonymity you couldn’t function as well.”

Rye nodded. A jolt of awareness struck him, fascination with the way her mind worked. She cut through layers with knife-edged logic, and the revelation staggered him physically—a twist he could live without.

More in his favor, though, she wasn’t a vulnerable woman. She was strong and in control, probably not as much in need of his protection as Patrick believed. It was important that she stay strong. If she showed one bit of weakness, his own vulnerability could surface. And that he needed to avoid at all costs.

“Listen, if you want to do some work, I’ve got calls to make,” he said.

She drained her coffee cup and returned it to the lace-covered table. “How soon can Lloyd pick up a printer for me?”

“He’ll call when he wakes up. Whatever you need, just tell him.”

She picked up her computer pack and set it on the table beside the remnants of their breakfast. “What’s the story on Lloyd? Is he an employee or what?”

“Or what.”

She turned around. “Meaning?”

“I leave the telling of that story to Lloyd, if he so chooses. He’s not an employee, but he helps me out sometimes.”

“Is the limousine his or yours?”

“It’s rented. Why?”

“The windows are tinted. We would be safe inside, wouldn’t we? I can’t stand the thought of being cooped up here.”

Ending the conversation with a “We’ll see,” he picked up the telephone, leaving her to her own devices as he began a series of calls that required decoding to be fully understood. He spoke in the jargon of his business, words sprinkled with numbers, letters and abbreviations. He filled the yellow pad before him with page after page of notes. Part of her stayed tuned in to him because she admired the way he dealt with the business first then took a minute for the social niceties, remembering to ask about family members, health statuses, even special occasions.

He had never had a phone conversation like that with her. Resentment burrowed into her and built. What was she? Less than a human being to be treated as cavalierly as he had these last years? Why had she deserved less consideration than any other client?

When he made probably the tenth call in two hours, his voice changed. Softened. Took on a note of tenderness.

“Hi... I’m doin’ great. How are you?... I’ve missed you, too. Are you feeling okay?... I’d be with you if I could, you know that... How’s our little one?”

Our little one? The pencil in Paige’s hands snapped. So, he has someone special in his life. A wife? Perhaps even a child? So what? And why does that surprise me? she thought, disgusted with herself. He’s intelligent and attractive and successful, and he’s proving right now that he can be tender. A lot of women probably like a macho superstud. Not me, though.

So why are you so disappointed? she asked herself. Because a part of me—a tiny, almost insignificant part—wishes a man like that would be interested in me. There! She’d said it. A moment of honesty. She’d dealt with it; now she could relegate it to the strongbox of lost dreams she kept locked in her head.

Thoughts of her mother escaped as she tried to close the lid. A perfect woman, according to her father. The perfect woman. Soft-spoken and soothing, a paragon of femininity. Paige had tried to emulate what she knew of her. Only Rye had broken through the wall of control she’d cultivated.

If she had learned nothing else from her debacle with Joey Falcon, she had figured out that she just wasn’t herself right now. She had been feeling more than restlessness, more than a mild desire for something to happen. For the last year, she’d felt an urgent tug toward something unknown, a yearning to discover passion, not only physically but spiritually. She wanted to break out. But to what? How do you stop continually strolling down garden paths if no one ever invites you on a marathon?

You sign up, she admonished herself. She knew she had to take charge of her own destiny. She just didn’t quite know how to do it, especially when she was being reminded by her father and Rye that she was powerless at the moment. Follow orders; we’ll take care of you.

And she didn’t recognize the person inside of her who just wanted to be taken care of.

Rye hung up the phone and stretched hugely. A glance at his watch confirmed what his stomach announced—that it was time for lunch. His gaze settled on Paige as she hunched over the too-high table her laptop sat on. She shifted her shoulders and rolled her head, easing unseen tension. Or was it really so unseen? As little as he had observed her, he was already able to pick up on her moods.

She would undoubtedly deny she had moods, of course, but he’d already seen several. Of them all, he most liked the playfulness he’d seen when she’d commented on his socks last night. He liked her belligerent side pretty well, too. Both made him laugh. He scrutinized her a little longer, pushed himself up from the couch and moved behind her.

When he settled his hands on her shoulders, she nearly jumped out of her seat.

“Don’t sneak up on me,” she ordered as she tugged herself forward.

He pushed his thumbs into the knotted muscle at the base of her neck and smiled at the involuntary groan he drew from her. “Should I stop?” he asked.

“No.”

He grinned, deepening the massage, adding his fingers and palms. Her fragility startled him, making him ease the pressure. Her head drooped forward. “Hang tight a sec,” he said. He swept up a pillow, instructing her to stand. Spinning the chair around, he laid the pillow over the chair back.

“Sit backward,” he said. “Lay your head on the pillow.”

She eyed her skirt, then the chair. Cautiously, she straddled the seat, but for every inch she lowered her body, her skirt raised an inch. She started to back off. “I don’t think—”

“Harry, I’ve seen my share of female leg. It won’t bother me.”

“But—”

“Trust me.”




Four


Her skirt rode up, exposing the tops of nude-tone stockings, garters attached to strips of midnight blue satin and a few mouth-watering inches of skin. She plucked ineffectually at her hem while shifting her bottom, only succeeding in hiking her skirt higher.

“Leave it,” he ordered, an unfamiliar hoarseness scraping the words along his throat.

Stiffly, she leaned forward, until she could lay her head against the pillow.

“Close your eyes. Relax.” In other words, don’t watch me drool over you, he thought with little humor. He settled his hands on her shoulders again, finding them even more tense than a few minutes earlier. Involuntary little sounds filtered from her mouth as he attended her, making him wonder if she moaned during climax. Damn. He shouldn’t think about it.

But how could he not think about it when his fingers itched to slide under the edge of her stockings and tease her skin, when he wanted to tug the hem of her skirt higher and see if her underwear matched the satin of her garter belt.

He trapped a groan of his own and tried to focus on her back. How delicate it was, how slender. The scent of her perfume drifted around and through him. She wasn’t wearing a bra under her top, but a lacy sliplike thing. What was it called? He couldn’t remember, but he wanted to see it. He wanted to pull the skimpy blouse over her head and feast his eyes on the skin and silk beneath, slide the straps down, cover her breasts with his hands...his mouth.

A new scent reached him—arousal. He let go of the effort to restrain his own, knowing she felt the same. Welcoming the heat and the swelling, he closed his eyes and slowed his hands, letting his fingers glide over her shoulders to press against her collarbone, feeling her push herself into the pressure in unspoken invitation. Did he dare let his fingers drift farther, touch the nipples he’d earlier watched tighten enticingly? Could he pull her back against him and let her feel the strength of his desire as he ran his hands down the front of her body?

This was crazy. He’d been hired to protect her, not seduce her. Ignoring the ache in his loins, he concentrated only on her shoulders. Her eyes opened for a few seconds, as if she was about to say something, then they shut again, allowing her retreat.

Paige jerked upright as the jangle of the phone sliced into the tense quiet. Pushing herself off the chair, she stood and straightened her clothes as she listened to his end of the conversation, deciding Lloyd was on the other end. Rye had his back to her, but she saw him attempt to unobtrusively adjust his jeans. She didn’t know whether to crow or cower.

She glanced at the holstered gun cradled under his arm. His strength scared her a little. His pure maleness was a hundred times more potent than she’d ever attempted to handle. He could crush her so easily. She was inordinately pleased that he was attracted, especially given their adversarial relationship, but knew she was a fool to think he’d risk letting down his guard.

Then there was the matter of the woman he had spoken to so tenderly on the phone. Who was she? And how did she fit into his life? Where would she fit? A brief fling in a moment out of time? What the other woman didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her?

No. Paige thought more of herself than that. Still, it might be interesting to see how far she could push him and what he’d do about it.

“Harry.”

She blinked and looked at him, deciding it wasn’t the first time he’d called her name.

“Talk to Lloyd. Tell him what you need.”

She forced her legs to move. “Good afternoon, Lloyd. I hope you caught up on your rest.”

“I did, thank you, miss.”

She rattled off the brand and model printer she needed. Hesitantly she asked if he might be willing to pick up something casual for her to wear, a sweat suit or something.

“Of course, miss.”

“I don’t need much. I might be going home today, for all I know, so don’t spend a fortune. As for sizes—”

“Unnecessary, miss. I’ll be there within the hour.”

“But—”

He hung up. Paige held the phone out and stared at it, then shook her head as she set it down. Rye came out of the bathroom as she did so, his hairline damp, as if he’d splashed his face with water.

“What side of the bed do you sleep on?” he asked.

She straightened, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to lie down until Lloyd gets here, and I don’t want to sleep on your side.”

“To be honest, I kind of roll around.”

“Oh. Well—”

“But don’t let that stop you,” she rushed to assure him. Anything to get him out of sight for an hour and let her think clearly. “I don’t mind.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Positive. Please. Be my guest.”

He closed the door between the rooms halfway, enough so that she couldn’t see what he was doing, but could hear. Boots falling to the floor, the shift of fabric as he slid under the comforter. Lord. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Why now, when she was at her most susceptible to temptation? Was she having a mid-life crisis at age twenty-eight?

She stretched out on the couch to think. Her eyes drifted shut. It took too much effort to open them.

The sound of a key being fitted into the lock brought her awake. Lloyd entered, his arms loaded with packages. He nodded at Paige as she yawned and stretched. An hour had passed.

“Warner’s asleep,” she whispered, taking a couple of the bags from his hands.

“No, I’m not.” He emerged from the other room, tucking his shirt in.

“Pasta salad for Miss O’Halloran and a submarine sandwich for you, sir,” Lloyd said as he placed two bags on the coffee table. “I’ll put your dinners in the refrigerator. Pop them in the microwave for five minutes or so when you’re ready.”

“Pasta salad...my favorite!” Paige said. “How did you know?”

“He’s a mind reader. Be careful what you think.”

“He’s joking, of course, miss. I hope the clothing is as much to your liking.”

She dug into a bag and withdrew a cream cable-knit sweater that would fall mid-thigh, soft blue jeans and a teal T-shirt and matching leggings. Two simple white cotton-knit camisoles, saved from being merely undershirts by their skinny shoulder straps, tumbled out next. Further investigation yielded white sneakers, size nine, narrow, and three pairs of slouchy socks. Everything looked as if it would fit.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “How did you know my size?”

Rye grinned mutely at him, seemingly daring him to answer.

Lloyd’s expression never changed. “I have an eye for such things.”

“I’ll say. Good taste, too,” Paige said. “What’s in the box?”

“Chocolate chip cookies, miss. Homemade. From Mrs. MacKenzie, sir.”

Rye carefully set down the sandwich he’d been about to take a bite of. “She doesn’t know—”

“Of course not, sir. She has been on a baking binge and forgot I can’t eat chocolate. Let me see if I have her words correct...I believe she said something about domesticity being the pits.”

Rye chuckled. “That’s my Kani.”

“Who’s Kani?” Paige asked as she sprung the lid on her salad.

The phone rang. Rye snatched it up.

“Yeah?... Put him through. It’s your dad,” he said to Paige as he waited for the connection to be made. “Patrick, what’s up?... Did they trash the place?... Do you want to bring the police in on it?... Keep me current. I’ll let you talk to Paige.”

“Dad?” She clutched the receiver with both hands.

“Somebody broke into your house, honey.”

“Oh, God! My presents! Did they take the presents?”

“Well, it’s kinda crazy. Not much seems to be disturbed. I came to add water to the Christmas tree stand like you asked. The door wasn’t shut tight.”

“Ask him if they took your address book,” Rye said to her as he paced, thinking.

“I heard him,” Patrick said. “Where do you keep it?”

“In my drop-leaf desk in the living room. Nothing was destroyed? Are the presents under the tree?”

“I count about fifteen.”

“That’s probably all of them. Can’t you find my address book? It’s around six inches square, sort of peach colored.” She could hear him rustling papers.

“Don’t see it.”

“He says it’s gone,” she said to Rye.

“What about at work? Anything missing? A Rolodex, maybe.”

“Tell Rye I’ll call when I get back to the office.”

Rye extended his hand. “Let me talk to him. Patrick, listen, if something’s gone from her desk, question everyone about who might have had access today. Maintenance men, delivery people, anyone who’s not employed by you. If you come up empty, have your security people start running traces on your newest employees and work backward. Call me anytime... She’s fine here with me. I promise. Even if they’ve got her Rolodex and can get my address, they won’t be able to track us... Let me know as soon as possible.”

Rye hung up the phone and followed Paige’s movements as she paced in front of the hearth. “Don’t you have an alarm in your house?”

She fired a glare at him. “No.”

“A woman alone, in a big city?” he pressed.

“It’s a quiet neighborhood. I’ve never had any problems.”

“It only takes once.”

“Look, Mr. Secret Agent Man, I’m upset enough without you criticizing my home security—”

“Or lack thereof.”

“Indeed.” Ice formed around the word.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a system. They’re so easy to install.”

“They’re expensive.”

Rye frowned. “Expensive? A thousand dollars for peace of mind and safety? I’d say they’re a bargain.”

She gestured impatiently. “Of course you would. You think flying first class is a necessity.“

“Well, now that you’ve seen me, you must understand why I need plenty of room.”

“I’m not responsible for your gene pool, Warner. I just pay the bills. We spring for business class on international flights. If you want royal accommodations, you pay the difference.”

“It wasn’t like that before you took over as comptroller.”

“What can I say? I run a tight ship. We haven’t lost money since I took over, either.”

“That’s because you’re a—”

“I used to design women’s clothing.”

Lloyd’s firmly enunciated words drowned out whatever insulting tag Rye was going to apply to Paige. They both stared at him.

“What did you say?” Paige queried.

“I said I used to design women’s clothing. That’s why I could estimate your size easily.”

Paige eyed him, noting the slightest show of tension and deciding their argument had made him uncomfortable. “I apologize, Lloyd. We always fight like this. It’s just the first time face to face. It’s harmless.”

Rye snorted. “Oh, yeah. I know it always makes my day. I really look forward to our conversations.“

Her gaze flickered to him as he swept up his notepad and stared at the words there. It struck Paige that she had enjoyed their discussions. In fact, the last few times she’d called him to request receipts for his expenses and more detailed information about his invoices, her heart had pumped loudly in anticipation. She had begun to enjoy hearing him say, “Oh, for God’s sake, Harry,” when she questioned a ten-dollar breakfast or a cab fare he couldn’t confirm with a receipt.

She had forced him into a better accounting of his expenses, but, in truth, she didn’t want him to get perfect at it—so she occasionally changed the rules.

Not that he didn’t get even once in a while. There was the time he had submitted a bill in paragraph form instead of an itemized list, forcing her to unearth the charges from a field of words. She’d paid the bill with forty-nine separate checks, one for each item, forcing him to endorse each check separately and complete several bank deposit slips. The bank had called her about it, curious and annoyed, but he had returned to a more standard statement format the next time.

She always found fault with his bill, but she had never really questioned why, until now. She’d have to give it some thought tonight while she took her bubble bath.

Paige and Rye ate in silence as Lloyd called housekeeping to request clean towels, then busied himself straightening the rooms before unboxing Paige’s printer and helping her set it up. She asked him if he could wait an hour or so until she finished the project she’d spent the morning working on and could print up a copy to send to the office.

“I’m at your disposal.”

“If you’d like something to read, I have a couple of magazines—”

He held up a hand. “I just realized that I forgot something, miss. I’ll return in an hour.”

“Oh. Okay. I hate putting you out.”

“Think nothing of it, miss.”

She watched him exit the room, the door closing on a whisper behind him, before she returned to the computer.

“Was Lloyd telling the truth or was he just trying to distract us?” she asked Rye later as he hung up from his umpteenth phone call.

“The truth?” He continued to write, her interruption barely breaking his concentration.

“Did he design women’s clothes?”

Rye looked up and grinned. “Again, I’ll leave the telling to him. He’s had a checkered career.”

Paige leaned an elbow on the table and propped her chin on the heel of her hand, considering. “Why don’t you just leave me here with him and go about your business? It’s obvious that’s what you need to do.”

He tossed his pencil down, stretched and rolled his neck. “Because I made a promise to your father.”

“I’m sure he’s only concerned that I be safe.”

“What’s going on, Harry?”

“I’m just trying to make your life easier.”

“I don’t think so. I think you’ve figured out you could manage Lloyd.”

“I could?”

“He likes you, that’s obvious. There’s no way I’m leaving you with someone you can wrap around your little finger. You’d have him out sight-seeing by tomorrow. We can’t take that chance.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Like hell you wouldn’t.”

She frowned. “Well, maybe I would. But I’d be really, really careful.”

“There’s no such thing in this situation.”

Paige pushed herself out of the chair and moved to the refrigerator. She pulled out two bottles of spring water, held one up to Rye in question, then passed it to him and opened her own. “I can’t believe I got myself into this mess. It seems so...so like a B movie.”

“Even his name’s a cliché,” Rye commented. “Joey Falcon.”

The same thought had occurred to her more than once, but she bristled at his rubbing it in. “That’s interesting. That was my impression of you at the airport.”

“What was?”

“That you were a walking cliché, with your black leather jacket and everything.”

“Black is unobtrusive. Am I supposed to wear camouflage?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You seemed pretty interested in me, cliché or no.”

“I was not.”

“You weren’t checking out every inch of me by the baggage carousel?”

His self-assuredness irritated her enough to circumvent any embarrassment at having been caught surveying him. “I noticed you because I recognized you from the plane. And because you stood motionless when everyone else was working the kinks out after the flight. And because you seemed so fascinated with the woman in the red minidress.”




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