Risking It All: The Proposition / The Dare / The Favour / The P.I. / The Cop / The Defender. Cara Summers
of the two men standing at the desk looked particularly dangerous. Rory licked another bubble off her lips. She’d lived long enough to understand the huge chasm that existed between fantasy and reality. The studious-looking accountant was probably the real Jared Slade.
As she dug in her bag for her camera, she took a quick glance around the lobby. A third man had come through the revolving doors with Jared Slade. She’d been too intent on watching the other two at the desk to pay him much heed, but she did so now. He was a large man with dark hair, wearing black jeans, a leather jacket and dark glasses. Rory blinked and stared. He definitely had fantasy-man possibilities.
At that moment, he lifted the dark glasses and shot a quick look in her direction. She felt her heart skip a beat and her mouth go dry. Then as those dark eyes locked on hers, she felt a little punch of something hot right in her gut and her mind simply emptied.
It was only when he turned back to talk to the bell captain that Rory remembered to breathe. And it was only as she drew in a second breath that the oxygen reached her brain and she began to think again.
Well. She’d never reacted that way before to any man. But then, this one was remarkably like the fantasy man she’d created in her head—tall, dark, and handsome in a rough-edged sort of way. She began to chew on her bubble gum again. Would he have a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled?
Time for a reality check, she reminded herself. Mr. Danger was probably a bodyguard with valet duties, since he seemed to be sorting out the luggage with the bell captain. When he glanced over in the direction of the registration desk, Rory scrunched herself farther down behind the palm tree. The last thing she needed was a run-in with Jared Slade’s bodyguard before she snapped her picture.
She should have worn something green, camouflage fatigues. For one long moment—even through the palm fronds—Rory felt the large man’s eyes on her again. It felt like a mild sort of electrical shock along her nerve endings. She averted her own gaze and willed herself invisible. Her red boots would be hidden, but not the red cap. Since she’d started to develop her signature style, her sisters had teased her about being a slave to fashion. Was she about to pay the price?
HUNTER MARKS FROWNED as he watched the woman in the red hat and boots squat behind a tall potted palm. Who was she and what in hell was she doing?
He scanned the lobby again, but she was the only person there who seemed out of place. Lately, he’d been more paranoid than ever when he checked into a hotel. Small wonder since someone was threatening his company. The procedure was that his two employees—Michael Banks and Alex Santos—checked in while he scoped the lobby for possible reporters. The system had worked well for several years. So far no one had been able to print a photo of Jared Slade. No one, aside from his most trusted employees, even knew what Jared Slade looked like. And no one knew that Jared Slade used to be Hunter Marks.
But the person who was sending him threatening notes knew. And more and more, Hunter was becoming convinced that the threat to Slade Enterprises was coming from within. He’d come to D.C. to get to the bottom of it.
Hunter returned his gaze to the woman behind the potted palm. His eyes had been drawn to her from the moment he’d walked into Les Printemps. One glance had him thinking of pixies and elves. And that was not the usual turn his mind took when he looked at a woman. He prided himself on being practical rather than fanciful when it came to the female of the species.
This particular specimen had been seated on one of the settees, not sipping tea or a cocktail as the other occupants of the lobby were. Instead, she’d been scanning the crowd while she blew a huge bubble. When the bubble burst, he’d watched in amusement as she pulled it off her cheeks and nose and poked it back into her mouth.
He’d taken the time to study her face then. The cherry-red lips had drawn his attention first, and he’d found himself wondering if they would carry the flavor of the bubble gum. The errant thought along with the tightening and hardening of his body surprised him.
Strange, because women never surprised him. And the pixie with the bubble gum was a far right turn from the type he usually dated. For starters, she looked too young. Of course, the slight build could account for that, along with the hair. From what he could see of it—a few wisps that peeked out from beneath the red cap—she wore her dark hair shorter than most men. He shifted his gaze down the black jean jacket and jeans to the red boots and felt his body go even harder.
Then she glanced his way and for one long moment his gaze held hers. He felt a punch of desire so strong that for a second he couldn’t breathe. Then his mind filled with pImages** of her and what he’d like to do to her.
“Here you go, sir.”
With some effort, Hunter dragged his mind back to reality as the bell captain handed him three tickets. His reaction to this odd woman was unprecedented.
“The briefcase and the laptop will be taken up to the Presidential Suite for Mr. Slade,” the man said. “I’ll handle it personally. And the suitcases will be up shortly.”
“Appreciate it,” Hunter said as he slipped a folded bill across the narrow counter. Then he leaned closer to the bell captain. “Do you see that woman over there, the one behind the palm tree?”
The bell captain took a moment to scan the lobby casually. Les Printemps was a small hotel that prided itself on calling each guest by name. Hunter had researched it himself. The management catered to a very select clientele, a mix of foreign diplomats and celebrities, who paid premium prices because they valued their privacy and expected the hotel to protect it at all costs.
“That’s Miss Rory Gibbs, sir,” the bell captain said, a wide grin spreading across his face.
“Is she staying here?” Hunter asked.
“No.”
Hunter frowned. “I thought only registered guests were allowed in the lobby.”
“She’s meeting her fiancé here. She said her father brought her here for high tea once, and she wanted to relive the moment with her husband-to-be. Sweet little thing. She reminds me a bit of my daughter.”
Hunter returned his gaze to Rory Gibbs just as she pulled a camera out of her purse.
Shit, he said to himself as he strode toward her. Perhaps she was a reporter, after all. He prided himself on having a sixth sense where the press was concerned. But this one had fooled him.
There were only three people in his organization who’d known he was checking in to Les Printemps. Ms. Rory Gibbs was his ticket to finding out just who the traitor was.
RORY’S HEART WAS BEATING so fast that she was sure the two men at the reception desk could hear it. One at a time, she wiped her damp hands on her jeans. She couldn’t afford to drop the camera. Dammit. She could still feel Jared Slade’s bodyguard/valet watching her and he was having the oddest effect on her whole system.
Focus, she told herself. No one had ever taken a photo of Jared Slade. She needed this picture. Once she had it, she could negotiate step two of her plan—an exclusive interview with Jared Slade.
“We want you to enjoy your stay at Les Printemps, Mr. Slade,” the neatly groomed woman behind the desk said as she pushed a key across the counter.
Rory noted that the dark-haired man picked it up. But it was the blond man who said, “Thank you.”
They would turn around any minute and she would finally be looking at Jared Slade. Which one would he be?
Turn. Rory concentrated on sending out the message telepathically. But the blonde was asking about the health club facilities. Jared Slade was reputed to be a health nut.
So the blonde was Jared.
“Where’s the best place to take a run?” the dark-haired man asked.
Or maybe the runner was Jared. And still they didn’t turn around. So much for her telepathic powers.
Raising the camera, she pressed the button