Risking It All: The Proposition / The Dare / The Favour / The P.I. / The Cop / The Defender. Cara Summers
HUNTER STEPPED THROUGH THE DOOR of Silken Fantasies. A little bell jangled over his head, and the woman behind the counter glanced up with a smile.
“Welcome to Silken Fantasies.”
“Irene Malinowitz?” he asked, taking out a card as he moved toward the counter. The shop was small, but elegant. He noted with approval the plush carpeting, the accents of glass and chrome, and the merchandise displayed gracefully on mannequins and arranged artfully on tables. He’d seen photos, but this was his first trip to the store itself. There was a scent in the air and the muted tones of Chopin floated out of the speakers. He also knew that Irene Malinowitz had built her clientele mostly by word of mouth, and that since she’d launched her catalog, her net profits had risen to just over five million dollars a year.
“Yes?”
Hunter handed her the card. “I’m Mark Hunter, one of Jared Slade’s executive assistants.” Mark Hunter was the name he used when he traveled and when he dealt personally with clients.
Irene glanced at the card and then met his eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No.” Hunter seldom spoke with clients directly. Voice prints were as individual as fingerprints. The more successful Slade Enterprises had become, the more effort he’d put into protecting his anonymity.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Hunter?”
“Mr. Slade has just checked in to Les Printemps, and he would like to have you sign the contracts now in his suite, if that’s convenient. He’ll want to review them personally and there’s something else that demands his attention this afternoon.”
A flicker of a frown passed over Irene’s face. “I’m sorry, but I have a customer in the dressing room right now, and my assistant is at lunch. Perhaps in a half hour or so?”
Hunter smiled at her. “That’s why Mr. Slade sent me in person. I’ll be happy to cover for you.”
A phone rang on the counter behind Irene.
“That will be Mr. Banks now. He’ll verify who I am.”
Irene picked up the phone. “Hello?”
Hunter counted five beats until the smile appeared on her face.
“Yes, Mr. Banks.”
His executive assistant, Michael Banks, had handled all of the negotiations with Silken Fantasies, so Irene would be familiar with his voice. Michael was bright, and he was good with clients, especially the female ones. Being a man’s man, Alex Santos was better with males, and he was a whiz at crunching figures.
Irene was still smiling when she hung up the phone. “My customer is in the dressing room. I should—”
“She’ll be fine,” Hunter said. “I’ll take good care of her.”
THE FIRST THOUGHT THAT CROSSED Rory’s mind as she studied herself in the three-way mirror was that she had to get to the gym more often and do some of those exercises that promised to lift her rear end. Then she shifted her position and backed away two steps so that she could study herself from the front only.
The image staring back at her from the mirror nearly had her laughing out loud. She’d left only her boots on, and now she wore nothing else but the lacy red thong and the merest excuse for a bra. It seemed that this was her day for really being daring.
And it felt good.
She picked up her jean jacket from the floor and slipped it on over the red bra. Then she walked back and forth in front of the mirror. No one looking at her would know what she was wearing beneath the jacket. But she would know. And the secret knowledge made her feel sexy. Really sexy. As if she could have any man she wanted.
She took off her jacket and then traced her finger along the waistband of the thong. She sighed. There was no way that she could afford this pricey little number, but she really had to add it to her fantasy life. An image of the Terminator tumbled into her mind. What if he saw her in this? Closing her eyes, she let herself imagine just how he might look at her—those dark eyes filling with hunger. And those hands. Oh, he definitely had her fantasy man’s hands. The one that had reached out to take her film had a wide palm and strong-looking fingers. They wouldn’t be gentle when they touched her. No, they would be hard, calloused, demanding, as they moved over her breasts. Her insides clenched as she imagined those hands trailing down her skin to the thin strap of lace at her hips and then lower—
When she heard the bell on the shop door ring, she jumped. Then with a hand pressed to her heart, she made herself breathe. It was a customer. This was, after all, a store.
Her heartbeat had just returned to normal when above the piano music drifting out of the overhead speaker, she heard a deep voice. A man’s voice. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Rory whirled away from the mirror and dropped to her knees. Then she jiggled the slats in the door to get a look. Black boots, black jeans and the bottom of a black leather jacket. The Terminator.
He’d come for her.
Her mind racing as fast as her heart, she rose and pressed her back against the door. A plan. That’s what she needed. Maybe there was a back way out of the shop. She opened the door and took a quick look. He was facing Irene across a glass-and-chrome counter, and she was talking on the phone.
Just looking at him in profile had that strange little zing of awareness shooting along her nerve endings again. Escape, she reminded herself. You’re looking for a way out.
A quick look in the other direction dashed any hope she had of getting away. The back of the shop was a solid wall. Ducking back into her dressing room, she leaned against the door.
And then it struck her. She was thinking of running away, and that wasn’t what she wanted to do. This was her chance to negotiate that interview.
To calm her nerves, she focused once more on her image in the mirror. To her surprise she looked even sexier. Her skin was flushed. Somehow, she looked taller, her legs appeared to be longer, her breasts fuller.
In short, she looked like a woman who could get what she wanted.
And she wanted more than the interview. She wanted the Terminator. The awareness that she’d felt the moment she’d looked into his eyes was back—and it was growing. Her insides had begun to melt the moment she’d seen him again. And there was a growing ache right in her center. Rory pressed her hand against her stomach.
Get a grip, she told herself. This was no time to let some pricey undergarments turn her into a nymphomaniac. Nor was it time to become muddled about her objective. The interview. She had to talk to the Terminator and convince him to set up the interview with Jared Slade.
She grabbed her jeans—but first she had to get dressed.
The bell over the shop rang.
Dropping the jeans, Rory tensed, holding her breath.
He was leaving. She had to stop him. She moved to the door, opened it and stepped out.
But it wasn’t Irene Malinowitz’s back that she saw at the door to the shop. It was the Terminator’s.
“I’ll take care of everything, Irene,” he said.
She heard the door close, the lock click. Then he turned to face her.
For the second time in one morning—perhaps in her life—Rory felt her mind go perfectly blank. She couldn’t identify one thought—there were too many sensations cart-wheeling through her. Heat. Cold. Nerves. And an electric spark of lust. He was walking toward the dressing room with the same purposefulness in his stride he’d had when he’d moved across the lobby.
He was coming after her.
This time she wasn’t