Temptation on His Terms. Robyn Grady
the cured salami sausage, Dex frowned across at her. “You mean Rance?”
“He asked if I wanted a job as his assistant.” She picked up a tub of butter. “I was flattered.”
“But you didn’t accept.”
“I could be wrong but I think Mr. Loggins wants more in an assistant than I’m prepared to give. I even told him that. He didn’t really answer, except to smile.”
It wasn’t hard to see that Rance was smitten. Although Dex would concede: Shelby did show promise as a script doctor.
She put the carton away in the fridge then found his gaze again.
“If I ask you something,” she began, “will you tell me the truth?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t really have rats in your basement, do you?” When he hesitated, she qualified. “Long skinny tails. Hunched furry bodies. Tiny white fangs.”
Leaning back against the opposite counter, Dex crossed his arms. Last night he’d wondered if the threats he’d received might somehow be linked to his father’s trouble. But he’d soon reverted to his earlier conclusion. The situations were unrelated. Whoever lay behind these extortion attempts was a coward. A lowlife who, Dex believed, didn’t have the guts to confront him face-to-face.
He wished he could turn back time. Change things.
Three years ago, his friend Joel Chase had broken down and sworn that, while he’d gone to that building with revenge on his mind, at the eleventh hour he’d had a change of heart. Unfortunately, rather than blow out the lit match, he had fumbled. The accelerant had done the rest. Dex had never been so torn in his life. How many others found themselves in that kind of predicament? Given no one was hurt, and Joel had been filled with remorse, he’d kept his mouth shut. Now, as then, Joel had way more to lose than Dex if the truth ever got out.
But this storm would pass. It must, because Dex would pirouette in public dressed in nothing but a pink tutu before handing over blackmail money to anyone for any reason. If Tate wasn’t coming to visit, Dex would have stayed put, laid a trap and confronted the creep if he dared to pull any more sick pranks. For now it was enough that he’d had those surveillance cameras hooked up.
He answered Shelby’s question about rats. “Let’s just say I needed to get out of that place for a while.”
“If there’s something you should tell me,” Shelby pushed, “best tell me now.”
“There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“I have this prickly feeling running up my back, and I’ve learned to listen when that happens.”
“There was a time when you didn’t listen?”
She blinked, recovered, then found a container of coffee. “We’re not talking about me.”
As she put the coffee away, Dex unraveled his arms. He hadn’t meant to spook her, but now he hoped she’d let those other questions drop. Although, frankly, he’d still like some answers about her past. Did her earlier prickling feelings involve Reese and Kurt?
She crunched up the last empty grocery bag and dropped it in the trash. “Done and finished.”
He pushed off the counter. “Let’s check out the place.”
The living space was roomy. White walls and carpet—probably unwise with a young boy crashing around the place. Facing the plasma screen TV and elevated view of the palm-lined pool and cabanas, the U-shaped dark leather sofa was huge. He read Shelby’s face. Comfortable. Low-maintenance. She moved to the glass doors.
“Can we have the outdoor table and chairs put away somewhere?” she asked.
A good safety measure for curious kids who could climb like monkeys.
“Consider it done,” he said.
She turned to face him and, with the afternoon sun slanting in, her hair looked as if it were threaded with strands of shining copper.
“Why did you choose a suite in a hotel rather than a house?” she asked.
He dragged his gaze away from her glowing silhouette to concentrate. “Tate’ll have everything he needs. A pool and swings and a big playroom.” And first-class security. He studied the giant plasma. “We’ll need games and controls.”
“I’d prefer games we can play together. Books, paints and blocks, too.”
His chest grew warm at a memory…he and Cole and their mom building wobbling towers that more often than not tumbled down before they were finished. Then they’d sigh—or clap and laugh—and do it all again.
“You’re old-fashioned,” he said.
“It’s called being involved.”
“Are you?”
Perplexed, she laughed. “Of course. I get involved with any child I care for.”
Actually he’d meant romantically involved and, although she avoided commenting more by going to check out the playroom situation, he suspected that she knew it.
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