Almost A Honeymoon. Susan Crosby
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