His 7-Day Fiancée. Gail Barrett
about Wheeler,” Martinez said from behind her. “He’s still in jail.”
“Good.” He caught Amanda’s gaze, and that disturbing attraction rocked through him again. His eyes dipped from her face to those killer legs, and he had to struggle to remember his plan. “I’ll walk you out.”
He nodded to the detective, held the door open for Amanda, then accompanied her down the carpeted hall. He liked how her long strides kept pace with his, how her height made it easy to meet her eyes.
“Thanks for checking on Wayne for me,” she said, her voice subdued. “It helps to know he’s far away.” Her eyes held his, and the worry lurking in those vivid eyes bothered him more than he cared to admit.
“No problem. I have a favor to ask, though.” They reached the door to the lobby, and he paused. “I’d like to keep this incident out of the news—at least for a couple of weeks. I’m in the middle of some negotiations right now, and I don’t want the publicity. So if anyone calls you—any reporters, the tabloids—I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk.”
“Okay.”
“The paparazzi can be persistent,” he warned her. “I doubt they’ll get wind of this, but if they do they’ll call, show up at your door, follow you around.”
“But that’s ridiculous.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Why would they care what happened to me?”
“They won’t. But I’m big news these days.”
“I see.” She bit her lip, made that flexing motion with her wrist again.
He frowned. “Did you get hurt back there?”
“What?” She looked at her wrist. “Oh. No, it’s an old injury. It aches sometimes.”
He nodded, tugged his business card from his inside pocket and held it out, determined to make sure she complied. “Here’s my number. Call me if they show up. I’ll top whatever they’re willing to pay.”
She blinked, shot him a look of disbelief. “You’re offering to pay me not to talk?”
“I told you that I don’t want the publicity right now.”
“Well, neither do I.” Stunned outrage tinged her voice. “I have a daughter to protect. I don’t want to be in the news.”
But money had a way of changing minds. And the tabloids’ pockets were deep.“ Take the card, Amanda.” He pressed it into her hand. “Just call me if they contact you.”
She glanced at the card and shook her head. “There’s really no need. I told you that I won’t talk.”
He let out a cynical laugh. “Promises don’t mean much when money’s involved.”
“Well, mine does.”
Her eyes simmered with indignation.
He tilted his head, impressed. Despite her air of fragility, the woman had courage. He liked how she held her ground.
Hell, he liked a lot of things about her. His gaze lowered, traced the sultry swell of her lips, then flicked back to her brilliant blue eyes. And hunger pulsed inside him, the slow, drugging beat of desire.
But this woman had no place in his plans. He stepped away, crushing back the urge to touch her, giving them some much-needed space.
She cleared her throat. “I’d say goodnight, but it hasn’t really been good, has it?”
“No, not good.” Especially with this disturbing attraction between them.
“Farewell, then.” She turned, pushed open the door.
He followed her into the lobby, then stopped, inhaling deeply to clear his mind. His eyes tracked the alluring swivel of her hips as she continued across the marble floor. She joined her sister, and the two women walked to the door.
But suddenly she paused, glanced back. Her eyes met his, and another bolt of electricity zapped his nerves. Then she pivoted on her high heels and went out the door.
For a long moment, he just stood there, the image of those lush lips and long legs scorched in his brain. Then he slowly eased out his breath.
So that was done. She was gone. He had no reason to see her again. His security chief and the police could handle the investigation from here.
He hoped her exhusband left her alone, though. He hated to think of her afraid, cowering before some brute.
And he hoped that he could trust her. Amanda Patterson was a wild card, an unknown, someone beyond his control.
Someone, he had a feeling, it would take a very long time to forget.
The telephone was ringing again.
Amanda sat motionless on her sister’s patio, her muscles tensing, the teaching application she’d filled out forgotten in her hand.
“Phone, Mommy,” Claire announced from her turtleshaped sandbox in the yard.
“I know.” Amanda tried not to let fear seep into her voice. “But Aunt Kendall’s at rehearsal. We’ll let the answering machine pick it up.” And hope to God it wasn’t another hang-up call.
The answering machine kicked on, and her sister’s perky voice floated through the open sliding glass door. The machine beeped. The abrupt silence of the disconnected line made her stomach churn.
She set down her papers and rubbed her arms—chilled now, despite the heat. It was just another wrong number or a junk phone call. There was nothing sinister about people calling and hanging up. Annoying, yes. Dangerous, no.
Even if the hang-up calls had only begun three days ago, after the casino attack. Even if they now got a dozen such calls a day. Even if whenever she answered the phone, there was only heavy, ominous breathing—nothing more.
It couldn’t be reporters. They would talk to her, ask questions, not just breathe and hang up.
This was something Wayne would do—something he had done to unsettle her nerves. But Wayne was in jail. That detective had checked.
She set her pen on the table and rose, placed a rock over the job application so it wouldn’t flutter away. Regardless of who was calling, she wasn’t going to let this get to her. And she wasn’t going to let Claire sense her fear. She’d moved here to give her daughter a safer, more peaceful life, and she would succeed.
“It’s time to get the mail and have our snack.” She struggled to make her voice cheerful, but Claire still looked at her and frowned. “How about some apple juice and animal crackers today?”
“Okay.” Claire trotted over, and Amanda brushed the sand off her daughter’s bottom and hands, adjusted the sun hat flopping around her sweet face.
“Wait. Brownie.” Claire grabbed the bear she’d propped on the patio chair and hugged it close. Too close. Had Claire picked up on her fear?
She forced a smile to lighten the mood. “Is Brownie going to help us get the mail?” She knew the answer, of course. Claire didn’t go anywhere without her bear. Brownie ate with her, slept with her, played with her. She’d hugged off most of its fur, kissed the color from its once-black eyes. Amanda prayed that bear never got lost, or Claire would be destroyed.
“You two can lead the way,” she added, and followed her along the walkway to the gate. Her sister lived in one of the new developments that had sprung up during the recent building boom. It was a modest, family-oriented neighborhood with two-story stucco homes, a far cry from Wayne’s luxury condo at the Ritz Carlton in DC. And thank goodness for that. Wayne had been all about status, appearances. He didn’t care that there’d been no place for Claire to ride a bike or play.
She