Passion and Scandal Read online

  She licked her lips. Slowly. "Is that an ironclad rule?" she murmured.

  His mouth suddenly dry, Steve nodded.

  She tilted her chin a bit more and ran her free hand up the lapel of his sport jacket to the back of his neck. "Even if you've been specifically invited to break it?" she whispered, her fingers feathering up through his hair.

  "Is this a real invitation, Willow?" he murmured, his voice harsh and husky. "Or is this still part of the game?"

  "Would you say yes if it was real?"

  "Later, when this is over, and you've got your balance again, I'll say yes so fast it'll make your head spin," he promised.

  "No. Not later. Now," she said, and went up on tiptoe to press her lips to his.

  She felt him stiffen, holding himself back from her kiss. One second... two... five... and then his control broke and his arms came around her, gathering her to him as if he meant to never let her go.

  She'd won.

  But, suddenly, it wasn't a game anymore.

  Fire raced through her. Hot. Heady. Utterly irresistible. She dropped her purse and wrapped both arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as he was holding her. Her mouth opened for his tongue as he plunged it between her lips. Her body softened, melting into his without forethought or calculation, instinctively reacting to his show of masculine aggression with fierce feminine surrender.

  He slid his big hands down her back to cup her bottom, pressing her softness into the hardness of his painfully aroused body.

  She moaned into his mouth, answering his silent demand with a rolling undulation of her pelvis.

  He backed her up against the door of her room, holding her there with the slow, grinding thrust of his hips, and ran his hands up her sides to her breasts.

  She arched her back, thrusting them into his hands.

  He curled his fingers over the edge of her low-cut bodice, pulled it down, and cupped her bare breasts in his palms.

  She gasped, her nipples hardening in instant response.

  And then, carefully capturing one pebbled nub between his thumb and forefinger, he bent his head and took the other into his mouth.

  Willow cried out as twin bolts of lightning ricocheted through her body. She couldn't tell which pleasure was the greater; his hard, callused fingertips plucking delicately at one rigid nipple, the warmth of his mouth, sucking strongly at the other—or the rock-hard erection pressing against the exquisitely sensitive mound between her thighs. Either one or all of them together were nearly enough to send her over the edge. She grasped handfuls of his hair in her fists and pressed her mouth to his head to keep the whimpering cries of ecstasy locked behind her lips.

  They strained together there in the brightly lit hallway of the hotel for several moments longer, both of them trembling uncontrollably, their bodies shifting and sliding against each other, their breathing coming fast and harsh, their blood pounding through their veins... and then the bell on the elevator pinged, sounding like a cannon shot in the silent hall.

  They pulled apart reluctantly, eyes wide and pupils dilated as they stared at each other for one long, wild second. Willow gasped and turned toward the door, hurriedly yanking the bodice of her dress back in place just as the elevator doors slid open and three men in business suits got out.

  Steve swore savagely and went down on his haunches, balancing on the balls of his feet as he picked up her purse and the items that had fallen from it when it hit the carpeted floor. A tube of red lipstick, a monogrammed silver compact, a credit card, her rectangular plastic room key... he gathered all but the last into one big hand and stuffed them back into the tiny purse. Then, key card in hand, he stood and opened the door to her room. Neither of them dared look at the other, neither of them said a word as the three businessmen from the elevator walked on past them and down the hall.

  Willow turned her head, looking up at him as he stood there, as still as a statue, with her purse and the room key looking like a child's toys in his hands. He was breathing as hard as she was, and his eyes were as avid and hungry as she knew hers must be. All games were forgotten now; she was a woman firmly caught in the throes of a fiery, consuming passion.

  "Don't ask me," he pleaded hoarsely, reading the question in her eyes before she could utter it.

  But she had to. "Are you coming in?" she whispered.

  Steve shook his head and, jaw twitching, shoved the key into her purse and put it in her hand. "I can't."

  Willow refused to let the hurt and disappointment show. "Fine," she said, giving him the anger of a woman scorned instead. She stepped across the threshold into her room, then turned and gave him a vixen's smile. "It might interest you to know that I'm not wearing any underwear," she lied, and slammed the door in his face.

  Steve groaned and only just managed to keep from pounding his head against the wall.

  Willow threw her purse at the closed door with a vicious oath, then sank down on the edge of the bed and dissolved into confused tears.

  * * *

  The persistent ringing of the telephone finally penetrated through the thick veil of dreams that enveloped her, dragging Willow from the arms of a deep, uneasy sleep. She mumbled a protest into her pillow and reached out with one hand, blindly groping for the handset, knocking it off the nightstand in her uncoordinated effort to silence the annoying sound. Rolling onto her side, she grasped the coiled cord, drew it up over the edge of the bed, fumbled for the receiver, and pressed it to her ear.

  "What?" she grumbled into the transmitter, groggy and disoriented from a night spent drifting in and out of the most sexually explicit dreams she'd ever experienced.

  "It's nearly ten past eight," the subject of those dreams growled in her ear. "You were supposed to meet me in the lobby at eight o'clock sharp."

  Willow felt her whole body flush with embarrassment at the sound of his voice, every scandalously salacious detail of those heated nighttime fantasies flickering through her mind in Technicolor clarity; two bodies, intimately entwined and gleaming with sweat; two pairs of hands, touching and stroking; two pairs of lips passionately locked together. It was fitting retribution for the scandalously salacious way she'd acted last night.

  Willow groaned and pulled the pillow over her face, as if he could see her through the telephone.

  "Are you still in bed?" he asked suspiciously.

  She sat up abruptly, kicking the blankets off, and put her feet on the floor. "No," she said, and stood up to give some credence to her words. "I'm up. I was, ah... I was just about to get into the shower when I heard the phone ring."

  "You haven't showered yet? Damn it, Willow." He sounded as grumpy and out of sorts as she felt. "We're supposed to be at Ethan Roberts' at nine. I thought you wanted to get this matter cleared up as quickly as possible." He sighed, loudly, a put-upon male putting up with the exasperating, irritating vagaries of a female. "How long will you be?"

  "Fifteen minutes. Twenty, at most," Willow said and hung up without waiting for his reply.

  * * *

  Steve stood downstairs in the lobby, the house phone clutched in his hand, and wondered what she'd been wearing when she picked up the phone in her room. A silky robe, as soft and smooth as her skin? A hotel towel? Nothing?

  The raging demon of unfulfilled desire he thought he'd beaten down during his early-morning workout with the punching bag came back full force. He'd never wanted a woman the way he wanted Willow Ryan, and the teasing game they'd been playing was only part of it. A small part of it, actually. The need in him had been building since the very first time she'd looked up at him with those big golden brown eyes of hers, well before she deliberately set out to drive him crazy.

  Which was why he had to be so damn careful. He knew he had a weakness for damsels in distress and they, it seemed, had a weakness for him. It was almost on the level of an occupational hazard and the main reason he'd made his rule about not getting sexually involved with his clients. Obviously, he hadn't explained it to her properly yesterday. O
therwise she wouldn't have gotten so mad and proceeded to twist his libido into knots. His rule was really more for his clients' protection than his; his amorous urges toward the women he was hired to help were usually mild and easy to resist. And gone, once he'd solved their problems for them and they were no longer in distress.

  But last night... hell, last night it had felt as if his guts were being yanked out through his navel when he told her no and let her go into that hotel room alone. And the feeling hadn't abated one measly iota since then.

  The only consolation was that he knew she'd felt the same way. He'd seen the desire burning behind the anger in her big golden brown eyes, heard the hurt feelings hiding under the taunting words before she slammed the door in his face. He'd heard the muffled thud when her purse hit the hotel room door, too.

  Knowing she was as furious, as mad with thwarted desire as he was, somehow made it easier for him to gather up the shattered remnants of his self-control and walk away instead of pounding down the door and demanding to be let in so they could finish what they'd started. In some strange convoluted way, knowing she wanted him with an intensity equal to his desire for her made it easier to wait until the time was right.

  If the feelings lasted beyond the end of the case—and he somehow knew they would because feelings like the ones churning up his gut didn't just disappear—then he'd give in to them. And her. But not until then.

  "I just hope to hell Ethan Roberts turns out to be her father and we can close this case today," he muttered to himself as he returned the handset to its cradle.

  The minute she was no longer his client was the same minute she was going to find herself flat on her back in his bed. And she'd be damned lucky if she wasn't bow-legged before he let her up again.

  * * *

  Willow got herself together in less than twenty minutes, racing through her morning ablutions and a quick application of makeup without her usual meticulous attention to detail. She dressed a bit more carefully, choosing a midcalf apricot-and-ivory-print silk dress with a modest V neck, sensible beige T-strap shoes with small Louis heels and a boxy ivory linen jacket. With her usual small gold hoop earrings and serpentine necklace, she looked cool, composed and professional. In short, like herself and not the wanton temptress of last night.

  She wished she could just wipe that whole embarrassing episode out of her mind—and his. It wasn't anything like her normal sensible self. She'd never deliberately teased a man before in her life, no matter how great the provocation, or how mad he'd made her with his arrogant assumptions.

  "I'm not wearing any underwear."

  What on earth had she been thinking to say something like that? And, good God, what if he'd given in to her teasing and said yes when she asked him—begged him—to come into her room last night?

  She'd have awakened this morning in bed with a man she hardly knew, that's what!

  An arrogant me-Tarzan-you-Jane kind of man, with arms like a stevedore, and the dimpled grin of a naughty boy... a man with hard, callused hands, who'd touched her with delicacy and finesse... a man who talked like a street tough and acted like a knight in shining armor... a man who was all man and made her feel totally, helplessly female in return.

  It would have been glorious.

  And stupid.

  And she wasn't going to waste one more second of her time thinking about it.

  From now on it was going to be strictly business between them, she promised herself as she hurried down the hall to the elevator. She'd hired him to help her find her father and that was all she'd hired him for. The fact that he made her tingle all the way to her toes had nothing to do with anything.

  * * *

  Steve stood with his arms crossed, his shoulder propped against one of the marble pillars in the lobby, watching from his position of stationary surveillance as hotel guests exited and entered through the electronic doors of the hotel's six elevators. He didn't move as Willow stepped out of one exactly seventeen minutes after she'd hung up on him, choosing instead to take the opportunity to observe her—and her mood.

  The teasing vamp of last night was gone. She looked cool and fresh this morning, ready for business in a loose, figure-concealing jacket and a long floaty dress with a row of tiny buttons down the front that made his fingers itch to undo them.

  If she was still angry about last night it didn't show. She looked nervous, instead, standing in front of the bank of elevators with her bottom lip between her teeth and a tiny frown marring her smooth brow as she searched for him among the potted palms and statuary that decorated the busy hotel lobby. He wondered if her nervousness had to do with embarrassment over what had happened between them last night, or if it sprang from the knowledge that the man they were meeting that morning might turn out to be her father. Either possibility seemed as likely as the other but it would be easier to soothe and reassure her if he knew which it was. He shifted his position slightly, deliberately drawing her attention as her gaze started to wander past him for a third time, hoping he would get a clue from the expression on her face when she saw him.

  Her face lit up in that first split second of recognition, like a child's at Christmas, and Steve felt something inside him twist with savage intensity. The feeling was centered higher than his gut, higher than that part of his anatomy that hadn't given him any peace since yesterday morning in his office. It felt a whole lot like a vicious sucker punch to the middle of his chest, the kind that had him fighting to stay on his feet.

  And then she blushed and looked down, and he had a few seconds to get his balance back before he had to push away from the support of the marble pillar and stand up under his own power.

  They split the distance between them and met halfway, stopping two feet apart in the middle of the opulent lobby, as hesitant and unsure as two teenagers at a freshman mixer. It was a unique and unsettling experience for both of them. Willow, who had made it a point to know just how to conduct herself with grace and poise in any situation. Steve, who was never at a loss for words, even if they were often blunt.

  "About last night—" they both said at the same time, and then stopped and smiled awkwardly, each of them motioning for the other to speak.

  "Ladies first," Steve insisted, falling back on cowardice and tradition, abruptly deciding he could explain the reasoning behind his rule of noninvolvement at some other time.

  Willow swallowed and focused on a point past his left shoulder. "I just wanted to apologize for the, um... for the way I behaved last night," she said, telling herself it was the right thing to do. Just because he'd behaved like an arrogant jerk was no reason for her to have done so. "I behaved abominably and embarrassed both of us in the process. I'm sorry."

  "I'm not," Steve murmured, wondering if the feeling in his chest would get better or worse if he leaned down and kissed her.

  Willow shifted her gaze to his face. "Not what?"

  "Sorry," he said, realizing that the ache in his chest was beginning to feel better the longer he looked at her. "I liked the way you behaved." He grinned, feeling ridiculously happy all of a sudden, although he had no idea why. Lust had never made him giddy before. At least, not since he was about sixteen and had just discovered all the wonderful ways in which girls were different from boys. "I'm looking forward to more of the same kind of behavior in the very near future," he said softly, reaching out to smooth her hair behind her ear. "A lot more."

  Willow just stared at him with her mouth open.

  "Come on," he said, and took her elbow to hustle her out of the hotel. "Roberts is expecting us for breakfast."

  Chapter 7

  Ethan Roberts' home was located in the quietly affluent Pacific Palisades area north of Wilshire Boulevard in the section known as the Westside of Los Angeles. Unlike the more opulent neighborhoods in Beverly Hills where affluence was proudly flaunted, the residents of Pacific Palisades chose to hide their wealth behind concealing stands of trees and ivy-covered walls. The Roberts' estate was more sheltered than most, with a
camera-monitored security gate and a long, curving, uphill driveway that effectively shielded the residence from the view of casual passersby.

  The house itself was large but surprisingly modest, a low rambling structure of weathered gray wood and pale brick that looked as if it had been standing for decades. The landscaping consisted of mature trees and lush, well-groomed flower beds that hinted at regular care from a professional gardener. A brick patio extended out from one side of the house, furnished with terra-cotta tubs of bright geraniums and redwood furniture with sturdy canvas cushions. Beyond that was a half-size blacktop basketball court. Directly in the front of the house a regulation flagpole rose from the center of the small, round, grass-covered plot in the middle of the circular driveway, the American flag at the top fluttering in the light breeze blowing in off the ocean.

  There was a steel gray Lincoln Continental in an open bay of the three-car garage, a blue Ford minivan parked, nose out, in the sweeping circular driveway and a shiny red two-wheeled girl's bicycle lying on its side on the grass beneath the flagpole. A large black-and-white cat lay sunning itself on the brick path leading up to the front door.

  Steve pulled his Mustang up behind the minivan and killed the engine. There was no sound except the soft flapping of the flag, rippling in the lazy breeze, and the quiet tap of the corded halyard against the flagpole.

  "God bless America," Steve said dryly, slanting a wry glance at Willow.

  She slanted a glance right back at him as he got out of the car and came around to open her door. "You don't approve of patriotism?" she asked, taking the hand he held out to her.

  "Not as long as it's honest." He shut the car door and took her elbow, turning her toward the brick path that led up to the house. "This doesn't feel honest to me."

  Looking around her, Willow had to agree. Everything about the scene was just a bit too perfect, a bit too "Mom and country and apple pie," a bit too "we're really just an average American family despite the exclusive address" to ring quite true. It felt as if they'd stepped into a campaign ad specifically designed to play up Ethan Roberts' virtues as a patriotic, clean-living, family-values kind of candidate.