Like the one beside the window, tall and slender in body-hugging green velvet. Her hand was on the arm of a short, portly man who looked old enough to be her father, but the hefty chunk of diamond on the woman’s hand suggested otherwise.
Despite the ring and the presence of her companion, she caught Joel’s eye and sent him a blatantly invitational glance from beneath lowered lashes. There was nothing complicated about that one, Joel thought approvingly. Except that he never cut in on another man’s territory. It was one of few rules he lived by, and one he’d never consider violating. He knew too well how it felt to be on the other side of that equation.
“Meredith Ashcroft,” Riane said, close to his ear. “Of the Boston Ashcrofts—by marriage. Now divorced and currently engaged to Justice Cunningham.”
“The man in the ill-fitting tux?”
“That’s the one,” Riane agreed. “He hasn’t bought a new suit in the past ten years because he won’t admit that he’s put on forty pounds. He thinks he has the same physique that impressed his first wife. She left him more than a dozen years ago and took half his money. He still possesses a sizable fortune and an impressive position on the bench, which is why Ms. Ashcroft is in line to become wife number three.”
“A friend of yours?”
Riane’s smile was thin. “An acquaintance,” she clarified.
“But I could arrange an introduction, if you wanted.”
“You said she was engaged.”
“Does that matter to you?”
“Yes.”
“A cop with morals,” she mused.
“I’m not a cop,” he said again.
“So you said. But you didn’t say what you are.”
Not wanting to reveal too much about his reasons for being in West Virginia, he opted to try diversion again. “Do you dance?”
She tilted her head. “Is that a hypothetical question or an invitation?”
“An invitation.”
She studied him for another moment, as if considering his motives, then nodded. “All right.”
Joel led the way to the dance floor, reassuring himself that he’d issued the invitation solely to prevent her from continuing her inquiry. He wasn’t ready for her to find out who he was, his real reason for being there. Not until he knew whether or not she was the answer to his questions.
Then Riane put her hand in his, and desire surged through him. Hot and hard. And he knew that however he chose to rationalize the request in his own mind, the simple fact was that he’d wanted to hold her. She was sexy and beautiful and intriguing, and it had been far too long since he’d been with a woman.
The intensity of his own reaction shook him. He was a man of action, in charge of his life, responsible for his own decisions. Yet the moment she turned into his arms, he felt a spiraling sense of panic, a stunning realization that this was out of his control.
He’d only ever felt this way once before—toward the end of the Conroy investigation. Just as all the pieces seemed to be falling into place, he’d known that it had been a little too easy. He’d ignored the instinct, convinced himself it was paranoia.
He’d been wrong.
There was no way he’d make the same mistake again.
Okay, so maybe he was overreacting a little this time. Riane Quinlan was a woman. She might be beautiful, sexy, intriguing, but she was still just a woman.
Yet his instincts warned him that she was dangerous. Very dangerous. Because the scent of her clouded his mind; the subtle curves of her body made him forget his reason for being there; those full, painted lips tempted him to taste. Riane Quinlan made him not just forget, but want to forget, that she was off-limits.
Just a woman?
Like hell. This woman was more dangerous than a roomful of Zane Conroy’s trigger-happy minions with fully automatic Mac 10s.
He misstepped, and her hip brushed against his thigh. The fleeting contact jarred him, and he felt his blood begin to migrate southward. He forced himself to concentrate on moving his feet, determined to avoid any more such accidents so that she wouldn’t notice how affected he was by her.
Not that his physical response should surprise her. He was, after all, just a man, and she was as warm and soft as the scent that clung to her. And she fit in his arms as if it was where she was meant to be.
Joel gave himself a mental shake. It was ridiculous to even imagine such things. Riane Quinlan might fit in his arms, but she could never fit into his life. Nor he in hers. He knew that opposites could attract. He also knew, from personal experience, that they couldn’t coexist for very long.
“How long are you going to be in West Virginia?” Riane asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between them.
“I’m not sure,” he responded, then he made the mistake of looking at her. She’d tilted her head upward to speak to him, and her glossy lips were mere inches from his own. He only needed to lower his head a fraction and he could taste her. It was a tempting proposition. Too tempting. Too dangerous.
He tore his gaze from her mouth, saw that she was watching him. Her own eyes were dark, aware. He’d feel much more confident in his ability to do his job if he could keep his distance from Riane Quinlan. And he wouldn’t be able to keep his distance if she kept looking at him like that.
Focus, Logan.
Somewhere in the back recesses of his mind this niggling reminder from his conscience registered. He knew he was dangerously close to losing his focus, and he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Not this time.
“Riane,” he said. “That’s a rather unusual name, isn’t it?”
“It’s a feminine form of Ryan, which is my father’s name.”
His preliminary investigation had revealed that fact, but he didn’t know if the similarity was by design or coincidence. That was what he needed to find out, and that was why he needed to talk to the senator.
“Isn’t your mother usually a supporter of the Quinlan Camp Charity Ball?”
So much for being discreet, he thought, as the question blurted out of his mouth. But he was more worried about self-preservation than discretion at this point.
If Riane was startled by the abrupt change of topic, she gave no indication of it. “Yes,” she admitted. “And I was a little worried that her absence this year would affect attendance, but thankfully it hasn’t been a problem.”
“She won’t be making an appearance tonight?”
“I doubt it.” She smiled at him once more, drawing his gaze back to that luscious mouth, tempting him all over again. “She’s in Thailand.”
“Thailand?”
Riane nodded. “She and my father went on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary.”
Joel expected to be annoyed, even angry, at this revelation. His sole purpose in being here this evening was to contact the senator. But it was difficult to be angry when there was a soft, fragrant woman in his arms. Impossible to be annoyed that his source of information had been wrong.
“How long will they be gone?”
“What is your interest in my mother, Mr. Logan?”
“Joel,” he said, and smiled.
But she’d homed in on the direction of his questions and wouldn’t be deterred. “What is your interest in my mother, Joel?”
“I was just hoping, since I was in town anyway, that I might have an opportunity to meet with the senator.”
“Are you a Republican supporter?”
He realized, with reluctant admiration, that she was trying to trip him up. And had he not done his homework thoroughly, she might have done so with that question. Her mother was a Democrat.
“I’m not a card-carrying member of any party,” he told her.
He wasn’t sure if his response convinced her, but she let it drop. Joel accepted the reprieve, recognizing that he’d have to be a little more subtle if he didn’t want to raise Riane’s suspicions any further.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, he failed to spot the photographer until the flash of the camera’s
bulb blinded him. He instinctively stepped away, crushing Riane’s toes in his haste.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.” He mumbled the apology automatically, concentrated on breathing to slow the rapid beating of his heart as different reminiscences assailed him. Flash after flash. The incessant glare blinding. Reporters shoving, shouting. Microphones thrust at him. Headline after headline. Day after day. Until he dreaded even leaving his home.
“Are you undercover?” Riane asked.
Joel scowled. “I’m not a cop.”
“Then why did you jump three feet when that flashbulb went off?”
“I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not very photogenic,” he said dryly.
Riane laughed, and the soft, sexy sound was a welcome distraction from the recent direction of his thoughts.
“I doubt that,” she said.
“I didn’t know the press would be here,” Joel admitted. But he should have known, and he should have been prepared.
“I would have been disappointed if they weren’t,” Riane told him. “The more publicity we can generate for the Quinlan Camp, the better. High-level exposure equates to high-level contributions.”
He understood that. Just as he understood that Riane was accustomed to living in the spotlight—the last place Joel wanted to be. He’d had his life scrutinized by the media before, and he never wanted to live like that again.
He could only hope that some enterprising young reporter didn’t dig deep enough to discover the identity of Riane Quinlan’s dance partner. Then as soon as this case was closed, he’d be out of her life forever.
Still, as the song began to wind down, Joel found himself reluctant to let her go. He knew she was a distraction he could ill afford, a complication he wasn’t prepared for, but he couldn’t deny his attraction to her.
And when the final notes of the song merged into the first bars of the next, he didn’t figure it would hurt to hold her just a little while longer.
Then there was a firm tap on his shoulder and a smooth, masculine voice saying, “If you don’t mind, I’d like a dance with my fiancée.”
Chapter 2
R iane felt the censure in Joel’s gaze as he relinquished her hand to Stuart without comment and walked off the dance floor. She wanted to follow him, to explain, but pride prevented her from doing so. He had no right to make judgments about her, and besides, a well-bred lady didn’t chase after any man.
Instead she concentrated her attention on her new dance partner, who had already swept her into his arms and was moving smoothly to the strains of the music. Stuart’s movements were effortless, each step and turn flawlessly executed. There wasn’t anything that he didn’t do well, and he was an incredible dancer. But his touch didn’t heat her blood the way Joel’s had done. Her body didn’t yearn to press close to his as it had when she’d been dancing with the mysterious Mr. Logan.
She pushed the traitorous thoughts impatiently aside. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman, not a hormonal adolescent. It wasn’t like her to react to a man on such a primal level. Human beings were supposed to be civilized, to have power over their more basic urges.
Still, she couldn’t deny that something about Joel Logan appealed to her on a most fundamental level. Unwillingly, her gaze strayed to the back of the room where he’d once again stationed himself.
The formality of his attire failed to disguise the raw power he exuded. He had to be well over six feet—as she’d had to tip her head to meet his gaze despite the three inches her heels added to her five-foot, ten-inch frame—with broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist and long, lean legs. Just the memory of those muscles, solid and unyielding, caused her breath to quicken, her pulse to race.
“You seem lost in thought,” Stuart commented lightly.
Riane started, felt her cheeks flush. “Just tired.”
“You’ve had a busy few weeks preparing for tonight.”
“Yes,” she agreed, grateful for his easy acceptance of her explanation. Still, she was embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that Stuart’s absence had gone unnoticed until he’d interrupted her dance with Joel. She’d been so preoccupied with the success of the charity ball she hadn’t spared him a single thought.
And then she’d met Joel Logan, and she hadn’t thought about anything else.
She felt a twinge of guilt at the realization, but only a slight twinge. After all, she wasn’t really engaged to Stuart Etherington III. Although they’d talked, in abstract terms, about marriage, she resented his reference to her as his “fiancée,” as if their engagement was a fact rather than a possibility. But she wasn’t in the mood to take issue with his vocabulary now. It had been a wonderfully successful evening and she wouldn’t ruin it by bickering with him.
So she ignored the multitude of recriminations running through her mind and only said, “You were late.”
“I’m sorry.” His apology was more automatic than sincere. “I got tied up in meetings.”
She wasn’t surprised. Stuart had a successful corporate law practice and was often required to work long into the evening and frequently on weekends. She knew his hours would grow longer still when he launched the political career he wanted so much.
“You missed dinner,” she told him. “Cream of artichoke soup, warm chicken salad with rosemary dressing, poached salmon with tarragon sauce, champagne sherbet and peppered strawberries.”
“That sounds much better than the Italian takeout I had delivered to the office.”
“I’m sure it was,” she agreed. “But as long as you paid for your ticket, I won’t complain about the squandered meal.”
“You’re a mercenary.” There was admiration mingled with amusement in his tone.
“This camp is important to me. And to the kids who visit every summer.”
“I know,” Stuart placated. “And, yes, I paid for my ticket.”
She smiled. “Then I thank you for your support.”
“Has it been a successful evening?”
“Very,” she told him. “Even more so than last year.”
“You have a knack for this sort of thing,” Stuart told her.
“Organizing, fund-raising, delegating. Valuable qualities in a politician’s wife.”
Riane’s smile was strained. She resented Stuart’s implication that tonight’s charity ball was an exercise in politics for her; she hated that he couldn’t understand how much the camp mattered.
And yet, despite this fundamental difference of opinion, Riane believed that they were well suited for one another. They had similar goals and interests. They’d both been raised in political families, and they both understood the expectations and responsibilities of living in the public eye.
She sometimes wondered if he was more attracted to her political connections than her person, but she could hardly judge him when her own motives were less than ideal. Ultimately she and Stuart wanted the same thing: the White House. He had the ideas and the connections to take him there, and when he did, Riane had no qualms about exploiting her position as his wife and first lady to focus attention on the plight of underprivileged children in this country and around the world.
Yes, her relationship with Stuart was exactly what she wanted. She just sometimes wished he made her feel…
The thought fizzled. She didn’t know what was missing; she only knew that she wanted to feel the way she’d felt when Joel had held her in his arms.
She glanced toward the back of the room, searching, seeking.
But he was already gone.
Joel awoke the morning after the charity ball with the mother of all hangovers. He winced against the bright sunlight flooding through the window and cursed himself for not remembering to close the curtains the night before. Slowly he eased his legs over the side of the bed and found the floor. Satisfied that the world was once again solid beneath his feet, he scrubbed a hand over his cheek. It had been a lot of years since he’d
drunk himself into a stupor, but he’d done it often enough in the past that he should have known better.
Women, he thought disparagingly. They were all the same. From his mother, who’d abandoned him when he was six, to Jocelyn, who’d dumped him with no hint of remorse when the going got tough, they weren’t to be trusted. It was a lesson he should have learned long ago.
Unfortunately, he was a man, and there were times that basic urges couldn’t be denied. But sex and love were different things, and he’d managed to avoid emotional entanglements for the most part. Since Jocelyn, anyway. He was smart enough and discerning enough to seek companionship from women who wanted the same thing he did: simple, uncomplicated sex.
Riane Quinlan had almost made him forget that. There was nothing simple about the way she’d looked at him. Nothing simple about the feelings she’d roused inside him.
He shook his head, then winced at the explosion of pain that resulted from the movement. He’d obviously been too long without a woman if he could be taken in by a pair of dark eyes.
Cursing Shaun McIver for ever asking him to take on this case, everyone with any connection to the name Rutherford, and Riane Quinlan in particular, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face, then filled a glass and fished a couple of aspirin out of the bottle.
He winced again when the shrill ring of his cell phone echoed in the empty room. He might have been tempted to ignore it, but he knew the only person who would be calling this early on a Sunday morning was his partner. And Mike would only be calling if he had information to share.
“Logan.”
“I tracked Felicia Elliott to Flint, Michigan,” Mike said without preamble. “She was in a women’s shelter there for a few months after she left her husband.”
“Have you spoken to her?” Joel was less interested in the trail than he was in the results.
“She moved out several weeks ago.”
“Where is she now?”
“The director of the shelter wouldn’t give me that information.”
Although Joel understood the reasons for such a policy, he was frustrated. Every time he started to make any headway in this case, yet another obstacle was thrown in his path.
Some Kind of Hero Page 2
