Deceiving Derek

by Cindy Procter-King

  Derek grinned. “Okay, buddy, we’re in this together.” He lifted a finger to his mouth. “Shh. Don’t tell.”

  The End

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  As a child, Cindy dreamed of becoming a writer. Well, okay, thanks to her grade three teacher reading a chapter of The Little House on the Prairie books to Cindy’s class everyday, Cindy actually dreamed of becoming Laura Ingalls Wilder. It made so much sense. After all, Cindy’s blond older sister always got to wear blue while Cindy with the “dark as cinders” hair was often relegated to wearing dull old pink—just like Laura. Laura was part of a pioneer family, and until Cindy went to school she lived in a miniscule farming community where her father and grandparents were born. What further confirmation for her future does an eight-year-old with an avid imagination require?

  Cindy earned a degree in English Lit from the University of Victoria before unleashing herself on the unsuspecting workforce. However, she quickly realized her aversion to fluorescent lights and the numbers 9-2-5 wouldn’t gain her kudos from her various bosses. Luckily, her husband whisked her to a tiny logging town where she couldn’t find a job, unless you count a stint as secretary to the warden of a minimum security prison. There, Cindy began writing novels, and she hasn’t looked back. Because, honestly, what other employer in their right mind would want her?

  Cindy’s mission in life is to see her surname spelled properly—with an E. So take heed. That’s P-r-o-c-t-E-r. Not, no, never, under any circumstances should you spell Procter with two O’s. Cindy lives in British Columbia with her family, a cat obsessed with dripping tap water, and Allie McBeagle.

  Website – http://www.cindyprocter-king.com

  Blog – http://www.museinterrupted.com

  Facebook – http://www.facebook.com/cindyprocterkingauthor

  Twitter – http://www.twitter.com/cindypk

  Email: mailto:cindy@cindyprocter-king.com

  SNEAK PEEK AT CATCHING CLAIRE

  Story 2 in LOVE & OTHER CALAMITIES

  Stripping off his clothes in a room full of women was not Ridge Pedersen’s idea of a good time. But how could he refuse when the gigs paid a good portion of his med school bills?

  Exiting the elevator, he patted the tiny bag of coins in the pocket of his sleep pants. As he strode toward the apartment building’s laundry, a sour dairy scent emanated from the basket balanced against his hip. He wrinkled his nose.

  Over the last month, riotous bachelorette parties had crammed his summer weekends. Women mauled him, grabbed him, “forgot” to tip him—and sometimes puked on him. Thankfully, the latter hadn’t occurred at tonight’s job, although several women had slugged back oversized drinks comprised of vodka, various liqueurs, and cream. More than once, the petite future bride had offered Ridge a sip from her sticky cup, splashing his cop costume.

  Shaking his head at the memory, he shouldered into the laundry room and jerked to a stop. Beside the bulletin board, a curvy brunette shook her booty in a purple nightie that did wonders to her thighs. As she danced with her back to him, she curled a messy wave of brown hair behind her ear. A skinny electronics cord dangled from her earlobe, mostly likely attached to a miniscule music player tucked...somewhere interesting.

  Wow, she almost made up for tonight’s annoyances.

  Almost.

  Her singing sucked.

  The door slammed shut as Ridge walked past Claire Merriweather’s jiggling butt and set his basket on the first washing machine in the row. Claire had hired him for tonight’s party. However, the reserved tones of her voice mail requesting his services in no way matched her enthusiastic bouncing on spiky sandals. Purple panties peeked from the hem of her lingerie as she danced, and countless straps crisscrossed her spine. Swinging a plastic cup, she cannibalized an upbeat song about kissing girls.

  “I copped a feel—hiccup!” she belted in a flat soprano. “La, la, la, his—hic—nightstick!”

  Ridge recognized the side of her head, although not her daring outfit. During his performance in a fourth-floor apartment of the building, she’d remained within his vantage point in the hostess’s kitchen, prepping snacks and mixing drinks. She’d worn totally different clothes then. A conservative blouse and jeans that had nicely hugged her round behind.

  How had the girl who’d avoided his gaze while paying him at the door transformed into this out-of-tune sex kitten?

  Her glass swung again. The creamy concoction sloshed onto the scuffed linoleum beside a humming dryer.

  Ridge’s mouth quirked. Naturally. The booze.

  “Hello,” he called.

  Her eyes fluttered half-open. Poking her earphone, she bastardized the song again.

  “Hello!” Ridge walked toward her, banging the washers. Her gaze riveted to the bulletin board.

  He frowned. Didn’t she realize her vulnerable position? A woman alone in the unlocked laundry donned in lacy nightwear placed herself in unnecessary danger. Any loser—not him—could waltz in and see her.

  Take advantage of her.

  Attack her.

  She licked an ad on the flyer-infested bulletin board.

  Ridge did a double-take. Licked it!

  Narrowing his gaze, he stopped directly behind her. She tongued the ad a second time. His ad. For his stripping business.

  Nine of the original thirteen detachable paper strips inscribed with his cell phone number hung from the glossy eight-by-ten. Butchering the pop song, Claire Merriweather tore off every last slip. Giggling, she stuffed them into her top.

  Ridge rolled his eyes. In the color photo adorning the flyer, he wore the navy policeman costume she’d specified for the party. Stainless steel handcuffs dangled from his thick black belt while he gripped a strategically positioned nightstick. The intentional visual had netted him a generous profit as one of two part-time summer jobs. Under other circumstances, Claire’s thievery might flatter him. But registration for second-year med school occurred in a week.

  Nobody messed with his tuition money.

  He stepped within an inch of her. “Excuse me?” Voice hard, he tapped her shoulder.

  Shrieking, she jumped. Her drink winged out of the cup, drenching the flyer. One of her earphones popped out, the white cord swaying.

  Ridge, you idiot. What on earth was he thinking, scaring the pants off her?

  “Sorry.” Grasping her shoulders, he turned her around. “I hit the washers to catch your attention—”

  “It’s you!” Green eyes wide, she thumped the empty cup onto the droning dyer. “My cop-a-feel!” She threw her arms around his neck. Her full breasts crushed the loose T-shirt covering his chest, and the sweet aroma of Irish Cream drifted from her lips.

  Ridge pushed her away and held her there. Not that he didn’t appreciate her enthusiasm. In fact, certain parts of his body appreciated it too much.

  “You were at the party tonight,” he reminded her in case her neurons had misfired. “You hired me for your friend, Tanya. I danced with her. In Alicia Maxwell’s apartment. Remember?”

  A loopy grin plastered Claire Merriweather’s face. “I wouldn’t exactly say I hired you for Tanya.” The papers advertising his cell number fluttered in her top. The purple nightie—babydolls, that was it—had wide shoulder straps and lacy stuff that nipped at her waist and flared at her hips. He liked the tiny white bows along the hem. He liked the large bow centered on her cleavage even better. But…

  Up close, on a wildness scale of one to ten, Claire’s outfit rated a three. The neckline didn’t plunge, and the skirt concealed her butt—when she wasn’t bouncing around. The papers jutting from her top and the dangling music cord lent her the appearance of a disorganized cat burglar on a midnight heist.

  “Oh yeah, you hired me for Tanya,” Ridge stated. “She’s the bride.”

  Claire’s dimples flashed. “You look li
ke Demi Moore’s ex.”

  Ridge squinted. “Bruce Willis?”

  “No, silly. The young one. Don’t you—hic—twit?”

  “What? Oh, you mean tweet.”

  “Uh-huh. Twit.” She lifted a finger, and his grip on her slackened. “Soshul networking. Ash-hic has an account.” She nodded sagely. “You should sign up. You’d get a ton more calls.”

  Ridge grunted. “If you hadn’t destroyed my ad, I’d get calls the conventional way.”

  Her eyebrows wiggled. “You pack quite a package, Ridge.” Her gaze traveled to his pajama pants, which he wore commando.

  His jaw firmed. May lightning strike me dead. Now. I’ll donate my body to science.

  Two weeks ago, when Claire had hired him over the phone, her voice had sounded professional. Sensible. They’d discussed his rates and arrival time at Alicia Maxwell’s apartment, the duration and heat level of his performance. He had no problem flirting and stripping to a leather G-string, but drew the line at mimicking sex with the guest of honor.

  In tonight’s case, Tanya, Claire’s friend.

  He released her shoulders.

  Her hands whipped under his T-shirt. Jesus! Her palms skated over his pecs and abs. His pajama pants ran the risk of tenting in an energetic salute.

  “Make love with me,” she murmured.

  “Stop.” Grabbing her wrists, Ridge flipped her hands back out. “Claire. I don’t know what you think I’m advertising—” other than the party dances “—but I will not sleep with you.”

  “Aw.” She pouted. “Not even if I tip you?”

  “Especially not then.”

  She blinked. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “I don’t pick up drunk women.” Actually, between the med school grind and grabbing whatever work fit his busy schedule, he hadn’t gotten laid in longer than he cared to consider.

  “I’m not drunk,” Claire enunciated very clearly. Her bleary eyes signified otherwise.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Ridge released her wrists.

  “You won’t take me home?” She wobbled on her sandals. “No one ever takes me home. No one says I’m beautiful. Everybody thinks I’m fat. No one loves me. Everyone loves Tanya. Everyone loves Lacey. Some people even love Alicia. But I’m unlovable!”

  “You’re not unlovable. And you’re definitely not fat.” Why did women think all men wanted to date human pogo sticks?

  “If I were five-seven and had great boobs, then would you have sex with me?”

  Ridge trained his gaze on her face. “You do have great boobs.” From what he’d noticed moments ago.

  “You’re not looking at them. You’re not feeling them.” Flinging her arms in the air, she launched herself at him. “Catch!”

  Instinctively, Ridge’s hands shot up. Her rack landed in his palms. Oops.

  “There.” Her loopy smile returned. “Now tell me they aren’t great.”

  “I never said they weren’t great.” Damn, they felt amazing. Spilling over his fingers. Firm yet soft. Perfection.

  Don’t look down.

  He looked down.

  His thumb edged the center bow, his fingers pressing the paper strips lining her bare skin above the modest neckline.

  Look back up, Pederson. Don’t you dare squeeze these babies. Not even once.

  She slumped against him. Ridge stumbled back a step as her temple knocked his chin and her head sagged onto his shoulder. Her arms flopped, trapping his hands against his chest.

  “Claire?” He glanced at her face.

  Her mouth had slackened with sleep, her eyes sealed shut.

  Damn it.

  She’d passed out with her hot knockers filling his hands.

  What the hell did he do now?

  Find Out More at http://www.cindyprocter-king.com

  SNEAK PEEK AT HEAD OVER HEELS

  CHAPTER 1

  “What?” Justin Kane shot up from his desk, gripping the cordless phone so tight that his knuckles threatened to pop out of their skin. “Tina, you can’t do this to me.”

  “Oh no? Well, I’m doing it, lover.” Justin’s apparently soon-to-be ex-girlfriend’s voice grated over the line. “You’ve taken advantage of me for the last time.”

  “Taken advantage?” Justin echoed like some slow-on-the-uptake parrot. She made him sound like a class-A jerk—as if she’d never had a hand in defining the casual nature of their relationship. He shook his head. “I’ve never taken advantage of you any more than you’ve taken advantage of me.”

  “Then let’s say I’ve grown tired of the game.”

  “Game? Tina, wait, this isn’t a game.” Racking his brain for a recent list of sins he must have com-mitted, Justin paced his efficiently organized office above the main Vancouver branch of his three CycleMania bike stores. He couldn’t let Tina walk out on him now. The ink hadn’t been applied to the deal with Willoughby Bikes yet.

  He wanted that distributorship, and he needed Tina’s help to get it.

  “Besides,” he reminded her, “I thought you liked what we have going together. I thought you liked it as much as I do.”

  “I did like it, Justin, but things change. Or maybe I should say I’ve changed. Do you know what this weekend means to me?”

  “Of course I do. The same as it does to me. The Willoughbys are flying in tomorrow, and we’re taking them to Whistler.” The nearby mountain resort town would serve as the perfect backdrop for convincing Nathan Willoughby that CycleMania would fit seamlessly into the British bike manufacturer’s growing worldwide “family” of distributors. Justin had been counting on Tina’s presence to cement the image of stability the English businessman demanded.

  Tina snorted, rather delicately, but a snort all the same. “Work is the first thing you would think of. But if you try real hard, you might come up with something else.”

  Justin shoved a hand through his hair. He had been trying to decipher this disconcerting new dialect of Tina-speak, and he’d wound up several thousand syllables short. What did she expect? She’d propelled him into alien territory.

  “It’s your birthday?” he guessed.

  “No, it’s not my birthday. That was in April. It’s July.” A huff of irritation resounded in his ear. “Damn it, Justin, you’re dense. You’re either dense or you don’t care.”

  He frowned. When had his superficial and how-he-liked-her Tina transmuted into this perplexing pod person? Dragging in a breath, he focused on a framed poster of the Cyclone—Willoughby’s pro-level, full-suspension mountain bike—he’d hung on the wall to inspire motivation.

  “What then?” he asked.

  “It’s the six-month anniversary of our first date.” Her tone assumed the durability of quick-dry shellac.

  Shit. He hadn’t realized they were keeping track. “I didn’t think that sort of thing mattered to you.”

  “I didn’t, either—in January. Like I said, I’ve changed. I’m thirty-four now, Justin. Your mid-thirties might spell fun and games to you, but my damn clock is ticking. I want to get married, maybe have a baby. I’m not prepared to wait forever for you to decide you want the same.”

  “Come on, Tina, be reasonable. You can’t suddenly announce that you’re thinking babies and marriage when all along we’ve agreed they’re not on the agenda.” Justin refused to repeat his father’s mistakes. He wouldn’t mix marriage and raising a family with building a business, the way his father had done with his law practice. He’d thought Tina understood and accepted that about him.

  “Oh please. I refuse to feel guilty for doing this. My needs have changed and yours haven’t. It’s that simple.”

  “But to break up with me now? Nathan Willoughby and his wife expect to meet you. How can I take them to Whistler without you?”

  “Tell them I have the flu.”

  “And next week?”

  “Tell them I fell off a cliff. I don’t care. You’ll think of something. You always do.” She paused. “Listening to you, Justin, it’s clear you don’t want me
. Not in the way I need. So why should I worry about this weekend? About whether or not you close this deal? Fend for yourself, big guy. That’s what you’ve done all this time, anyway.” She hung up.

  “Tina!” He punched in her number—and went straight to voice mail.

  He tossed the cordless onto the desk. Sitting, he scrubbed a hand over his face.

  Hell, what a mess. What now? He couldn’t go to Whistler without Tina. He’d look like a heel spending a carefree July weekend with the Willoughbys while Miss Personality Switcheroo supposedly lay in bed with a fever. Yet he couldn’t say she’d dumped him, either. One indication that Justin’s life was a shambles and Nathan Willoughby would write him off as unreliable. Justin could kiss the exclusive dealership rights for Willoughby Bikes in Vancouver and the distributorship for Western Canada goodbye.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. He might be an ignoramus when it came to the female of the species, but he knew his business and he wasn’t willing to risk it. The four-month window he’d established for opening more bike stores depended on the financing the Willoughby Bikes deal would pro-vide. Justin wasn’t about to abandon that major step in his carefully constructed master life plan be-cause Tina had sprouted maternal instincts the way most women sprouted leg hair.

  Which left him with one option to pursue.

  He needed a woman to replace Tina for the weekend.

  And he had to find her fast.

  ~*~

  Magee Sinclair glanced at her watch: 11:20. “Time to suck up to the client,” she mumbled, tapping the papers for CycleMania’s preliminary advertising plan on her desk. Usually, she didn’t think of these touch-base lunches in frank terms. However, Justin Kane’s account, with its phenomenal opportunity for growth, could singlehandedly pull Sinclair Advertising out of the red. Plus give her father necessary peace of mind. For that, Mr. Kane merited a bit of fawning over.