Jennifer stared at him, horrified. The letter hadn't been sent, obviously.
"She wouldn't have voluntarily left me," he swore with quiet fervor.
A soft, anguished cry rose in her throat, and tears of guilt, regret and loss pushed at the back of her eyes. She had voluntarily left him. For his own good. He didn't know that, though. He'd been left to wonder this entire time what had happened to her, to believe that she might come back. For seven years.
"I'm … um, sorry," she whispered through a clenched throat. "About your wife."
He stared at her as if she had somehow surprised him. Inwardly she cursed her inability to remain unmoved … and his uncanny ability to perceive her emotions, even when she tried to hide them. He should have taken her apology as a generic expression of sympathy—something anyone might say. And yet, intensity gathered again in his expression.
"I'd better go." She wrenched her gaze away from his and brushed past him toward the stairs. She'd have to return to the lower landing, since the door at this level had been locked.
"Wait a minute." He fisted one hand around the stair railing, blocking her descent with his forearm. He continued to scrutinize her face as he stood unnervingly near. She sensed a new, streetwise cynicism in him—and iron-strong determination. He was, undoubtedly, a man to be reckoned with.
Fear skittered within her. Not of him, but of herself. She'd never been able to refuse him anything. Isn't that why she'd relied on a letter rather than telling him in person about her need to disappear? This new hardened edge he'd acquired somehow evoked a longing within her, making her all the more vulnerable. She wanted to soften that edge. Dispel the cynicism.
"Why did you run?" he demanded.
"R-run?" Had he recognized her after all?
"You saw me, and took off running." He searched her gaze. "Why?"
"I … I…" Her mind drew a blank. What reason could she possibly give for sprinting through a hotel lobby? Desperately she improvised, "I thought you were someone else."
"Who?"
"I don't believe that's any of your business." She heard the slight tremor in her voice and knew that he'd heard it, too. Good. He would never knowingly intimidate a woman. "Now please let me pass."
Amazingly enough, he didn't budge. And his expression didn't soften. That "hard edge" apparently went deeper than she'd thought. "Tell me why you ran."
Diana, the starry-eyed girl she'd once been, would have caved beneath that intensely determined stare. But Jennifer, the world-weary woman she'd become, had acquired a few hard edges of her own. "Do you realize you're holding me prisoner?"
A mirthless smile bent his mouth. "I also chased you through a crowded lobby and pinned you against a wall. If you want to accuse me of wrongdoing, there's not much I could do about it now." Before she had time to threaten him, he murmured, "When a woman takes one look at me and makes a mad dash for the exit, I want to know why. Who were you running from, if not from me?"
Why, oh, why had she run? She'd done the exact thing she'd intended not to do—arouse his suspicions. She had to find a way to allay those suspicions, or he could cause terrible trouble. "I thought you were hotel security."
He lifted his brows in surprise. "Why would you run from hotel security?"
The answer—a truly inspired one—came to her from a movie she'd once seen. "I've … um, been asked not to come back here."
"Why?"
She raised her chin. Drew in a deep breath. "If you must know, I'm a working girl. I came to solicit clients." Not too much of a lie. She had solicited clients for her firm at this hotel. He didn't need to know that her solicitation consisted of a few visits to the hotel offices to place temporary clerical workers.
His frown deepened. "Are you telling me you're a hooker?" His incredulity couldn't have been more apparent.
"I prefer to call myself a 'professional.'" Realizing that she'd thoroughly dazed him, she took advantage of his momentary lapse and pushed her way past him. Her legs trembled as she descended the stairs and strode toward the door through which she had entered the stairwell.
This door, too, was locked. Was she locked in a stairwell with him, for God's sake?
His footsteps echoed as he descended the stairs behind her. "Problem?"
Reluctantly she released her death grip on the door handle, but she kept her back to him. The less time he spent examining her face, the better. "It's locked. We'll have to check the other levels." She hurried down another flight of stairs, but darkness awaited below.
Darkness had always unnerved her.
Pausing on the landing, she peered down toward the door. A mass of ladders, tools and heavy construction equipment filled the darkened lower landing, barring her way to both the inner and outer door.
"Great," she muttered.
"Good thing there's no fire," he mused from directly behind her. "Maybe they've left one of the doors upstairs unlocked." He turned and led the way up to the level above the one they'd previously tried. Checking the handle, he grimaced and shook his head.
She led the way up the next flight and tried that door. Locked!
"Why would they have a door from the lobby level that opens into a locked stairwell?" she cried, thoroughly frustrated.
"The doors on the upper floors are locked to the outside for security purposes, I'm sure, but the door on ground level should remain open from the inside in case of emergencies." Staring at the mass of heavy equipment below them, he shook his head. "An oversight that needs to be corrected."
"Immediately!" she concurred with heartfelt zeal.
He glanced at her. "Yeah, immediately would be good."
Her breath hitched at the mild amusement glinting in those familiar brown eyes. How often had she dreamed of seeing his gaze lit with just such humor? How often had she longed for the comfort of his large, powerful body, the sweet delirium of his kiss?
She had to get away from him! Abruptly she pivoted to climb another flight of stairs. A sense of futility filled her, though. She could well imagine climbing to all thirty floors—with a double flight leading to each—only to find every door locked.
His hand shot out as she tried to pass him, halting her. "If you don't calm down," he said softly, "you'll hyperventilate before you reach the next floor."
She realized then that she was breathing rather heavily—not from exertion, but from panic.
"Sit down." Gently gripping her arms, he seated her on the stairway and settled down beside her. "There's no need to panic. I might have seemed like a madman, but I'm really not too far gone. And we won't be trapped here for long."
"How do you know that? With my luck, we'll be here all night."
He reached into the pocket of his jeans and drew out a small cell phone.
Relief forced a slight smile from her. "Maybe my luck's changing. If I have to be trapped in a stairwell with someone, I guess I picked the right guy."
"My luck must be changing, too. I mean, if I have to be trapped in a stairwell with someone—" his stare again took on the intensity that had shaken her "—who better than a beautiful 'professional'?"
Her face warmed. What did he mean by that? Was he coming on to her? Even believing she was a hooker?
"For a professional, you sure do blush easily."
She compressed her lips and glanced away from him, trying to still the pounding of her heart. "Just call for help, will you?"
"Sure. If that's what you want. Hotel security could be here within minutes. That's who would come, you know."
The implications quickly registered, and she glanced at him in dismay. She'd told him that hotel security would know her for a prostitute. She couldn't very well urge him to bring them on … especially since they might recognize her as Jennifer Hannah, the representative from Helping Hand Staffing Services. She'd visited this hotel quite a few times in the past couple of weeks and had chatted with more than one employee in the security office.
She couldn't let Trev know her name or where she worked. She had to break all tie
s with her past. Just in case he somehow realized her true identity, she would leave no trail for him to follow when she moved. And she needed to use her current employer as a reference during her job search.
The thought of having to start all over in a new town, a new job, filled her with desolation. There was no help for it, though. Trev was in Sunrise, which meant she couldn't stay. The thought of leaving him for a second time made the desolation that much worse.
She shouldn't be with him at all.
He lifted the phone to key in the numbers.
She stopped him by placing her hand over his. "Maybe you can call someone you know, instead of hotel security." She certainly couldn't call anyone she knew. The only ones she could think of were co-workers, who'd be sure to give away too much about her. "Do you have friends anywhere nearby?"
"A couple of business associates and their wives came with me from California. They are staying in the hotel, but they're not carrying cell phones. And they drove to Savannah for a night on the town."
Though disappointment tugged at her, she couldn't help digging for more information about him. "You're here on a business trip?"
"For business, yes, but it's more than just a trip. I'll be renting a place here in Sunrise until the house I'm building is ready."
Her heart turned over. He was building a house in Sunrise. "You're moving here … permanently?"
"For a couple of years, at least. My company will be developing a community of homes."
She bet she knew where his personal home would be. They'd picked the site out together. On their honeymoon. Apparently he hadn't forgotten. Apparently he'd been as affected by the place as she.
An almost painful yearning gripped her. How she'd love to see his home when it was finished. To live there with him, as they'd planned. Oh, Trev…!
"What about you?" he asked. "Do you live in Sunrise?"
"Me?" She could barely force words past the ache in her throat. "No. I'm just visiting."
"From where?"
"I travel a lot. Stay on the move."
"But you've been to this hotel in this small town so many times that Security warned you to stay away."
"Yes." She nodded emphatically, hoping the lie didn't sound too improbable. "New hotels like this are very lucrative. You know … lots of traveling businessmen. It's well worth my time to come in from—from the big city," she finished lamely.
Intelligence burned too brightly in his eyes, along with ever-growing curiosity. "I'm Trev Montgomery." He extended his hand for a cordial shake, and she reluctantly complied. She didn't, however, tell him her name, which prompted him to add, "And you are…?"
Resolutely she avoided his scrutiny, allowing her dark blond, shoulder-length hair to fall like a curtain over her face and obstruct his view. "I never give my real name." She twisted her shoulder-strap purse around and clutched it in her lap like a shield. "None of us … professionals give our real names. In our line of work, it's not wise." When he didn't reply, she ventured a sideways glance at him. "Why do you want it, anyway? We should be out of this stairwell soon, one way or another."
"Maybe I'm not ready to let you go."
Warmth and foreboding flushed through her. "Wh-why not?"
"Because you look so damn much like my wife that even now, I can't help staring at you." The fervor in his quiet voice shook her. "If you had a Southern drawl, you'd sound like her, too." He hooked a finger beneath her chin and tipped her face to his. "And you blush just like she does." After a long, hard stare, he quietly amended, "Like she did."
She pulled back from his hold and channeled her rioting emotions into blazing indignation. "You can't still believe I'm your wife!"
"No, but I can't believe there's no connection, either. Maybe you're related to her."
"I'm not."
"How do you know?"
"Because I have no family."
"Neither did Diana … or so she thought. But now I'm not so sure she was right about that. You could easily pass for her sister."
Afraid of where his conjectures might lead, she shot to her feet. "You need to get over her," she said in a trembling voice. "If she's been gone for seven years, she isn't coming back."
"Seven years?" Slowly he stood up. "I never told you how many years she's been gone."
Hot dismay flooded her. "Yes, you did. You said she's been missing for seven years."
"I said 'several.'"
"Several?" She swallowed hard. "Oh. I … I misunderstood. My mistake."
He stared at her in a searching, doubting way until her heartbeat pounded in her ears. "But she has been gone for seven years."
"Look, mister, I don't know anything about your wife. And I have no family. None."
"And you're a prostitute."
"Yes."
His gaze flickered down the length of her, taking in her conservative gray sweater, narrow black skirt and high heels. "You don't look like one." Lifting one broad shoulder, he qualified that with "Except maybe for the black spiked heels."
"My shoes look like a hooker's?"
A wry gleam lit in his eyes. "That upsets you?"
"No!" It did, of course. Shoes were a weakness of hers. She couldn't resist a particularly appealing pair, which she'd considered these to be. "I mean, well, in a way. I … I was trying to blend in with my, um, clientele."
"You don't act like a hooker, either."
She planted a hand on her hip and glared at him. "So, you consider yourself an expert on the subject?" She hadn't meant to sound so tart. But here he was, acting like an authority on prostitutes.
Good Lord … was he? They'd been apart for seven years, and she hadn't expected—or wanted—him to remain faithful, but she didn't like to think of him consorting with prostitutes. He'd always been a favorite with women. Half the women in his hometown had been in love with him. He wouldn't need to buy sex.
"Maybe I do consider myself an expert on the subject."
"You've been … with hookers?" she asked, trying desperately to mask her shock and disapproval.
His wide, firm mouth slanted, suggesting the start of a rueful smile, though his gaze remained serious and intent. "Now, see there?" He swept the back of his fingers gently down her cheek. "That's the kind of look and tone and question that makes me doubt you're a professional."
His gentleness—and the slow, light sweep of his fingers up the outer curve of her face—was her undoing. Closing her eyes, she rested her shoulders against the wall, savored his touch, and struggled against the urge to give up the fight. To tell him the truth. To hold him again. Love him again.
But she could never, ever do that to him. The truth would only ruin his life. She knew that more certainly now than she had seven years ago. Because back then, she hadn't been sure that he would insist on going with her into hiding. The mere possibility had frightened her into leaving him with only a letter as a goodbye. Now she felt sure that he would have opted to go with her—and leave behind his family, his hometown and the business he'd worked so hard to build.
She couldn't take him away from all that and force him into this dangerous, lonely, fear-riddled life. She couldn't turn him into one of the shadow people.
But, oh, the sensuous stroking of his thumb beside her mouth and the warmth of his nearness evoked a poignant longing within her.
"Why would I lie?" she asked, breathing in the virile scent of his skin and hair.
"I don't know." His thumb slid in a lingering path across her bottom lip, and sensations ricocheted through her. "I don't know who you are or what you're hiding, but I know it's something."
Her eyes opened at that. "No, no … it's nothing. I'm hiding nothing."
His golden-brown gaze connected with hers, probing too deeply. "Then if you are a hooker," he said, his breath hot against her face, "how much do you charge for a kiss?"
Desire surged through her at his hoarse question. No other man had ever affected her so strongly. No other man had made her ache for him. "I—I don't … I can't…"
"Put this one on my tab." He tipped her face up and touched his lips lightly to hers. A slow, sensual, wide-eyed greeting. A cautious pronouncement of his intentions. Her lashes dipped at the excruciating sweetness—a sweetness she'd been craving for so long—but her gaze never wavered from his. "And this one." He then slanted his mouth, leaving caution behind, plunging onward in deep, hot exploration.
She clung and flowed and closed her eyes, giving everything she dared. The pleasure lifted her above the pain, and she allowed herself to soar, ever so briefly, above the clouds.
The kiss ended all too soon, leaving her hungry for more. He pressed his slightly abrasive cheek to hers and said in a low, tremulous murmur of awe, "My God, you even taste like her."
The pain returned, more voracious than ever. She had to get away! She moved to pull from his embrace, fearing that if she didn't do so now, she'd never have the strength.
But he only held her tighter. "If you're really a hooker," he whispered against her hair, "come to my room. I'll pay."
Heated yearning coursed through her, along with a profusion of conflicting emotions. He was ready to make love to her, a stranger, a woman he believed to be a prostitute. He was willing to pay her. She hated that! And yet, he was willing because he wanted her … or rather, the woman he'd once believed her to be. Even that idea tore her in two. She couldn't help cherishing the fact that he still missed her, still wanted her—still remembered the flavor of her kiss—but she wished he'd found peace and happiness.
She'd caused him too much pain.
Didn't she owe him at least a few stolen moments of happiness tonight? Couldn't she allow herself the luxury of one last time with him?
No! Loving him incognito would never bring either of them happiness, even for a moment.
As if sensing her imminent refusal, he groaned, pressed her against the stairwell wall and kissed her again with hot, sweet insistence.
She couldn't break away just yet. She'd been without him for too long. She'd wanted this. She'd wanted him … and she would never have another chance. She leaned into him, and her arms came around his neck.
Passion built with stunning swiftness, and when the need grew too great, too frenzied, he broke the kiss and braced his jaw against her temple, his heart thundering with hers, his breathing loud and hard. "I haven't wanted anybody in seven damn years the way I want you."
INTIMATE STRANGER Page 2
