Both he and she would be better off if Trev forgot Jennifer Hannah's existence.
As risky as two days spent in his company might be, she believed she could use that time to put a definite end to his interest in her. And if his chivalrous concern for her didn't wear thin, he would, at least, honor his promise to forget about her when the two days were over.
Two days. Just two short days. With Trev.
She laid a hand across her racing heart. She hadn't imagined that she'd ever spend another day with him, let alone two. And three nights. Nothing stood in the way except her own hesitation. Trev's plan to convince her boss that he needed Jennifer's help had succeeded with incredible ease. Not only had Phyllis agreed to allow Jennifer to help him set up his office, but she actually insisted that Jennifer accept the assignment.
"You're leaving me in a lurch, Jennifer, by quitting on such short notice," Phyllis had said, stunned and upset by Jennifer's announcement that this would be her last week. "The least you could do is help me out with this one last favor. This could be an important opportunity for the agency to get in good with Mr. Montero's firm. Who knows how many temps we can place with him in the next few years?"
Jennifer hated to allow Phyllis's expectations to grow too high. Trev had come to them under the false name of Mr. Montero. He clearly wasn't intending to do business with them in the future. Fortunately, Phyllis expected Jennifer to handle the paperwork involved in the transaction, as she usually did with new accounts, which made the falsehood easier to process.
Although she felt guilty for deceiving Phyllis, Jennifer was relieved that Trev had chosen to stick with his false name. No one could connect Trev Montgomery to Jennifer Hannah, even through an innocuous work assignment.
The proverbial door was open for her to go to him. Spend time with him. Put an end to his dangerous interest in her.
Her heart twisted at that thought. She would have to leave him then … again. But before she left, she intended to ease his mind and convince him that Jennifer Hannah was not "afraid, miserable and alone," as he'd called her, but an experienced prostitute who knew the ropes, thoroughly enjoyed her work and didn't want to be reformed.
That was possible, wasn't it? Surely there had to be prostitutes who enjoyed the job. There'd been a book written by one happy hooker. Jennifer wished she had time to find it and read it.
Unfortunately, Trev expected her to meet him at six o'clock, an hour from now, at a house he'd just rented. No time to find books about happy hookers.
An idea occurred to her, though. She could take a few moments to search the Internet for some X-rated stories to relate about her misadventures. A few particularly lurid ones should convince him of her incorrigibility.
Consumed with sudden purpose, she lurched out of the tub, dried off, shrugged into her robe and snuffed out the caramel-scented candles on the bathroom vanity that she always burned when she most needed to relax. Time for relaxation was over. She had research to do.
She spent the next half-hour on her computer, surfing from site to site, each one more explicit than the last. It certainly seemed some people enjoyed leading wicked lives. How hard could it be to persuade Trev that she'd experienced these things, and loved every minute?
Satisfied with the depravity of the scenarios she'd chosen, she switched off her computer and headed for her bedroom to get dressed for the evening. This time, she'd dress to fit her role. No wonder he hadn't believed her to be an experienced prostitute. He'd seen her wearing office clothes. The only office clothes she'd seen on those X-rated sites had been jazzed up with indecently short skirts, tight sweaters or low-cut blouses.
She wouldn't be Ms. Prim 'n' Proper tonight. Before the night was out, he'd be embarrassed to admit that he'd ever thought she wasn't "that kind of girl."
She rifled through her closet for an outfit she could quickly alter into something naughty, then searched her dresser for jewelry she'd bought but rarely worn. She also found a small kit of makeup she'd received as a bonus gift at a cosmetic counter, with shades of lipstick and nail polish she normally wouldn't have chosen. Then, of course, she had to mull over her wide selection of shoes—her one true extravagance—many with the high spiked heels that would perfectly complete a naughty outfit.
Just as she finished assembling a perfectly shocking outfit, the doorbell rang. She froze. Visitors rarely called unexpectedly, and any surprise of that nature unsettled her. Still wearing her long, mauve, terry-cloth bathrobe, she hurried across her living room to the foyer and peered through the peephole. Trev stood on her doorstep.
Why? Anxiety pulsed in her temples. She was supposed to meet him at his newly rented house, not here! Never would she have agreed to allow him to come here. And how had he known where she lived?
"Open up, Jen," he called, rapping loudly on the door. "It's Trev."
She didn't want to open the door. She wasn't prepared for him to enter her home. But if she didn't answer, he'd only continue knocking and yelling, which would draw too much attention.
Reluctantly, she opened the door and let him in, but blocked him from venturing beyond the foyer. "How did you know where I live, Trev?" she demanded.
"Your driver's license." He smiled at her with that lazy masculine charm that always warmed her from the inside out. "It was in your purse Friday night."
She supposed she should have realized that. Flustered by his unexpected presence and his potent sexual allure, she frowned. "What are you doing here? I thought I was supposed to meet you at your house."
"Slight change in plans."
"You could have telephoned." Though worry buzzed in her chest, she was all too conscious of his physical immensity, the rugged attractiveness of his face and the undeniably sexual appeal of his muscular build, so evident now in the black shirt and tight-fitting black jeans he wore.
"Didn't have your number. Want to give it to me?"
"Actually, no." She had to be careful with him. Had to keep her head on straight, despite the dazed, breathless feeling he inspired.
She suddenly realized that she might have left something visible in her apartment that would give away her identity as Diana. A patchwork quilt that she'd kept from the trunk of her car lay across her sofa. A picture that she'd sketched of the dog they'd had adorned her bedroom dresser. A manuscript she was currently working on—simply because she couldn't bear to give up writing altogether—sat beside her computer in the living room. Her writing would surely remind him of Diana's.
"Mmm." He inhaled deeply and glanced beyond her with an oddly questioning frown. "What's that smell? Like candy, or cookies."
"Caramel-scented candles." She'd almost forgotten that she'd been burning them earlier. With a rush of dismay, she remembered that she'd burned them frequently at their home … back when they'd been married. "You've … you've probably smelled them before. Plenty of times. They're very popular. A lot of women love caramel-scented candles. Just about everyone I know burns them."
But a troubled, faraway look now clouded his eyes.
"What change of plans did you come to tell me about?" she asked sharply, hoping to distract him. Scents, she knew, could evoke memories quicker than anything. Fearing the power of remembered fragrances, she'd made a point to switch from her usual bath soap. You even smell like Diana, he'd said the first time they'd met. And now he'd entered her home and smelled caramel candles. "I'm not ready to go yet. You said to meet you at six o'clock."
Her sharpness jarred him from his reverie. It took him a moment to reply—as if he was struggling to put the past behind him. "Sorry." He shook his head, raked a hand through his light brown hair and cast her an apologetic smile. "I forgot about the tickets I had for tonight. A potential investor made a point to get them for me. I guess I'd better use them."
"What tickets?"
"For a play at a small dinner theater."
"You don't expect me to go with you, do you? I told you I can't be seen—"
"—around town with me," he finished for
her. "But this isn't in town. It's a two-hour drive north of here, in some little town that seems to be populated only by artists, writers and theater people. When the investor who gave me the tickets found out I'm finishing a script for a play, he assumed I was interested in theater, and insisted I check this one out."
Jennifer stared at him in surprise. "You're writing a play?" She couldn't have understood him correctly. Trev had never been overly interested in writing, or in the theater. She'd been the one writing a play.
"It's my wife's project. My late wife's," he amended with sadness roughening his voice. "It meant a lot to her. It's almost completed. All but the last act. My grandmother is a writer, and I tried to get her to finish it. I'd like to have it published and produced in Diana's memory. Unfortunately—" he let out a slight laugh "—my grandmother refuses to believe that Diana isn't coming back. So, uh, I'm going to try my hand at writing. Guess I ought to watch at least one play before I get started."
Jennifer compressed her lips to keep them from trembling. He intended to finish her play and have it produced. Could he possibly understand how much that effort meant to her? She'd worked for years on that play—night after night, as well as any moment she could steal from her busy days. And when she'd met Trev's grandmother, they'd plotted out more twists and turns in the story. They'd cherished such grand hopes.
And Babs believed she was coming back.
Trev had clearly decided she wasn't. He'd called her his "late wife."
Jennifer tried to utter something nonchalant, but no sound came out. It was good that he'd laid Diana's ghost to rest. And it was touching that Babs refused to. How she'd love to lay her head on Babs's shoulder for a good, long cry … then sit down over cups of her herbal tea for one of their brainstorming sessions.
"Anyway, I have these dinner theater tickets for this evening. What do you say? There shouldn't be much of a crowd on a Monday night. And in case you're concerned about being recognized by stoolies who might report back to your, uh, nonexistent business associate—" he underscored the sarcasm with a wry twist of his mouth "—I brought you these." He held up a pair of women's large, round sunglasses and a small-brimmed straw hat. "You can wear them until we're out of town."
Struggling to think objectively, Jennifer slowly took the glasses and hat from him. She hadn't intended to go anywhere with him except his home. But she doubted that anyone from the U.S. Marshals Service was anywhere near Sunrise at the moment. And she'd had no reason to believe that she'd been spotted by her enemies. Although she wouldn't want to be seen publicly in Trev's company—purely for caution's sake—the only real threat to her cover was the man standing in front of her.
And she'd already decided to spend the next two days with him. Perhaps it would be better to spend the first evening in a small, dimly lit theater where they'd be occupied by a play, rather than at his home, just the two of them, with plenty of time for conversation … and long searching stares.
"Okay." She nodded decisively, hoping she wasn't making a mistake by venturing out with him. "I'll go to the dinner theater with you."
He smiled, looking somewhat amused—maybe at the extreme gravity of her reply. She'd better lighten up, she decided, or he'd have more reason to believe that she was troubled. "Good. You won't regret it," he murmured. His gaze wandered from her face to her wet, tangled hair, then down the length of her robed figure. "Go get dressed." Was she imagining the subtle huskiness now in his voice, the sensual warmth in his stare? Maybe so, but a responsive heat still flared within her. "We'll have to leave in the next twenty minutes or so to make it in time."
"Fine." She'd barely been with him a few moments, and already her thoughts had turned to the sensual. Not a good start. She had a role to play, and though that role had everything to do with sex, she couldn't let herself become personally involved with him again. She was too emotionally vulnerable. "You can wait in the car while I get dressed."
"In the car?" He aimed a curious glance beyond her, toward the small, tidy living room, only half visible from the paneled foyer where they stood. "Why can't I wait in here?"
"No, I'm sorry." She steeled herself to deliver the explanation. "I, um, never allow Johns into my home. It's a matter of principle."
Other than a slight furrowing of his brows, his expression didn't change. "But I'm not here as a john. I'm here as your temporary employer. And, I hope, a friend."
"That's sweet of you, Trev. But you are a john. That's all you'll ever be to me. And I can't have you in my home."
The silence that fell between them could only be called oppressive. The warm, sensual light extinguished in his gaze, breaking her heart a little more. Excruciating as that statement had been to make, she couldn't allow herself to regret it. She had only two days to convince him that prostitution was her life's calling—her chosen profession—and that she'd allow nothing to interfere with it.
"Then I guess I'll wait in the car," he said.
She nodded.
He turned and reached for the doorknob, then glanced back at her. "You do intend to honor our agreement, don't you? To spend two days and three nights with me … in my home?"
She didn't miss the barbed point behind the softly spoken question. He would welcome her in his home even though she wouldn't have him in hers. Her rudeness clearly hadn't shaken his resolve.
"Only because you insist."
"Do you have a suitcase I can carry for you?"
"No, thank you. Just an overnight bag, and it's light."
He inclined his head briefly in response and exited her apartment with stiff, economical movements and an uncharacteristic soberness to his expression.
Her heart ached. He didn't deserve such treatment. He deserved a woman who would cherish him forever—and make sweet, passionate love to him every chance she got. She hoped he'd find that woman soon.
But not too soon. Not until she herself was far enough away that the torment wouldn't kill her.
* * *
5
« ^ »
He knew he had no right to be angry. She hadn't wanted his company to begin with. He'd used every ploy he could think of to pressure her into spending the next two days with him. Why should he expect to be welcomed into her home?
He didn't blame her for drawing a line between her personal and "professional" lives. He was glad, damn glad, that she didn't bring Johns home with her. And he couldn't deny that he had been her john—as recently as three nights ago. No reason for her to view him in any other light.
But as he sat waiting for her in the luxury sedan he'd rented, parked on the quiet street outside her garden-style quadruplex, his jaw clenching and his fingers drumming against the steering wheel, he couldn't help feeling as if she'd slapped him.
You're a john. That's all you'll ever be to me. Why should that bother him? He didn't want a personal relationship with her. He just wanted to help her out of a dangerous situation.
Yeah, right. That's all you want.
Memories resurfaced of Friday night's lovemaking. And the kiss he'd stolen earlier today. And the sight of her just now, wearing a robe—only a robe, he was sure—with her hair damp and loose around her shoulders, her skin flushed and dewy-fresh from her recent bath … more sensitive to his touch, he'd bet…
He shut his eyes, ground his teeth. Okay, so maybe he wanted more than just to help her, but he wouldn't allow himself anything beyond friendship. The issue was moot, anyway. She seemed resolved to avoid any relationship with him at all. He should be glad.
But he wasn't. He was angry—with her, for not appreciating his offer of help, and with himself, for wanting her. For caring too much about her. What madness had come over him? She was a prostitute, and she didn't want his help. He was asking for trouble. Possibly big trouble.
No matter what she said, though, he sensed fear and anguish in her as clearly as if she'd begged aloud for help. He couldn't turn his back on that.
How can you be so sure of what she's feeling? You don't know her.
In some remote, analytical portion of his brain, he knew it was only reasonable to attribute his beliefs about her to the fact that she resembled Diana. He was probably endowing Jen with Diana's sensibilities instead of perceiving her as her own person. He had to admit that the more he saw of her, the more she reminded him of Diana. Not only in looks, but in her mannerisms, the timbre of her voice, the way she reacted to him. The way he reacted to her.
And when he'd walked into her home, its fragrance had evoked the past with stunning clarity. It had taken him a few moments to identify the fragrance: the mouth-watering scent of warm caramel and the pleasantly acrid smell of burnt candlewick.
He didn't doubt that many women lit caramel-scented candles in their homes. For all he knew, those candles were all the rage. Was it such a mind-blowing coincidence that Jen burned them? Probably not. But it didn't help him to know that even her home reminded him so poignantly of Diana.
He ran both hands through his hair and let out a long, harsh breath. He'd lost all perspective where Jen was concerned. All he knew for sure was that he'd vowed to put Diana behind him, to start his life over, without thoughts of her. Then he'd met a woman who reminded him of her, had made love to that woman, and had suddenly found himself teetering on the edge of obsession.
He had to put a stop to it. He had to set aside his preconceived image of Jen and see her for what she really was. Since he wasn't sure that he could trust his gut instincts in regard to her, he would ignore them. He would base his understanding on what she said and did—not on his belief that he could read her soul, and breach her maddening facade.
Perhaps there was no facade. Perhaps she was exactly as she claimed. In which case, he was making a damn fool of himself.
Tense with self-directed anger, he frowned at his watch and scowled at the doorway of her apartment. Thirty-four minutes had gone by. She was fourteen minutes late. Would she change her mind about going with him?
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