Breathing in deeply to restore his equanimity, he focused on the serenity of the partially wooded landscape and the surprising heat of the September day—hot compared to the last few days, and far more humid than Southern California at this time of year. A sweet aroma wafted from the honeysuckle vines that clung to the mailbox posts. The lazy buzz of bees sounded from the colorful begonia beds bordering the walkway to her apartment.
Just as his tension began to ease, her apartment door opened, and she stepped out onto the cedar-railed porch. She was wearing the hat he'd given her, its small brim dipped low in the front to shadow her face. Only a few dark blond tendrils had escaped to trail down her neck. The large, round sunglasses he'd given her concealed her eyes. And dark red lipstick gleamed on her mouth.
The lipstick was something of a surprise. Her lips had been a smooth, natural, pearly-pink color. The dark red, along with the hat and sunglasses, gave her a glamorous, mysterious look.
Not until she'd finished locking her door and descending the three short steps from the shrubbery-surrounded porch did Trev see the rest of her. The beige blazer was long and slim, more like a tunic, ending mid-thigh. Beneath it, a sheer, gauzy skirt of beige with large red poppies swayed around her legs. A very sheer skirt. The bright afternoon sunlight rendered the fabric virtually transparent, clearly illuminating her mile-long legs. Strappy high-heel sandals only emphasized the curvaceousness of those legs. The vampy high-heeled shoes were red, too, like the poppies on her skirt and her glossy lipstick.
Trev swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. Gleaming lips and long curvy legs in high spiked heels had a way of doing that to him. And there was something purposely sexual about the sway of her hips as she walked—
"Sorry I took so long. I decided to pack an extra bag, after all."
The amiable greeting drew his gaze away from the enticing movement of her hips, and he realized she carried a small suitcase in one hand and an overnight bag in the other. Glad to see that she still intended to stay with him, he climbed from the car, took the bags from her and tossed them into the back seat. He then escorted her around to the passenger door and opened it for her.
She no longer smelled like Diana. An exotic perfume drifted to him as she crossed his path to climb into the car. Alluring though the fragrance was, he wasn't sure he liked the change.
She settled into the leather passenger seat, and he noticed another change. She was wearing more jewelry than he'd previously seen her wear. Several delicate gold chains of varying lengths shimmered around her neck, and large golden hoops dangled from her earlobes.
She'd painted her long, oval nails differently, too. Red. Siren red.
Uneasiness stole over him as he strode around the car to the driver's seat. Although she looked good—elegant, really, in a flashy kind of way—he couldn't shake the feeling that this style wasn't her.
But how could he know that? He couldn't. He had to keep in mind that the woman was a stranger, and this was his opportunity to get to know her—if he wasn't blinded by preconceived notions. Though she'd dressed much more conservatively the other two times he'd seen her, maybe this was her preferred style.
They drove in silence, until he turned out of her neighborhood and onto a rural highway.
"What play are we going to see?" she asked.
"An original work by a local playwright. A murder mystery."
"Oh, good. I love mysteries."
He smiled as he drove, glad to know at least that much about her. "Have you seen or read many of them?"
"I've read hundreds."
"You haven't, by any chance, written any, have you?"
"Written any? No. No, never!"
He angled her a glance. He'd only been making conversation, but the casual question seemed to have upset her. Her denial had been too fervent. She could have added, I swear I haven't! and the effect would have been the same.
And now, though half her face was hidden by the sunglasses, she looked flustered by his silent regard. "I … I know why you asked the question, Trev. Because your wife was a writer. But I'm not. Like I told you when we first met—I can't be the wife you lost."
Anger stirred in him. "Don't you think I know that?"
"No, I don't think you do. I think you expect me to act just like her. I think that's one of the reasons you can't accept me for what I am—a working girl."
He gripped the wheel harder and stared straight ahead.
She was probably right, but he still felt wrongly accused. "I was only going to say that if you liked mysteries—or had any experience in writing—maybe you could help me decide on an ending for the play I'm trying to finish. My wife left a pile of notes, but I haven't been able to make much sense of them. A connoisseur of mysteries might help me figure out 'who done it.'"
She didn't immediately reply, and when he glanced at her again, she was nibbling her bottom lip. "You mean, you don't even know who the murderer is, and you're going to write the last act?" Now she sounded appalled.
"I've read the play three times, and each time I come up with a different villain. It could be any of the characters. How am I supposed to figure out which one she meant it to be?"
She stared at him for a moment. Then, to his endless surprise, she burst into laughter. Genuine, unreserved laughter. The sound delighted him. And shook him. She sounded too much like Diana. Something akin to pain pierced his chest.
"That is the sign of a good mystery," she said, her voice lively from laughter and inexplicably smug. "Then again, if you don't read mysteries, you might be missing the clues that would tell a connoisseur exactly 'who done it.'" She gazed at him again, and he wished the sunglasses weren't hiding her eyes. Her smile had softened in a way that warmed him. "You do need help. And I do enjoy mysteries. Did you bring the script with you from California?"
"Yes. It's in one of the boxes that we'll unpack tomorrow. Since you're officially working for me for the next two days, maybe that can be one of your projects. You know, to read it."
She nodded. "Okay. I'll take a look at it."
"Thanks."
He stopped the car at a red light, and they exchanged companionable smiles. But when the smiles ended, he couldn't look away. She was simply too beautiful. Even with the hat concealing her hair, and the sunglasses hiding much of her face, and the red lipstick looking dramatic and foreign to her lips, she appealed to him on a bone-deep level.
His continued regard brought a flush to her face, and she turned her head. The lighthearted moment was broken, and frustration filled him. He'd caught a glimpse of the real her, but then she'd slammed the door again. Why?
The traffic light changed, and he guided the car onto an expressway heading north. They drove in silence for a good many miles, each lost in private musings.
"The weather's taken quite a turn," she finally remarked. "It's warmer than I'd expected. Too warm."
"We can roll up the windows and turn on the—" His words broke off, and he nearly wrenched his neck in a quick double take. She'd shrugged out of her blazer and now wore a sleeveless dress, the bodice the same gauzy, billowy fabric as the skirt. Beige with red poppies … and sheer. Very sheer.
And she wore no bra.
The car swerved and veered onto the grassy shoulder of the highway, nearly jolting them both from their seats. She grabbed the handgrip above her door, as Trev fought with the wheel to get the car back onto the pavement. When he'd regained firm control, he demanded, "Why the hell are you dressed like that?"
"Like what?"
"You know damn well, 'like what.'"
Releasing the handgrip, she settled back onto the seat, smoothed the transparent folds of the dress over her long, lean thighs and lounged in a sultry pose, her hat riding low over her face, her dark glasses hiding her eyes … while her rosy-dark nipples strained against the delicate fabric, each proud crest as visible as if she wore the sheerest negligee.
She was naked under that dress. Or almost naked—she was, at least, wearing panties. Lacy pant
ies cut high at her hips. Red, yet.
"Better watch the road, Trev, honey, or we'll end up on the median."
He scowled, forced his gaze away from her and fixed it on the expressway. Thank God there wasn't any traffic immediately surrounding them, or they'd have been in a wreck by now. "What are you trying to do—get us killed?"
"What's wrong?" she taunted. "Afraid people might think you're with a naughty girl?"
"Oh, they'll definitely know that." He allowed himself one more all-encompassing stare. "Is this exhibition meant as a personal invitation, or are you trying to make some kind of point?"
"I'm not sure what you mean. Since I'm away from the office and the neighborhood where I live, I didn't see any reason to be … you know, inhibited." She smiled—a slow, sleek curving of her glossy red mouth. "I have to admit, Trev … it gives me a thrill to turn men on. And on the more practical side, dressing 'for show' provides me with a great networking opportunity."
Networking? Had she said networking? He had no idea what she meant. Or maybe he simply hadn't focused on her explanation. She'd shifted in her seat to face him, drawing his attention again to her lush, supple, barely veiled body. He couldn't help responding. His blood rushed; his body hardened. He wanted her. He wanted to lay her down on the seat and fill his hands and mouth with her. Feel her beneath him. Push deep, deep into her…
"I watch for men who seem interested, then slip them my number, along with my rates."
That remark cut through his preoccupation, and his anger rebounded, stronger than ever. His teeth locked; his pulse roared in his ears. She was baiting him. Deliberately. And he knew why—to make him realize that he couldn't change her. To make him see her as a prostitute, a willing whore, instead of a victim of desperate circumstances.
Maybe she was right. Maybe this was just what he needed—a strong, harsh dose of reality. How far would she go to convince hirn?
He had to know.
He let his gaze sweep over her breasts, and noticed a slight blush rise into her face. What the hell was that blush about, if she was so brazen? "Dressed as you are, you won't be disappointed. You'll get plenty of notice from interested men."
"I … I hope that won't bother you."
"You know it will." He leveled her a hard stare. "It'll bother me, Jen, because I want you to get out of the business. For your own sake, not mine."
She averted her head and lifted her chin.
He returned his eyes to the road, although his insides roiled with unreasonable anger, doubt and, worst of all, desire. She didn't look much at all like Diana at the moment, but he still felt a profound connection with her. A damn idiotic, dangerous way to feel about a prostitute.
"I guess you might not understand," she said, "the way I feel about men. There's just nothing as exciting as doing something illicit with a stranger."
Did she really believe that? His first impulse was to rule out that possibility and consider the statement a blatant attempt to convince him she was beyond saving. But he'd sworn not to trust his gut instinct, and to see her for what she really was—not what he wanted her to be,
"Like the other night," she continued. "Last Tuesday. I was working a hotel lobby in Brunswick, and I caught this man's eye. We—"
"We're far enough away from Sunrise now, and no one's here to recognize you. Take off the hat and sunglasses."
"The hat and sunglasses?"
"Yes. Please. They're distracting." And he wanted to read her eyes as she told her tales. "Besides, it's starting to get dark. Soon you won't be able to see."
With a graceful shrug, she took off the hat, causing a few more silky strands from a casual twist of her thick, shiny hair to curl down her neck. She then removed the sunglasses and tucked them into her small beige purse. Her face was exotically made up, he noticed, with thick mascara and bold strokes of kohl that emphasized the size and color of her smoke-blue eyes. Despite the excessive makeup, she was undeniably striking. She belonged on a stage, or the silver screen.
But not on a street corner, which was clearly the effect she'd been aiming for.
"So, what were you saying about last Tuesday night?" he prompted, bracing himself for whatever she was about to tell.
"Oh, yes. Tuesday. Well, I caught the eye of this one businessman, and on the way up to his room, he stopped the elevator, and we … we did it right there, between the eleventh and twelfth floors. He had to be careful to keep his finger on the stop button the entire time. It was sooo exciting." She shook her head as if fondly remembering. "Times like that really make the job worthwhile."
He almost snorted. Worthwhile. She couldn't be serious. But since he wasn't sure, he replied, "You don't have to be a professional to do things like that. Just find yourself an adventurous boyfriend."
"You mean … give sex away for free? Why would I want to do that? There's big money to be made. Take Wednesday night, for example. I got a call from a member of the … well, of a visiting sports team. What a time we had, just me and the guys. Those professional ballplayers really know their moves! And afterward, I walked away with a tidy bundle of cash. What could be better?"
Trev managed to refrain from replying. He didn't want to antagonize her. If she was trying to shock him, she'd be sorely disappointed. Because for the life of him, he couldn't bring himself to believe a word she'd said.
She narrowed her gaze on him as if she sensed his disbelief, then went on to relate in graphic detail a scene that could have come straight out of a porno flick.
She did succeed in surprising him. He hadn't expected to hear her describe those actions, especially not in such explicit terms. By the time she'd finished, he had no reason left to doubt her expertise regarding orgies.
So then, why did he? Why did he suspect that those details had, indeed, come right out of a porno flick? Was this what a shrink would call "denial"? He honestly didn't know, and the doubt revived his self-directed anger. Hadn't he sworn to disregard his gut instincts? What the hell was he doing, then, discounting everything she said?
"I hope I'm not boring you," she murmured. "Once I get started talking shop, I—"
"No, please. Talk all you'd like. I find it … enlightening."
Jennifer glanced at him doubtfully. She'd been hoping that he would find it exactly that—enlightening. Was he starting to believe the worst about her? His tone was light, and she sensed skepticism, but the tautness of his jaw and the stiffness of his broad shoulders alerted her to an undercurrent of strong emotion. She hoped it was anger—at himself, for getting so ridiculously involved in the affairs of a prostitute. She hoped she had convinced him to wash his hands of her.
In spite of her best intentions, though, that prospect tore at her heart. Once she succeeded, she would have to leave him. She wished so very much that there wasn't a need to deceive him, or to leave him—but the need was too real to forget.
Determined to finish the job of ruining herself in his eyes, she regaled him with another lewd story she'd found on the Internet. She'd been embarrassed at first to tell him such things. What little remained of the sheltered schoolgirl in her had cringed at every lurid word. But the awkwardness had faded, and she now held back none of the seamy details.
"A cherry lollipop?" Trev drawled when she'd finished. "You danced on an air-hockey table to the tune of 'Cherry Pie,' and the groom-to-be actually did that to you … with a lollipop?"
"Actually, he just held the stick in his mouth, and I … well, I've already explained that part of the performance to you."
His lips tightened. With disgust, she hoped. After a moment, though, he murmured without lifting his gaze from the road, "I read that one, too."
"Pardon me?"
"It's from the Internet. I found a printout of it in my kid brother's room, and grounded him for a week. The cherry lollipop, the air-hockey table … even the cheerleader skirt and pom-pom that supposedly made up your costume. It was all there."
"Are you saying I'm lying?" she cried, anxiety lending too much vehemen
ce to the question. She really couldn't afford to have him catch her in these lies. The whole point of her naughty dress and erotic tales was to discourage his interest in her—not to stir up his suspicions.
"I'm saying you took that scenario off the Internet," he maintained.
"Okay, maybe I did. That's what gave me the idea. And it was a big hit at that bachelor party, believe me."
"The guy just happened to have an air-hockey table."
"Yes!"
"Last Thursday. The night after you did the Baltimore Orioles."
"I didn't say what team it was!"
"But it was a professional ball team, you said. Visiting … Sunrise?"
Was that so unlikely? He seemed to think so. "Savannah," she corrected. "I told you I sometimes work in Savannah."
"Ah. So it was one of the many fine professional ball teams who hang out in Savannah."
She glared at him, angry and frustrated by his scorn. "They were there for a charity promotion." Surely that was possible! "Why would I lie about any of this?"
"I don't know, Jen." He glanced at her then. "Why would you?" His gaze simmered with dark, serious emotion.
Her heart nearly beat its way out of her chest. How could a single gaze set her pulse to pounding and her thoughts to whirling, and make her want to hit him and kiss him at the same time?
While she struggled with her careening emotions, he stopped the car and turned off the ignition. Glancing around, she realized with surprise that they'd arrived at their destination. The surrounding parking lot was crowded with cars, but only a few late stragglers like themselves could be seen making their way toward the huge, warehouse-like building. A small neon sign above the entrance proclaimed it to be The Georgia Seaside Dinner Theater.
"Ready?" Trev asked her, pocketing his keys.
Stiffly she nodded, striving to regroup after his refusal to believe her. The man could be infuriatingly hardheaded when he wanted to be. Snatching her blazer from the seat beside her, she edged forward on the seat to shrug into it.
He caught hold of the jacket. "You won't need this. The night's still warm."
Her gaze shifted to him in surprise. Why in heaven's name would he discourage her from wearing the blazer? Her dress was much too sheer to go anywhere without one. "Well, yes, the night's still warm, but the air-conditioning inside will probably be too chilly."
INTIMATE STRANGER Page 9
