Dangerous Attraction

by Melinda Cross

  He was watching her with maddening calm, his head tipped slightly, his index finger rolling thoughtfully over his lower lip. She tried keeping her gaze riveted to his eyes, but it kept straying downward to his mouth, lingering there with sad, mindless attention.

  ‘What do you think, Rebecca? Are we going to be able to keep our hands off one another long enough to get any work done?’

  Her eyes snapped up to his and she pressed her lips together so hard that they hurt, welcoming the pain, using it. This is what happens when you let your heart lead the way, she thought sadly. It dances like a weightless ball of crystal into a man’s hand, and then, without warning, he drops it. Your heart, silly Rebecca, wasn’t what he wanted.

  The slow, inexorable shift from sadness to bitterness was reflected in her eyes as she stared at him. ‘Don’t touch me like that again, Marcus. If you do, I’ll leave.’ The tone was dull, but convincing, and, from the sudden lift of his brows, apparently it surprised him.

  ‘We want each other, Rebecca. Equally, if that’s possible. Don’t try to deny it, or I’ll just have to prove it all over again…’

  ‘Why are you trying so hard to humiliate me?’

  His hand had been snaking across the table, but as soon as she spoke it froze and lay there on the glossy wood like a lifeless thing.

  ‘I would have thought clearing your name would be more important to you than some meaningless sexual encounter,’ she added softly.

  He studied her face for a moment, his own expressionless, then he pulled his hand back and rose slowly from his chair, looking off to one side as if her presence were beneath note. ‘I have some phone calls to make, some business to put on hold before we get started. Find something to do for an hour. I’ll be ready then.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  REBECCA climbed the curving staircase slowly, laboriously, exhausted to the point of numbness by the strain of dealing with Marcus.

  As she topped the last step, misery riding her shoulders like a leaden yoke, she wondered if that oh, so daring decision to stay and fight for what she wanted—just this once—hadn’t been a disastrous choice. She’d tried to protect herself by pretending her reasons were mercenary and self-serving, but now it occurred to her that perhaps his laughter would have been easier to bear than his contempt. She hadn’t been prepared for that.

  So tell him the truth, Rebecca. Admit that you don’t give a damn about the movie or your career or maybe even the truth; tell him the real reason you believe in him and want to stay to help him. Tell him it’s because he touched you.

  She slammed her eyes closed and made her way sightlessly down the hall to her room. Pathetic, that was what she was. So achingly alone for so long, so hungry for the touch of love that ultimately she had been willing to accept touch as love.

  She stumbled into her roon, closed the door behind her, then just stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, like a wounded soldier trying to heal herself before another skirmish with the enemy. How much longer could she stand it? How much more of Marcus’s disdain could she stomach before simply turning tail and running away back to California?

  Do it, Rebecca. He doesn’t feel the things you feel. He doesn’t want the things you want. So why go through the pain? Leave. Run away. It’s always easier just to run away, a voice inside her urged.

  A long shudder passed down her spine, leaving her shivering, ashamed. Is that it? she asked herself. Is that the bargain you want to strike—love me, Marcus, and I’ll stay and do the right thing?

  She took a deep breath and straightened, her face tightening with resolve. What he felt or didn’t feel for her shouldn’t matter, not if she really believed in him. Standing up for what was right wasn’t a bargain you made up for your own benefit; it was something you simply had to do, no matter what the personal cost.

  Her step was stronger as she took her briefcase over to the bed and sat down, determined that from this point on she would leave her emotions behind. She would not be some pathetic, lonely creature bargaining for her own happiness. Instead she would become the investigative journalist she had never wanted to be. She would become Charity Lauder’s worst enemy.

  Feeling a little better, a little stronger with the crutch of purpose and salvaged pride to prop her up, she sat on the bed with her notepad in her lap, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. She scribbled notes to herself reminding her to call Victor, have someone in Research check on the Lauder family finances, visit the hospital where Charity had been taken after her rescue—notes that were meaningless, really, since she didn’t need written reminders for any of them. She knew exactly what had to be done, and suddenly the prospect of waiting a full hour before she could begin was frustrating.

  ‘Phone calls to make, some business to put on hold’—she tapped the end of her pencil irritably on the pad as she remembered Marcus’s reasons for wanting an hour alone. What possible business needed his attention with the maple sugar industry virtually asleep during these months? It was only a feeble excuse to put her out of his sight for a time, as if simply being in the same room with her was distasteful.

  She pushed back the hurt at that realization and let impatience take its place. If she was determined to endure his contempt while she attended to the business of proving him a good and honourable man, then, dammit, she wanted to get to it, get it done, and get out.

  The minutes ticked by with maddening slowness. After ten of them had passed, she set the notepad aside and went into the bathroom. A long, self-indulgent soak in a hot tub, that’s what I need, she thought. And to hell with Marcus Flint. To hell with what he thinks of me. I’ll save him from Charity’s lies whether he wants me to or not, and as long as I can keep my feelings inside I’ll come out of this with at least a remnant of my pride intact.

  She stripped, then leaned back in the steaming water and waited to be lulled into a lovely, thoughtless state of pure relaxation, but it didn’t happen that way. Her gaze kept wandering to the crumpled pile of her discarded clothing, fixing on the fragment of a dried leaf stuck on the white sweater.

  Had it really been just a few hours ago, that magnificent release of physical labor up in the woods, the refreshing sparkle of cold beer sliding down her throat, those few moments of closeness when she and Marcus Flint had been simply a man and a woman sharing labor and rest and refreshment on a wooded hillside? It seemed that years had passed since then, long, agonizing years marked by hard, heartbreaking lessons sons—that a man’s loving touch did not necessarily mean the man loved; that happiness was, as she had always suspected, a very fleeting thing. She ticked the lessons off one by one, concluding sadly that, despite all her defenses, in the end she had been defenseless against her own emotions.

  When the water cooled and her fingertips began to pucker, she rose from the tub and stared down at her tanned toes, wishing they were curling into California beach sand instead of wavering beneath the water of a Vermont bath-tub.

  I’m homesick, she thought—but for where? Certainly not for the bland sterility of the rented beach house. There was so little of her there, among the leased furnishings that crowded the small rooms of someone else’s property. Come to think of it, there was very little of her anywhere. Home—the only one she had ever known—was the second-floor bedroom of a green stucco house on a palm-lined street—a place she hadn’t even seen since the day of her father’s funeral, nearly eight years before.

  Her resolve wavered and she almost wept then, standing in the middle of a tub of draining water with goose-bumps pebbling her skin, because she didn’t know where she belonged any more.

  ‘Rebecca?’

  She froze at the light rap of his knuckles on the bathroom door. ‘Yes?’

  Silence

  ‘Marcus? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right.’ She snatched a towel from a bar and covered herself, half expecting him to burst through the door at any moment. ‘Why wouldn’t I be all rig
ht? I’m just taking a bath. You told me you needed an hour…’

  ‘That was two hours ago.’ The door muffled his voice, made it sound almost melancholy.

  Two hours? She’d been up here for two hours? ‘I’m fine. I’ll be right down.’

  She stood immobile for several seconds, clutching the towel around her, waiting. Finally she called out softly, timidly, ‘Marcus? Are you still there?’ and only when she was sure he was gone did she dry herself briskly and step out of the tub.

  She saw him sitting on the bottom step when she started down the stairs a short time later. His elbows were propped on his knees, his chin was in his hands. When he heard her tread on the risers above him, he turned his head to look at her.

  It was a strange sensation, Rebecca thought, those gray eyes locked on hers, somehow supporting her, making it feel as if she was floating down the grand staircase. He said nothing as he rose and turned to face her, and the head-to-toe glance he gave her was cursory, indifferent.

  As it should be, she reminded herself firmly, because there is nothing between you, nothing except a single, common purpose to prove Charity Lauder a liar.

  Perhaps that thought had guided her hands as she dressed, making her choose the most unflattering garment her wardrobe contained. The sand-colored cotton shift fell in a straight line to her ankles, shapeless, and totally unadorned. No collar graced its scooped neckline; no cuffs gathered the caftan sleeves that hung to her knuckles; no darts accentuated the potentially tempting rise of her breasts. Over fifty tiny buttons sealed the closure from neckline to hem, a clear statement that seduction was the last thing on the wearer’s mind.

  She wore no make-up except a colorless gloss to protect her lips; her hair was still damp, combed carelessly behind her ears with comfort the only consideration.

  ‘Are you ready to get to work?’ she asked coolly, professionally.

  He tipped his head in an acquiescent gesture, but said nothing.

  She brushed past him on her way down the hall toward the office, talking over her shoulder as she walked. ‘I have some phone calls to make, some research to do first. Why don’t you find something else. to do for an hour, Marcus? I’ll call you when I need you.’ And with that she entered the office and closed the door behind her.

  Marcus blinked in mild surprise as the door to his own office closed in his face, then smiled, just a little, as he turned and walked away.

  Feeling an unfamiliar surge of satisfaction, Rebecca settled in at the big, messy desk with a hard smile of her own. Within moments she was chattering earnestly to Victor, assigning research tasks as if she were the producer and he were an underling. She wouldn’t think to marvel at his quiet, agreeable compliance until nearly half an hour later, when he called back with the information she’d asked for.

  ‘Flint was telling you the truth, Becca,’ he said excitedly over the wire. ‘The Lauder family isn’t just destitute—they initiated bankruptcy proceedings almost two years ago. Apparently Johnny Rivard made a substantial gift to the family—sort of an engagement present, I guess—and they used that to hang on to the ancestral home. Afterwards he made regular deposits to Charity’s account but, other than those, the Lauders haven’t seen any real income in decades. They were on all the right guest lists, they were invited to all the right parties, but before Johnny they couldn’t afford the cab fare to get to them. Interesting, eh?’

  Rebecca was scribbling furiously on a tablet. ‘Very,’ she mumbled.

  ‘It gets better. Seems our Charity spent a lot of free evenings at some of the best New York hotels, wining and dining a pretty impressive number of different young men—all at her fiancé’s expense, I might add. Apparently Johnny gave her access to his credit cards.’ Rebecca winced at that. ‘I don’t know, Becca,’ Victor sighed. ‘It’s starting to look like our pure-as-the-drivensnow heroine has the morals of an alleycat.’

  ‘Get documentation if you can, Victor. Hotel receipts, witness statements, whatever. What’s she using for money now?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Credit, I suppose. The advance on her book—a very sizeable advance—was spent long before she received the check, and she still hasn’t stopped buying. I suppose she’s counting on what we’ll pay for the movie rights, but even that isn’t enough to cover her wardrobe budget for a month. I’d say she’s anticipating some kind of windfall. A big one.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Who knows? Ask Flint. At this point, it appears he knows the woman better than any of the rest of us.’

  Rebecca flung down her pencil and leaned back in the chair, running her free hand through her hair. ‘I’ll ask him, Victor. In the meantime, keep the research department digging, will you?’

  Victor’s prolonged sigh filled her ear. ‘To what end, Becca? Even if we document what we’ve got so far, all we’ve proven is that she was unfaithful to her fiancé, not that she lied about what happened up there. How the hell do you expect to find proof of that with the only other witness dead?’

  ‘I don’t know, Victor.’

  He spoke softly, carefully. ‘You are certain that she lied, aren’t you, Becca?’

  ‘Yes. I’m certain.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate on that…?’

  ‘No.’

  Another sigh, longer than the first, filled with frustration. ‘Tell Flint something for me, will you?’

  ‘Of course, Victor. What is it?’

  ‘Tell him I’m holding up production on this movie for you. Tell him I’m entertaining the possibility that Charity Lauder lied about him for you. And while you’re at it tell him…tell him I don’t care how good he is, he’s still not good enough for you, and if he hurts you he’ll have to answer to me.’

  Rebecca blinked rapidly, forcing back an unexpected wellspring of tears. Victor had always been paternally gentle with her, but so careful to keep the distance she found comfortable that she’d never realized the depth of his affection. For the second time that day, she was moved by the warmth of a man’s caring protection.

  ‘Thank you, Victor,’ she whispered, and then she hung up quickly.

  A few moments later Marcus tapped on the door, then opened it. His hair was still wet from a shower, curling over his forehead like an important black punctuation mark. As he took a step into the room, she noticed that he was wearing a blindingly white turtleneck sweater and black corduroy trousers. ‘It’s been an hour,’ he said, gray eyes icily flat. The light of a dying afternoon painted shadows on his face, accentuating the darkness of a burgeoning beard he hadn’t bothered to shave.

  ‘Do you know how to get to the hospital where Charity was treated?’ she asked.

  For some reason the question seemed to amuse him. ‘Of course I know how to get there.’

  ‘Good. I want you to drive me there.’ She gathered her tablet and pen and moved around the desk and out the door.

  ‘Now?’ He frowned in confusion as she pushed past him.

  ‘Yes, now. The hospital is where we start.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARCUS wouldn’t let her wear her own coat. In fact, he was adamant about it.

  ‘It’s not a coat at all, it’s a jacket, and a California jacket at that,’ he said stubbornly, peeling the comfortable suede garment from her shoulders and hanging it in the foyer closet. ‘On its warmest days Vermont is hardly tropical, and today a cold front happens to be moving in. Here. You want me to drive you to the hospital? Put this on.’

  She scowled at the long black cashmere coat he was holding open, noted the sharp, expensive tailoring and the graceful drape of its lined hood. A woman’s coat, obviously, and, from the way it fitted, a woman who happened to be precisely her size. ‘I don’t like wearing other people’s things,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Then you should have brought appropriate clothing of your own. For God’s sake, put it on or I’ll do it for you.’

  She turned reluctantly and slipped her arms into the silk-lined sleeves. Her fingers moved deliber
ately down the buttons, secretly relishing the luxuriously soft fabric that covered them.

  Marcus watched in silent approval and when she was finished pulled the hood forward to cover her blonde head. There. That’s better. There are gloves in the pockets. They should fit, too.’

  ‘I don’t need gloves. It’s not that cold…’

  ‘Put them on.’

  Sighing with exasperation, feeling like an impatient child held back by an insistent parent, she pulled calfskin gloves from either pocket and jammed her hands into them. ‘Are you satisfied now?’

  He shrugged into a topcoat of the same color and material, digging in its pockets for his own gloves. ‘Only that you won’t freeze to death. Wait by the front door. I’ll bring the car around.’

  ‘Whose clothes am I wearing anyway?’ she demanded as he walked away. ‘Current or ex-lover?’

  He stopped, then spoke without turning around. ‘It’s my mother’s coat. She left it here on her last visit.’

  Rebecca scowled after him, wishing she hadn’t asked.

  She jumped at the muted slam of a distant door, then listened to the overwhelming silence of the enormous house after he’d left it. My God, she thought. How terrible it would be to live in such a huge place alone. Even empty, a small house could be cozy, but a place this big seemed truly desolate without the sounds of life to warm the vast spaces.

  Pacing to fill the silence with the sound of her step, she passed a long mirror on one wall of the foyer and stopped abruptly, blinking with surprise at the reflection. She looked…almost elegant in the expensive, beautifully tailored coat. The black hood framed her face in soft shadows, somehow made her eyes a deeper blue, and stray wisps of blonde peeked out around the edge like brilliant strands of light. Unwittingly, she smiled, then turned to the side, holding the soft material out in a fan, admiring the line.

  She jumped guiltily when a horn tooted outside the front door, and hurried to open it. Instead of the Jeep she had expected, Marcus was waiting in a long, maroon Rolls-Royce sedan that smelled of sweet leather when she climbed in.