by Jule McBride
“Thank you,” she croaked.
The ease with which he dropped his hand made her feel off balance, and his glance toward her chest was so mildly dismissive that she refused to give in to embarrassment and cross her arms. Tamping down the color that threatened to flood her face, she decided he simply couldn’t be as cool as he pretended. And yet touching women probably came easily to Shane Holiday. She imagined many things did.
He casually leaned around her, lifted the sauté pan, and expertly swirled the contents. “Why don’t you run along and change while I finish dinner?”
Run along? Damn if the man hadn’t just dismissed her from the room. She felt a sudden, unaccountable rush of temper, then realized with a start that she was still standing there in her blouse. “That was my thought exactly,” she managed.
He nodded. “I’d like to let the wine breathe.”
The wine? What about her? Every time she looked at him, she was fighting not to swoon. Not that she’d let him know it. Turning, she did her best to sweep regally from the room, hoping he noticed her even strides and the long legs that men so often whistled at. Most men, anyway.
In the bedroom, she debated longer than she should have, then decided she wouldn’t stoop to putting on fresh lipstick. Besides, Shane Holiday had only moved in to help her adopt her baby. To chastise herself, she didn’t even check her reflection in the mirror, but returned to the living room in a loose, not particularly flattering sundress—only to feel her distress heighten.
Shane had set a candlelit table on the terrace overlooking the river. Feeling a wistful twinge, she kept her voice steady. “Why, this seems so much like a date.”
Shane shrugged. “Figured we could use the practice.”
She could have kicked herself. Shane only wanted things to look authentic. He’d been an orphaned child. That’s why he wanted to make sure Brandon found a home here. A candlelit dinner would help prepare them for Ethel’s visit by making them more comfortable with each other.
Shane’s tone was unreadable. “The candles were on the table. You have candles everywhere. You must like them.”
What else had he noticed? Her love of silks? Of aromatic oils? Of incense? She managed a smile as he held out her chair. “I do,” she admitted. “Candles. Bonfires. Falling stars. Whatever.”
“A woman who loves fire—” When he seated her, he leaned so close that his breath whispered on her neck.
“Is that a warning a man could get burned?”
“Truly, I’m beginning to think you’re a little afraid of me.”
“Completely phobic.”
She wasn’t sure if he was joking. “Really?”
As he circled the table, she noticed his strangely graceful way of moving, as if his body were simply the extension of things less tangible, his will and mind. “But don’t worry—” he said, seating himself. “I believe in shock therapy for phobias.”
As she began twirling her pasta, her eyes drifted to where his sleek raven hair glinted blue, touched by the candle flames. “How’s that?”
His riveting gaze fixed on hers. “I always immerse myself in whatever I fear.”
The words sent a thrilling ripple through her. Her voice was huskier than she intended. “So, you’re ready?”
“To?”
Her throat felt dangerously tight. “To take the plunge and get to know everything about me, so we can ace the interview with the caseworker and bring Brandon home.”
He nodded. “I’m ready. But are you?”
Surely, she was only imagining the dare in his eyes. “Of course, I’m ready to get to know you,” she managed.
But she could still feel Shane’s warm breath ruffling against her neck as he seated her, and how her body had responded to nothing more than an innocent little touch over some spilled wine. And Delilah, a.k.a. Lillian, knew she’d crossed the line. Already, she’d become far more acquainted with Shane Holiday than she ever should have.
CHAPTER FIVE
“SHANE!” LILLIAN SQUEALED, collapsing with laughter against the side of the deep black bathtub. “Oh, Shane, help!”
Countless times, Shane had fantasized about sharing the bathtub with Lillian, but definitely not like this. He shook his head in warning, his lips twisting in a wry smile. “Whoa. Careful with that water jet, lady.” Tightening his grip on Lone Star, who was drenched to the bone, Shane felt where Lillian had clipped away the knotted fur. The dog had shrunk with the hair loss. Damn. Shane was undercover, not here to have a woman meddle in his life—or in his dog’s. He blew out an exasperated sigh. “Half my dog’s gone now, Lillian.”
“Don’t worry. In just a couple days, you’re going to gain another half. A better half.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re marrying me.”
Shane shifted uncomfortably. The date was drawing close, but no way was he actually going down an aisle. Bracing his bare feet against the bottom of the suds-slick tub, Shane let his eyes drift over Lillian. She was heart-stopping—barefoot, her navy shorts, white T-shirt and endless legs peppered with foamy water drops. Blond tendrils escaped from her ponytail, curling on her neck in the humidity.
By the day, it was both harder and easier to live with her. They’d found they could make each other laugh and hit a domestic stride with uncanny ease. Shane had insisted on paying his share of the monthly bills, doing all the cooking and walking the dog. Lillian tidied up after him without complaint and was the only woman he’d ever met who could make coffee the way he liked it. They weren’t morning people, so they always ran late, getting ready for work in rushed silence and saying a quick goodbye on Broadway, where he hopped the train to Big Apple Babies and she turned onto Wall Street. Nights, they studied each other’s lives preparing for the caseworker’s visit and Brandon’s adoption.
Privately, he searched methodically through her apartment and office, and beneath it all hummed their desire—sometimes barely noticeable, sometimes so powerful Shane couldn’t believe they hadn’t wound up in bed. But he’d held back with an iron will and hadn’t even kissed her. So far.
“There now, sweetie,” she whispered.
Shane kept his hold on Lone Star and watched Lillian comb the water massager over the dog’s back, her long slender fingers swirling in fur, forcing the last soap bubbles toward the drain. When she dropped the water nozzle and began lathering in conditioner, Shane decided the sensuous way her hands moved was entirely lost on a dog.
“That’s people conditioner, Lillian.”
“Ms. Lone Star’s people,” Lillian returned with conviction as she began another rinse-out. “Good people,” she emphasized. “And mama’s gonna turn her into quite the little lady, isn’t she?” Lone Star, who was getting her second bath in a week, wagged her tail, thumping Shane’s thigh and soaking his faded, rolled-up jeans.
Shane sighed. “Lone Star liked being undomesticated.”
Lillian glanced up, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Why, Shane,” she chided. “You’re projecting your feelings onto her again. Didn’t they teach you lone wolves anything about psychology at the police academy?”
“We profile criminals—” like you, Lillian “—not canines.”
Lillian wagged a sudsy finger at him. “A little psychology can go a long way.”
“Watch,” he warned, “or I’ll psychoanalyze you.”
At that, Shane saw worried shadows darken her eyes. They came often; he hadn’t expected that. And the loneliness and darkness mirrored something in him, touching him in places he’d never known he had. Now Lillian laughed anyway—that bright, warm laugh that reminded him of sunshine chasing away rain.
“Tough guy,” she drawled. “Are you really jealous of my relationship with your dog?”
“Hell, no.”
But Lone Star—a.k.a. Ms. Lone Star—was going through a female bonding phase. As near as Shane could tell, Lillian possessed something maternal that Lone Star desperately wanted—and that Shane never realized he was supposed to prov
ide. Now his loyal mutt was thicker than thieves with Lillian. From the first night, Lone Star had slept in Lillian’s bed, and to Shane’s surprise, Lillian let her. Of course, Lone Star still raised a ruckus if Shane didn’t crack open the guest-room door, so she could trot in to check on her master during the night.
Trouble was, by sunrise the mutt had usually pushed both Shane and Lillian’s doors wide open. And because the doors were facing, Shane woke staring at a sleep-tousled Lillian with her lipstick kissed off and the strappy silk gowns she wore twisted around her calves. Shane wasn’t sure which bothered him more—how she habitually kicked off the sheets, or the fact that she’d stolen his dog’s affections.
But how guilty was Lillian of serious wrongdoing? Shane was beginning to wonder. Lone Star was more distrustful than Shane, and just as apt to sniff out bad news, but she adored Lillian.
“Arf!”
Outside, lightning flashed. Through the bathroom window, Shane could see crackling threads of electricity fray from a jagged white bolt like capillaries from a main artery. At a crash of thunder, Lone Star wrenched from Shane’s grasp, lunged from the tub, then skidded across the water-slick floor, her nails scraping the tiles.
“Oh, I declare!” As Lillian spun toward the dog in frustration, the warm stream from the massage jet in her hand wetted Shane’s jeans, dampening him right where it counted. In a flash faster than the lightning, he caught Lillian’s delicate wrist.
She gasped. “What are you—”
When her gaze landed on his soaked fly, the words died on her lips. High excited color flooded her cheeks, and dark eyes that were alive and lusty lifted to Shane’s. She gamely yanked her wrist from his grasp, leaving his heart stuttering. Backing away with a high-pitched devilish giggle, she very deliberately raised her arm and trained the nozzle again.
“Why, you little—” Shane managed as she squiggled a warm wet S down his shirtfront. “S is for Shane,” she singsonged.
Swiping the air, he caught her upper arm and, while she was still laughing in breathless protest, he hauled her against him.
“Little what?” she panted innocently.
“Vixen,” he finished. “You’re asking for it!”
Despite her uneven breath, her steady gaze held a smug nonchalance calculated to rile him. She stared up at him. “Oh, am I a vixen?”
“Yeah.” And if you don’t quit toying with me, you’re gonna to get it, too. “Give me that, you hellcat,” Shane growled playfully, and grabbed the nozzle away from her. Keeping it just out of her reach, Shane jerked back his torso. She swung, her hips slamming his, and he bit back an agonized curse. Quicker than the storm outside, his unwanted response came on him, electrifying him, hardening his groin. She had to feel it. But she kept stretching for the nozzle, moving like a thoroughbred—fast, with her head held high and her long muscular legs feinting right, then left.
She swiped the air for the nozzle. “Give it up, Shane!”
He chuckled. “Lady, I want to hear you beg.”
“In your dreams.” Her pulse was racing beneath his restraining hand; the spear of her tongue was pressed to her upper lip in concentration; her breath was hot against his cheek. Suddenly she slipped, her bare feet sliding in frothy suds. Her mouth grazed his biceps as he caught her elbow, hauling her to her feet. Their lips were just inches apart, their breaths ragged.
His voice was hoarse. “You okay, Lillian?”
Her skin was flushed, a deep glowing rose. “Yeah.”
Suddenly, impulsively, he brought his mouth a fraction closer, knowing she was going to let him kiss her. What are you doing? She’s under investigation.
Abruptly, he released her, reminding himself he’d hardly come here to seduce her. For a fleeting second, her dark eyes searched his, saying, Why didn’t you kiss me? And then she recovered and loosed another peal of laughter. Rich and lusty, it rang in his ears long after she’d leaped madly from the tub, swept towels off the racks and fled after the dog. A second too late, Shane was sorry he hadn’t grabbed her. He’d let those long legs scissor from his reach when he should have yanked her into the tub again. He wanted her that way. Excited and breathless. Acting more like devilish Delilah than prim Lillian. He wanted to glide his hands over skin that was slick with suds, in this room surrounded by mirrors.
“Little Ms. Lone Star!” he heard her gasp from the hallway. “My, my, you are a devilish woman!”
“Talk about projection,” Shane muttered, snatching the remaining dry towel, his jaw setting stoically as he stripped off his soaked T-shirt, then slid the towel down his damp front, pressing it against his fly, trying his best to soak up the moisture. He scowled. Lillian was driving him crazy! He wasn’t used to living with a gorgeous woman. God, he couldn’t wait until she was in jail. Tossing the towel in the hamper, he tidied the bathroom. Not that he liked to clean. He loathed it. But he figured he’d best let his desire subside before he faced Lillian again.
“Now, aren’t you a mess!” She was crooning to Lone Star as he entered the living room. Even though she kept drying the dog, her eyes widened when she noticed Shane’s bare chest. Good. Turnabout was fair play. Lord knew, Lillian was bothering him enough. He glanced from where she was seated in the floor, to the open terrace doors and the hard-driving rain.
“About time the storm came,” she remarked casually, as she patted Lone Star dry and stared at a legal pad in the floor, clearly ready to get down to business, as they had every night since Shane arrived.
Shane sighed. “Yeah.”
The air was cooling, but still so hot that sweat beaded on his chest, and outside, the rain fell in sheets that looked like tinted glass. Dark steamy breezes stirred the air, and the fragrances reaching Shane—flowers from the gardens below, sandalwood incense and peach candles from dinner—mingled with Lillian’s scent. As she reached for a wine goblet, he frowned. He kept expecting the dinner wine to loosen her tongue, but she nursed the same glass all night. Somehow, he had to penetrate the woman—to get at her secrets, her hidden life. If she had one.
She was tapping a fingernail against a legal pad, looking frustrated, her mood now serious. “C’mon, can’t you tell me anything more about your childhood, Shane?”
“Believe me, Lillian.” He left the terrace doors and sprawled on the floor a few feet away from her. “You already know more about Shane Holiday than any other woman on earth.” For days, she’d poked and prodded, drawing out admissions he’d never thought he’d share.
“But it’s all so factual, Shane. Nothing…intimate that will convince a caseworker we’re really in love.” She kept tapping the pad, which was filled with details about Shane’s life—where he’d gone to school, the make of his first car, his high school football jersey number. Studiously, she’d memorized the facts of his life for a caseworker he knew was never really going to show, and the knowledge made Shane ache for her. It was that ache that told him he was letting himself get too close.
He watched her smooth a loose tendril of hair that had dislodged from her ponytail during their water tussle. Oblivious of the effect she was having on him, she murmured, “Your first kiss was with Ruthie Miles, right? She had dark hair, dark eyes—” She glanced up. “Hmm. You like dark hair.”
He smiled. “Good thing you’re a blonde.”
Her eyes caught his. “My hair’s dyed, Shane.”
It was an invitation. The chemistry between them was obvious, and she wanted to know why he wasn’t acting on the signals. He said nothing.
Lillian chuckled self-consciously. “Uh…well, so you kissed Ruthie in sixth grade. But no matter how much you begged, she wouldn’t use her tongue.”
Lately Lillian’s studies had focused more and more on Shane’s love life. “Wouldn’t you call that intimate?” he asked dryly.
“Pretty intimate,” Lillian conceded.
I’ll show you intimate, he thought. But he couldn’t. He was a professional. And intimate, for Lillian, could turn out to be a cell. He glanced away, into t
he rolling marbled clouds of the dark, lightning-streaked night sky. The storm was the kind that could make a man believe in vengeful gods. But what about Shane’s vengeance? Night after night, he and Lillian had played out this charade, studying the facts of each other’s lives, as if they were going to meet a caseworker together and adopt a child, but he’d been collecting other facts about her, too….
Lillian suddenly giggled. “How Chrissy Winters’s daddy caught you in the back seat when you were sixteen is intimate, as well.”
So were countless other things Shane had wound up telling Lillian. “Like I said, no woman has ever known as much about me as you.” Shane wasn’t sure how he felt about it, either. He kept telling himself he was sharing his life with her because he had to. But deep down, he wanted her to know him.
“You know more about me than any other man,” she murmured.
Shane nodded. He knew a lot. “Your favorite color’s navy blue,” he recited. “Favorite meal, red beans and rice. You miss the South. And your daddy’s special homemade gumbo.”
She looked pleased. “What else?”
“You wear silk, not cotton.” He arched a lazy eyebrow. “Listen to rock, not classical. And you wish you were a morning person, so you could read the Wall Street Journal while you eat your toast.”
And you have the hots for me. Even if he hadn’t been trained to analyze details and nuances he would have noticed that. Frequently now, she found excuses to touch him, and her eyes had grown bolder when she thought he wasn’t looking. He also knew this apartment did belong to her employer, that no safe or strongbox was hidden in it, and that all her financial records held up to scrutiny.
Maybe she didn’t take the Mob’s money or see anything that night. Maybe she only changed her name to make a clean break with the Ramseys. The possibility niggled. Or was Shane’s long-standing obsession for her blinding him to the truth? Was her beauty making him bend his professional ethics? Making him see only what he wanted to see?
He realized she was staring at him. “Tell me about your childhood, Lillian.” Night after night, he tried to coax out some sliver of information that might shed light on who exactly had killed his uncle.
