by Cat Johnson
The Little Palm Resort was a huge step up from the Travel Inn in Miami. If she didn’t get caught for sneaking onto the property and making herself at home as if she was a guest, she’d be golden. But with Trent buying her drinks as if she was his friend—or his date—the management shouldn’t look twice. At least, that’s what she hoped.
Laurel took another sip of her cocktail and tried to formulate a game plan. She’d been so focused on actually finding him, she hadn’t thought all that much about what exactly to do when she finally did. She did know one thing, the more leverage she had over him the better.
If he came on to her too hard, tried to have sex with her and lied to her in any way, she could use that against him. Use it to force him to take a paternity test. She didn’t even need to threaten legal action. Trent’s fame gave her a better weapon to use against him than the law—namely the court of public opinion.
The media loved stories about the downfall of their public icons probably more than they did their successes. That hyper level of scrutiny Trent lived under could only help her.
Seeing him looking nervous in front of her, she almost felt bad for him—then she remembered Becky’s tears landing on that big baby belly.
Time to get back to work taking him down. Good thing she seemed to be his type, judging by the way he’d eyed her in the bikini. Then again, she was nothing like Becky, and she’d obviously been his type too, at least for that night.
Drawing in a breath, Laurel set to bringing this man down. It was a shame too. He was just as the clerk at the Travel Inn and Missy had said—a hottie. Though Laurel could describe Trent much more eloquently.
“How’s the drink?”
“Very good. Thank you so much for buying it for me. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s a’ight. Anything for a pretty lady.” He shrugged, smiling and looking almost shy.
This man had a smile that could charm a girl’s panties right off and the hard body built for pleasing a woman to go with it. Not to mention that hint of a drawl coloring his speech that only made his smooth sexy voice even more appealing—
Wait a minute. Becky hadn’t said anything about an accent. And she’d said the guy she was with was only a couple of inches taller than she was. Though Laurel hadn’t stood next to him, this guy looked pretty damn tall to her. Much taller than the five-foot-eight Becky had guessed he was.
Laurel could believe that the hard-bodied Greek god before her had been carrying around some extra weight when he’d been with Becky and had lost it, but the rest wasn’t adding up. An adult man couldn’t grow a half a foot.
Maybe her initial suspicion had been correct. Perhaps Becky had been taken in by a con-artist and Trent was an unwitting victim of identity theft. As much as she felt for Becky and her situation, now that Laurel had met Trent she was beginning to hope that he was innocent.
Whether Trent was innocent or guilty, Laurel still needed evidence either way.
What else had Becky said? Trent was supposed to have a tattoo on his chest. She leaned forward and tried to get a look. His tank top was covering that particularly luscious part of him, but Laurel could still see there were some damn nice muscles beneath that cotton. It made total sense a shirtless ad featuring this man had made Missy take notice. Hell, he probably sold a ton of product for whatever company had hired him.
No matter how this investigation turned out, Becky made a mental note to search for that ad as she tried to study his chest without him noticing.
When Trent reached down to set his drink on the ground, the cotton gaped and just a tiny bit of black ink peeked out above the shirt’s neckline.
He had a tattoo on his chest. Her heart beat faster, a wake up call for her common sense reminding her that even gorgeous men could be guilty. Maybe Becky was just a really bad judge of height.
Swallowing away the tightness in her throat, Laurel got her flirt on and eyed Trent’s chest openly now.
“You have a tattoo.” She’d said it as a statement, not a question. He looked a bit disturbed that she’d noticed
“Yeah.” He glanced down and adjusted the neckline of his shirt so it covered the ink. “Souvenir of a drunken night in college.”
“Can I see?” She leaned forward and reached out.
Trent leaned back. “I don’t really like to show it.”
He was being evasive. Dammit, she’d really been hoping he was innocent too.
“Why not?” Laurel mustered her most seductive smile even as disappointment crashed down upon her. “Ink is sexy.”
“Is it, now?” One corner of his mouth lifted in a sexy smirk.
“It is.” She brought her eyes up to meet his. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
She watched his gaze drop to all of her visible skin before he drew the obvious conclusion that her tattoo was hidden. He looked as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs as he dragged his focus back to her face.
Yup, the bikini had totally been the right choice.
Finally, he laughed and shook his head. “It’s really no big deal.”
He reached down, grabbed the hem of the shirt and dragged it over his head. As he tossed the tank top onto the end of his lounge chair Laurel had to think that Trent without his shirt on was a very big deal.
From his abs to his pecs, Trent’s muscles were cut so sharp Michelangelo could have sculpted them from marble. But more intriguing than the fact that Laurel was salivating as she imagined running her hands—and mouth—over this man, was his tattoo.
It wasn’t the skull and crossbones as Becky had remembered her lover having. It was a horned bull. Laurel didn’t follow football but even she recognized the Texas Longhorns team logo from the University of Texas where Trent had played football in college, if the information she’d found online was correct.
This hunk of male perfection before her was Trent O’Shea. She’d bet her life’s savings on that. The man who’d gotten Becky pregnant seemed more and more like a liar and an imposter.
“I won’t hold you to our deal, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His statement brought her attention back to the present. “Um, what?”
“You look a little worried. I’m not going to make you show me your tattoo—wherever it is—just because I showed you mine.”
“Oh.” She let out a short laugh as her entire case crumbled around her.
Her client still needed her help. Laurel would have to go back to Miami and hope there was someone at the Travel Inn who had been working there during the time Becky and the man who’d seduced her had been guests. Get the check-in records and hope he’d left an address or phone number. Ask around to see if there were other instances in the area of someone pretending to be Trent O’Shea.
But here and now, the real Trent O’Shea was in front of her and what was she going to do about it?
As the evening progressed the sun dipped behind a palm tree, moving toward the horizon. Trent took off his sunglasses. Now that the barrier of the dark lenses had been removed, Laurel found herself captured in a gaze the color of the ocean. A swirling blend of blue and green deepened by the mixture of concern and overt sexual interest she saw in his gaze.
“Your eyes are an amazing color.” As Laurel said it, Becky’s words niggled on the edge of her consciousness. Her man had brown eyes. In one last effort to hang on to her professionalism and gather evidence, Laurel asked, “Are you wearing colored contacts?”
He laughed. “No. I tried getting contact lenses once. I think I’d rather be tortured than have to stick those things in my own eye.” As if he’d just remembered, he added, “I, uh, wear glasses, but I left them in my bungalow because I came out wearing these.” He held up the sunglasses as proof.
Laurel nodded. Now what? She was trespassing on the grounds of a high-end resort that wouldn’t think twice about calling the police should they catch her. Her case had just fallen apart yet the main thoughts running through her head were fantasies of rolling arou
nd sweaty with Trent.
“Are you hungry?” He asked the question out of the blue.
“Yeah, actually, I could eat.” She lied smoothly, when the truth was she wasn’t all that hungry. Not for food anyway.
Laurel’s stomach twisted from all the emotions assaulting her, not the least of which was overwhelming lust for a man she’d just met. She might not believe in love at first sight, but she was experiencing first hand that lust at first sight existed. The desire she felt was very real.
It was just nature. Her body was harkening back to the days when the survival of the fittest depended on the females of the species choosing the strongest male specimen to mate with.
Given that, it was no wonder she couldn’t fight this feeling. Millennia of her species’ evolution had wired her to be attracted to men like Trent. It just so happened that she’d never actually encountered a man as fine as him before. As a young healthy woman of childbearing age, of course she’d be affected by him.
That nagging voice in her head called bullshit on all Laurel’s justifications. The reality was simple. Trent was hot and she wanted him, not to mention that it had been so long since she’d had sex she was beginning to forget what it was like.
“I can call for a table in the dining room, or order something in. I have a bungalow with a terrace.”
She glanced at her discarded sundress not sure it was up to the standards of the dress code for the dining room here. Besides that, the thought of eating in Trent’s private accommodations had all sorts of appeal.
“Your bungalow sounds lovely.” While her pulse pounded she stood.
“A’ight.” He stood too and reached for his tank top.
Laurel picked up her sundress and slipped it over her head, then grabbed her bag and drink and waited for him to gather his things.
She told herself she had to do this for work. She’d go to his bungalow and make one hundred percent sure this was not the man Becky had hired her to find.
“It’s just down this way.” He tipped his head toward a private path.
As Trent moved to stand next to Laurel and dwarfed her own five-foot-seven inches, she ignored the knowledge that she didn’t need to go to his private accommodations for proof. She’d found all she needed. The man who’d seduced her client in Miami might have had a credit card with Trent O’Shea’s name on it, but he was not the man in front of her. He might have stolen Trent’s wallet or his whole identity. She didn’t know which.
All she did know was that physically every clue told her that this man here with her could not be that man from Miami. The tattoo, his eye color, his height . . . Laurel had all the evidence she needed to support that.
She needed to call the client, tell her the findings, and then renew her search for an identity thief in Miami.
What Laurel should do didn’t seem to matter as she turned to where Trent waited for her by the path to his bungalow. “Great. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Trent opened the door and glanced back at Laurel as he led the way into the living room area of his bungalow. “This is it. My home away from home for the week. I have a room service menu ’round here somewhere. And there’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge, if you want some.”
Apparently, he babbled like an idiot when alone with a gorgeous woman, something he hadn’t noticed before. Then again, he’d gone a long time without sex. The last time had been April of last year, right before he’d left to start OTA for the season. She’d been Pamela Jones, his old girlfriend from Texas. She’d just broken up with her boyfriend. He was single. They were comfortable together. It was simple and easy to fall into bed with her.
The polar opposite of how he was feeling now with this stranger with the thick auburn hair he itched to tangle his hands in and curves built for speed and excitement.
“Champagne sounds wonderful.” She smiled and his gaze dropped to her lips. From there, it was only a short leap to imagining himself kissing her.
What the hell had he been thinking inviting her here?
The privacy, the view, the champagne—this night could only end one way and that was with her under him in that big bed he’d slept in alone last night. Of course, he could end up under her instead. Or behind her. Or with him holding her in the pool as she wrapped her long legs around his waist and—
Good god almighty, this was a bad idea. Even so, his persistent erection didn’t seem to be negatively affected by the dangerous path Trent had led them down. It was blissfully ignorant of Trent’s hesitation and was ready for action.
Second thoughts did him no good now. She was here and he’d promised her dinner. He headed for the desk and grabbed the leather-bound menu.
“What are you in the mood for?”
One look told him that his question, worded pretty suggestively quite by accident, had her eyes narrowing with what looked like interest. In him, not the food.
“Anything you want. I’m game.” Her answer had his mouth going dry as he thought of the many things he wanted that she might be game for.
“I had the Stone Crabs last night. They were really good. There’s steak. Or salad. Lots of seafood . . .” He shrugged, not knowing this woman well enough to be able to suggest something.
It wasn’t lost on him that he couldn’t come up with what she might like for dinner, but he had no problem thinking of various and creative ways to take her, here in the bungalow and all over the resort.
“Here, take a look. I’ll go get that champagne.” He covered the space between them, thrust the menu toward her and then retreated to a safe distance.
She stood by the glass sliding doors that overlooked his private patio and the spectacular view of the horizon beyond. The deeply colored sunset painting the sky bathed her in a halo of rich light and natural beauty. The vision of taking her right there amid the splendor of nature was too tempting. Trent needed to distance himself by at least a few feet.
If this was back home in Texas and he was Trent O’Shea, he’d take this girl home to her place and make both of their fantasies come true. But here he was Mr. Warren and a liar. That not so small detail changed everything and not for the better.
Drawing in a deep breath, he opened the fridge door. He reached for the bottle and decided he’d enjoy dinner, but that was it. His sexual dry spell wasn’t going to be broken tonight.
Unlike the crops that needed rain, he’d survive this drought. That still didn’t stop him from hoping it would be over soon. He was long overdue for a downpour.
He yanked on the cork with a bit too much force. White foam bubbled over his fist where it gripped the neck of the bottle. He thrust his arm toward the sink to avoid making a mess all over the floor and himself.
Trent didn’t miss the symbolism. Just like that bottle, he too was ready to blow. Time to order some food and keep them both busy with something nice and safe.
He poured two glasses of champagne and carried them to her. Handing her one, he asked, “Decide on something?”
“It all looks good, but I think I did.” She ran one delicate finger down the menu as she told him what she wanted.
“A’ight. I’ll call it in.” He put down his glass and reached for the phone.
Laurel had settled on the Mahi Mahi with a romaine salad. Trent ordered the sirloin and the bacon and blue cheese polenta.
He added one order of the chef’s signature Cashew Crusted Key Lime Pie for them to split. Even though she’d said she didn’t want dessert when he’d asked he didn’t miss how her eyes lit up at just the mention.
If he couldn’t have what he really wanted—that being Laurel—he could eat well instead.
Hanging up the receiver, he turned to her. “They say about half an hour.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Thank God for the super efficiency of the staff. He’d only have to come up with thirty minutes of small talk with Laurel. Even so, half an hour seemed like an eternity.
No wonder he had no girlfr
iend. He hated this kind of stuff. All the awkwardness of a first date. Having to make conversation when he really didn’t know the person. He grabbed his champagne glass and tipped his head toward the door. “Want to sit outside?”
“Sure.” She followed him out and moved directly to the railing, staring at the horizon.
She took in a deep breath that raised her breasts higher. Trent noticed because as spectacular as the landscape was, he still couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
“You have a beautiful view.” She turned to look at him and he had to yank his gaze up to the safe zone.
“Yup. That’s why I come here.” That and the fact it was a good place to hide out for a week.
“So what do you do here all day for fun?” She glanced at his forearms and smiled. “Hit the gym?”
“I should, but I haven’t yet. Today I had an hour and a half massage and then my big workout was walking to the pool with my book.” He lifted one shoulder. “I’ll get to the gym eventually but—”
“You’re on vacation and it’s time to relax.”
“Exactly.”
“This is sure a nice place to do it.”
It was only a matter of time before Laurel asked him something he wouldn’t be able to answer truthfully. Even something as simple as what he did for a living would force him to lie to her, making the situation even more stressful.
Maybe he could steer the conversation into safer waters. “So, tell me some stuff about you. Like, what’s your first memory?”
She smiled. “My great grandmother and great grandfather sitting in my parents’ living room. They died when I was three, but I can picture them there.”
“That’s nice. I’m glad you remember them.”
“Me too. Okay, your turn. What’s your first memory?” Still leaning on the railing, she turned her head to look at him.
“My granddaddy putting me up in the saddle in front of him and telling me to hold on tight to the horn.” Trent smiled. “Then he kicked that horse into a gallop and man, I was hooked. My momma though was not so happy. I don’t remember that part but yeah, it’s been discussed at a few family dinners.”
