by Jo Leigh
“I’m sure you have a very interesting theory about that, Mitch, but I’m tired. I want to shower, and I want to take a nap.”
“Okay.”
She stood and walked to the door. Opening it wide, she pointed to the hall. “Take your bag with you.”
Mitch shook his head. “Sorry, snookems. I’m here for the duration.”
“You’re really not going to leave.”
He shook his head once more.
Bentley sighed. She shut the door and leaned her cheek against the cool wood for a second. “I’m not going to give up, you know. I’m going to figure out a way—”
“To kick me out. Right. But in the meantime, I’m going to get the story of a lifetime. I’m going to find Colker, and I’m going to get an interview. If you’re very nice, I’ll let you help me.”
She laughed. His arrogance was an art form. “Why don’t you go look for him now so I can get some rest?”
He stood up and put his beer on the end table. “I’ve got to change.” He reached for his zipper.
“Hey!”
“What?”
“I don’t want to know you that well.”
“Spoilsport.”
She went to the closet and grabbed her robe. “I’ll be out soon. Don’t touch anything.” Then she made her escape into the bathroom—the only place she could be alone to think.
Mitch stared at the closed door. He thought about Bentley, behind that door, taking off her clothes. It was inappropriate, sure, but it was also fun. He had few out-and-out immediate goals. One was to get the scoop on Colker. The other, which he hadn’t realized he’d wanted until about twenty minutes ago, was to know Bentley Brewster in the biblical sense. It was a dangerous mission, fraught with peril. But he had the very strong sense that it would be worth it.
She was a liar. A cheat. A spoiled rich girl. And he wanted her more than a Pulitzer.
In the meantime, he needed to get his first priority taken care of. Colker was here. Despite the lady’s protestations, the man was in residence. Mitch felt it in his gut. He’d learned to trust his instincts over the years. Yep, Colker was here. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get to him.
It wasn’t as if he planned to go through her luggage. Hell, he did have a few scruples. But could he help it if Bentley had been careless? That she’d left her big suitcase unlocked? That if he knocked into the luggage stand a couple of times, the damn thing would fall and flap open?
He picked up the Louis Vuitton case—it must have cost a week’s salary—and put it back on the stand. First he looked in the side pockets. Shoes, hair spray, belts, makeup, more hair stuff. In other words, nothing. Standing very still, he listened for a moment; the reassuring sound of the running water made him smile. Then he started looking through the clothes. Which was fine and dandy until he got to the Victoria’s Secret portion.
The number on top was red. Silky and red. Silky and red and tiny. He lifted it with one finger. It was a teddy, probably the skimpiest damn teddy ever made. He could see right through it. His cheeks felt warm, and he wondered when Bentley had turned up the heat in the room. It wasn’t hard to picture her wearing the tiny garment. Not hard at all. However…
He dropped the red item and picked up the white one. This was a bra, it seemed. A strapless bra with half-moon cups. Cups that would hold her breasts softly yet firmly. Had she turned the heat all the way up?
He let the bra go and went to the wall thermostat It read seventy degrees. Time to call maintenance. After turning it down all the way, Mitch went back to the suitcase. What would he find next? A G-string? Tassels? He lifted the strapless bra once more and put it aside, his gaze transfixed by the scrap of material that had been exposed. It was tiny. Smaller even than the teddy. It was also pink. The kind of pink that made him think of champagne and strawberries. Of breathy voices and slow teasing. It was a pair of panties. Bentley’s panties. Holy…
Was this the kind of thing she always wore? Hurrying now, afraid she’d come out of the shower any second, he riffled through the rest of her underwear. Every single piece was a ten on the sexy meter. Every one. Hadn’t she ever heard of cotton?
He shoved everything back in and closed the suitcase, his face still warm and his pulse revved. So every day for the past two years, Bentley Brewster-DeHaven sleeved sweaters, and her dresses with the buttons up to here, she’d been wearing little itty-bitty panties. Worse. She’d been wearing teddies.
The nerve. The gall. She was a total fraud. Well, what could he expect from a woman who invented a goddamn husband? Who knew all about Colker and refused to tell him one bloody thing.
Colker. He hadn’t found her notes. He listened again, but somewhere along the way the winds had picked up, strong enough even here on the fourteenth floor to mask the sound of the shower. Surely Bentley would come out now.
Damn it, he hadn’t changed clothes. He raced to his bag, not Louis Vuitton or any Frenchman for that matter, and tugged on the zipper. The hanging bag flopped open, spilling his shaving kit and his plain, white, sensible boxer shorts onto the ground. Quickly gathering his things, he shoved them in a dresser drawer, then turned back to his bag. Dinner. Right. Something nice. Not jeans, not Dockers. Dress pants.
In a second, he had them off the hanger and had his current pants down and off. He kicked them away, then struggled with the buttons of his shirt Finally, that was off, too. Just as he went for the new pants he heard the bathroom door open.
“I see looking through my luggage took longer than you’d planned.”
He turned. Bentley stood by the luggage rack. Her arms were folded across her chest, her hair hidden inside a tall swirl of towel. The robe she wore was thick terry cloth, white. Nothing like the rest of her underwear. Her face, clean and scrubbed free of makeup, was remarkably beautiful in the lamplight. When had the room become so dark? When had Bentley become a woman?
“Well?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please. You and I both know that you rifled through my things. You wouldn’t be Mitch if you didn’t.”
“So why did you leave it unlocked?”
She walked toward him. He watched her gaze travel quickly over his almost naked body, resting a little too long on his boxers. Heat rushed through him again, but this time it went south instead of north. He felt some movement, some interest, some pressure. He spun around and reached for his pants.
“I left it unlocked so you would go through my things. So you would see I didn’t have any information about Colker. That I didn’t bring my computer. I didn’t even bring a notebook. I’m here for the damn wedding and that’s all!”
It was no use. He had to excuse himself. The shower was probably out of hot water, which was a good thing. A necessary thing. Where was his shirt?
“Hello? Did you hear anything I just said?”
There it was. It wasn’t a designer shirt or anything, but it would do. Then he went to the dresser and pulled out his shaving kit and a pair of drawers.
“Am I not speaking words? In English?”
He took a few steps toward the bathroom, then backed up until he could reach for his beer. He had to reshuffle his handful, but it was worth it. Nothing went with a cold shower like a lukewarm brewski.
“Mitch Slater, you stop right there. Don’t you dare ignore me.” A thunderclap emphasized her statement, but he really, really couldn’t stop to chat right now.
“We’ll argue when I get out,” he said, and then the door was closed behind him.
He sagged against the door and let the bundle in his arms fall to the floor. All except the beer. Taking a swig, he went into the shower and turned on the cold water. He shouted, loud, when he stepped inside, then shouted again for good measure. It was freezing. But it did the trick.
It took him about three minutes to realize he hadn’t taken off his shorts.
Chapter Five
Bentley was sure Hawaii had excellent mental health professionals. Pe
rhaps the hotel could recommend someone. Someplace. Preferably with bars on the windows and lots of padded rooms. Mitch was clearly off the beam. One taco short of a combo platter. And he planned on staying with her, in her room. Well, Mitch Slater hadn’t seen the true power of Bentley Brewster. But he soon would.
She whipped the towel from her head and went through her rifled suitcase until she found her brush. While she combed, she picked out a suit for tonight’s dinner, then dressed as hurriedly as possible, certain Mitch was going to exit the bathroom the moment she was naked. Somehow, she managed to get fully clothed without having to deal with shower boy.
Makeup would wait So would her hair. What had to be done now was to deal with the Mitch problem.
She went to the phone, and as she sat, a brilliant stroke of lightning lit up the sky. Her gaze went to the window. The storm that had merely threatened this morning was in full glory now. The rain hit the glass hard and the wind played with the droplets like a swirl-a-paint. The clouds, which she could only see when lightning illuminated the sky, were thick and as black as coal. She’d never been in a hurricane before. Earthquakes, yes. Even a tornado once. But never a hurricane.
Maybe she could tell Mitch to go collect some seashells. Then the water surge could carry him away, and she’d have her life back.
She smiled at the thought as she reached for the phone. Before she could grab the receiver, it rang, scaring her enough to make her jump. It rang once more, the red light next to it blinking with urgency.
She lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“The hurricane isn’t supposed to be this close. I was told that there would be no problems on this island. Stephanie can’t get a plane to bring her here, and I’ve spent over fifty thousand dollars on her wedding. I can’t find Jack, Aunt Tildy wants to go home, it’s very possible the hotel will lose electricity and what the hell am I supposed to do with ten thousand dollars’ worth of wilted orchids? I swear, I can’t handle this, Bentley. I just can’t.”
“Hi, Mother.”
“Hmm?”
“I said…Never mind. Are you and Daddy dressed for dinner?”
“Of course.”
“Then we’ll talk about all of this in a half hour, okay? I have some business to take care of.”
“What possible business could you have that’s more important than your sister’s wedding? I think this selfishness is very unattractive, dear. I’ll wager Carter does, too.”
Bentley felt the button being pushed, right in her solar plexus. It was an old button, born many years ago, developed slowly and carefully every time Bentley had a thought that was contrary to her mother’s. She’d been selfish all her life, and Babs took great joy in pointing this out to her on every possible occasion.
“Mother, I can’t do anything about the hurricane. I’m not a meteorologist. I can’t fly Stephanie here myself. I’m not a pilot.”
“I don’t care for that sarcasm.”
Bentley took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mother. I know you’re under a lot of stress. But we’ll be at dinner in a few minutes. I promise I’ll be as sympathetic as Father Flanagan.”
There was a considerable pause, and Bentley felt sure Mitch would come out any second. How much did he have to wash, for goodness’ sake?
“It’s not easy, you know,” Babs said in her patented martyr’s voice. “You girls have always been the most important thing.”
“I know that, Mom. Come on. Put on your Harry Winston diamonds. Those always make you feel better.”
“Daddy made the reservations under his name.”
Bentley rolled her eyes. Never once in the history of her family life had reservations been made under any other name. “Okay,” she said, trying to sound chipper.
“And try and do something about your hair, dear. This morning’s look didn’t suit you.”
She was about to mention that she’d been on a five-hour plane ride this morning, but what was the use? “I’ll try. See you soon.” She hung up before Babs could poke her again.
She lifted the cradle once more, but she didn’t dial. The storm captured her attention once more and a sudden gust of ennui swirled around her, settling on her shoulders. Why did she give her mother the power to do this to her? In every other aspect of her life she was an adult. Fully capable of getting stories on Mafia hit men, drug kingpins, government officials. But when Babs spoke, she became a child again.
It was her own fault. Babs was Babs and would be Babs forever. Nothing was going to transform her into a Disney mom. The only thing that could be changed was how she let Babs affect her.
The door to the bathroom opened. Mitch, his hair wet, barefoot and dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, stood silhouetted in light. From this angle, his features were blurry, indistinct. But her breath caught in her throat. Because everything about the man in the light was exactly, to the inch, Carter. All she imagined her husband would be.
Tall, almost up to the top of the door frame. Wide in the shoulders and slim in the hips. Straight, with an arrogance that came from experience, not wishful thinking. And exuding sex like a perfume sample at the Estèe Lauder counter.
“You’re dressed,” he said.
“What were you expecting?”
“You’re dressed but your hair isn’t done.”
She turned her head a bit to the side. “Hello? You were in the bathroom. Where was I supposed to do my hair? In the closet?”
He strode into the main room, his face coming into focus, and her fanciful thoughts shattered like broken glass. He might have the body of Carter, but his personality? Not even close. Miles apart. Light years apart.
“So, get cookin’. Mom and Dad are expecting us in fifteen minutes.”
“It drives me insane when you call them that.”
Mitch grabbed a pair of socks from his bag, then sat on the bed to put them on. She didn’t like him on the bed. Even when he had all his clothes on.
“I think Carter would call them Mom and Dad.”
“You’re not Carter.”
“Carter doesn’t exist.”
“So how do you know what he’d call my parents?”
He stared at her for a long beat, his right eyebrow cocked and his lips pressed together. “This conversation isn’t very productive. Why don’t you go put your hair up, huh? I’ve got to make a call.”
“To whom?”
He got up and walked toward her. He seemed far too tall and daunting from her perch on the couch.
“I’m calling the restaurant, if that’s any of your business.”
She hugged the receiver closer to her chest. “Why?”
He leaned down. She could see his cheeks were smooth and clean shaven, smell his soft hint of spicy cologne, measure the width of his shoulders against the wall behind him.
“Because I want to order some wine. Ahead of time. Is that okay with you?”
She gave him another look, this time focusing on his face, not his physique. “I don’t trust you.”
“Good girl.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Good woman.”
“I don’t like you at all, you know.”
He nodded. “Can I have the phone anyway?”
She looked at the receiver in her hand, then slowly held it out to Mitch. When he took it, his fingers brushed against hers, and the sky lit up like the Fourth of July. She jerked back, grateful to realize that it was just lightning. Not her own reaction. Then she looked up and saw that Mitch was looking at her as if she’d changed from a pumpkin to a coach.
“Lightning,” she said.
He nodded. But she doubted somehow he’d heard her. His gaze was on her face, unwavering, intense. He was seeing something new, she could tell by the way his brows arched. But what? What did he see when he looked at her that way? That hungry way?
“It was a jolt all right,” he said, his voice husky.
She got up. Walked quickly to her bag. Grabbed her hair blower and her brush. “So, I thoug
ht you were going to make a phone call?”
“And I thought I was immune.”
She spun toward him. “What?”
“Immune. You’ve always just been the competition.”
“And?”
“And now you’re more.”
She nearly said something smart-ass. But another bolt of lightning lit up the room just then, and when she saw his face, it was like seeing him for the first time. There was no smart-ass comment to make. Because she knew exactly what he meant.
THE ELEVATOR WAS CROWDED, this being the dinner hour. Everyone was talking about the weather. A short man with bad breath next to Bentley announced that the only road to or from the hotel had a history of washing out. His companion, an older woman with bottle-red hair mentioned that on the news they were calling this hurricane Bonnie, and that this island was only getting the outskirts of the impact. The short man asked if this was the outskirts, what kind of nightmare would the inskirts be?
Bentley smiled at Mitch’s grin. Then they reached the lobby, and the door whispered open. Voices, lots of them, surprised her. It had been so quiet when she’d arrived. They turned the corner to the main lobby and she saw who the voices were connected to: every guest in the hotel. The lobby was jammed. People dressed in bathing suits and women dressed in sequined gowns all hummed around the central desk like bees in a hive. Tension flew hot and heavy, and that was only partially a result of the winds shrieking outside the doors. These were mostly honeymoon couples from the Midwest, or the Bible Belt. They didn’t know a hurricane from a volcano, and they were scared.
Mitch took her arm and led her through the crowd. She kept hearing the word “flashlight,” and she remembered that she had one—she always took a flashlight with her when she traveled. It was in her suitcase. But did it work? “We have to get batteries,” she said, tugging Mitch to slow down. “I’ve got a flashlight, but I think I need new batteries.”
“You’ve got a flashlight?”
She nodded. “I always keep emergency supplies on hand. Flashlight, some waterproof matches, a thermal blanket, food bars, first aid kit. You know.”
