An Inconvenient Affair

by Catherine Mann

  Yet, it had all been a lie. She couldn’t have bantered with a more complicated person. Troy was a perfect example of the cold, hard truth. Everyone wanted something from someone else. People didn’t do things exclusively out of the goodness of their hearts. There was always a payoff of some sort expected. The sooner she accepted that and quit believing otherwise, the happier she would be.

  Madame Emcee moved closer to the microphone, her gold taffeta dress smooshed against the podium. “And now, before we move on to dancing the night away, we have one final auction left for the evening, one not on your programs.” She swept a bejeweled hand toward the large flat screens. “If you’ll turn your attention to our video feed, you’ll see media footage you may have caught earlier.”

  Troy Donavan’s face filled the screen.

  Oh. God.

  Hillary clenched her hands around her handbag, the silver charm cutting into her palm. She glanced quickly at the colonel to see if he’d noticed her panic. But her escort simply sat with his arms folded, watching along with everyone else.

  In full color, high-definition, the whole runway scenario played out again in front of her. Troy, walking off the plane in handcuffs, wearing that quirky, undeniably sexy hat. Troy, escorted into some official-looking SUV. Hillary had been so rushed getting checked in and ready for the kickoff gala, she hadn’t even turned on the television in her room.

  Madame Emcee continued, “But what does that have to do with us tonight? Prepare yourself.”

  The lights shut off. The ballroom went pitch-black. Gasps rippled. A woman squeaked.

  After a squeal of microphone feedback, the emcee continued, “For our final bid of the night, we have for you…”

  A spotlight illuminated a circle on stage.

  Troy Donavan stood in the middle, wearing a tuxedo now instead of his suit, but still cuffed with his hands in front of him. A white silk scarf gave him the same quirky air he’d had on the plane. Her eyes took in the whole man. How could she not? He’d been hot in a suit—in a tuxedo, he stole the air from the room.

  “Yes,” Madame continued, her fat diamond earrings sparkling disco ball refractions all around her face. “Troy Donavan has offered himself as a date for the weekend. But first, someone must ‘bid’ him out of our custody in an auction. He’s been a bad, bad boy, ladies. You’ll want to handle with caution and by no means, let this computer whiz get his hands on your software.”

  Laughter echoed up into the rafters from everyone—except Hillary. She sat stunned; her hands gripped the sides of her seat so tightly her fingers went numb. The whole arrest had been a gag, a publicity stunt for this party. She’d spent the entire afternoon thinking of him in a jail cell—and yes, sad over that in spite of her anger.

  Now she was just mad. He had to have known what she thought in those last minutes on the airplane and he’d said nothing to reassure her. He didn’t even bother to lean down and whisper “Sorry” in her ear.

  She should be relieved he wasn’t in trouble, and she was. But she couldn’t forget. He was still the Robin Hood Hacker.

  Still playing games.

  The bidding began—and of course it soared. Half the women and a couple of men were falling all over themselves to win a weekend with him. The war continued, shouts growing louder and escalating to over seventy thousand dollars. The ruckus continued until just three bidders remained.

  Winning at the moment was a woman wearing skintight silver and chunky sapphires, with a sheen of plastic surgery to her stretched skin.

  Not far behind, a college-aged student who’d begged Daddy for more money twice already.

  And coolly chiming in occasionally, a sedate woman in a simple black sheath.

  College girl dropped out after her daddy shook his head at the auctioneer and drew his hand across his throat in the universal “cut off” signal. Still the bidding rose another ten thousand dollars, money that would go to underprivileged schoolkids who needed scholarships. This was all in fun, right?

  Yet, the way these people tossed around money in games left her…unsettled. Why not just write a check, plus cancel the event and donate that amount, too? Of course if they did that, she would be out of a job.

  Who was she to stand in judgment of others? Of Troy?

  As much as she wanted to look away from his cocky smile, which had so charmed her earlier, she couldn’t. The way she stayed glued to the bidding upset her. A lot.

  She found herself rooting for the one less likely to entice him. Not that she really knew anything about him. But a part of her sensed—or hoped—Ms. Plastic Surgery with her wedding ring wouldn’t be at all alluring to Troy. And if she was, then how much easier it would be to wipe him from her mind.

  But the sedate woman in the black dress? She could have been Hillary’s cousin. And that gave her pause. If that woman won and if she was his type, then that meant he could have been genuine on the airplane when he flirted….

  As fast as “going, going, gone” echoed through the room, Ms. Sedate had a date with Troy Donavan for the weekend, won by an eighty-nine-thousand-dollar bid. And gauging from his huge “cat ate the canary smile” he was happy with the results.

  The depth of Hillary’s disappointment was ridiculous, damn it. She’d spoken to the guy for all of an hour on a flight. Yes, she’d been inordinately attracted to him—felt a zap of chemistry she hadn’t felt before—but she could chalk that up to her vulnerable state right now. She was raw, with her emotions tender and close to the surface. After this ordeal with Barry was over, she would get stronger.

  The emcee moved closer to Troy in a loud crackle of gold taffeta, which carried through the microphone. She keyed open the cuffs and he tucked them into his tuxedo pocket. He kissed her hand before taking the mic from her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in that same carefree voice that had so enticed Hillary earlier as he’d calmed her nerves on the plane, “I’m pleased to be a part of such a generous outpouring tonight—all in the Robin Hood spirit and not a single computer hacked.”

  There was no denying it. The crowd loved him. They all but ate up his irreverence and charm. All except Colonel Salvatore. He seemed—skeptical.

  “As you’re all aware, I’m not known for playing by the rules. And tonight’s no different.” He motioned to the reserved woman who’d won the bidding battle. “My assistant here has been placing bids for me so I’ll have the opportunity to pick the lady of my choice for the weekend.”

  Gasps, whispers and a couple of disgruntled murmurs chased through the partiers.

  “I know—” Troy shrugged “—not completely fair, but I can’t be accused of driving someone else to pay more since I took the burden of the highest bid upon myself.”

  Madame Emcee leaned in to the mic. “And it is a quite generous donation, may I add.” She nodded to Troy. “But please, continue.”

  “Since we’re all here in support of a worthy cause, I hope my request will be honored by the woman I choose. After all, it would be a double standard if this bachelor auction didn’t work both ways.”

  His cocky logic took root and cheers bounced from person to person like beach balls at a raucous Jimmy Buffett concert. Troy started down the steps with a lazy long-legged lope, microphone in hand. The men and women around Hillary whooped and shouted louder while Troy continued to speak into the mic. He paused at the first row, then moved on to the second and the third, playing the crowd like a fiddle as each woman wondered if she would be chosen. The spotlight followed him farther still, showcasing every angle of a face too handsome to belong to someone who couldn’t be trusted to use that charm wisely.

  Abruptly, he stopped.

  Troy stood at the end of row five. Her row. He stood beside Colonel Salvatore. The older gentleman—her contact—scowled at Troy.

  And why not? He was making it difficult for her to stay low profile this weekend, which was what she’d been instructed to do. But then he couldn’t possibly know how much trouble he could cause just by bringin
g the spotlight to this row.

  Troy extended his hand and looked Hillary straight in the eyes. “I choose you.”

  Three

  Her stomach fell as quickly as her anger rose, which was mighty darn hard and fast. What game was he playing now? She had no clue.

  She did know that every single pair of eyes in this room was glued to her. She looked farther—and crap—her horrified face was plastered right there in full color on the wide screens.

  Undaunted, Troy dropped to one knee.

  Damn his theatrical soul.

  “Hillary—” his voice boomed through the speakers “—think of the children and their scholarships. Be my date for the weekend.”

  She wanted to shove him on his arrogant ass.

  Troy shifted his attention to the colonel. “I assume you won’t mind me stealing your date?”

  The colonel cleared his throat and said, “She’s my niece. I trust you’ll treat her well.”

  Niece? Whatever. Sheesh. This was nuts.

  A steadying hand palmed her back. Salvatore. Her skin turned fiery with embarrassment. She turned to him for help.

  Salvatore smiled one of those grins that didn’t come close to reaching his pale blue eyes. “You should dance, Hillary.”

  Right. She should get her feet moving and then people would stop staring at her. Determined to feel nothing, she put her hand in Troy’s—and still her stomach did a flip. She was not sixteen, for crying out loud. Although his grip felt so warm—callused and tender at the same time. Her body freakin’ tingled to life. She’d always prided herself on being in control of her emotions. The second she’d found out what an immoral creep Barry was, she’d felt nothing but repulsion at his touch.

  She knew Troy was a liar, a crook and a playboy. Still her body sang at the notion of stepping into his arms and gliding across the dance floor.

  Plus, he’d just bid nearly ninety thousand dollars to spend the weekend with her. Gulp.

  The pianist began playing. A singer in a red dress cupped the microphone and launched into a sultry rendition of a 1940s love song.

  Troy tucked her to his side and led her to the center of the empty dance floor. The spotlight warmed her already-heating cheeks. His silk scarf teased her hand as he held it against his chest and swept her into the glide of the music. She should have known he would be a smooth dancer.

  She blurted out, “Is there anything you don’t do well?”

  “I take it that’s not a compliment.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m here to work this weekend, not play games.”

  “Believe me, this is no game.” He pulled her close.

  She inhaled sharply at the press of his muscled body against hers. He wasn’t some soft desk jockey. He was a toned, honed man. Her mouth dried and her pulse sped up.

  “Just relax and dance.” His warm breath caressed her ear. “And I promise not to sing along. Because, in answer to your question, I’m tone-deaf.”

  “Thanks for sharing. But it’s not helping. You can’t truly expect me to relax,” she hissed, even as her feet synced perfectly with his. His strong legs brushed ever so subtly against hers with each dance step. “You just told a roomful of people and a pack of reporters that you paid nearly ninety-thousand dollars to spend the weekend with me. Me. A woman you’ve known for less than a day. We’ve only spoken for an hour.”

  He guided her around the floor as other couples joined in. The shifting mass of other bodies created a sense of privacy now that all eyes weren’t so fiercely focused on them.

  “Well, Troy?” she pressed. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”

  “Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” He nuzzled her hair, inhaling deeply.

  She stumbled, bumped into another couple, then righted her steps, if not her racing pulse. “No, I do not. I believe in lust at first sight, but not love. Don’t confuse the two.”

  All the same, she couldn’t help but draw in another whiff of his bay rum scent now that she was as close to him as she’d ever been. Swaying, she resisted the urge to press her cheek to his and savor the bristle of late-day stubble. The kind of slightly unshaven look that wasn’t scruffy, but shouted testosterone to a woman’s basic instincts.

  But the music slowed and she rested her cheek against his chest, just over the silken scarf for a moment.

  “Hmm.” His chest rumbled with approval. “So you admit you’re attracted to me.”

  Of course she was. That didn’t mean she intended to tell him. “Correction—I was stating that you are simply attracted to me.”

  He laughed softly, spanning her waist with a bold, broad palm. “Your confidence is compelling.”

  “Not confidence, exactly.” She leaned back to study his eyes. “Why else would you have gone to all this outrageous trouble to spend time with me? Although I guess you’re so wealthy that perhaps the obscene amount of money doesn’t mean anything to you.”

  He sketched his knuckles along her jawline. “I wanted the chance to spend time with you.”

  “Why not go about that the normal way?”

  “Tough to do if I’d ended up as someone else’s date for the weekend.”

  “How did you even know I was here?”

  “I saw you when I was backstage. My assistant was here. Giving her instructions on what to do was as simple as a text.”

  “But the ballroom was full of people.”

  “You could have been in a football stadium, and I would have seen you,” he said intensely. His fingers skimmed along the sensitive curve of her neck. “Now let’s stop arguing and just enjoy ourselves—unless you plan to renege on the agreement you made in front of all these people. But I have to warn you, everyone will be very disappointed in you if you cost the charity eighty-nine-thousand dollars.”

  His touch almost distracted her from his manipulative words.

  She clasped his wrist and placed his hand back on her shoulder. Her bare shoulder. Maybe not such a good idea after all. “People won’t like you very much either if you don’t follow through on your assistant’s bid.”

  “Everyone knows I’ve never cared what other people think of me.” His fingers caressed her subtly, enticingly. “But you do care about people’s opinions. Rejecting the bid, refusing to play along, causing a scene could all damage your credibility as an event planner—”

  “Oh stop it.” Stop teasing her. Touching her. Tempting her. “We both know I’m not going to cause a scene, and you’re going to pay the charity. How about we shut up and dance in peace?” While she thought about what to do next. At least dancing with Troy gave her an easy excuse to check every face on the dance floor.

  He tut-tutted. “My mother always said it isn’t nice to tell people to shut up.”

  “You are really infuriating.”

  “At least you aren’t indifferent.”

  “That’s safe to say.” She huffed a hefty exhale. “I want to get this date out of the way so I can go back to my real reason for being here this weekend.”

  “To check out the chef.”

  “Right, the food.”

  Something shifted in his eyes, then his expression cleared again. “Our date is for the whole weekend.”

  An entire weekend of his touch? His humor and charm? Even with her real reasons for being here, it seemed she didn’t have a choice on that. So she could either fight him or use this situation to her advantage.

  She could be his “bought for the weekend date,” and she could use that role to mingle with everyone, see if she could catch a glimpse of the mystery man Barry had claimed was his business partner. No one would question why she was here and if Colonel Salvatore hadn’t liked the idea he would have objected when Troy asked her to dance. Now, people would be too focused on who she was with to worry about why she was here. He would actually make the perfect cover.

  All she had to do was resist the overwhelming urge to pull him into a dark corner and kiss him senseless.

  * * *

 
; Troy had been trying to figure out how to get Hillary away from the crowd for the past two hours.

  And yes, he wouldn’t mind having her alone after one hundred and twenty-two minutes with her pressed against him, either dancing or tucked by his side as they sampled the array of tiny desserts. The soft feminine feel and minty scent of her was damn near driving him bonkers.

  Except he had a plan. He’d already executed the first part through the bidding war. Salvatore’s scowl had shot daggers his way all evening, a price worth paying. Hillary could still make her identification, and she would have him as a bodyguard, even if she didn’t know it.

  He guided her along the pastry line, then over to the drinks table—seltzer water with lime for them both—then out on the balcony where tables were set up. Lights were strung and twinkling, the sounds and smells of the lake carrying on the wind. He picked the table against the wall, overlooking the rest of the small outdoor area and out of clear view of the security cameras.

  They could sit beside each other, shielded by the shadows. No one would approach without him seeing them first, and she could watch the party, even though she didn’t know they were on the same side. His instincts told him she was honest, but he couldn’t risk telling her of his affiliation with Salvatore until both he and Salvatore were certain of her innocence.

  Bluesy jazz music drifted through the open French doors. A saxophone player had joined the pianist and singer. All of the musicians tonight were big names who’d donated their talent to the event. One of them was even a buddy from reform school and a Salvatore recruit, as well. This place was crawling with money and agendas.

  Including his own.

  He took his seat beside her, the handcuffs in his pocket jingling a reminder of his earlier fantasies about cuffing them together—all night long. He tipped back his glass and allowed himself the luxury of studying her out of the corner of his eye. There was no way to hide a woman like her. Sure she wore a simple strapless black gown, her hair clasped back on one side. Yet in a place full of women in designer gowns and priceless heirloom jewels, she stood out from the simplicity of her presence alone. Her unassuming grace, the way she didn’t seek the spotlight—and yet, it followed her. She drew the light.