Mating Game

by Maynard, Janice

  Her career flourished. She had a wide circle of friends. But at night in her bed, she was lonely, aching for the touch of a lover’s hands on her skin . . . wishing there were a man to love her to distraction.

  Marc had bolstered her feminine confidence and erased much of her bashfulness in the bedroom. And though it was surely never his intent, he’d given Nola the cojones to go after what she wanted.

  At the moment, the “what” was a “who.” Tanner Nash. His gentle strength juxtaposed with his in-your-face virility was a potent combination. And she liked him. Plain and simple. He was the most blatantly alpha male she had even been with, and she loved how he made her feel both in bed and out.

  She closed the album and lay back on the mattress, wondering if she were right to send Marc away. He really cared about her; she could tell. Enough that he was willing to give up his bachelor status to help her out of her predicament . . . which said a lot. So why was she resisting? Why not marry Marc ASAP, secure her inheritance, and worry about everything else later?

  And then there was Billy. Wow, that had backfired in a big way. Clearly, the man was not harboring any warm, nostalgic feelings about Nola Grainger. But the level of his animosity was inexplicable. Something was there . . . something Nola didn’t understand, and she was determined to ferret it out. She wouldn’t give up on Billy entirely without more information. She still believed—if there absolutely had to be a quickie marriage—that Billy Inman made the most sense as a groom.

  But when she closed her eyes and imagined a wedding night, the face looming over hers as hard thighs moved between her legs and a thick, eager cock begged entrance was Tanner’s.

  Her stomach growled, and she glanced at the clock. Good grief. It was almost two o’clock. At this rate, she’d be finished cleaning out the house somewhere in the neighborhood of 2058.

  After a makeshift lunch, she sneaked through the dining room and peeked out from a window in the solarium. Tanner was perched on the same aluminum ladder, doing something over her head and out of sight. All she could see of him were his bony, tanned knees and his sturdy, muscular thighs.

  She grabbed her camera, sneaked around the side of the house, and shot several frames without his knowledge. Then she went back to her original perch and sat there for a while, mooning over Tanner’s lower half, wondering what to do about this inconvenient attraction and whether or not he would marry her if she asked. She’d have to explain about the will, of course. Otherwise, he’d think she was loony.

  But if he was aware of the will’s stipulation, Nola would never really know if he could fall in love with her for who she was, or if his cooperation was motivated by greed.

  She peeked out the window again. Tanner’s tool belt had pulled at his shorts, exposing one hip bone. Nola wondered what it would take to bare the other one. Her breathing quickened. Damn, she had a serious crush on Tanner Nash . . . and even though Marc might be the easiest choice for a shotgun wedding, he didn’t make her feel the breathless excitement that Tanner did.

  She owed Tanner an apology for the nasty words she had thrown at him. Perhaps if she showered, put on her sexiest dress, and offered to take him out to dinner, he would be able to forgive her.

  Afterward . . . well, they could talk . . . since for some weird reason that was what Tanner said he wanted. And then Nola might get her wish—having the big, handsome Tanner in her bed . . . or his . . . all night.

  She spent some extra time on her beauty routine, doing everything she could think of to make herself soft and smooth and appealing to Tanner. If she was going to be forced to seduce him, she needed the full arsenal.

  For once, her red hair was cooperating, and along with her pale skin, it was a nice foil to the delicate pink of her dress. She skipped jewelry, except for an inexpensive pair of white enamel earrings.

  As she stared at her reflection in the mirror beside the door, the first earring slid into place just fine, but she dropped the back of the second one, and it rolled out into the hall.

  Muttering under her breath, trying not to wrinkle her dress, she knelt and searched. A patterned Oriental runner and two others just like it ran the length of the hallway. If the tiny piece of sterling had landed on the rug, she’d need a magnifying glass to find it. On the other hand, it had probably bounced and slid on the hardwood at the edge of the rug.

  On her hands and knees, Nola felt around carefully. The widely spaced electric wall sconces kept the hallway in perpetual gloom. Suddenly she spotted something about two feet away. Light from the bathroom across the hall glinted off the small, round object.

  Aha. She reached for it triumphantly and got to her feet, clutching her prize. But when she opened her hand, she stared blankly, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. It wasn’t the back to her earring. It was a small, round button. Exactly like the one Marc Overmyer had lost from the sleeve of his expensive designer jacket.

  Marc Overmyer, who had never set foot in Nola’s house.

  Or so she thought . . .

  Eight

  Nolastarted shaking, a dangerous combination of shock and a soupçon of fear. Why would Marc’s button be in the hallway just outside her bedroom door? How was it possible? Even though she held the innocent item in her hand, her brain was having a hard time processing the evidence.

  She did a quick mental replay of yesterday morning when Marc had appeared. He said that he had arrived only moments before. But what if he were lying? What if he had entered the house while she slept?

  Her blood congealed in her veins and her mouth went dry. Marc was possessive and determined to convince her to marry him if she had to have a groom. He said he’d fallen in love with her. But—now that she knew what Krystal had revealed about Marc’s past—was he desperate enough to do something rash?

  His being in the house didn’t necessarily mean he had tampered with her heater. Did it . . . ? That could be a coincidence—right?

  She shivered, her breath catching in her throat. But she gathered her composure bit by bit, and soon her anxiety was pushed aside by the depth of her rage. That little prick.

  She grabbed her keys and her purse and hurtled down the stairs in four-inch heels, sparing no thought for the possibility of breaking her leg in the process. She was trembling uncontrollably, and it took her three tries to get the key in the ignition.

  She screeched down the driveway in a flurry of gravel, and moments later slung the wheel to the left and sent the poor, abused car toward town. If Marc had already checked out, she didn’t have a backup plan. It was time for a showdown.

  Fortunately—or maybe not, since she had told him to leave and he obviously had ignored her—his rental car was still sitting in front of the little motel. Nola parked crookedly, got out, and pounded on the door so hard she was sure she’d bruised her fists. When Marc opened it, she shoved him with both hands, using the element of surprise to tumble him to the floor.

  She stood over him, her chest rising and falling in rapid pants. “You son of a bitch. You broke into my house.”

  In his face, she saw the truth. He held up his hands and slowly got to his feet. “Calm down, Nola. What are you talking about?”

  “I found that outside my bedroom door.” She flung the button at him . . . watched as it bounced off his chest and hit the floor. “Do you know how creepy it is that you were tiptoeing in my hallway, or even in my bedroom? God, that is so stalkerish, Marc. What in the hell were you thinking? When I saw you in the yard yesterday morning, I never thought—” She broke off suddenly as doubt slammed into her stomach. She had to admit the horrifying truth.

  Her legs went weak, and she remained standing with an effort. Her voice had dried up to little more than a whisper dragged from an aching throat. “Dear Lord . . . the gas heater . . . It was you! You tried to kill me while I was asleep.”

  She backed toward the door, terrified and angry and desolate. Would he try to finish the job? Her heart slammed against her ribs with nauseating force. She wet her numb l
ips. “Why, Marc? Why?”

  He reached out beseechingly, and she flinched. Suffering marked his face. “You’ve got it all wrong, Nola. I adore you. I would never intentionally hurt you, I swear.” He was dead white beneath his spa tan, and for the first time in their acquaintance, his habitual air of amused confidence was nowhere in sight.

  Here, face-to-face with him, Nola was stunned. Her allegation seemed almost unbelievable. This man had been good to her. He had worshiped her body, spoiled her with gifts, made her laugh. The sharp stab of betrayal filled her with grief. Her chin wobbled, but she held on to her composure.

  “Liar.” She said it bluntly and without inflection. She would not be one of those pitiful women who couldn’t believe the evidence of their own eyes. She’d been fooled once, but not again.

  Marc was sweating, his eyes bleak, his expression guilt-ridden. He held out a hand. “Let me explain. Please.”

  Nola’s rush of adrenaline had faded, leaving her with legs the consistency of spaghetti and a throbbing headache. She sat on the far bed and crossed her arms across her chest. It took all she had to keep her spine straight. “I want to hear it all . . . from the beginning. And don’t even try to lie. I’ll know if you’re shitting me.”

  He winced. But he sat down opposite her and had the guts to meet her gaze head-on. “It’s not what you think, Nola.”

  She sneered, her heart hurting. “It’s exactly what I think. You locked me in my bedroom and tried to gas me.”

  He propped his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. “Oh, God, Nola.” The silence in the room was unbroken. Finally he scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned. “All right. But I’m telling you in advance that I know I screwed up. It was a stupid, impulsive idea, and I’d undo it if I could.”

  “Not stupid,” she said stonily. “Criminal. I could have you locked up. You’re so pretty, I’ll bet you’d be really popular in jail. Especially down here in Georgia. They don’t cotton much to Yankee boys who try to murder defenseless women.”

  Marc blanched. “Ha, ha . . .” he said weakly.

  She didn’t give an inch. “Talk.”

  He swallowed hard. “I was worried when you left Chicago. I already knew I was falling in love with you, and I was determined to be the man you chose for this stupid shotgun wedding. I was afraid word might get out about your grandmother’s wacky will, and then the crazies would start coming out of the woodwork—”

  “You mean like you?”

  Her sarcasm was automatic, and it hit its intended target. Marc’s wince made that clear.

  He went on doggedly, no longer looking at her, but now staring at the floor. “I had to take care of a few loose ends, and by the time I managed to catch a flight, I didn’t get into Atlanta until after midnight. We deplaned, waited for bags . . . it was after one by then. I should have gotten a room, I guess, but it seemed pointless when I wanted to be on the road early. So I just rented a car and started driving.”

  He grabbed a water bottle off the nightstand and took a long slug. “I stopped once at a rest stop for an hour’s nap. Then I got back on the road. The stupid online directions took me, like I told you, up the service lane at the back of your property. By the time I’d hit a dead end, I got out and started to walk toward the house.”

  She frowned, confused. “Which is when I saw you . . . right?”

  He hesitated. “Not exactly. I first arrived at your front door just before dawn. It was still cold and dark . . . perfect ambience for your creepy old horror-movie house.”

  Even when he was on the defensive, he couldn’t avoid the digs. She hugged her arms tighter around herself. “How did you get in?”

  He shrugged. “I tried the door. It was unlocked. I’m told that’s one of your quaint Southern customs.”

  “Maybe in 1953. These days we’re a bit more security conscious. But apparently I forgot to bolt the door the night before when I came in.”

  His face lightened with a bit of hope. “So you see that this was nothing premeditated?”

  “Keep going.” Just because she’d been careless didn’t exonerate him in any way.

  He rose briefly to bump the AC up a notch and then resumed his position. “I didn’t knock . . . not at that hour. I wandered around a bit, looking at the first floor. Then I headed up the stairs to find you. Your bedroom is the first one at the top of the stairs, so it wasn’t hard.”

  “I know where my bedroom is.”

  He ignored her acerbic comment and went on with his story. “Your door was ajar, and there was a night-light in the hall, so I went in.”

  “But you didn’t wake me.”

  “You looked like an angel, so small and peaceful. I’ve always thought so. And Lord knows, you sleep like the dead. A herd of elephants can tromp through the room and you never stir when you’re out. So I just stood and watched you.” He met her eyes, his filled with entreaty. “You were so beautiful. I love you, Nola.”

  His words were suspect at best. “Go on.”

  “As I was standing there, a flood of anxiety swept over me. I wanted to snatch you up and take you back to Chicago with me. But I also know how stubborn you are. . . .”

  “And that’s when you decided to kill me.”

  His expression was wild. “Will you please stop saying that?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “My bad. Continue.”

  Now he stood up to pace, visibly disturbed by the next part of his tale. “I had this sudden thought. I knew it was crazy, but I couldn’t tolerate the possibility of losing you. So . . . what if I scared you a little bit? Then I’d show up, comfort you, and maybe you’d be inclined to go home, just the two of us. Like it was before you left.”

  “You need some serious help.”

  A hint of red crept over his pale cheeks. “I’ll admit it was a stupid idea. But I never would have done it if I hadn’t seen the carbon monoxide detector. I knew the beeping would wake you up. I stuffed some bits of paper in the exhaust vent on the heater, and I planned to wedge the door shut as I went out with another chunk of paper. But all you had to do was open a window and you’d be fine. I was hoping you’d be a little rattled. Enough to be glad I was here. I was waiting around the side of the house. When I heard you open your windows, I was going to appear and comfort you. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “You never opened your windows. Instead I heard a crash, and then I saw Tanner running toward the house. So it was too late to play the hero. But I still hoped seeing a familiar face would make you glad I was there.” He shrugged. “Instead, your body-guard dragged you off to the hospital before you and I could have a suitable reunion.”

  She looked him dead in the eye. “The windows wouldn’t open, Marc. Tanner was gone . . . running somewhere off the property. If I had passed out, I’d be dead now.”

  She actually saw tears well in his eyes, and a frantic horror. “Oh, God, Nola. I’m so sorry.”

  Perhaps it was foolishness on her part, but a tiny fillip of compassion slipped past her anger and fear. He wasn’t a killer. She knew that. He had positioned his money and influence behind more than one candidate who opposed handguns and the death penalty. He was a pacifist, and though he could be a killer in the financial world, he wasn’t the type to condone real violence.

  But he’d made a gargantuan mistake that might well have been fatal.

  Now he was the one who was visibly shaking from head to toe. “How did you escape?” he cried softly.

  She put her hands on her knees, her spine slumping beneath a wave of emotional exhaustion. “I threw a chair through the window. Tanner came back about then and helped me get out.”

  He sat down beside her, his sophisticated mask gone, his pride in ashes. He took her hands in his. “I’ll make this up to you,” he swore hoarsely. “I know I’ve lost your trust, but whatever it takes, I’m going to prove to you that I’m not a man you have to fear.”

  She tugged her hands away, embarrassed by his unaccustomed humilit
y. “Get up,” she said, irritated by her sudden need to comfort him.

  He returned to his stance across the room, not speaking, and stared at the floor. The next move was hers.

  She stood up and grimaced when her legs still felt wobbly. “Go home, Marc.” A terrible mix of emotions clogged her throat. She cared for this man a great deal. Who knew how their relationship might have progressed . . . if her grandmother hadn’t died, if Resnick hadn’t called her home, if her life in Chicago had continued unchecked?

  Of all the things she was feeling, grief was the worst. First her grandmother, and now Marc. Bit by bit, her life as she knew it was eroding, and she didn’t have any damn idea what to do about it.

  She swallowed hard. “Go home,” she repeated bluntly.

  His head snapped up. “No.” A single word. But it was uttered calmly and without equivocation.

  She gaped at him. After all that had happened, was he still so stubborn? She didn’t want him here.

  He read the rejection on her face and he suffered. He didn’t try to hide it. But despite the hurt in his eyes, he was resolute. “I’ve already called an electronics store in Macon. They’re coming this afternoon to set me up with all the equipment I need to work from here.”

  He stood and faced her. “If you get down to the end of your thirty days with no other choice, marrying me would be better than losing your house. And if you have found someone, I want to make sure it’s not a man who will take advantage of you. I’ve already talked to one of my legal guys about flying down to handle paperwork for either scenario. You may find it hard to believe, given recent events, but I want to take care of you, Nola.”

  The penitent, bone-weary sadness in his posture and his demeanor made her see, perhaps for the first time ever, the real man behind the wealthy, hard-living playboy. He showed one face to the world all the time. But now Nola was witnessing a different Marc.

  She resented the stupidity that had brought them to this point, but in some weird way, she understood.

  She went toward the door. “I can’t make you leave,” she said abruptly, “. . . at least, not without involving the police. And you know I can’t or won’t do that. But so help me, God, Marc . . . if you ever do something so asinine again, I’ll hand you over to them myself and help turn the key in the lock.”