The Secret Life of Bryan

by Lori Foster

  Unlike her, he suffered no nervousness or reserve. He accepted the coat. “There’re donated clothes folded in the pantry in the kitchen. Down the hall and to your left. Take whatever you need. Use the mudroom to wash up and change into dry clothes.”

  Shay licked her lips. She was thirty years old, and no one in the last twenty of those years had ever accused her of being timid. She wanted him and the first step in that direction would have to be honesty.

  She drew a slow breath, shored up her nerve, and said, “I’m curious about something, Bryan.”

  He hung the coat on a peg by the door. “And that is?”

  “What would you say if I told you I wasn’t actually a prostitute after all?”

  Chapter Two

  His disbelief couldn’t have been more plain. “Not a hooker, huh? So why else would you be here, in this neighborhood, dressed like that?” He nodded toward her clothes.

  Shay stiffened. Her dress was expensive, stylish, and entirely appropriate—when dry. Now…She looked down at herself again and had to admit he had a point.

  “Were you slumming? Spying for the rich biddies who want to take away every ounce of assistance these people have so they can pretend they don’t exist?” He moved closer to her, deliberately trying to intimidate her with his size and strength. “You want me to believe you’re here to visit relatives? To do a little shopping?”

  Shay shook her head. “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me, all right? No need to be ashamed and no need to lie. Hell, as long as you’re not one of those society women or part of that damned WAM group, we’ll get along just fine.”

  Fascinated by these new disclosures, Shay asked, “You think all society women are like that? Mean-spirited and unconcerned about others?”

  “Aren’t they? You heard about that rich lady who organizes all the charities, the one the papers call the Crown Princess? She thinks she’s so benevolent, yet when a young girl went to one of her shelters for help, she was turned away. It’s been the talk of the year, in every damn paper you pick up.”

  Shay felt a chill of pain slice up her back. She said cautiously, “The papers rarely tell the whole or accurate truth.”

  Bryan snorted. “The truth is that the girl almost died not forty-eight hours later, alone. If a truck driver hadn’t found her, she’d probably be dead right now. But the shelter had refused to help her.”

  Breathing became difficult, from both his censure and her own smothering guilt. “The papers also said that the manager of that shelter was fired, that the lady who’d founded it didn’t know anything about the incident…”

  “Yeah, right.” His rude tone ripped apart her excuses. “She set up the foundation, making herself look like a generous god to all her society friends, then didn’t bother to make certain things were run the right way. She was probably off shopping somewhere, or having a dinner party while that girl almost died trying to give birth alone.”

  Shay felt herself shaking in the face of his disgust. She hadn’t known, she wanted to scream. Excuses choked in her throat: the number of shelters she was responsible for, the number of projects she established, all demanding her time and attention. There were holes in every organization.

  But she knew he was right. There was no excuse. And she’d never forgive herself, so how could she expect others to forgive her?

  As she turned her face away, Bryan cursed. “Shit, I upset you and I didn’t mean to.”

  Even feeling so horrid, she had to laugh. “You have a terrible potty mouth for a preacher.”

  He rolled his eyes over that observation.

  “And you didn’t upset me,” she lied. “I’m just surprised at your…vehemence. I mean, it’s not like you know her personally.”

  “I know her kind well enough and I know I can trust the desperation that forces a person to make a decision, good or bad, over cold apathy any day.”

  It hadn’t been cold apathy, far from it. She just couldn’t convince the papers of that. What the public thought no longer bothered her, not when her own guilt was so heavy.

  But…what Bryan thought did matter. He was a good man, doing what he could to help others.

  Thank God she hadn’t told him her last name. She could only imagine what he’d do if he knew the truth. She was Shay Sommers, the very woman he despised. Dubbed the Crown Princess, a woman accused of living a charmed life, using her charity functions as nothing more than tax write-offs and society showmanship. If Bryan had known her real identity, he probably would have thrown her into the rioting mob rather than trying to save her from it. And he’d be especially angry when he learned how she’d misled him.

  “Christ, how’d we get off on this anyway? Look, how I feel about wealth and all the prejudice that comes with it won’t affect you.” He gave a halfhearted, feigned smile, trying to reassure her. She’d already guessed that he wasn’t a man given to smiles; he looked more at ease snarling than smiling.

  “It’s all right.”

  “No it’s not. You’re shivering. Go get changed and then we’ll talk. I’ll introduce you to everyone else.”

  His sudden conversational switch threw her. “Everyone else?”

  For the most part, he kept his gaze on her face. But every so often he skimmed her body, lingering in select places. “Barb’s the cook and housekeeper. Besides her, three other women are staying here now, but more might come—or they might go.” He shrugged. “It changes off and on.”

  “Three other prostitutes?”

  His brows lowered at her blunt question. “They’re trying to start new lives for themselves. It can be done, you know.”

  He didn’t have to convince her. She already hoped to start a new project, based on the success of helping these women start over. But she herself planned to stay a prostitute for a while longer. Bryan would forcibly boot her out if he knew she wasn’t what he assumed her to be.

  And she wanted to stay.

  She had enough reasons to justify the deception, at least to herself. She wanted to know how Bryan maintained the shelter, where his donations came from, details on how he worked the safe house. She could use those details in setting up her own shelters.

  She also wanted to know all about him, the past that had molded him, the future he saw for himself, and why he had such a deep hatred for money.

  But most of all, she wanted him to know her, to give her a chance to prove she wasn’t the malicious, uncaring bitch portrayed in the papers. She wanted him to know she wasn’t a Crown Princess at all, regardless of what biased truths were told. She was just a woman who wanted, needed, to help others. But telling him wouldn’t do it. She had to show him.

  It was odd, but the very thing that had made her so appealing to other men—her wealth—was the one thing that would make this man despise her, and probably before she even had a chance to prove herself to him.

  She did care, very much. But she knew the type of rich people he detested. She extorted those people regularly with her many charity functions and benefits. She understood them, how to squeeze sizeable donations out of them, but she didn’t really like them any more than Bryan did.

  On the other hand, she knew people like herself, people with money who wanted to make a difference, likable people who cared. Her brother-in-law Sebastian was that way, but she didn’t tell Bryan that. He had his own prejudices to overcome.

  Thoughts of her sister and brother-in-law naturally led a trail to other questions, and before she could consider the impropriety of it, she asked, “Have you ever married? Are you married now?”

  Incredulous, he said, “That’s—”

  “None of my business, I know. But will you tell me anyway?”

  He leaned closer, saying succinctly, “No.”

  “But…”

  He caught her chin between his thumb and fingertips. “Listen up, sweetheart. Wife or no, you’ve got no reason to fear me. I only want to help you.”

  Right. And next he’d sell her a bridge. She’d seen his
reaction to her body, to her. Even now, he had a hard time keeping his visual attention elevated above her neckline. He might not want to be interested in any other way, but as a man, some things were unavoidable.

  Her silence had him sighing and dropping his hand. “It’d help if you called me Preacher, like everyone else does.”

  “No,” she answered softly. “I don’t want to be like everyone else.”

  He shook his head. “Stubborn.”

  “And I don’t want to think of you as a preacher.” She saw he was ready to walk away, so she rushed through her explanation. “I prefer to think of you as a man, an extremely appealing man. And when you stop making assumptions, maybe you’ll start to think of me as a woman.”

  For someone who made compassion his stock in trade, he sure seemed uncomfortable with it, as if he’d rather be raising hell than serving heaven.

  “Trust me, I know you’re a woman.”

  Shay shivered again, this time because of the sensual threat in his tone, the masculine appreciation.

  “But—”

  She didn’t want to hear his “buts.” Smiling, she interrupted him to say, “I like you, Bruce Bryan Kelly. Maybe, once we know each other better, you’ll start to like me a little, too.”

  She wanted to stay and talk to him more, but she took pity on the poor man. He’d had a rough day saving a prostitute who wasn’t, trying to ignore his own natural inclinations, and now trying to ignore hers as well.

  Besides, she needed to call Dawn, to check on Leigh and make sure she got settled in. She left nothing to chance these days, not since that awful debacle with the pregnant girl. She trusted Dawn implicitly, but she still checked and double-checked everything, to make certain nothing like that ever happened again.

  She also needed to tell Dawn that she’d be staying in the safe house. The thought had occurred to her that it might be easier to get to know the women, to gain their trust, and for them to give her assistance if they thought she was one of them. And what better way to do that than with the ideal solution the preacher had unwittingly offered her?

  With Dawn on the outside carrying out her wishes and Shay on the inside spending time with the women, learning of their needs, she could make real headway. And since no one would know her, the recent taint on her name couldn’t affect her efforts.

  If Bryan Kelly wanted to shelter a prostitute, she’d be a prostitute.

  She thought again of Bryan’s reaction when he’d looked at her body and seen her as close to naked as possible. He wasn’t indifferent to her. He just needed to remember that, first and foremost, he was a man.

  And then maybe he’d be able to help her start being a woman.

  When he finally learned that she was rich, that she had more money than any three women could spend in a lifetime, that she was in truth the very same society lady he strongly disdained, it would be too late for him. He’d know that even though she was rich, she did care. And hopefully he’d want her as much, maybe more, than she wanted him.

  With a barely suppressed anger common to his temperament, Bryan Kelly entered his brother’s small office and quietly closed the door. This room was the only spare room on the ground floor of the house, the only place where he could be himself for a minute.

  He leaned back against the door, brooding, annoyed. Surprised. Damn, but hookers were looking mighty good these days.

  The plan had seemed so simple, until now. Who could have guessed that playing a preacher would be so tough? Did his twin put up with this crap all the time?

  He was a damn saint if he did.

  His brother, Bruce, had warned him about a lot of situations.

  Sexy bombshells with killer bods weren’t included.

  Shay was hot enough to set his blood to boiling, and she was as taboo as a dame could be.

  Bruce would have had a conniption if he knew Bryan’s thoughts. Preachers weren’t supposed to view women—definitely not prostitutes—with lust.

  He half laughed. He’d always admired what his brother did, the life he led, but never more so than now.

  As a bounty hunter, the only prostitutes Bryan ever met were the ones vying for his money. They’d put on a lot of miles and looked equal parts desperate and hard. Walking away from them had been no problem at all.

  Hell, he was picky about the females he invited to his bed. For the most part, he didn’t trust people, especially women. They were clever and manipulative and while he felt pity for the women Bruce helped, he sure as hell didn’t want to bed them.

  But then, none of the others he’d met had looked or acted like Shay.

  When he’d started this harebrained plan, he’d known that being surrounded by needy, sex-driven women who were totally off limits would be culture shock. But Shay? No, he couldn’t have imagined her if he’d tried.

  He’d gone out on patrol, as Bruce often did, because breaking his brother’s routine would give them away. People would realize that it was Bruce’s twin filling in, not Bruce himself. And that would ruin the plan.

  The night was so shitty, Bryan sure as hell hadn’t expected to see any working girls. Most anyone with a brain had enough sense to be indoors, out of the vicious storm.

  But there she’d been, tall, supersexy, with pale hair hanging in wet tangles to shield part of her lowered face. Her dress, a snug, miniscule white concoction totally unsuitable to the area and any purpose other than advertising her body, left her endlessly long legs on display.

  The upper part of her dress had become transparent in the rain, displaying round breasts and nipples stiff from the cold wind. He’d forced his gaze down the length of her body and stalled on her flat dress shoes. They didn’t really jive with what most of the prostitutes wore, but then, few prostitutes were as tall as this one.

  In the three-inch heels most the hookers favored, she’d be taller than him. Maybe that’s why she wore the flats; it probably wouldn’t do for her to tower over her johns.

  He hadn’t wanted to approach her. She’d screamed “Trouble” with a capital T. But damn it, his brother wouldn’t have hesitated. Bruce would have seen it as his duty, and he’d have willingly gone to her. So Bryan did what he had to, and made the effort to “save” her.

  He snorted. Yeah, right. She was so damn cocky, so self-assured, she’d probably only come along because she thought she might be able to rip him off somehow. He’d keep a close watch on his wallet.

  And that nonsense about liking him? Prostitutes liked any guy with money to spend. For fifty bucks, she’d like him as much as he wanted.

  But…for some reason he didn’t really believe that. He’d gotten by on gut instincts too many times to disregard one this strong. Somehow Shay didn’t fit the mold, and he didn’t mean in the obvious ways. It was more than that.

  She seemed to vibrate with energy and something more. She didn’t look downtrodden.

  She didn’t look used.

  She was slim but strong, with almost regal features—except for those innocent blue eyes, so huge they could suck a man in. But not Bryan. He’d long since grown immune to feminine wiles.

  She hadn’t run off as he’d expected, as Bruce warned they often did. He’d been prepared to chase her, but instead of fleeing, she’d stepped right off the curb into the stinging rain to meet him. Crazy broad.

  Then, from one heartbeat to the next, her entire side of the street went black as pitch. There’d been no time for gentle urging, as was his brother’s custom, no time for explanations. The last power failure in that slummy area had left two people badly beaten and several buildings ransacked. Riots often erupted with little coercing. A blackout could fuel all types of depraved crimes.

  Bryan knew the feel, the taste, and scent of danger, and it had surrounded them. Luckily she hadn’t argued with him too much. Chili’s timely appearance had helped to convince her, no doubt because Chili was a greasy little bastard with a smile like a pig.

  The danger had brought out Bryan’s instincts, and he’d temporarily abando
ned the ruse, acting more like himself than Bruce. Then when she’d asked for his name, he’d screwed up big time. He’d given his own. He didn’t make mistakes like that. Ever.

  But somehow, with her, he had.

  And he’d complicated it further with his half-assed correction. Bruce Bryan? Jesus, even to his own ears it sounded lame.

  Not many people knew his brother as anything other than the Preacher, but he didn’t like taking chances. He’d have to convince her…what was he thinking? To hell with convincing her. She wouldn’t be around long enough to cause too much trouble.

  Out of all the women his brother tried to “save,” he only reached about a fourth. The rest took advantage of his hospitality, his generosity, then returned to work in a few days, a week, a month.

  Regardless of how different she seemed, Shay would do the same. He’d just keep his dick in his pants until then.

  He recalled his brother’s lecture to be like a doctor around the women, immune to them as females. But Bryan only saw women one way and that was the one way Bruce had ruled out.

  Still, for a week he’d affected that attitude with ease. Now he felt challenged.

  Hell, he couldn’t understand the workings of the average female mind, so how was he supposed to understand a trollop?

  Knotting both hands in his wet T-shirt, he jerked it over his head, wadded it into a ball and flung it into the corner. It hit the faded wallpaper with a dull plop, but did little to relieve him.

  Outside, thunder boomed, reflecting his mood. At least Bruce had gotten the roof fixed, so there wouldn’t be any damp spots in the ceiling upstairs, no need to carry up pots to catch the leaks. It hadn’t been easy convincing Bruce to take his money for repairs. But Bryan was a mean son of a bitch, while Bruce was a nice, sensitive guy, so he’d just more or less forced it on him.

  Bryan was damn proud of Bruce and what he did, even if he couldn’t always agree with it. He supported his brother’s efforts and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by a woman with a nice ass and a bold manner, not when Bruce needed him to be on guard, to be the ruthless, calculating hard-ass that their father often called him.