by Linda Style
Right now she was as confused about Rhys Gannon’s character as she was about her sister’s truthfulness.
The doubt was making her crazy. The impulsive part of her wanted to grab SaraJane and flee. And then she’d be a kidnapper. She had to wait it out. Do things the right way. If he was delivering a “product” she could still catch him in the act.
She went back to stacking the racks. A few minutes later she noticed Rhys’s backlit form in the doorway to his office.
“Well, whaddaya think?” he asked. His tone was a 180-degree turn from where it had been during the conversation she’d just overheard.
She swung around, her pulse banging in her throat. “Think about what?”
He walked over to stand beside her. “Your new career?” He gave her a 100 watt grin. “Think you’re gonna find the motorcycle business interesting enough for a book?”
Even though his spirit was playful, the subtext suggested she was very obviously not cut out for this line of work.
She raised her chin. “Of course. I never realized how interesting it was until I started doing research.” She met his gaze, then bent down for another package to place on the rack.
He came down next to her, reached into the box at the same time, then clamped his hand over hers, holding it there. His eyes were riveted on hers. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
Her heart sped up. “Do what?”
“You don’t have to work here just to get information. I’d give it to you, anyway.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her mouth went dry. Was he talking about the book—or SaraJane? Still clutching the package, she rose to her feet. He rose with her.
Blindly, she punched the grommet and hung the bag on the metal hook in front of her, with no idea whether it actually belonged in that spot.
And until she knew differently, she’d play dumb. Take his words at face value. “But I want to. I want to do this. Really. The more I know, the better my photographs will be.”
***
Rhys was baffled by her persistence. He liked her tenacity, but it bothered him to have her working for him without pay—even if she didn’t need the money.
Not to mention, if she was just doing this as a lark, she could screw up his business more than it already was.
Still, she seemed sincere. The other day she’d listened to his instructions as if he’d recited a soliloquy from Hamlet. Then she’d forged ahead, working like a docker, slicing open boxes, removing heavy parts. She hadn’t hesitated to pitch in, even though it was a hard dirty job.
She might have been raised among the blue bloods, but she was different. Stephanie wouldn’t have lifted a finger. Her expertise was in using his money to co-ordinate charity balls and benefits that were really just social events for the rich. The thought still galled him. If only he had some of that cash now.
He picked up another packet, bumping shoulders with Whitney on the way down. He had an overwhelming urge to pull her close, to feel her body against his, to release that silky hair and press his face into it.
He took a step back to put some breathing distance between them. Off limits, buddy. Way off-limits. He stabbed his fingers through his hair.
“Just remember I can’t pay you,” he said bluntly, stupidly, because she didn’t need to get paid and he knew it.
But even as he said it, he wanted her to stay. He liked her presence. Liked the feel of her working beside him. He liked waking in the morning excited and revved with anticipation.
He hadn’t felt such a rush since he was twenty.
But he wasn’t twenty. A lot had happened since then, and there was more to come. Soon he’d be facing the most difficult task of his life. The last thing he needed was more complications—and a woman in his life was definitely a complication. Any kind of woman.
Then her eyes linked with his. Pale-blue eyes that sent him ambivalent messages. Hot and cold. Fire and ice. She felt the attraction, too. He could tell. And she was damned uneasy about it.
Which he found intriguing. Why would a woman of her age and her background feel nervous about being attracted to anyone? Especially someone she far out-classed? In her world she’d probably think nothing of taking the steps necessary to get what she wanted, when she wanted.
But she wasn’t in her world and maybe it threw her a little off center. Besides, she needed something from him—something important enough to overlook her discomfort.
She was dead serious about her photography. Her work came first. It was an admirable quality, and one he would do well to keep in mind.
He muttered some cockamamie instructions about the rest of the boxes and then stalked off to the safety of his office.
***
“What’s the problem?” Whitney asked. “If anybody comes in, I’ll help them. If I can’t, I’ll tell them to come back when you’ve returned from lunch.”
She was logical, he had to admit—and she was stubborn as hell. He’d learned that much about her in the past week.
“Things can happen. As you’ve seen, some of the people who come in aren’t the most, uh, socially adept. What’ll you do if one of the customers comes on to you? How would you handle it?”
He gave her a quick once-over. If he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, there wasn’t much hope with some of the yahoos who came into the shop. It was hard not to notice how her jeans fit that perfectly shaped bottom, or how her lips parted so invitingly when she spoke.
She smoothed the front of the long-sleeved, fitted Harley T-shirt she’d started wearing to “get the feel of being a biker babe,” and shook her head. Her exasperated expression and palms-up gesture told him she considered his question ridiculous.
“The same as I do when one of my customers comes on to me. I haven’t lived in a vacuum, Rhys. Nothing’s going to happen to the store in one hour. Nothing I can’t handle. Really.”
“Okay, okay,” he finally agreed. Because just then he realized it wasn’t the shop he was worried about; it was her. And she’d think that was absurd.
She was completely capable of taking care of herself, had done it for years, from what she’d told him. He grabbed his leather bomber jacket from the closet and hurried out the back door. The image of Whitney’s zealous smile still lingered as he swung a leg over the seat and took off, heading to the inn for lunch.
After a week together they’d fallen into a comfortable working routine, and he looked forward to each day with more enthusiasm than the one before.
Yet he hated the way she’d gotten under his skin. It scared him. Every time he’d thought she was like his ex or some other woman he’d known, she’d proved to be different.
But he wasn’t going to kid himself. She was here to do a job, and when it was done she’d leave and he’d be just another reference in her book. He had no illusions about anything further with her, not even when he visualized her long legs wrapped around him, hips moving rhythmically. His blood surged as he indulged in that speculation. Or was it fantasy?
Working with her had truly become exquisite torture. And he found it almost impossible to keep his lust to himself.
Some weird ego thing in him liked the way she got all flustered when she guessed what was on his mind. More and more he began to think about trying to make it happen. If he slept with her, just once, he might get it out of his system.
But she’d be gone in a week or so, anyway, and it’d be back to business as usual. Yeah, two different worlds. That was how things were and how they’d remain. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
***
Whitney waited for a moment to be sure Rhys was gone, then yanked open the top drawer of the filing cabinet.
With only an hour, she had to be quick.
Folders full of business papers. The same in the next drawer, and the third was locked. Nervous and unsure of what she was looking for, she rifled the files, checking names and dates.
Maybe something to indicate where SaraJane was born. Something to show Rhys’s
past. Something to discredit him. Anything!
Guilt needled her as she pulled out a folder labeled “Bank Loan.” Rhys had trusted her to mind the store for him and she was repaying that trust by snooping through his files.
She felt sleazy, just as sleazy as she’d imagined him to be.
During the past week he’d bent over backward to teach her about the business. He hadn’t revealed himself, even once, to be anything other than a man trying to make a living while raising a child to whom he was devoted.
Whitney assuaged her guilt by remembering Morgan’s description of how he’d fooled her with his charm. Yet, as she held a file in her hand, her resolve weakened. God, she’d feel so violated if someone rummaged through her personal things. Especially if it was someone she trusted.
She stuffed the folder back and slammed the drawer shut. Hands on hips, she scanned the room, irritated with herself for not taking full advantage of the opportunity.
Some Mata Hari she was. How did people like that live with themselves? They had to do it, she supposed. For them, the stakes were high and worth the betrayal.
But wasn’t this the same? And wouldn’t waiting only prolong the outcome—and make it more difficult for everyone involved?
Just do it, Whitney, you coward. You made a promise. You can’t stop now. She remembered the other promises she’d made to Morgan as a child. Promises she’d failed to keep and because of her failure Morgan had suffered… She cringed. Dammit. She had to follow through.
Quickly she slid open the drawer, got out the file and scribbled the loan data on a notepad in her appointment book. When she’d finished, she circled Rhys’s desk, then dropped into the leather chair.
She opened the center drawer. It was tidy with small compartments for paperclips, rubber bands and pens. Nothing of interest, until she noticed something shiny poking out from under a stack of billing statements in the back. A photograph.
Gently lifting the corner with two fingers, she eased it from under the pile, careful not to disturb anything.
A photo of SaraJane. Sweet, darling SaraJane. All blue eyes and dimpled cheeks.
She wasn’t more than a year old in the picture, but Whitney could easily tell it was her niece. She flipped it over; nothing—no date or name. She started to slip the picture back when the corner caught on the edge of another photo.
She lifted it out and held it up. The Polaroid colors were faded, but she knew instantly that the man in the photo was Rhys. On the back “Florida” was printed in large bold letters.
Her heart warmed at the engaging picture. Rhys’s dark hair was flopped onto his forehead, and one arm was looped around the shoulders of a small boy who clutched a fishing pole and a string of fish.
Though Rhys’s bare chest and rippled stomach didn’t escape her interest, it was the young boy’s face that caught her attention. His eyes. There was something about his eyes…
His sister’s son? Yes, that was it. He’d said he had a married sister who lived in Florida with her husband and three children. The photo obviously meant something to him.
So, it was possible he really was a man trying to change the direction of his life. Maybe some traumatic experience had thrown him temporarily off-track and now he was trying—
“What do I need to do to get some help?” A gruff male voice sent Whitney’s hands flying and her insides into spasm. She looked up to see a customer standing in the office doorway. Quickly she shoved the photograph back and closed the drawer.
A wave of apprehension ran through her as she rose to greet the man. He was tall, at least as tall as Rhys, and had on a long black leather coat, the kind she’d seen on outlaws in old western movies.
He wore heavy black boots with metal around the toes, black leather pants and a black T-shirt. His hair was drawn into a ponytail and a two-day growth of beard was the same blue-black color as his hair. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses.
“I’m sorry,” she said, moving hesitantly toward him. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She wished like hell he’d take off the sunglasses. “What can I do for you?”
His body filled the doorway, forcing her to stop in front of him. She knew she shouldn’t be put off by the way he looked. Rhys had explained how many bikers were simply people who took up riding as a hobby, and for some, the clothes were part of it, much like tennis or golf outfits.
Yeah, right. The thought was no comfort, and her legs felt cooked noodles.
“Is Gannon here?” The gruff raspiness in his voice remained, but his tone was less insistent. She could tell from the tilt of his head that the eyes behind the mirrored lenses examined her from head to toe.
Ignoring the disconcerting image of herself in the lenses, she secured the barrette at the back of her head.
“He’s out,” she said, then instantly realized her vulnerability. “For a couple of minutes.”
She glanced at the rear door. Stupidly she’d fastened the safety chain after Rhys had left and now she was trapped inside. So she did the only thing she could and stepped forward. “Excuse me. If you’ll let me by, I can help you in the shop.” She made a parting motion with her hands.
He backed away from the door, surprising her. But she couldn’t help noticing the curl of a smile as she walked past him. Unnerved, she whirled around to face him and extended her hand.
“I’m Whitney. What can I do to help you?”
Holding her breath, she waited for his next move. He quickly enclosed her hand in his, then slid his thumb across it until he touched her emerald ring, a keepsake she’d inherited from her grandmother.
“So where’s Gannon? When did you say he’d be back?”
Fear shimmied through her. Easing her hand from his, she edged toward the front door, accidentally snagging a leather jacket and knocking it off the rack next to her. She caught it by the collar, fumbling until she’d slipped the thing back on the hanger and slung it crookedly over the bar.
“Soon. He’ll be back soon.” Her heart thumped maniacally. “If you want, you can wait.” She gestured toward a chair near the front. “Or there’s a coffee shop down the street.”
She whirled around, opened the door and stepped over the threshold, holding the door for him to follow. She pointed in the direction of Mabel’s Café, and when he walked past her to look, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Guess I’ll come back later,” he said, smiling.
She waited until he mounted his bike and roared off. Back inside, she shut the door and sagged against it, then heard the phone ringing in Rhys’s office. On her way to answer it, she congratulated herself on handling the situation quite well.
Still, she felt relieved when a little later she heard the rumble of Rhys’s bike out back. Ensconced behind his desk, Whitney finished the last phone order with a flourish, feeling a grand sense of accomplishment at completing the task. She’d enjoyed talking to the customers and helping them as much as she could, reading them information from the stock list Rhys had left her.
What Rhys really needed, she decided, was a good catalog with national distribution. Something slick with color photos. That might help with marketing and PR if he was interested in expanding the business as he’d said.
Hearing his footsteps, she gathered her paperwork into a neat pile, then jumped up to unlatch the safety chain.
“Everything okay?” Rhys asked, glancing around the office. He unzipped his jacket, shrugged it off and hung it in the small closet next to the door.
“Of course. Everything’s fine.” She pointed at the stack of papers on the desk. “That’s most of it. Four orders, all written up and ready to be shipped.” She nodded at the boxes by the window, still irritated that he’d doubted she could handle such a simple task.
He scooped up the papers and fanned the corners. “Hey, this is great. Really great.” He set the papers back on the desk and rolled his shoulders as if he needed to loosen up. “Any problems?”
“Problems?” She stepped from behi
nd the desk, dismissing his comment with a casual flip of her hand.
“What problems could there be in taking a few orders? It’s not exactly rocket science.”
“But it’s money,” he said, then picked up the papers again. “Every little bit helps. Let’s see, this one is for—” his eyebrows arched “—two thousand dollars?”
Rhys leaned against the desk, stretched out his arms as if he needed glasses to read the order sheet. “You double-checked the figures?” He studied the paper again, as if he’d read it wrong.
“I’m not even going to respond to that.” Whitney pretended to feel insulted.
A smile formed, and with a glint in his eye, he asked, “What did you say to the guy that made him spend this kind of money?”
She shrugged and raised her hands.
He picked up another order. Both eyebrows shot up again. “Whitney, this is great! Look at these.”
Still clutching the order forms, he reached out and placed his hands on her upper arms. “You’ve just sold as much as I made in the entire past month.”
Now she was amazed. Not at herself, but that he thought it was such a big deal. She hadn’t done anything special; she’d merely acted as she would in her own business. Pretty much, she just happened to be there at the time the bigger sales came in.
But his words made her feel good, and she absorbed his praise like a kid who’d just gotten all A’s on her report card.
Only, that feeling was nothing compared to how her arms were getting all hot under his touch. Suddenly the room seemed crowded—and he was right there… If she took one little step, she could be in his arms, her mouth pressing against his, her body—
“That’s just crazy,” he continued.
And so was she. Yet, it was hard not to smile. “So I guess you think things were okay while you were gone?”
His gaze held hers, his features softening. “I think it’s amazing. You’re amazing.”
In an instant that seemed to stretch to infinity, her ego soared. She’d not only brought in some money, apparently a lot more than expected, but also managed to allay his fears about her abilities.
