by Maggie Price
Allie’s chin angled while those stunning blue eyes narrowed speculatively on his face. “Something tells me you’d rather have been boiled in oil than ask me for this favor.”
“Make that any favor.”
Mouth pursed, she jabbed her fingertips into the back pockets of her jeans. “I’ll make a phone call and add your name to the guest list. But I want something in return.”
“What?” His voice echoed the wariness he suddenly felt.
“We’re behind schedule on getting this house finished. My girlfriends have conflicts so they can’t work here next week. How about agreeing to put in eight hours of volunteer work?”
“I’m not much for painting.”
Allie lifted a shoulder. “Pick some other job. When you work is up to you. Deal?”
Rafe glanced around the small bedroom. Thought about the abused woman and her kids whose home this would be. That, and the fact he could schedule his time when Allie wasn’t around, clinched the deal. “Agreed.”
“Great.” She pulled a cell phone out of the front pocket of her baggy jeans. “Do you plan to bring anyone with you tonight?”
It took a moment for her meaning to sink in. “You mean, a date?”
“Yes. I’ll have to add her name to the list, too.”
Rafe wondered what she would say if she knew he’d designed his social life around a divorcee as adamant as he was about forming no emotional strings or connections. When they saw each other, it was solely for sating physical needs. Their sessions were dispassionate, verging on impersonal.
It was enough for a man who’d sworn to never again allow control of any aspect of his life to slide through his fingers.
“I’ll be alone,” he said.
“All right.” She flipped open her phone, then lifted her gaze to meet his. “Anything else before I make the call?”
Rafe paused, taking her measure. The college girl he remembered had oozed sex appeal and dressed for trouble. He could find no resemblance between her and the woman standing before him in paint-spattered clothes. Yet, there was only one Allie Fielding.
While he watched, she raised a hand to brush back a wisp of hair. It was the most erotic gesture he’d ever seen, her fingertips brushing over that bruised cheek, her full mouth parting a little.
He shifted position, trying to shake off the disturbing sensation that settled between his shoulders. What was it about her that elicited emotion when for so many years he’d allowed nothing—and no one—to reach him?
“There’s nothing else,” he answered. “I got what I came for.”
Whatever the pull he felt was, he wanted no part of it. He had his future mapped out. Allie Fielding was a part of his past.
And that was where he planned to leave her.
Chapter 3
The Friends Foundation’s annual silent auction was held in whatever location seemed the most lavish, the most luxurious, the place best suited for over-the-top elegance. This year, a luxury downtown hotel had offered the use of its refurbished ballrooms for free, and the foundation’s board jumped at the gift.
Although Allie had established the foundation, provided its initial funding and sat on the board of directors, she designated the members of the fund-raising committee to man the receiving line. That left her free to mingle and deal with any last-minute problems that might arise.
Tonight there were masses of people, delicious food on the buffet, ice sculptures, fountains flowing with chilled champagne and soft music overhead.
She moved from group to group to exchange pecks on the cheek and gripping handshakes. Some of the guests were friends, some customers of her shop, and all had made donations to the foundation in the past. Her goal tonight was to make sure they opened their checkbooks again.
She slid through the crowd with ease. Although she’d taken a chance wearing the red beaded gown with wire-thin straps when she had requested the hotel’s air-conditioning system be set on full blast, the press of bodies heated the room and kept her comfortable.
Until she spotted Rafe Diaz stepping through the doorway. Clad in a midnight-black tuxedo, he looked large and solid. Totally gorgeous. His thick, pitch-dark hair was slicked back, his dark eyes stared out of the chiseled, golden-skinned face, scanning the room carefully.
Adonis should have looked so good.
While she watched him divert around the receiving line, heat welled in Allie’s veins. Her heart pumped as though she’d just run a seven-minute mile. Her lungs tried to keep pace with her pulse, and her entire body was suddenly…hot.
No AC could cool her down now.
She had spent hours anticipating this encounter. And dreading it. Miss Manners had forgotten to cover the rules for how to best socialize with a man one had helped send to prison.
After taking a steadying sip of champagne, Allie began easing her way through the crowd to greet him.
Rafe paused just beyond the receiving line he’d avoided and surveyed the ballroom. It was huge and packed with people. Clad in tuxes and gowns shimmering with beads, pearls and sequins, the guests stood elbow to elbow under a dazzling trio of teardrop-shaped crystal chandeliers.
Enormous paintings in vivid, frenetic hues dotted the ivory-toned walls. There was enough color in the ballroom to make Rafe’s head swim. Yet through the crowd and the clashing tones, he saw Allie coming his way.
Her dress was a form-fitting glitter of flame with skinny, sparkling straps. As she moved, a side slit revealed a length of creamy thigh. Her honey-blond hair was clipped at the sides with something small and sparkling. Blood-red stones that he’d wager were real rubies fell in a rope from her earlobes to brush shoulders that looked as soft as her thigh. Her mouth and sky-high heels were the same hot color as the dress.
She looked, Rafe thought as his stomach muscles twisted, outrageously alluring.
When their eyes met, he didn’t return her smile. He might not be able to control his damnable physical response to her, but he wasn’t going to let her see it.
“Hello, Rafe.”
“Allie.”
She gestured toward a nearby waiter toting a tray filled with glasses. “Would you like something to drink?”
He flicked a look at the flute in her hand. “I’m here to work, not party.”
“What a coincidence. I’m working, too.”
Easing back one flap of his jacket, he slid a hand into his pocket and fisted his fingers. The scent she wore smelled like hot, smoldering sin. “Doing what?”
“Politely reminding the guests to slip into the adjoining ballroom where the auction items are on display. I stop short of making them swear to fill out bids. While I’m at it, I manage to squeeze in some wheedling for donations to the foundation.”
“Wheedling,” he repeated. “If you use the same tactics you did when you got me to agree to work at the house for the abused woman and her kids, I’d say you’re good at it.”
“Very good.” She lifted her chin, her red-glossed lips curving. “When it comes to acquiring donations, I’m known in wheedling circles all over the country.”
With his eyes locked on her lush, compelling mouth, Rafe felt the hard jolt of desire, unbidden and unwanted.
Instantly he pulled himself back. Since the moment he walked out of prison, he’d made certain he controlled every aspect of his life. He had learned to block out the remembered clang of a cell door sliding shut behind him. To erase the black and cloying memories of having been caught in a living nightmare. And—most importantly—to strap back all thought and emotion that might threaten that control.
Now facing a woman who had everything inside him straining at its leash, he deliberately dredged up the hated images from his past, which included Allie Fielding sitting on the witness stand, testifying against him.
It didn’t matter that he’d been free for five years. Didn’t mean a damn thing that he’d carved out a life for himself. He would never forget the vicious helplessness that had ripped through him while he sat in that courtr
oom. Nor would he ever put himself in a situation where he wasn’t positive he’d be the one pulling all the strings.
Like now. With her.
“Don’t forget the party queen circles,” he said, his voice a hard clip. “I imagine you’re even more famous in those. Or should I say infamous?”
He watched with grim satisfaction as her blue eyes flashed, boring into him like a pair of cold lasers. If he couldn’t trust himself to keep his distance, he could at least make sure he was the last man she’d want to be around.
Allie tightened her fingers on her glass. She understood why Rafe wasn’t interested in letting bygones be bygones. Her testimony had been one reason he’d lost two years of his life. Still, she wasn’t interested in spending time with a man who felt free to judge the woman she’d become based on past behavior.
“Since you’re here to work, I won’t take up any more of your time,” she said coolly. “I haven’t seen your client’s wife and son yet. Perhaps you’d better wait by the door so you’ll know if Ellen and Will Bishop actually show up.”
“Allie!”
Pasting on a smile, Allie shifted in the direction of the female voice that had called her name.
Katie Jones, twentysomething and so painfully thin that her eyes looked like they’d been drawn by a cartoonist, rushed to Allie’s side. “I about freaked when I heard you found my uncle’s mistress dead. And then almost got killed yourself! It must have been awful.”
“It was.” Allie didn’t have to glance across her shoulder to know that Rafe was still there. It was as if she could sense all the prickly intensity that seemed to simmer inside him. No doubt he had heard Katie’s comment and decided to hang around to hear what Hank Bishop’s niece had to say. Fine, she thought, angling her body back toward his. He was there to interview members of his client’s family. The sooner Rafe did that, the quicker he would be gone.
“Katie Jones, this is Rafe Diaz,” Allie said. “He’s a private investigator, working to clear your uncle.”
Pursing her mouth, Katie gave Rafe an appraising look. “According to my aunt, hiring you is a waste of time and money. She hasn’t come out and said it, but I think she’s convinced Uncle Hank is guilty.”
“I hope to prove him innocent,” Rafe said easily.
“Katie, how is your family?” Allie asked. “I’m sure this is a difficult time.”
Katie nodded. “Aunt Ellen has flipped out. So has my mom. She’s too upset to deal with all the stuff that needs to be done for my wedding. My dad said things at his and Uncle Hank’s office are super-stressed.” Tears welled in the young woman’s huge eyes. “It’s a terrible strain on everyone.”
Allie gave the girl a hug, which was the equivalent of embracing a bag of bones. “Is your fiancé here tonight?”
“He and Will are getting drinks,” Katie said, gesturing toward the far side of the ballroom. The movement sent light shooting off the gumdrop-size diamond on her ring finger. “Allie, will you be able to finish my trousseau?”
“Of course.” Allie frowned. “There’s no reason for you to worry about that.”
The girl’s face cleared. “I’ll tell Mom. We didn’t know how badly you were hurt.”
In reflex, Allie lifted a hand to her temple. She’d covered the bruise with makeup, but she was still plagued by a leftover ache from the concussion.
“I’m fine. And I’m looking forward to your fitting next week.” She patted the girl’s painfully thin arm. “Your trousseau is going to be gorgeous. I promise.”
Katie beamed. “I can’t wait to try everything on.” She glanced over her shoulder, waved to someone in the crowd. “I’d better get back to my family.”
Frowning over the young woman’s thinness, Allie watched Katie disappear through the throng of bodies.
“Something wrong?” Rafe asked.
She looked up. The intensity with which he studied her was unnerving. “No.” She forced a polite smile. “Thanks to Katie, you know that Will Bishop is at one of the bars, getting drinks.” Allie took a step backward. “Because he’s one of the two people you want to interview, I won’t keep you.”
“Careful,” Rafe said at the same instant he gripped her elbow and nudged her sideways.
She glanced across her shoulder, realized she’d almost stepped in the path of a waiter balancing a tray brimming with flutes of champagne.
“Thank you,” she said, conscious of the strength of the hand that gripped her elbow.
Their bodies were close enough to brush now, close enough for Rafe’s warm, masculine scent to slide into her lungs. When she felt everything female inside of her respond, she took a step backward, forcing him to drop his hand.
“Even though you didn’t come here because of the auction, you might want to bid on some of the items. In fact, there’s an Art Nouveau lamp that’s particularly interesting.”
His expression remained unreadable. “I’ll check it out.”
“Good. I need to touch base with the staff overseeing the auction. Hopefully you’ll be able to interview Ellen and Will Bishop while you’re here.”
“That’s the plan.”
She turned and walked away. And because she couldn’t help herself, she settled her hand over the spot where Rafe’s fingers had gripped her arm. She told herself it was just her imagination that her flesh still held the heat from his touch.
She had no hope, however, of discounting the fact that she was somehow far more aware of his touch than she’d ever been of any other man’s.
Having studied photos of Will Bishop in the society pages, Rafe easily spotted his client’s son among the attendees.
That done, he milled through the crowded ballroom, observing the young man. All the while, he felt himself being pulled, tugged at, by thoughts of Allie Fielding.
She was trouble. A smoldering package of temptation he in no way needed or wanted.
It rankled that there seemed to be various faces—bold, fragile, sexy, sensitive—of the woman he once believed shallow. Then there was the disconcerting knowledge that he’d spent the previous night with her face lodged in his dreams when he had worked so hard to erase that vicious wedge of his past she was a part of.
He shouldn’t even be here, he admitted. If he’d given it some thought, he could have come up with some other way to question his client’s son and wife. Allie Fielding was only a small part of the case, and he’d gotten all the information from her that he could. Instead, here he was, standing in a crowded ballroom, imagining he could still smell her sexy, compelling scent. He needed to get away from her—and stay away.
Forcing his focus back to his case, he watched Will Bishop step to one of the small bars set up around the outer edge of the ballroom. While he ordered a refill, Rafe studied his quarry.
Hank Bishop’s son was in his late twenties, lanky and good-looking, with longish sun-streaked blond hair and a deeply tanned face. He wore an expensively cut tuxedo, but had left the collar of his crisp, pleated shirt unbuttoned and forgone the requisite bow tie.
Rafe had watched the young man work the crowd, moving from woman to woman, smiling and flirting while projecting an air of nonchalant cool. From the number of intimate female smiles and longing gazes he received, it was apparent Will Bishop had his laid-back Mr. Charm persona honed to a T.
If he was at all upset about his father having been arrested for murder, it didn’t show.
Rafe stepped to the bar, positioning himself behind Bishop. When the younger man turned, gripping a tumbler of whiskey, Rafe stuck out his hand. “Will Bishop?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Rafe Diaz. I’d like a word with you.”
Bishop returned the handshake while Rafe watched his expression as he struggled to try to place him. After a moment, he frowned. “Do we know each other?”
“I’m a private investigator, hired by your father. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
A flash of emotion tightened the skin around Bishop’s eyes. Then his expr
ession cleared. “Yeah, I got your messages.”
“You didn’t return them.”
“Been busy.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re tied up now.” Rafe inclined his head toward the pair of tall doors he had discovered earlier which led to an outside terrace. “We can talk out there.”
Bishop glanced toward the terrace, considered. “Okay. But I don’t have a lot of time.” He raised his glass, tossed back its contents, then set the tumbler on the bar. “Lead the way.”
Outside, the intense heat of the summer day had lessened with nightfall. But the air now carried the scent of rain and was muggy enough that none of the other guests had ventured out onto the terrace illuminated by massive carriage lamps.
Will Bishop walked to the railing bordering the terrace, then turned. “I meant it when I said I’ve been busy. My mother freaked when she found out about my father’s affair. And that he’d been arrested for killing his mistress.”
“Your father claims he didn’t murder Mercedes McKenzie.”
“I hope to hell he didn’t. But I’m sure wondering.”
“Did you know about his relationship with the woman?”
“Do you really think my father would have told me he had a mistress?” Will shot back. “That he’d put her up in one of the properties he owns? Paid all of her expenses?”
“No,” Rafe replied levelly. “I don’t think your father would have told you about her. But family members stumble over information about each other all the time. So, I’ll ask again, did you know about your father’s affair with the McKenzie woman?”
“No.”
“What about your mother? Did she know?”
In the glow of a carriage lamp, Bishop’s eyes sparked. “She wouldn’t have put up with it if she had. She’s hurt. Going through hell. She told her attorney to draw up divorce papers. Which, because I can’t remember a time when my parents weren’t arguing and sniping at each other, is long overdue.”
“You work in your father and uncle’s real estate investment business?”
