by JoAnn Ross
“More than a step,” Roarke muttered, recalling his inglorious collegiate-sports career. “You broke my collarbone.”
“You were headed toward the goal line. Couldn’t let you score.”
He had, Roarke admitted, a point. “Didn’t I read you went into pro wrestling?”
“How you expect me to know what you read?” Sugar countered.
Roarke decided he’d just stumbled onto a touchy area and didn’t respond. But he welcomed the puzzle since it took his mind off the pain. The giant driving the fish van, the former linebacker who was now working for his brother, had done a stint in the World Federation Wrestling Association, Roarke recalled. Billed as The Dark Avenger, Sugar had been an immediate hit with the audiences. According to rumors on the sports pages, his career had been cut short when he couldn’t get it through his head that he was supposed to be pretending to break his opponents in two.
Deciding he couldn’t be in better hands, given the circumstances, Roarke closed his eyes and, utilizing visualization techniques he’d learned after getting shot by a sniper in Sarajevo in the early days of the war, he allowed his mind to drift to more pleasant topics.
He envisioned lying with Daria in front of a roaring fire, in a chalet somewhere in the French Alps. Balloon glasses of brandy were on a table nearby; their discarded clothes made a path from the door to the fur rug. He’d just lowered his head to take the taut rosy peak of one of her breasts between his lips when a deep voice shattered the erotic fantasy.
“I need the gate code.” Sugar’s impatient tone suggested this was not the first time he’d asked.
“Right.” Roarke dragged himself from the chalet back to reality. The first sequence of numbers proved wrong.
“Don’t take all night,” Sugar said. “I got me a stakeout to get to over in Iberville.”
“Give me a minute.”
The second try was no more successful. Sugar’s succinct curse implied that Roarke’s memory was as bad as his skill on the gridiron.
“Maybe if I just pushed the buttons,” Roarke suggested. “Thinking about it only makes it worse.”
Although his expression revealed that he was less than enthusiastic about this approach, Sugar moved over into the passenger seat, and Roarke came forward and took his.
Roarke closed his eyes. Cleared his mind. Then opened his eyes and tried again. Fortunately, his fingers recalled what his mind had forgotten and this time the gate slid obediently open, allowing Roarke to drive through. He used the same technique successfully on the garage door.
“I’ll tell your brother you got home safely,” Sugar said. His expression remained as inscrutable as the Sphinx, but Roarke thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of, if not warmth, at least respect when the bald giant mentioned his brother. “You take care, now.”
“I will.” Roarke held out his hand and watched it disappear into Sugar’s massive dark one. “And thanks a lot. You may well have saved my life.”
“That’s my job,” Sugar drawled. “Instead of beating white guy’s asses, these days I save ’em.” The thought seemed to give him immense amusement and he was still chuckling as he backed out of the garage, leaving Roarke. to face Daria.
“Oh, my God!” Daria’s hand flew to her mouth as she viewed Roarke. “What on earth happened?”
“If you think I look bad, you should see the other guys.” Roarke vowed that before this was over, he was going to even the score with those thugs. He put the cases down beside the door.
“Were they waiting at my house?”
“They must have been.” Roarke was furious at himself for not having noticed them lurking somewhere nearby when he and Mike had first arrived. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”
He thought of the pretty little lace pillows that had been ripped apart on the bed, the needlework ripped from its frames, the broken perfume bottles. And, worst of all, the torn lingerie. “They trashed your place pretty badly.”
“I don’t care about that.” She brushed his news away with a flick of her wrist. “They’re just things.” She reached up and placed a hand against his cheek, which was already turning a darker purple than her own bruised one. “Those men who beat you up were after me, weren’t they?”
Roarke knew better than to lie. “Yeah. But I wouldn’t have let them get you, Daria.”
“I know.”
Roarke liked her touching him. He also liked the way she looked. The bruise on her face was already fading and she’d raided the closets and changed into a pair of men’s boxer shorts, socks and a T-shirt that, although oversize, nevertheless clung to her body in all the right places.
“I wonder what they were looking for,” she murmured.
“I was hoping you could tell me. They mentioned something about your having something that belonged to them. Obviously, since they came after me, trying to get to you, they didn’t find whatever it is in the house.”
Although he hadn’t liked thinking it, on the way back to the house he’d been forced to consider that she had been lying all along. But for what purpose?
“I feel so guilty about this.” Daria had spent the entire time he’d been gone trying to think of something that would explain why someone would be willing to kill her and had come up blank. “You said you went through my purse...?”
“I didn’t find anything worth killing anyone for.”
“Maybe whoever it was who shot me and beat you up is wrong. Maybe I don’t have what they’re looking for. Maybe I never did.”
“There’s always that chance.” He’d thought of the same thing himself. Then he remembered how she’d been hanging on to that purse so tightly when she’d left the hotel.
Frustrated, Daria turned her attention to the more immediate problem. “We need to get you to bed.”
He smiled at that. Slowly, infuriatingly. “Although that’s the best offer I’ve heard all day, sweetheart, I think I’d better pass. I’m not certain I’d be capable of my usual stunning performance right now.”
Daria had no doubt that the words, edged with sarcasm, were intended to throw cold water on the flames that had blazed between them before he’d left the house to meet his brother. Refusing to let him see how badly they stung, she threw a cool smile right back at him.
“I love a man who knows his limitations.”
Her dry tone was at odds with the color in her cheeks, but Roarke gave her points for trying.
“There are times when knowing the difference between desire and ability can keep you alive. Besides,” he added, “taking you to bed would probably be the worst mistake I’ve ever made. And believe me, baby, I’ve made some doozies.”
Although she’d insisted she was not going to make love with him, Roarke’s rejection hurt.
“Don’t you want me?”
His answer was a harsh laugh. “What the hell do you think?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “As confused as I am about everything—who I am, how I got into this mess, why anyone would want to kill me—I’m even more confused about whatever it is that’s happening between you and me.”
“Nothing’s happening but sexual chemistry. Pure and simple. Which is why, although it’s probably going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, I’m going to resist doing what I’ve wanted to do ever since you first kissed me.”
A humdinger of a kiss, she reminded herself again. “Then you do want me?”
This time his rough laugh was entirely without humor. “Why don’t you just ask me if I want to breathe? Hell, yes, I want you. More than I can remember wanting any woman in my life. But the timing’s all wrong.”
He had a point. But still...
“What about when it’s over?” she asked, feeling more vulnerable than she’d felt when she’d awakened in that hospital and not known who she was.
Roarke swore. “In case it’s slipped your mind, you’re engaged.”
“Engagements have been broken.”
“True. And personally, if you want my opinion,
I think you’re better off without James Boudreaux. He’s a twenty-four-karat phony who’s so wrapped up in himself and his ambition, that he’d be too blind to realize what a jewel he was getting when he married ’you.”
He’d called her a jewel! Daria felt as if she were beaming from the inside out.
Roarke watched the pleasure light up her face and groaned inwardly when he realized that by trying to discourage her, he’d gotten himself—and her—in deeper. He was going to do his damnedest to keep her alive, but he also feared there was no way to keep her from getting hurt before all this was over.
“You deserve more than Boudreaux’s willing to give you,” he said. “And a helluva lot more than I can give you.”
“And now you’re assuming you know what I want? What I need?”
He dragged his hand through his hair. “Dammit, there’s things you don’t know about me.”
“Then tell me.”
He sighed heavily, and felt the pain in his bruised ribs. “You were definitely born to the law, sweetheart. Because I feel as if I’m undergoing a cross-examination. You remind me a lot of Michael.”
Roarke thought about the similarities between the brother he’d always loved and a woman he was beginning to care too much about. “In fact, the two of you would probably make a perfect match. Maybe when all this is over and the bad guys are locked away behind bars, you and Mike can pull off a Technicolor happy ending.”
“As nice as your brother seemed, I don’t want him. I want you.” Daria was sure she’d never begged for a man in her life. She couldn’t believe she was actually willing to beg for Roarke. “Not now, while you’re injured. But I’ve never felt this way about another man.”
“How do you know?” he retorted, growing more frustrated as the conversation continued. “You’ve lost your memory.”
“I’d know that.” She tilted her chin in an argumentative way that made him want to kiss her silly. “I also know that at the end of our lives it’s not necessarily what we’ve done that we regret. But what we haven’t done.”
Mindless of the dried blood staining the front of his sweater, she gently touched his chest. “I don’t want to regret not making love to you.”
He caught her hand. “That’s the definitive word, baby. Love. You should hold out for a man capable of loving you the way you deserve to be loved.”
“And that’s not you.”
“No.” The ability to love had been blown away in that explosion. “And now that we’ve got that settled, I have to tape a stand-up for a friend.”
“You can do that later.”
“I need to do it now. Hattie may have saved my life by coming along when she did. I owe her this.”
The thought that he could have been killed on her account was too horrendous to contemplate. Daria pressed her hand against his chest again, noticing that even that light touch caused him to suck in a pained breath.
“Do you need help?”
What he needed, dammit, was her. “With what?”
“Your stand-up. If you need someone to hold the camera...”
“Naw.” He shrugged, then flinched. “I can handle it. I only want to document the damage those guys did while I still look like roadkill. Then I’ll get to the story later.”
Realizing that she may just have met an individual every bit as stubborn as herself, Daria knew there was no point in arguing. Roarke was going to do exactly what he wanted to do, and nothing she could say would change that.
“Why don’t I get you a drink? And some of those pain pills you promised me last night?”
“I’ll skip the pills.” He doubted the rogue cops could find this place but he didn’t want to fog his mind, just in case he and Daria had to make a quick getaway. “But I sure wouldn’t turn down a drink.”
“I’ll get it right away.” Daria was pleased to have the chance to take care of him for a change. “I saw some decanters in the library. Would Scotch be okay? Or perhaps brandy?”
“Scotch’ll be fine.”
“I’ll go get it. And meet you upstairs.”
“Sounds great” He watched the sway of Daria’s slender hips as she left the room, and although he knew it was masochistic even allowing his mind to wander off in that direction, Roarke envisioned sharing a hot steamy shower with her.
That alone would be worth getting beaten up.
It only took a few minutes to set up the minicam and tape the opening sequence. Then, deciding a long hot shower might be just what the doctor ordered, he headed upstairs.
Daria was waiting for him in the tiled bathroom. She had run him a bath and the room was filled with fragrant steam.
“You put in bubble bath?”
She appeared unmoved by the disapproval in his tone. “It’s called aromatherapy. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”
“I’m going to smell like a girl,” he complained as the scent of jasmine and gardenia surrounded him in a fragrant cloud.
“Don’t worry, Roarke.” She reached up and unbuttoned the three buttons at the throat of his sweater. “No one could ever mistake you for a woman.” She caught hold of the sweater’s hem and, with his help, pulled it over his head. “Oh, my God!”
Her expression as she took in the sight of his bare chest was one of horror.
“It’s not that bad,” he said again. “Besides, I’ll heal. I always do.”
Daria couldn’t prevent her eyes filling with moisture. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t come up to you in the Blue Bayou, if I hadn’t dragged you into my problems—”
“I would have missed a helluva story.” He picked up the glass she’d put on the marble counter and took a long swallow, willing the Scotch to soothe his aching body. “I’m a grown man, Daria. Capable of making my own choices.”
“But if you’d known that leaving that lounge with me would have gotten you so brutally beaten up—”
“I would have gone along with you in a heartbeat.”
His answer was so quick, so sure, Daria had no choice but to believe him. “Why?” she whispered.
It was a question he’d been asking himself from the beginning. The answer had struck like a lightning bolt from a clear blue summer sky while he’d been lying in the back of Sugar’s van.
“Because I didn’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has choices.” As soon as she’d said the words, Daria realized they were what she always said when some defense attorney tried to explain that a defendant’s less-than-ideal upbringing had left him or her devoid of opportunity or choice.
“I used to think that.” His cracked lip pulled into a faint, self-mocking smile as he recalled how he’d once prided himself on his ability to select his own path in life. “I don’t anymore.”
She looked inclined to argue. Then, when he began to unfasten the metal button on his jeans, apparently changed her mind.
“I guess I’ll let you take your bath,” she murmured.
“You can always stick around if you want.” Another button followed. “We can talk about the case. See if we can jog your memory a bit.”
Daria knew it was a test. One she was destined to fail. Because there was no way she could stay in this warm, steamy room with a naked Roarke O’Malley and think about anything but the dizzying way he made her feel.
“Perhaps later.”
She flashed him another of those cool false smiles he figured she pulled out to use on the opposing counsel in court. Then she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Sighing, and letting his shoulders slump with pain for the first time since he’d arrived back at the house, Roarke finished undressing then lowered himself into the warm water, sipped his Scotch and tried to focus on what, exactly, Daria could have done to make James Boudreaux want to kill her.
He was lost in thought, wondering if any politician would actually kill if someone discovered that he’d been taking illegal campaign contributions, when there was a knock on the door.
“May I come in?”
He hesitated, then decided that if she didn’t mind seeing him naked, it didn’t bother him. “Sure.”
“I’ve been thinking.” She focused her attention on his face.
“About the case?”
“No.” Her hands were behind her back; the mirror revealed her nervousness by the way she was twisting them together. “About what you said. You know, about love and sex.” Her voice was strong, but watching her carefully, Roarke saw the slight tremor of her all-too-kissable bottom lip.
“And?”
“And you’re probably right about our attraction being due to our situation. Danger is undoubtedly a powerful aphrodisiac.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“So, we’ll keep it physical. Enjoy each other while we can. And then when it’s over, and, as you said, the bad guys are behind bars, we’ll each move on with our lives.”
Roarke arched an eyebrow, surprised by how even that faint movement pained. “You’d be willing to settle for that?”
“Yes.” Daria had no idea if that was the truth or not. But she did know it was the only possible answer under the circumstances.
The eye that wasn’t practically swollen shut narrowed. “Let me get this straight. You think you’re capable of having hot steamy sex with me—for however many days and nights it takes to solve these murders—then blithely shaking hands, putting on a lacy white wedding dress and walking down the aisle with your fiancé?”
“I’m not sure about marrying James....” It was more than the fact she couldn’t remember being engaged to him. There was some other reason, hovering on the very edges of her consciousness.
“Aha!” he said, as if finding the flaw in her argument.
Daria ignored his triumphant tone. “And, if we’re going to be having all this hot steamy sex, I think I’d prefer a goodbye kiss rather than a handshake.
“But yes, that’s what I’m saying. I’m capable of making my own decisions. And if I want to have an affair with you, and you want to have sex with me, since we’re both adults, it doesn’t seem like there’s anything to stop us.”
