by Sandra Brown
She licked her lips nervously, for he was assessing her figure as if trying to decide if she had perfect measurements or not. “It—it was a good job because when I wasn’t needed by the designers or seamstresses, I learned about the business—design, color, fabric, accessories, even shipping and billing.”
“I thought all models were tall, skinny, and flat-chested. You, Miss O’Shea,” he grinned slyly, “are tall, slender, but definitely not flat-chested.”
Erin’s cheeks were suffused with hot color and her only response was a mumbled, “I told you I wasn’t a successful glamour model.”
After a long, uncomfortable silence, he asked, “What happened to this fairy tale job?”
“I got married.”
“Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten the husband.”
Erin bit back an angry retort and said levelly, “The owner of the company married me. We had been married only a few months when the doctors diagnosed terminal cancer. He died. He left me some money. I moved back to Houston and established Spotlight.”
“He was older than you?”
“Considerably.”
“So you live off this inheritance and rent a Mercedes with it?”
“No, Mr. Barrett. I do not,” she stated heatedly. “He had two grown children from his first marriage. The bulk of his estate went to them. I asked that he leave me with only enough money to get my business established.”
“How generous of you.” He was now going through the contents of her smaller suitcase. The articles were distinctly feminine and she resented this invasion of privacy. She would have no secrets from this loathsome man.
He held up a package of tablets and raised an eyebrow in query. “Birth control pills?”
She was seething over his audacity. “No. An antibiotic. I had a sore throat last week.”
“This isn’t how a prescription is usually packaged.”
“I got it at the doctor’s office from his sample drug supply. He saved me a trip to the pharmacy.”
He seemed satisfied with her answer. While he was sniffing at a bar of perfumed soap he said, “You must truly think I’m stupid, Miss O’Shea. You go by your maiden name, right?” She nodded. “Why? Are you ashamed of marrying some old man with cancer and inheriting his money when he conveniently croaked?”
She felt the blood draining from her head only to return to it in a rushing flood. Catapulting off the sofa, she flew across the floor toward him and raised her hand intending to deliver a well-deserved, resounding slap to his self-satisfied face. Her hand was caught in midair and her arm was twisted behind her back painfully.
He drew her against him, holding her defenseless and immobile. “I wouldn’t ever try that again if I were you,” he threatened convincingly. “Now, why don’t you use your married name? If there is such a thing.”
“My married name was Greene. I was married to Joseph Greene. His name is well-known in the garment industry even now. I don’t use his name because sanctimonious, chauvinistic bastards like you might think that it was his name and money and not hours of hard work that made my business a success.”
His arms tightened around her and she gasped in pain from the way he bent her arm behind her. She met his cold blue stare with one of her own.
Crowding her anger was a sudden confusion. The ache in her arm was nothing compared with the painful awareness of his body conforming to hers. The chest that crushed her breasts felt like a brick wall. Hard thighs moved against hers until they found a position that was an agreeable fit.
The cold blue light in his eyes that moments ago had flared angrily, began to burn with something that was much more fearsome. Each feature of her face came under hot blue flame and she felt like her eyes, temples, cheeks, and lips were being licked with tongues of fire.
Acknowledging, but unable to tolerate, the squeezing pleasure in her chest, Erin lowered her eyes. Immediately she felt that leashed tension in the body next to hers abating, and he released her.
She turned her back, composed her features, and, because there was nothing else to do, resumed her seat on the leather sofa.
“Who’s the boyfriend?” he asked, indicating the enormous ring on her left hand. Did his voice sound different? Less assured? A trifle shaky?
“My fiancé’s name is Bart Stanton. He’s a Houston businessman.”
He guffawed again with sardonic laughter. “Bart Stanton! Bart, for God’s sake,” he said, chuckling. “Does he drive an El Dorado with a pair of long-horns mounted on the hood?”
“I don’t have to take any more of your insults, Mr. Barrett!”
“You’ll take anything I damn well please,” he exploded, all mirth gone. “I don’t believe for one minute that you’re who or what you say you are. I think that you were some kind of contact for Lyman. You showed up today expecting him and got me instead. You spun this tall tale and hoped that I’d be stupid enough to fall for it. Guess again, lady.”
“Will you please stop calling me lady. You know my name.”
“At least the one you gave me, Miss O’Shea. Or is it Ms.? Never mind,” he said when he saw her about to protest. “Now that I think of it, O’Shea is an Irish name. And you said you were adopted from a Catholic orphanage. Was the seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars by any chance going to be used to purchase weapons to be shipped to northern Ireland? Or maybe you were here to sell drugs. Or buy drugs. I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out.”
“You are mad,” she whispered hoarsely. “All you have to do is check my credentials. Call my business. Call Bart.”
“You don’t sound like a Texan.”
“I lived in New York for five years. I lost my accent.”
“If what you say is true, who knew that you were on this fantastic search for your long lost brother?”
“The people I work with. Bart. My mother, Mrs. Merle O’Shea. She lives in Shreveport, Louisiana.”
He was taking notes on a pad he had taken out of his shirt pocket. He paused in his scribbling. “You said she lived in Houston.”
“She moved to Louisiana to live with her sister when my father, Gerald O’Shea, died.”
“What’s the sister’s name?” he asked brusquely. Erin supplied it. “Phone number.” She gave him her aunt’s telephone number and address.
He flipped the cardboard binding over the notes he had just taken and said, “Make yourself comfortable, Miss O’Shea. I’ve got some phone calls to make.” He went to the door and turned back to her with his hand on the knob. “Incidentally, Mike will be just outside the door.”
“Do you expect me to pull a machine gun from under my skirt and blow this joint?” she asked with all the venom she could muster.
“No, I don’t,” he drawled. “I know what’s under your skirt.” His eyes toured her body insultingly before he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.
Erin fumed, paced, ranted, cried, and cursed Mr. Lawrence Barrett for the next half hour. When none of those energy-draining pursuits produced results or altered her situation, she resignedly knelt down on the floor and restored some order to her suitcases. Her hand trembled when she touched the nightgown he had handled with what could only be considered a caress.
He was a horrible man, issuing orders, bullying everyone, insulting her for no just cause. Each of his actions had been brutal, even when he had kissed her. Why did her mind persist in dwelling on that when she wanted to push any recollections of the incident into the further recesses of her mind?
She consoled herself on one thing: he wasn’t her brother; incest wasn’t among his sins.
I won’t think about that kiss, she averred to herself. Nor would she think about that unfamiliar fluttering in her stomach each time Mr. Barrett fixed her with that penetrating stare of his. It had been strictly an involuntary reaction when her lips had parted slightly as his eyes devoured them while he held her close. Erin O’Shea had had nothing to do with that. Positively.
Then why was she arguing with herself?
“Luck just isn’t with you today, Miss O’Shea.”
“What do you mean?” She was angry to find that her voice was quivering with apprehension.
“I got a listing for Spotlight from long distance directory assistance. No answer.”
“What?” she cried. Then she realized the reason. She checked her gold wristwatch. “It’s after six o’clock in Houston. Everyone’s gone home,” she wailed.
“Bart Stanton has gone to the Panhandle for the next two days. There is no answer at the number in Shreveport.”
She rubbed her brow with anxious fingers. Think, Erin, she commanded herself. But her brain was spinning with the events of the past few hours. It seemed eons ago since she had stepped onto the airplane in Houston this morning. She was exhausted and couldn’t think clearly. Too many unpredictable, inconceivable events had bombarded her in the space of one afternoon.
“One thing I did learn that’s in your favor. I asked Mrs. Lyman if her husband was adopted. He was.”
“Then surely you believe me.” She hated the pleading sound in her voice and the tears that she could feel welling up in the corners of her ebony eyes.
“I’m getting closer,” he admitted.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Barrett. If you don’t mind, I’ll go now. It has been a long, tiring day to say the least. I’ll be at the Fairmont if you need to ask me any more questions. Naturally, I’m upset about my brother and will want to know what happens. I won’t leave San Francisco until this whole mess is cleared up.”
She picked up her purse and jacket and the leather coat and headed for the door. She never reached it. Mr. Barrett put a restraining hand on her shoulder and took her purse out of her hand.
“Wrong again, Miss O’Shea. You’re not going anywhere. You’re spending the night here. With me.”
Chapter Three
It was with blank, uncomprehending eyes that Erin turned toward the man who had forcefully prevented her from leaving the room. His face was unreadable, but stern.
When the message of his words finally pierced the muddled confusion of her brain, Erin yanked her shoulder from under his hand and retreated several steps.
“You have surely lost your mind, Mr. Barrett.”
“I’d concede that if I were to let you leave this house without knowing exactly who you are and why you showed up on Lyman’s doorstep this afternoon.”
He turned away from her in dismissal and went to the door. Facing her again he said, “As it is, I’m quite sane.” He smiled a charming, friendly smile that made her tremble with fury. “You’ll excuse me, please. I have work to do. Make yourself comfortable. You have the run of this room.”
“Go to hell,” she hissed.
His smile only deepened. “More than likely I will.”
He was two steps beyond the door when she flung it open. With a deadly accurate precision, he whirled around and confronted her.
“You can’t keep me here like a prisoner!” she shouted.
“No? Who’s going to stop me?” he challenged, relaxing somewhat now that he saw she posed no real threat.
She opened her mouth to offer a scathing reply, but no words came out. Who indeed would stop him? Unconsciously her shoulders slumped as she sighed heavily. Why was she fighting an immovable object? She could endure anything for one night. In the morning, he would call Houston, have her identity confirmed, her purpose for seeking out Kenneth Lyman explained to his satisfaction, and then she would never have to see this man again.
Lance Barrett watched Erin closely and could almost read the thoughts as they paraded across her mind. It was his job to discern what people were truly thinking, feeling, despite what they said, and he had been trained well.
Damn! She is a beautiful woman, he thought. When he had opened that door and seen her standing on the porch looking like something out of a fashion magazine, he felt as though he had been slugged in the belly by an iron fist. Of course, that initial impact had soon been put down and his professional caution had taken over. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
There was more to her than a beautiful, sexy package, though. She had gumption and brains. This was no cringing, cowering female whom he could usually reduce to jelly with one of his accusing stares. Erin O’Shea had defied him repeatedly. Hell, he had almost enjoyed their sparring.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d get his ass kicked all the way back to Washington if anybody found out about that. And she was right. The way he had searched her had been unnecessary. Admit it, buddy, you just wanted to get your hands on her.
Hell, all a man had to do was look at her and he could see every curve and hollow of her compact body under that well-tailored, perfectly fitting suit. Dammit! It had cost more than he made in a week and that galled him.
He watched her now as she gnawed on her full bottom lip with small, straight, white teeth. The emotions played across her face like a graphic motion picture. She wasn’t any crook and he knew it. That story she had told him had been too fantastic to have been fabricated. If the truth were known, he could easily let her leave and send one of the boys out to keep an eye on her.
Then why didn’t he?
Lance had been trained to keep his face immobile and inscrutable. Therefore, Erin didn’t see any evidence of his thought pattern concerning her as she looked up at him. She decided to make the best of this horrendous situation.
“It seems I have no choice, Mr. Barrett. I’ll stay here until morning when I expect you to make whatever telephone calls are necessary to prove to yourself that what I’ve told you is the truth.”
“Your patriotic cooperation is commendable,” he taunted.
She stymied the compulsion to slap his confident, sardonic face and asked, “May I visit with Melanie? We haven’t even been properly introduced and she is my sister-in-law. This must be a dreadful time for her.”
“I don’t see any harm in that. I’ll send her in to you. For the time being, I’d rather you stay in this room.”
“I promise not to make a run for it.”
“Good.” He walked away from her.
So much for an attempt at humor, Erin thought dryly as she returned to the paneled room. The man wasn’t human. Ice water had replaced the blood in his veins. He must see every Clint Eastwood movie and pattern himself after the hard-nosed, super-macho man.
She had to give him credit for being thorough in his job. He was, after all, a government official with a very difficult chore to do. He must have had years of disciplined training. Now she understood why his eyes never seemed to miss anything. From the time he had opened the front door to her, she felt as though he had seen each movement she had made and read each thought.
She went toward the window and gazed out. She swallowed tightly. Hopefully, he hadn’t read all her thoughts. Some of them regarding him she would rather keep private.
Her heart had lurched when he informed her that she would be spending the night with him. Of course, that was only a figure of speech. That wasn’t what he meant. It had only sounded like that’s what he meant. Still, it would be costly to her self-esteem if he knew how drastically his choice of words had affected her.
A rosy blush stained her cheeks as she remembered that deep, breathless kiss in the kitchen. Her palms moved up to cup her hot cheeks when she recalled the way she had begun to respond to it before Melanie Lyman had fortunately interrupted. Even when she thought he was her brother, she had almost been guilty of returning his kiss. Had she ever been so instantaneously attracted to a man? Any man?
She looked down at the sparkling diamond mounted on the wide gold band around her finger and smiled ruefully. Bart wouldn’t appreciate her comparison of his kisses to Lance Barrett’s. The score would tilt in the latter’s favor.
Erin knew she was being unfair to Bart. Six months ago when he u
rged her to accept his engagement ring she had done so in order to silence his constant badgerings.
“Come on, honey. Wear it.”
“But, Bart—”
“I know, I know, sugar. You’re still hesitant to marry again. I promise not to pressure you for a wedding date, if only you’ll wear this engagement ring. Besides, if I take it back to the jewelers, it’ll be all over Houston tomorrow that Bart Stanton has been jilted.” He hung his large head in feigned supplication. As usual, she crumpled under his foolishness.
Laughing, she shoved his massive shoulder. “Oh, please. Spare me the theatrics. Thousands of women would stand in line for weeks, months, for the chance to wear an engagement ring from the legendary Bart Stanton.”
“But I only want one woman, sugar.” His voice had dropped the teasing banter, and he was serious. Erin knew he was. That was the complicating factor.
They had dated for over a year. Bart was a powerful man in Houston, always keeping in the background, but brandishing a sharp sword in the business community. Few big business deals were made that Bart didn’t know about or participate in.
He was a favorite with newspaper and television reporters. He charmed them with his golly-gee, country boy, shy image. But beneath that head of curly dark hair operated a shrewd brain that could con a victim and wring him out before he realized that he had been had.
Being squired by Bart Stanton was no small victory, and Erin was envied for that rare privilege. When with him, she was treated like royalty, and it had been fun. But then she began to notice that Bart’s feelings were moving toward something stronger than affection, and she couldn’t reciprocate it. As much as she liked him, respected him for his business acumen, and enjoyed his company, she didn’t love him.
“I’ll wear the ring, Bart. But please understand that it’s not a binding commitment. I still don’t want to marry anytime soon. And this doesn’t mean that I’ll change my mind about… about…”
“Sleeping with me?” he asked in as soft a voice as Bart could manage.
She met his dark eyes levelly. “Yes.”
