She appeared almost as bold as the crimson color of the dress. Surely the strange woman in the mirror could win what ever battle Tanner might bring her way.
When he knocked on the front door of the suite, she was ready for him. Desirée, before taking off for her shift at Hart's (in full modern female warrior gear of those sprayed-on jeans and a see-through top over a lung-hugging camisole), had caught sight of the tabloid Hannah inadvertently brought home from the DMV. Flipping it open to an article in the middle, she'd given Hannah yet another weapon in her arsenal.
Thanks to the almost year-old magazine, she now knew enough about the Hart family to manage some dinner table small talk.
But when she turned the knob and swung open the door, her mouth couldn't form a single word.
It hit her immediately—that Tanner must know something about weapons too. It wasn't the well-polished preppy loafers on his feet that gave it away. Nor the charcoal-colored flannel wool pleated slacks. No, props went to the collared, three-button, had-to-be-cashmere sweater he was wearing. It was pushed up casually on his forearms and was the exact same straw honey, old gold shade of his incredible hair. It made his eyes stand out like blue jewels in his tan face.
She wondered about that winter tan, then wondered if he surfed like Troy too. From there her mind leaped to the fantasy of his butt wiggling beneath a beach towel.
Heat burned the back of her neck, and her hand rose to fan her face.
Tanner cleared his throat. "You all right?"
"Sure. Yes." Had he dressed to impress? Was this more like a real date than she'd been telling herself?
The thought set the back of her neck on fire again, and nerves started pushing each other around in her stomach, like her second-grade students in the ice cream line. Tanner's sexual interest in her had seemed to switch off the morning of January 1, the instant he'd learned her real name. Though she thought she'd caught flickers of it coming to life once or twice, she'd dismissed the idea each time—until now. Might he truly feel the same hormonal pull she did?
She rubbed her palms on her thighs and tried to cover up her uncertainty with good manners. "You look nice. I like your sweater."
He frowned down at it. "Yeah? It was a Christmas present, so it was on top of all the other stuff in my drawer."
The grappling nerves in her stomach fell apart and metaphorical cold water was dashed across the nape of her neck. So much for him selecting that sweater to create a tactical advantage. So much for this maybe being a real date. The sweater he'd chosen was the one on top of all the other stuff in his drawer.
And Hannah—or getting any closer to Hannah—wasn't at the top of his thoughts after all. Releasing an inward sigh, she gathered up Desirée's trench coat and a tiny purse she'd also borrowed. Then, reminding herself that the last thing she needed was to want another man who didn't want her, Hannah left the suite and walked with Tanner to his car. It was a meal and nothing more.
His Mercedes waited under the portico roof, safe from the raindrops still coming down. He opened the passenger door for her and she dropped onto the seat, then half turned to toss the coat into the backseat.
Tanner's big hand touched her thigh.
She yelped and whipped her head toward him. He was staring down at the length of sheer stocking revealed by her ruched-up dress. His hand was trying to smooth the hem from its place a few inches north of her knees to a more modest position.
Yelping again, she lifted her behind off the seat and readjusted the layers of silk. "Thanks," she said, not looking at him, but instead continuing to fuss with the hemline.
"Thank you."
The sexy note in his voice sent her gaze flying to his, but his face didn't give anything away. "And I should also say you look, uh…" He cleared his throat. "Very patriotic."
Patriotic? Of course, the dress was red, but patriotic? Was that some sort of hip Southern
California term she didn't know?
Figuring she'd only look dumb if she asked, she kept her questions to herself as he ducked into the driver's side and accelerated the car away from the hotel. Silence descended and she forced herself not to squirm on her seat, even though the quiet felt more tense than a clenched fist. As a matter of fact, Tanner's ten-and-two grip looked brutal on the leather cover of the steering wheel.
Maybe he had a headache or something. "Are you feeling well?" she asked.
There was another moment of that heavy silence, then she heard him let out a long breath. "I'm feeling okay," he said. His white-knuckled grip on the wheel seemed to relax. "Never better. Terrific."
Patriotic? she almost suggested, but stopped herself just in time.
After another moment he slowed the car to point out a Coronado landmark. It was a store owned by a longtime friend of his. It had been called The Perfect Christmas, though a recent fire had destroyed the old Victorian home that had housed it. Bailey had vowed to rebuild.
Bailey was a woman, Hannah surmised, and she was about to pry along those lines—out of friendly curiosity, nothing more—when he pulled up to the restaurant's valet parking. In minutes they were seated at a table covered with a white cloth beside a window. Droplets of rain streaked down the glass, but beyond it was that fascinating, relentless surf.
Hannah couldn't have chosen a better seat herself, and it became clear as time wore on that Tanner was doing his best to be an exemplary dinner companion as well. During their meal, his conversation was smooth but impersonal, his manner cool yet friendly.
She relaxed, feeling safe with the fact that they had nothing more in common than his former boss and one night of hazily recollected passion. Her heartbeat was steady and her hormones stayed quiet— until he said the one thing guaranteed to shake everything inside of her awake.
Tanner Hart told her he liked to read.
She could only stare as he explained that his years in the Secret Ser vice had meant a lot of time on planes and in hotel rooms. His best solution to the long waits and the jet-lag insomnia was an ever-present paperback.
He liked Harlan Coben.
"Me too," she croaked, her gaze drinking in the lean lines of Tanner's cheeks and the solid strength of his square jaw. She shifted on her chair, sliding closer to the edge of the table.
It turned out that Tanner was a big fan of Coben's sports agent mysteries, while she liked the stand-alone thrillers. They'd both read Lisa Gardner, Tami Hoag, and Dan Brown (though who hadn't been Da Vinci'd?). He didn't sneer when she said the bulk of her reading list was contemporary and historical romances. The minute he told her his current to-be-read pile contained the latest Harry Potter, a book about the world's worst dog, and one by Christopher Moore, the room heated and her pulse started pounding at her wrists.
His interest in books wasn't just talk. This was a man who read.
For an elementary school teacher, one who'd dressed up as Martha Washington, a bunny rabbit, not to mention a bookworm, all to foster her students' love of reading—well, Tanner's conversation was as arousing as a French kiss from George Clooney.
Better. Because she'd recently uncovered her latent hankering for blond men.
She was watching his forefinger trace designs in the condensation on his water glass when he moved on to television.
Hannah's chest loosened a little, even as they discovered a mutual love of Law & Order. Tanner liked the "Criminal Intent" incarnation. Hannah admitted "SVU" too often crossed her squick boundary. They both enjoyed the original best.
"And your favorite character?" Hannah asked.
"Lenny," Tanner replied without hesitation. "Who does a New York detective better than Lenny?"
Hannah sighed. "When didn't Jerry Orbach rock? Not only Law & Order, but—"
"'Nobody puts Baby into a corner,'" Tanner interjected, grinning. "Johnny told that to Jerry when he played Jennifer Grey's father in Dirty Dancing."
Hannah stared, dumbstruck. Once again her heart started up like a bongo in her chest and she swallowed hard, looking for her
disappearing voice. "I didn't know men admitted to seeing that movie. I think my brothers would put their eyes out with barbecue tools before they'd confess to watching Patrick Swayze do the Mashed Potato."
Tanner leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his fingers laced. There was a votive candle to his right and its light flickered like gold and amusement in his eyes. "I'm the youngest of four sons. My mom had given up on her girl, so she brownie-bribed me into viewing the whole pantheon of chick flicks with her: Dirty Dancing, His Girl Friday, When Harry Met Sally, to name but a few."
Hannah tried to imagine a young Tanner. She thought she could see him: towhead, skateboard, a pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt.
"Though don't think my brothers didn't make me pay for it. According to the male majority of the Hart house, a real movie only stars Rambo, Schwarzenegger, and weapons that shoot, slice, or decimate."
"They were mean to you?" Hannah amended her vision. Now his jeans were ripped and there was a scrape on one gorgeous cheekbone.
"Only until I got big enough to be mean back. And anyway, those scabs and bruises made for tough skin."
Something the Hart family was known for. She thought of the ten-month-old tabloid article that Desirée had directed her to. Triggered by the "Big Kiss," as it had been headlined, the paragraphs had told Tanner's full family legend.
"There was a story about you in that magazine from the DMV," she said. "Is it true there's a street in San Diego named after your grandfather?"
He stilled, then shrugged. "Sure. He was a WW Two naval hero. His brother was awarded medals in Korea."
"Like your dad and your uncle in Vietnam—"
"And my brothers in Afghanistan and Iraq." There was a half smile on his face, but his eyes had lost their light and cooled to blue ice. "A whole family of heroes except yours truly, of course, the lone black sheep."
While he continued to sit across the tiny table, it was as if he'd left the room. His gaze strayed off into the distance, unseeing, and one hand fisted on the pristine cloth.
Her schoolteacher instincts kicked in, sensing trouble as they did when the boy assigned the desk closest to hers was simmering with emotional turmoil. In the case of her students, its source could be one of several problems: uncaring parents, bad nutrition, a learning deficit yet to be diagnosed or corrected, or a combination of any of the above.
For Tanner, the source was her. Bringing up his family had brought up a past he found painful.
Her fingers tightened on the stem of her water glass. It was her fault, which meant it was also up to her to find a way to distract him.
Of course, here in the restaurant she didn't have a flannel board or sock puppets or math puzzle cards to whip from her bag of teacher tricks. They'd already covered favorite books, TV, and movies. Without a clear plan in her head, she slid her arm slowly across the table. Leaning forward, she placed her palm over his fist.
His gaze shifted from faraway to her fingers. Hannah swallowed. "I've just got to ask..."
His expression hardened. "I didn't have the faintest idea Dez was going to kiss me," he said in a low voice, not looking at her. "And yes, I did know the agent who was killed in my place."
Guilt jabbed Hannah again. She had meant to ask something banal about his meal or his work at the bar or something dull but distracting like that.
Oh, why had she brought up his family? And how had that segued into a rehash of the night of the assassination attempt? Of course, no one had been taking his "place." The article had been quite detailed about the entire event. The agent, Ayesha Spencer, had been new to that particular Secret Ser vice team, but there wasn't the hint of an accusation that her death had anything to do with Tanner.
Except, obviously, in his own mind.
Her heart gave a painful squeeze. "That's not the question I had."
His fist hadn't relaxed beneath her touch. "Oh yeah? Then what is your question?"
"I...I..." She was feeling a bit reckless in her determination to turn his dark mood. But how to do it?
"I was wondering about New Year's Eve," she suddenly said, surprising herself. "About us." His gaze flicked up. Now she had his attention. And he no longer looked angry or sad either.
Hah. Triumph filled her, making her even more rash. "Tell me, Tanner. Was it...was it really that explosive?" Heat flooded her face, and she hurried to make clear she wasn't fishing for compliments. "You see, I have to confess. I...I had those mojitos and I can't quite remember..."
He was remembering something, because his eyes were alive again. Hot. Focused on her, and her alone. It occurred to Hannah that maybe, just maybe, he'd been covering his ongoing attraction for her too.
"Hannah." His voice was low, with a hint of a hoarse note. "It was Armageddon, just like I said. Explosive."
Oh, God. Explosive. Why did that single word set fire to the fuse of every one of her tinder-dry nerve endings? Her skin went hot all over and the flames seemed to suck the oxygen from her lungs.
Why couldn't she remember? It wasn't fair that the memory of sexual explosion had been taken from her along with so much else.
She licked her lips, the fire inside of her making her more reckless and rash than before. "Oh, well, um..."
His hand relaxed beneath hers and turned. His fingers slid against the inside of her own. Oh, God, she was suddenly beyond burning.
"'Oh, well,' what?"
He was most definitely in a different mood now. His gaze drifted from her face to her chest, and she followed his glance. Her position against the table had pushed her breasts even higher than already achieved by the wonder garment she was wearing beneath Desirée's dress.
Her skin started to tingle.
"I know we said we wouldn't, um, do that again," she whispered, not daring to move. "But I'm thinking..." Could she do this? Could she convince her conscience that the suggestion on the tip of her tongue was just for him?
"You're thinking what?"
"Since I don't remember that first, um, explosion, if we did it again, it wouldn't actually be again, right?" She said the words as fast as she could. "It would still just be the one time, just a little New Year's Eve naughtiness."
He stared at her. Any lingering thoughts of her students, school teaching, sock puppets, fled from her mind. Her proposition wasn't meant to distract him, no kidding herself about that anymore. Looking at his golden-god features and glittering eyes, she knew it was all for her, for Hannah, for the downtrodden part of her that needed to feel like a real, desirable woman again. For the part of her that knew this was the man who could make that happen.
His fingers tightened on her hand. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, and it started to tingle too. Her heart pounded harder, reminding her that Tanner Hart was no boy.
And that in the war between the sexes, she'd just surrendered all her weapons.
FROM THE DESK OF HANNAH DAVIS
Things I Hate About New Year's:
Gym overcrowded with new members who won't make it through March.
Chapter Thirteen
Desirée discovered that even sleepy Coronado could suffer from traffic jams. She tried swallowing her impatience and waited out the delay, drumming the heel of her hand on her steering wheel in time to Patti LaBelle's "New Attitude." That's what she needed, she decided, a fresh way of dealing with Troy and the always-on-his-sleeve disapproval.
She turned her wrist to check her Tiffany watch and muttered a pithy French curse as she noted the time. Let's get this show on the road, she mind-ordered the backup of cars in front of her.
Tonight, she couldn't be late. She couldn't screw up the job.
She refused to give Troy reason to toss her out on her ear.
The traffic cleared and she jumped on the accelerator, the back end of her BMW wiggling like perhaps she should do tonight in her just-like-lipo jeans. Troy was a man, wasn't he? Though he might dislike her personally, if she twitched her butt enough times, surely she could make him sweat. It would be a
sweet little payback for all the times he'd made her do the same.
But was that smart? she questioned herself, pulling into the parking lot at Hart's. Frowning, she steered her car to a far space, leaving free the convenient up-front ones for the customers. Then she slid out of the seat, her frown going to a grimace as tight denim adjusted to her new upright position.
She'd chosen to wear these pants as part of some half-thought-through Make Troy Crazy plan, but again she had to wonder.
It was obvious he already considered her an overprivileged, underscrupled, spoiled sexpot.
Maybe she should keep her butt-wiggling to a minimum. Because if she could change the way he thought about her, then maybe, just maybe...
She could change the way she thought about him.
Which was often. In terms that had started her worrying she'd inherited more from her man-manic mother than long legs and a love of lipstick.
Checking her watch again, Desirée hurried to the front door of the bar. Her hand touching the cool metal, she paused, second-guessing once again. Maybe she should forget all about this. She could pack her clothes and her iPod, tuck her laptop under her arm, and be off to...where?
Despite the nomadic DNA downloaded on her paternal side, she didn't really like moving from place to place. And she didn't have that many places she was free to explore anyway, what with her mother flitting between Chicago and New York, and her father having staked out Europe and the Middle East.
In practical terms, that left Desirée with the western half of the United States, which meant she might as well stay here. In Coronado and with her new employment, for the first time since college graduation two-and-a-half years before, at least she had a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
Okay, so that reason took her back to Troy again, but she pushed the worry out of her mind and pulled the door open.
Music was already blasting from the speakers hung throughout the large space. A heavy-on-electric-guitar, light-on-melody rock screech had a guy behind the bar head-banging the oxygen around him. Troy was at the far end of the room, his back to her as he lifted chairs off the tabletops and positioned them onto the floor without any visible effort.
Not Another New Year's (Holiday Duet Book 2) Page 9
