by Wendy Wax
Ho-kay. Padding barefoot across the bathroom’s marble floor, she entered the bedroom and crossed to look out the marvelous bay window. Traffic inched along Peachtree toward Lenox Mall and Phipps Plaza, where Selena Moore’s flagship store was located.
If she’d had any more antiques to sell, she could be shopping right now. Or being fussed over at any one of the day spas within a stone’s throw of the hotel. But she’d shot her wad on this weekend escape—which, based on her bank balance, should have taken place in a Motel 6.
Searching for a distraction that didn’t require dressing and going out, Miranda zeroed in on the room service menu. She pushed the extravagance factor from her mind and focused on the potential comfort factor. Food was good; large quantities of it even better. Making her selections used up a good ten minutes, but after placing her order she was back in bed staring inward. Her fears and responsibilities stared back.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Closing her eyes, she pushed them away and searched for something more attractive to think about. Like Blake Summers. Naked. And knocking on the hotel room door.
Miranda groaned. The suite was spacious, but not large enough to allow her to outrun her fears or her feelings. She was alone in a beautiful suite designed for two, while her husband, who was probably wearing prettier underwear than she would have been if she were wearing any, was somewhere else and had no plans to return.
All of her hopes for Ballantyne hinged on Monday’s meeting with Selena Moore and her ability to convince the Ballantyne board that Custom Cleavage—as she now thought of her idea—was the only way to save a business they didn’t even know was foundering. Equally bad, she had become fodder for the Truro rumor mill, and people thought she was pregnant, even though she wasn’t and probably never would be.
The first tear took her by surprise. It was hot and salty and took its time meandering down her cheek. The second came a lot faster. And it totally pissed her off. She swiped at it with the back of her hand and ordered herself to cease and desist. She was not going to be that woman in the mirror again; her crying days were over.
A knock sounded at the door, and she offered up a prayer of thanks for the interruption. Pulling the robe tighter, she went to the door and looked through the peephole.
A waiter, looking nervous, stood behind a rolling cart piled high with domed silver platters. She opened the door and discovered that a girl had to be careful what she wished for.
Blake Summers stepped, unsmiling, up behind the waiter. “Lucy,” he said, taking in the robe and the cart full of food. “You got some serious ‘splainin’ to do.”
Blake flashed his badge and the waiter hightailed it toward the elevator. Taking control of the cart, Blake pushed it into the room and closed the door behind them.
“Where,” he asked, “is Tom?”
Too stunned to pretend, Miranda looked him directly in the eye and told the truth. “I wish I knew.”
This little revelation rocked him back on his heels. “Then who did you come here to meet?”
“No one.”
His features etched with disbelief, Blake swept through the suite, doing what looked like a very thorough check for potential felons.
Miranda followed along. “Aren’t you going to look under the bed?”
He turned to face her. “Is there someone under there?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll skip it.”
They regarded each other warily. They were alone and they both knew it. She was naked under the robe, and she suspected they both knew that, too.
His eyes became less hawklike and she could practically see his mind rearranging the facts as he knew them, trying to fit the pieces together in a way that made sense. As if that were remotely possible.
Miranda couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry or jump his bones. She contemplated doing all three, though not necessarily in that order.
“So if Tom isn’t here, where is he?”
“Beats me.”
“You’re telling me you really don’t know where your husband is.”
She considered lying, but it was a lot harder to bluff without clothes on. Besides, she wasn’t sure what the point was anymore. And she didn’t think she had the strength. She really, really wanted to feel Blake’s arms around her. A promise that everything was going to be okay would be nice, too.
She nodded her head and her eyes welled up. God, she was tired of crying.
He took a step toward her but stopped a good foot away and his voice turned coolly professional. “When did you last see him?”
“January eighth.”
“Talk to him?”
“January eighth.”
She could see that she’d surprised him again. She and Carly must have been pretty convincing after all.
He glanced around the suite again, and she had the sense that he still expected someone to jump out from behind the drapes or something. He was wearing khakis and a black T-shirt that pulled tight across his chest, but he didn’t need a uniform to look like a cop. “And this is?”
“Camouflage . . . R and R . . .” She shrugged, and before she could stop it, another tear slid down her cheek. “I’m not sure anymore.”
“Damn it, Miranda. You should have told me.” His tone turned wry. “It’s not like I didn’t give you every opportunity.”
She sniffed and her eyes welled up again. “I couldn’t.” Lifting a sleeve, she swiped at her nose with the terry-cloth.
“But why all the secrecy? If your husband left you, why the charade?”
“Because Ballantyne is in trouble, and I was afraid everybody would panic if they realized he was gone and the only thing standing between them and bankruptcy was”—she sniffed—“me.”
She sniffed again, and he reached over and grabbed a tissue out of the box on the desk and shoved it at her.
“I can nail a pageant interview in five seconds flat, but I don’t exactly have a track record of wowing them in the boardroom.”
She watched his internal struggle through tear-filled eyes. He paced the room, still disbelieving, still trying to work it out. When he walked past her to sit on the sofa, she followed and sank into the corner next to him.
“Jesus, Miranda. Don’t you have any idea where he is?”
“No.” Another sniff. “He left a note saying he wasn’t coming back.”
“I’m assuming you’ve tried to find him.”
“Yes, but I have a news flash for you. The reason the wife is always the last to know is because nobody wants to tell her anything. Not the airlines, not the hotels, not the credit card companies. I’ve been making car payments for a Mercedes I can’t even find.” She wadded the tissue into a ball and pressed it to her nose.
He went to the desk, rummaged in the drawer, and came back with a notepad and pen. When he sat down his gaze dropped to the bare triangle of skin where her robe came together, and she thought she heard a small groan. She didn’t know if he’d ever questioned a seminaked woman in a hotel room before, but it was clear he intended to try.
“I’ve retained a divorce attorney and a PI, but I can’t afford any more spotlights in the ‘Truro Tattles’ until I convince the board that I have a plan to save the company.”
She crossed one leg over the other, and both their gazes jerked downward.
Blake pulled his gaze back to the pad of paper. He scribbled something on it, then asked, “Do you have a plan?”
“I think so. I have a meeting here on Monday that I’m hoping will clinch it. Wednesday I get my chance to convince the board. But I need to put that plan into effect before everybody realizes how far into the toilet Tom put us.”
She didn’t think this was the time to bring up the word “fraud.” And as much as she wanted to be honest with Blake, she didn’t think this was the time to initiate a full police investigation. Or mention that she now knew Tom had shipped himself the goods intended for the fictitious accounts and pocketed the money. And really, when you came right down to it,
what would exposing Tom’s love of lingerie or the affair he’d apparently been having achieve?
She watched Blake make notes on his pad and told herself she wasn’t actually lying to him; she was just withholding certain details until the time was right.
He made another note and then looked up to meet her eye. “Do you have any clues at all?”
She could see just how hard he was working at staying focused and wished she could admire him for it. But she’d told him everything she felt she could, and her body’s tingling was turning into a pretty persuasive clamoring. “It’s hard to pump people for information when you’re pretending you don’t need any.”
He wrote something else, and she leaned forward to try to make it out. Her robe fell open and the room grew unnaturally quiet. And hot. In fact, she felt warm all over.
Blake’s eyes moved to her lips. And stayed there.
“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she finally asked.
“God, I hope not.”
“Yeah, me too.” She licked her lips. “Because that would be a really bad idea until I figure out how to find and divorce Tom. And then there’s Ballantyne. I’m really preoccupied with trying to save it.” Her voice trailed off.
“I can see how busy you are with that.” His eyes roamed downward to the place where the robe’s lapels had once met.
“Getting involved with you would really complicate things,” she said.
The sash of her robe loosened and the robe fell completely open. She swallowed. “And you definitely don’t get the pageant thing. Or your daughter for that matter.”
He was no longer even trying to meet her eye. His gaze on her body felt like a caress.
She looked down, too. Her nipples were hard and straining toward his touch, and she was afraid to open her mouth because a whimper might escape. She was hollow deep in her belly, and she wanted him. If a voice of reason was going to be raised, it wasn’t going to be hers.
He took a finger and drew it slowly down between her breasts. “This is such a bad idea,” he said. “It’s stupid, ill advised, and completely unprofessional.”
And then he kissed her. Good God, the man could kiss.
Before she could stop herself she was climbing into his lap, wrapping her legs around his waist and looping her arms around his neck so that he could carry her into the bedroom. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly hear, and when his lips moved to her breast she gasped and may have stopped breathing altogether. Which made conversation especially difficult.
Fortunately there wasn’t a whole lot that needed to be said at the moment; at least nothing that couldn’t be communicated with a moan or a sigh.
There’d be time enough for finding the right words in the morning. Right now Miranda was having a perfectly lovely tête-à-tête with Blake’s tongue.
Blake woke first. It might have had something to do with the warm breasts pressed against his chest or the round buttock beneath his hand.
Miranda burrowed closer in her sleep, and his body responded. Short strands of dark hair stuck out in a million directions, and her skin was warm and smelled of their lovemaking. He absolutely could not believe he had done anything this stupid.
Her eyes opened. They were a cloudy green and full of questions for which he had no answers.
“Good morning,” he said as conversationally as he could, given their nakedness and the size of his erection.
“Mmmm, good morning.” Burying her face in the crook of his neck, Miranda pressed herself more tightly against him. He groaned as her hand moved down to find him.
Unable to resist, he rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. She was already wet, and as he began to move slowly inside her, he tried not to think about how perfectly they fit. Or whether giving in to his desire for her a second time automatically made him twice as stupid.
The next time he awoke, sunlight was streaming in through the window, and the scent of coffee filled the room. He opened one eye and saw her sitting in a club chair with her feet tucked under her, a china cup raised to her lips. She was wearing the white terry-cloth number and a smile.
“Good morning again.” He yawned and stretched, then kicked the sheet out of his way.
Her eyes dropped to his lap for a moment, then found his face. “He awakes.”
“He does.” He rubbed a hand against the stubble that covered his jaw.
“There’s a razor in the bathroom, and plenty of hot water. After all,” she looked up, and her smile was lopsided, “it’s the Ritz.”
He stood and leaned over to drop a kiss on the top of her head. Ten minutes later he was showered and shaved and fully dressed, though he’d been forced to go commando. Sitting on the sofa in the living room of the suite—where everything had begun the night before—he reminded himself again just how many cops lost their jobs every year because of alcohol and women, but it was a little bit late for reminders.
Blake located the pen and picked up the notepad, quickly flipping past his sketch of the fully aroused bumblebee. “Let’s go back over what happened on January eighth and immediately afterward,” he said. “It’s been over two months, which makes his trail pretty cold. But maybe you can give me somewhere to start.”
He listened carefully as Miranda told him the little she claimed she knew. But she was nervous and had trouble meeting his eye, and she still didn’t mention that Tom had emptied their accounts or offer any specifics of what exactly her husband might have done to Ballantyne.
He was amazed at how many balls this woman had managed to keep in the air, and he wanted to help her for more reasons than he could count. But he had a very bad feeling about all the things she was leaving out. He was definitely going to have to keep his hands to himself until he found Tom Smith and hauled him back to Truro.
chapter 21
M iranda simmered with anticipation as she walked into Selena Moore’s flagship store on Monday morning. The boutique was as sleek and sophisticated as the clothes it showcased. With four locations in Atlanta, seventeen others in high-end malls throughout the Southeast, and plans to expand nationwide, the company was the perfect star to which to hitch Ballantyne’s wagon.
“Hello, Selena.” Miranda offered her hand to her former pageant competitor. “Thanks for fitting me in.” She followed the willowy blonde to a back office and took a seat on the opposite side of a very expensive-looking glass desk. As high school girls and then college students, they’d taken turns beating each other in pageants across the Southeast, and while their friendship had been tempered by a decade of competition, their respect for each other had never wavered.
They chatted for a few minutes about other girls they’d known in their pageant days, and as she sized the other woman up now, Miranda almost licked her lips in anticipation. It would take some delicate maneuvering to convince Selena that exclusive representation of Ballantyne’s custom business was a plum to be snatched. Looking too eager would be a mistake; appearing too standoffish would be equally fatal. Carefully, Miranda steered the conversation around to business.
“I saw the piece in the New York Times,” Miranda began. “I loved the whole ‘Former Miss Dogwood Builds Retail Empire’ thing.”
Selena smoothed a hand over her already impeccable chignon. “Yes. That article did great things for our initial stock offering.” She smiled with satisfaction. “I absolutely adore the shock on their Wall Street faces when they realize I have a brain. They think anyone who ever set foot on a pageant stage is dumb as a post. They stroll into meetings smirking and walk out trying to figure out what hit them. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as a mystified man.”
Miranda laughed. “If there’s anyone who can keep them baffled, it’s you.” She paused, and her tone turned more serious. “I have a lot of respect for what you’ve accomplished, Selena.” She paused again. “And I think there may be a way we can help each other.”
Selena’s features communicated polite interest, nothing more, as she waited fo
r Miranda to continue.
“I’m in the process of reinventing a family company that’s been around for over a hundred years.” She made eye contact and leaned forward as casually as she could. “I’m looking for the right chain of upscale boutiques to help me introduce our new product line to our target market.”
They studied each other carefully.
Selena’s smile was noncommittal. “I’m assuming this is where I would come in?”
“Possibly.” Miranda opened her briefcase and pulled out her samples. Each component had been done in a basic beige satin that wouldn’t detract from the piece itself. She had three kinds of cups, straps and closures of every variety, and three types of underwire. Then she pulled out five different bras, each a different compilation of the individual components. She laid them out on Selena’s desk and explained her concept as succinctly as possible.
“Are you looking for an investment from me?” Selena remained cool, but her body language was just a shade too casual.
“No, just a corner of each store, committed sales help, and an agreed-upon amount for co-op advertising.”
Selena leaned forward in her seat. “Totally custom is perfect for our clientele,” she admitted cautiously, “but what about taking true measurements? That would be critical.”
Miranda knew she had her as soon as the other woman began to focus on the details, but she was careful to keep her mental happy dance to herself.
“You’re right. According to industry statistics, one out of five women is wearing the wrong size.”
“So how do you plan to handle that?” Selena sat back and crossed her arms.
“I’m going to provide fitters for every store. In the beginning, our fitters will do all the measuring and ordering, but they’ll be training store staff at the same time. When we think the store people are ready, we’ll give them a complete written manual and we’ll staff a help line around the clock for any salesperson or customer with a question or problem. Total service, total fit, and total comfort is what we plan to deliver.”
