The Big Bad Wolf Tells All Page 9
That smile flirted with those lips again. Chiseled, she thought, so unsheeplike. And that voice of his. Perfect for the intimate depths of a limo ride through the night. If she closed her eyes and just listened to him, she could imagine all sorts of carnal scenarios.
“You don’t strike me as a woman who worries overly much about flattery.”
Her eyes snapped open before the first wicked visual could take shape. Dammit. “What is that supposed to mean? Celebrity or not, I’m still human. I like flattery as much as the next person. As long as it’s sincere, anyway.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t. What I said was that you don’t strike me as a woman who places undue value or importance on it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you don’t define yourself by how others perceive you. Your columns make that clear enough.”
She grinned. “You read my columns?”
She wasn’t sure, due to the lighting, but she swore his cheeks flushed. “Surely I’m not the only one of my gender who finds what you have to say entertaining.”
“You do read them!” She crossed her legs, folded her arms, feeling somehow smug, as if she’d proven something by snagging his attention. Even if it was her words, not her personally, that had done the job. It was still part of her. Maybe the most important part. Certainly the most revealing. “So, tell me what you think. Honest assessment. I can take it.”
He didn’t respond immediately, didn’t look at her, either. She was thinking of something outrageous to say, to provoke him, when he shifted his gaze . . . and neatly pinned her to her seat with one thick-lensed glance.
“Honestly? I think you’re either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish. Or both.”
Tanzy was momentarily taken aback. She’d been equally lauded and panned in her brief career, so that wasn’t it. It was that he’d summed up both sides of the argument so neatly. “I imagine you’re right,” she said, baldly honest. “I’m probably both.” She laughed. “A brave fool.”
That surprised a smile out of him. Or as much of one as he’d ever graced her with.
His lower lip in particular snagged her wayward attention. Sharply defined, yet not at all lean or thin. What would he do if she leaned forward and just pulled that lip between her teeth and tugged a little? If she slid her lips over his. Slid her tongue into his mouth and—
“We’re here,” he announced somewhat abruptly.
Ending her little fantasy. And just before the juicy parts, dammit.
He slid out first, not waiting for Wainwright, then leaned down and extended a hand.
She paused for a moment before taking it. Just a few hours ago, she’d hoped for just this opportunity. Since then, they’d danced together, talked, laughed. Well, she’d laughed anyway. He still needed a little work in that department. Her purse and the note forgotten, she took what he offered. And while he didn’t drag her from the car, then press her up against it, his grip was anything but limp.
She slid from the car, keeping his hand in hers as she stepped out and straightened. It was as close to him as she’d been, other than on the dance floor. Only they weren’t dancing now.
His gaze was steady, but completely nonthreatening, noninvasive. So why did she feel her stomach muscles flutter, why did she want to press her thighs together against the little twinge of need that sprung to life between them? It made absolutely no sense. There was no wolf beneath the kind manners and polite attentiveness.
And she found she didn’t care. Her world, once so orderly and amusing, was no longer so clearly defined. Her circle of friends, though she loved them dearly and knew the feeling was reciprocated, had now formed a club to which she had no membership card and wasn’t prepared to sign a lifetime contract to obtain one. Her great-aunt and the work she did suddenly called to something inside her, something she needed to explore, decide if she wanted to delve into . . . along with all the attendant family issues that would arise if she did. And now her work as a columnist, her one safe place, the thing she controlled above all else, her conduit to helping make sense of the things life threw at her, had thrown her way an obsessive person who might or might not mean her harm.
And then there was Riley. An amusing sidebar, column fodder, an intriguing diversion. She’d thought of him as a specimen to be analyzed. Only now she realized he’d come to represent the calm at the center of a storm. Dependable. Unflappable. Riley.
“Miss?”
Wainwright’s understated voice penetrated her thoughts. He was holding her purse, but her gaze was quickly drawn back to Riley and her revelation.
Riley took it from him when Tanzy continued to stand there, staring at him.
“Thank you, Wainwright. I’ll see her inside.”
“Have a good evening, then.” He tipped his head.
Tanzy nodded absently, might have lifted a hand, but her gaze was still rooted on Riley. Dependable, intriguing, mysterious Riley.
“Is something the matter?”
She shook her head. Nothing was the matter. In fact, staring at those murky dark eyes behind those lenses, everything finally started to make sense. “Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Sheep Attraction Factor.”
His lips twitched, just a little. And she determined right then and there that she’d get a laugh out of him if it killed her.
“Sheep Attraction Factor?”
She nodded. “You’re more than a mortgage and Special Sex Sundays. You’re the guys who help make sense out of everything when everything stops making sense.”
And then it happened. He smiled. Full-fledged, white teeth gleaming and everything. Her stomach went from fluttering to a full-scale flip and dip. Without thinking, she reached up and slid the glasses from his face.
His smile faded, but she didn’t regret it. He stilled, and for a moment she thought he was going to take them back, or turn away. But he didn’t.
“You have beautiful eyes.” And he did, but it was more than that. It was what she saw in them that pulled at her. Wariness, desire, frustration. A lot of emotions roiling around in there for a guy who rarely showed any.
She lifted a hand, wanting to touch him, just stroke his cheek, anything. But he stepped back then, and he might as well have put his glasses on, as his expression grew completely shuttered.
She sighed, unable to stem the disappointment. He surprised her by catching her hand and lifting it back up. Again she was taken by the gentleness of his touch. Not limp. Gentle. She understood the difference now. And with his eyes on hers, he bent over her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. His lips were warm, soft. How could something so reassuring, so courtly even, be so inherently sexual? But her heart raced . . . and her thighs clenched hard against the insistent ache between them.
“Thank you for the evening out,” he said quietly. Then he let her hand go, slipped his glasses back on, and motioned for her to lead the way to the front door.
She paused beside him, wishing she knew what to say, but for the first time in her life, words failed her.
She made her way to the door, her thoughts and emotions in a jumble. “Night,” she murmured as she passed by him into the house, then made her way up the stairs to her room. She was so lost in trying to figure out what exactly had happened outside that she didn’t feel his gaze at her back. Didn’t know he slid his glasses off and watched her every curve and sway as she negotiated the stairs in her spiky heels and formfitting gown.
Didn’t watch him finally turn away . . . and pull the note out of her purse and unfold it.
Is it really so hard to believe that men and women aren’t all that different when it comes to sexual urges? Why is it okay for men to go on the hunt, enjoy sex when the opportunity presents itself, no harm, no foul? But let a woman go on the prowl and she’s characterized as a man-eater, gold-digger, or worse. All I’m saying is, let us all prowl equally. And to the victor goes the climax.
Chapter 8
Riley’s gut knotted and he had to work to keep from crushing the note in his fist. He took the purse and the note upstairs to his room, pausing briefly as he passed her door. What in the hell had he been thinking tonight?
It was one thing to contemplate coming back to her when this was all over. And a shock to realize he actually had. Apparently the idea of revisiting the tension that had spiraled between them since the moment they’d stepped beneath that crystal snowflake chandelier had been too tantalizing to ignore.
He imagined what he’d say to her, how he’d explain who he really was, the surprise and shocked expression that would shift to that knowing, deliberate smile when she realized she’d found a fellow wolf to play with.
They’d burn hot and bright. He knew that for certain. Just the taste of her skin had been enough to set him off. They might last a night or a month of nights before they flamed out, but it would be well worth the singe marks.
She’d been saucy and sexy and so sure of herself tonight. She’d also been vulnerable, baldly honest, and willing to look at things in a whole new way. Willing to look at him, her resident sheep, in a whole new way.
His lips quirked despite the frustration gnawing at him. She did that to him, too. Amused and annoyed, most of the time simultaneously. Like with her Sheep Attraction Factor. “If she only knew,” he muttered, his smile fading as he let himself into his rooms.
His body was still humming from the frustration of tasting her skin and knowing he couldn’t do anything about it. But he couldn’t dwell on that, not when there was a nameless, faceless threat out there. Watching. Waiting. He had no business encouraging her newfound attraction to sheep. Especially since he wasn’t one of the herd. He’d been sent here to hunt. And his prey wasn’t her.
He rolled on latex gloves and carefully unfolded the note again. He got out a small case, unzipping it and laying it flat before setting to work. Lifting prints was easy enough to do if you didn’t mind the mess it made. But he knew she’d come looking for her purse and its contents in the morning, and he wasn’t ready to tell her who he really was. Although after tonight, for more than one reason, he knew he was going to have to. Just not yet.
She was already going to be pissed at him, so the least he could do was supply a detailed course of action that would give her a sense of security. If she didn’t have her aunt fire his sheep-posing ass first.
Swearing and muttering, he began the painstaking process, hoping to find more than his prints and hers. Would SoulM8 be careless? Had he risked exposure by propping that note on the table himself? Or had he sent someone to do it for him? He’d have had no idea that Riley was there as more than an escort, and yet the note had appeared the only time Riley had been more than a foot from her side. They’d been watched. If not by SoulM8, then by someone helping him out. But Riley would bet on SoulM8 operating on his own. Stalkers generally didn’t work in pairs.
He snorted in self-disgust. All the lectures he’d given Finn, and what had he gone and done? The very thing he’d so passionately argued against. Well, not everything, he argued, his mind drifting back to that moment on the dance floor when he’d so badly wanted to kiss her. Thank God he’d had sense enough to pull back before he did anything too foolish. Though he’d gotten his mouth on her anyway, hadn’t he? So what if it had only been the soft skin on the back of her hand? Tell that to his raging hard-on, which apparently hadn’t known the difference.
He snapped up the phone as he lifted a third partial print from the corner of the note and punched in an East Coast number. He had some connections to a certain fed via a former running back’s brother. If he was lucky, with the time difference Parnell would still be on shift. “Hey,” he said abruptly when the call connected, “this is Parrish. I need you to run some prints for me. Partials, but they’re pretty clean. Yeah, nationwide, but I’m betting he’s a California boy.” He grinned as he listened to Parnell bitch, then said, “I know, add it to my tab.”
He hung up, then went about setting up his laptop and connecting the handheld scanner. Within minutes he was transmitting the images via email to Parnell’s office. Hopefully he’d get an answer back by morning, before Parnell’s shift ended. They’d worked together before and Parnell was good and, more important, thorough.
In the meantime, he’d check his email, see if Ernie had gotten him anything more. Then he’d check hers, something Ernie had made possible for him—computer-fraud consultants being some of the best hackers out there—and make sure SoulM8 hadn’t followed up on his close encounter.
An hour later, he was scrubbing at his gritty eyes, contemplating coffee or a shower or both. Ernie’s email had thrown a whole new perspective on the case. By itself, finding out that MainLine used FishNet for all their employee and business emails and Internet service access was no big thing. Except their account was a huge one, one of upstart FishNet’s biggest. So they’d been given carte blanche with regard to the number of email accounts they could set up. And Tanzy’s editor, Martin, was the guy in charge of doling them out.
Martin, the same guy Tanzy had mentioned was going through some kind of postparenting, midlife sort of thing. Acting out of character. Giving her dates odd looks, as Riley had noted earlier tonight. Then there was the comment that he was particularly interested in Tanzy’s comings and goings recently. She’d chalked up his attentions as paternal. But what if in Martin’s eyes there was nothing paternal about his feelings for his young, personable, sexy protégée?
One glance at the clock told Riley he was going to have to put any further analysis of this new trail off till tomorrow. He was cooked anyway. And Tanzy hadn’t been bluffing about the radio program, which meant he had about two and a half hours before meeting her at the curb for her scheduled four-thirty A.M. pickup. No more following at a discreet distance. He went in the limo from now on.
He stripped out of his briefs—the tux long since having come off—and crawled into bed, setting his alarm for four. That would give him enough time to shower and check for any email from Parnell. If the prints didn’t end up attached to someone with a criminal record, he’d have to look into getting her editor’s prints and run a comparison. That should be fun.
Despite the frustrations of the evening, both professional and personal, he drifted off to sleep with a hint of a smile on his lips, imagining her reaction when she found him waiting for her in the morning.
Tanzy tried to keep her attention on the radio hosts and the mike in front of her . . . and off of Riley, who was presently standing on the other side of the glass separating the broadcast booth from the engineers, watching her intently. Not that there was much to watch.
She’d been a guest on this particular program before, which dealt mostly with the morning drive guys giving her a hard time, her giving it right back, then taking some questions from callers. She had to be on her toes with these two, but their audience was huge and MainLine milked her appearances for all the advertising dollars they could get.
Still, her answers weren’t as snappy as she’d have liked this morning, which meant Billy Mac and JoJo were quickly getting the upper hand. Never a good thing. Her distraction was partly due to the note from the night before, but mostly due to Riley’s unsettling and unwavering focus. How could a guy be so distant and yet so invasive at the same time?
She still couldn’t get over the fact that he’d been curbside and chatting amiably with the station’s driver at the crack of dawn this morning. She hadn’t even had her first Coke of the day, so she’d somehow let him hornswoggle his way into the limo and into the broadcast booth. Something about wanting to see behind the scenes. It had all sounded reasonable to her sleep-addled brain. Plus, she recalled thinking, how much trouble could a guy like Riley get into?
She hadn’t counted on being the one having the trouble.
“So, Tanzy, this sheep versus wolf theory of yours sure has got the Bay Area talking.” Bill
y Mac grinned widely, which was always a warning.
Tanzy straightened and took a bracing sip of Coke. Her third. It was barely eight A.M. And it wasn’t helping. “That’s one of the things I hope my column does, Billy, get a dialogue going between the sexes.”
Billy turned to his cohost—or cohort, as was more the case—and shared a chuckle that was probably being echoed in truck stops and frat houses all over town. If she looked close enough, she’d probably detect foaming around their mouths. But while they both had the voices for radio, their looks were far short of celebrity standards. Billy Mac reminded her of the rabid sports fan guy who paints his belly blue and yells obscenities at referees. And JoJo . . . well, imagine Dennis Rodman in full drag but without the muscles. Tanzy preferred not to look too closely at either of them. Or gnash her teeth that their salaries were likely triple hers.
“So,” JoJo broke in, pulling his mouthpiece closer, “do you take any responsibility for the dialogue those women have been dishing on their sheepy other halves this past week? All those women who read your column, then looked up at their man and thought, ‘Damn, but I wanna bag me another wolf.’ “
Tanzy knew she had to fire back fast and sharp, but her reflexes were slowed by that one millisecond glance she sent toward her own sheep. It was a millisecond too long.
Billy Mac, ever nimble, had already pressed a button, filling the air with the horrific sounds of wrenching, screeching metal. “That was the sound of the marital discord erupting all over town this morning, folks,” he taunted.
Tanzy’s mouth was open, but JoJo had already pressed another button, and a wolf howl split the air. “And that, my friends, was for all those wolves out there, gearing up for some new action!”
Tanzy wanted to bury her head in her arms. Or go home and crawl back into bed. She never lost control like this. Martin was likely having a cow.
“You want to say something to those women you’ve stirred up, Tanzy?” Billy Mac tossed out.