Читать книгу Some Kind of Hero - Brenda Harlen - Страница 10

Riane felt the censure in Joel’s gaze as he relinquished her hand to Stuart without comment and walked off the dance floor. She wanted to follow him, to explain, but pride prevented her from doing so. He had no right to make judgments about her, and besides, a well-bred lady didn’t chase after any man.

Instead she concentrated her attention on her new dance partner, who had already swept her into his arms and was moving smoothly to the strains of the music. Stuart’s movements were effortless, each step and turn flawlessly executed. There wasn’t anything that he didn’t do well, and he was an incredible dancer. But his touch didn’t heat her blood the way Joel’s had done. Her body didn’t yearn to press close to his as it had when she’d been dancing with the mysterious Mr. Logan.

She pushed the traitorous thoughts impatiently aside. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman, not a hormonal adolescent. It wasn’t like her to react to a man on such a primal level. Human beings were supposed to be civilized, to have power over their more basic urges.

Still, she couldn’t deny that something about Joel Logan appealed to her on a most fundamental level. Unwillingly, her gaze strayed to the back of the room where he’d once again stationed himself.

The formality of his attire failed to disguise the raw power he exuded. He had to be well over six feet—as she’d had to tip her head to meet his gaze despite the three inches her heels added to her five-foot, ten-inch frame—with broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist and long, lean legs. Just the memory of those muscles, solid and unyielding, caused her breath to quicken, her pulse to race.

“You seem lost in thought,” Stuart commented lightly.

Riane started, felt her cheeks flush. “Just tired.”

“You’ve had a busy few weeks preparing for tonight.”

“Yes,” she agreed, grateful for his easy acceptance of her explanation. Still, she was embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that Stuart’s absence had gone unnoticed until he’d interrupted her dance with Joel. She’d been so preoccupied with the success of the charity ball she hadn’t spared him a single thought.

And then she’d met Joel Logan, and she hadn’t thought about anything else.

She felt a twinge of guilt at the realization, but only a slight twinge. After all, she wasn’t really engaged to Stuart Etherington III. Although they’d talked, in abstract terms, about marriage, she resented his reference to her as his “fiancée,” as if their engagement was a fact rather than a possibility. But she wasn’t in the mood to take issue with his vocabulary now. It had been a wonderfully successful evening and she wouldn’t ruin it by bickering with him.

So she ignored the multitude of recriminations running through her mind and only said, “You were late.”

“I’m sorry.” His apology was more automatic than sincere. “I got tied up in meetings.”

She wasn’t surprised. Stuart had a successful corporate law practice and was often required to work long into the evening and frequently on weekends. She knew his hours would grow longer still when he launched the political career he wanted so much.

“You missed dinner,” she told him. “Cream of artichoke soup, warm chicken salad with rosemary dressing, poached salmon with tarragon sauce, champagne sherbet and peppered strawberries.”

“That sounds much better than the Italian takeout I had delivered to the office.”

“I’m sure it was,” she agreed. “But as long as you paid for your ticket, I won’t complain about the squandered meal.”

“You’re a mercenary.” There was admiration mingled with amusement in his tone.

“This camp is important to me. And to the kids who visit every summer.”

“I know,” Stuart placated. “And, yes, I paid for my ticket.”

She smiled. “Then I thank you for your support.”

“Has it been a successful evening?”

“Very,” she told him. “Even more so than last year.”

“You have a knack for this sort of thing,” Stuart told her.

“Organizing, fund-raising, delegating. Valuable qualities in a politician’s wife.”

Riane’s smile was strained. She resented Stuart’s implication that tonight’s charity ball was an exercise in politics for her; she hated that he couldn’t understand how much the camp mattered.

And yet, despite this fundamental difference of opinion, Riane believed that they were well suited for one another. They had similar goals and interests. They’d both been raised in political families, and they both understood the expectations and responsibilities of living in the public eye.

She sometimes wondered if he was more attracted to her political connections than her person, but she could hardly judge him when her own motives were less than ideal. Ultimately she and Stuart wanted the same thing: the White House. He had the ideas and the connections to take him there, and when he did, Riane had no qualms about exploiting her position as his wife and first lady to focus attention on the plight of underprivileged children in this country and around the world.

Yes, her relationship with Stuart was exactly what she wanted. She just sometimes wished he made her feel…

The thought fizzled. She didn’t know what was missing; she only knew that she wanted to feel the way she’d felt when Joel had held her in his arms.

She glanced toward the back of the room, searching, seeking.

But he was already gone.

Joel awoke the morning after the charity ball with the mother of all hangovers. He winced against the bright sunlight flooding through the window and cursed himself for not remembering to close the curtains the night before. Slowly he eased his legs over the side of the bed and found the floor. Satisfied that the world was once again solid beneath his feet, he scrubbed a hand over his cheek. It had been a lot of years since he’d drunk himself into a stupor, but he’d done it often enough in the past that he should have known better.

Women, he thought disparagingly. They were all the same. From his mother, who’d abandoned him when he was six, to Jocelyn, who’d dumped him with no hint of remorse when the going got tough, they weren’t to be trusted. It was a lesson he should have learned long ago.

Unfortunately, he was a man, and there were times that basic urges couldn’t be denied. But sex and love were different things, and he’d managed to avoid emotional entanglements for the most part. Since Jocelyn, anyway. He was smart enough and discerning enough to seek companionship from women who wanted the same thing he did: simple, uncomplicated sex.

Riane Quinlan had almost made him forget that. There was nothing simple about the way she’d looked at him. Nothing simple about the feelings she’d roused inside him.

He shook his head, then winced at the explosion of pain that resulted from the movement. He’d obviously been too long without a woman if he could be taken in by a pair of dark eyes.

Cursing Shaun McIver for ever asking him to take on this case, everyone with any connection to the name Rutherford, and Riane Quinlan in particular, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face, then filled a glass and fished a couple of aspirin out of the bottle.

He winced again when the shrill ring of his cell phone echoed in the empty room. He might have been tempted to ignore it, but he knew the only person who would be calling this early on a Sunday morning was his partner. And Mike would only be calling if he had information to share.

“Logan.”

“I tracked Felicia Elliott to Flint, Michigan,” Mike said without preamble. “She was in a women’s shelter there for a few months after she left her husband.”

“Have you spoken to her?” Joel was less interested in the trail than he was in the results.

“She moved out several weeks ago.”

“Where is she now?”

“The director of the shelter wouldn’t give me that information.”

Although Joel understood the reasons for such a policy, he was frustrated. Every time he started to make any headway in this case, yet another obstacle was thrown in his path.

“Maybe I should go to Michigan,” he suggested. He needed to wrap this case up and move on to something else. Somewhere else. Anywhere but West Virginia.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Mike told him. “I left our number with the woman at the shelter. She agreed to pass it along to Felicia Elliott if she hears from her again.”

Joel knew it was the best they could hope for, which only frustrated him further. “Do you have any new leads to follow?”

“I could get in touch with Gavin Elliott again, to see if he’s remembered any other details that might be helpful.”

“Don’t bother,” Joel said, rubbing absently at the throbbing behind his temple. “It looks like we’re just going to have to cool our heels on this one until we hear from Mrs. Elliott.”

“You haven’t made contact with the senator yet?” Mike asked.

“No,” Joel admitted. “Apparently she’s in Thailand.”

“Thailand?”

“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction,” Joel agreed.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Her daughter wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details.”

“You’ve spoken to the daughter?”

Unbidden, a series of images came to mind. Riane moving toward him. Long legs, short dress, easy smile. Riane in his arms on the dance floor. Creamy skin, subtle curves, intoxicating scent. Riane with her fiancé.

Fiancé.

None of the information Joel had gathered indicated that Riane Quinlan was engaged, and he was certain something like that would have been splashed across all the society pages. Still, he’d recognized the man who’d intruded on their dance. Stuart Etherington III, a corporate lawyer at one of the biggest firms in nearby Huntington and an up-and-comer on the local political scene with big ambitions. Apparently Senator Rutherford-Quinlan’s daughter was one of his ambitions.

“Joel?” Mike’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “Did you meet with the daughter?”

“Yeah,” he said again.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then, “What was your impression?”

Long legs, short dress— Joel severed the thought abruptly this time. “I’d say there’s more than a passing resemblance between the two women,” he said instead. “And too many other coincidences to ignore.”

His years on the police force had taught him to be wary of coincidences, and the scandal that ended his career had given him more than enough reason to distrust anyone with the name Rutherford.

When Joel had first started to examine the potential Rutherford connection in this case, Mike had accused him of letting his personal quest for vengeance interfere with his professional judgment. Joel couldn’t deny that his impartiality had been compromised, but regardless of his personal feelings, facts were facts. And all the facts in this case had led him to West Virginia.

“I just can’t believe that someone trying to pass off someone else’s child as their own wouldn’t at least change the name,” Mike said.

“The spelling is different,” Joel pointed out.

“So is the date of birth,” Mike reminded him.

“Do you really think I’m looking for something that isn’t there?”

“It would take quite a conspiracy to pull it off.”

“Or a lot of money,” Joel countered.

There was a long pause, then Mike said, “You know I have the greatest respect for your instincts, but I can’t help thinking that your interest in this case is more about digging up dirt on the Rutherfords than finding the woman we’re looking for.”

“I know what my job is,” Joel said coolly. But if he happened to find some dirt in the process of doing that job, he sure as hell wasn’t going to wipe it off his hands and pretend it didn’t exist.

“Okay,” Mike relented.

Joel sighed as he disconnected the call. It looked as if he was going to be stuck in West Virginia for a while after all.

West Virginia.

He’d known that he’d find her. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy. And he hadn’t expected it to be in West Virginia.

He was a little disappointed. He’d wanted a challenge. A task worthy of his time and attention. She had rarely been either.

He should forget about her. He knew that was the smart thing to do. But he couldn’t forget—or forgive—her betrayal.

She would pay for what she’d done.

But that was only the first part of his plan.

Four days after the charity ball, Riane hadn’t stopped thinking about Joel Logan. Even sitting across from Stuart at their usual table at the Casa, where they dined every Wednesday night, she couldn’t help but think about the other man.

It was because of Joel that she’d decided to shake up her relationship with Stuart a little. Maybe Stuart wasn’t passionate with her, she reasoned, because she didn’t inspire him to passion. So she’d bypassed the dark blue Chanel suit in favor of a scarlet silk A-line dress she’d bought several months earlier but hadn’t yet found the courage to wear. The dress had a plunging neckline and a back slit that cut more than halfway up her thighs. It was bold, vibrant, daring. Everything she wasn’t. Everything she wanted to be.

Stuart hadn’t even commented on the dress except to say, as he always did, “You look lovely, Riane.”

Not stunning.

Not sexy.

Lovely.

Several hours later, as Stuart pulled through the gates of the Quinlan estate, Riane found herself exhausted and frustrated. Dinner had been delicious, the service impeccable, their conversation monotonous.

It was all she could do not to scream.

When they arrived at the house, Stuart parked his Mercedes in front and came around to open her door. Always the gentleman, she thought, with an unfamiliar hint of resentment.

He walked with her up to the front porch, then touched his lips to hers. She willed herself to feel something, anything, in response to his kiss. But there was no tingle, no warmth, no desire. Nothing.

And then it was over.

“Good night, Riane.”

“Good night, Stuart.” She held back the sigh until he was in his car again and driving away.

Sophie was waiting for Riane when she stepped into the marble-tiled foyer.

“Good evening, Miss Quinlan.”

The housekeeper’s presence, as much as the formality she’d used, surprised Riane. “I told you not to wait up, Sophie.”

“You have company, miss.”

“Company?” Riane frowned.

“A gentleman.” Sophie’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

Riane’s frown deepened.

“He’s waiting in the den,” Sophie told her.

Riane didn’t want to deal with anyone else tonight. Her dinner with Stuart had been an exercise in monotony; his good-night kiss at the front door had left her uninspired. And she mentally damned Joel Logan for showing up at her charity ball and making her feel as though she was missing something.

All she wanted now was to slip into her favorite pair of satin pajamas and climb into bed. But she was a Quinlan, and the responsibilities she bore as such were equal to the rights and privileges. She squared her tired shoulders and turned toward the den.

The unnamed visitor was standing in front of the window, his back to the door. He didn’t turn around; he didn’t need to. Riane recognized him immediately. She wasn’t sure if it was the breadth of his shoulders, the tension in his posture, or maybe just his aura. But she knew it was Joel, and her breath caught in her throat, her heart thudded heavily against her ribs.

She chided herself for the instinctive reaction. She was twenty-four years old, not a law school freshman enamored of the editor of the Law Review. But the feelings he stirred in her weren’t so different from those she’d felt the first time she’d set eyes on Cameron Davis. And the first time he’d smiled at her, she’d been halfway in love.

The mental comparison terrified Riane. She didn’t want to have these feelings again. She didn’t want her emotions to be out of control. She didn’t want to be vulnerable.

That niggling fear bolstered her lagging resolve. She wasn’t twenty years old anymore—she was a woman. A strong, independent woman, and she could handle this man and her unexpected and inexplicable attraction to him.

“Mr. Logan,” she said, in what she hoped was a casually disinterested tone.

He turned slowly, and she realized then that he’d been standing at the window watching for her. That he’d seen her arrive. That, in all likelihood, he’d seen Stuart kiss her good-night.

“Good evening, Ms. Quinlan.”

She didn’t insist that he call her Riane this time. She’d already decided it would be best to keep this man at a distance—as far a distance as possible. He was too potentially dangerous to her peace of mind to allow him to encroach on her carefully ordered life.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

“Your housekeeper, Sophie, let me in.”

“I didn’t mean into the house—I meant through the security gates.”

“Sophie again,” he told her.

Riane frowned. “She’s not in the habit of opening the gates to strangers.”

“But I’m not exactly a stranger, am I?”

“You are to Sophie.”

“I told her that we’d met at the charity ball, and that I had something that belongs to you.”

“And do you?”

He gestured to the wrap draped carelessly over the back of her father’s chair. The velvet wrap that she’d belatedly realized she’d left in the ballroom.

“I didn’t realize you worked in lost and found.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a half smile. “Apparently I do.”

“Well, thank you for returning it.”

“You’re welcome.”

But instead of moving toward the door, as she expected him to do, he leaned back against the corner of a bookcase and folded his arms over his chest. His pose was deliberately casual, his gaze leisurely as it skimmed over her. His self-confidence bordered on arrogance, the boldness of his stare almost insolent. It unnerved her, and aroused her.

“You look…” Joel paused, his deep blue eyes filled with heat as he sought the appropriate word to complete his thought, “…stunning.”

Stunning.

Riane felt her cheeks flush with guilty pleasure. Why did it matter what Joel Logan thought? Why did his reluctant compliment mean so much to her when Stuart’s words had only annoyed her?

The answer came quickly, unbidden. Because Joel Logan made her feel like a woman—feminine, attractive, desirable. With Stuart she only ever felt like an accessory—a suitable companion for any press conference or primary.

Uncomfortable with the comparison, with the feelings he stirred inside her, Riane refused to acknowledge the comment. “Was there something else you wanted, Mr. Logan?”

“I expected at least a few minutes of small talk, maybe the offer of a drink.”

Riane bit back another sigh, resenting that the manners so carefully ingrained since childhood demanded that she participate in such formalities. But she’d managed to convince herself that Joel Logan had gone back to wherever he’d come from, and his unexpected appearance here—in her home—disconcerted her.

“Forgive my lack of manners, Mr. Logan. It’s been a very long day and I wasn’t expecting company.” She didn’t care that her apology sounded more like an accusation. She would go through the motions, but that was all. “Would you care for a drink?”

He inclined his head slightly, watching her intently. She stood firm, unflinching beneath his steady gaze.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said at last.

She crossed over to the sideboard, removed the crystal stopper from the Waterford decanter and poured a generous amount of scotch into two highball glasses.

She passed one to him, careful that their fingers not brush in the transfer. She was determined to avoid any and all physical contact with him. She’d let him have his drink, find out what he wanted and send him on his way.

But Joel obviously had other plans, because he set his glass down on the shelf and brushed his fingers over her bare shoulder, down her arm, linking them loosely around her wrist. She felt the jolt of awareness reverberate through her system, sending tingles from the top of her head to the tips of her toes and all the erogenous zones in between. Still, she refused to let him see how he affected her, refused to let him know that her whole system went into overload when he touched her.

She looked at his hand on hers, raised a brow. Most of the men she knew would have taken the not-so-subtle hint and terminated the unwanted contact, but Joel either didn’t understand her signal or simply refused to comply with it. She suspected it was the latter.

“How long have you been engaged?” he asked.

The abruptness of the question, as much as the hint of annoyance in his tone, startled her. “The engagement isn’t official yet,” she told him, silently wondering if it ever would be.

“No wedding date set?”

“No.” She tugged out of his grasp and stepped away. She tipped her own glass to her lips and drank deeply, the scotch burning a fiery path down her throat that didn’t compare to the heat on her arm where he’d touched her.

He picked up his glass again and sipped. “Nice scotch.”

Riane downed the last of her drink, set the glass down with a snap. “Did you come her to discuss my wedding plans, my father’s scotch, or was there something else you wanted?”

“Have I said or done something to upset you, Ms. Quinlan?”

Yes, damn it. She wanted to scream the words at him, to let her anger and frustration spill over. She’d been perfectly happy until Joel Logan had come into her life. Okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. But she’d been content, for the most part, because she hadn’t known what she was missing.

She still didn’t know, but every time he looked at her, every time he touched her, he made her wonder.

“You’re here,” she said simply.

“I was thinking if either one of us had a right to be annoyed,” he said casually, “it would be me.”

“Why?”

“Because a woman who’s engaged to be married shouldn’t look at another man the way you were looking at me Saturday night.”

She dropped her gaze and moved to refill her glass. “I’ll apologize for the fact that you obviously misunderstood my intentions.”

“I didn’t misunderstand anything,” Joel said coolly.

Riane lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug, raised the glass. Joel was at her side before it touched her lips, his fingers wrapped around the wrist that held her drink.

Her first thought was that he moved fast.

Her second, he was dangerous.

Her next, she wanted him.

It was irrational, it was insane, but in that instant, she knew it was true. It wasn’t the subtle tug of desire she’d felt when she’d danced with him at the ball. There was nothing subtle about this at all. It hit her with the force of a runaway freight train, uncontrollable, unstoppable, undeniable.