Читать книгу Plain Jane's Secret Life - Cathy Thacker Gillen - Страница 6

“Unbelievable,” Hannah Reid muttered to herself as she watched Dylan Hart saunter out of the Raleigh-Durham airport terminal, full entourage in tow. His sister Janey’s wedding was in less than an hour, and the handsome TV sportscaster was stopping to sign autographs and shake hands. Okay, so the autographs were to beaming kids, the handshakes to their parents and the two airport security men walking beside Dylan. But still, Hannah fumed as Dylan scanned the area and finally strode quickly over to the Classic Car Auto Repair van she had idling at the passenger pick-up lane.

“Where’s the Bentley?” Dylan asked, opening the rear door and climbing inside.

Irked that he was treating her more like a chauffeur than an old family friend, Hannah pulled out into the traffic exiting the airport. The least he could have done was issue a personal greeting. If not climb in the front and ride shotgun beside her. “Back in Holly Springs. It’s being used to transport the bride and groom to and from the ceremony. Speaking of which—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m running late,” Dylan acknowledged cheerfully. “But so from the looks of things are you. Unless you plan to participate in the nuptials with grease on your face?”

Hannah touched her hand to her cheek and then rubbed her soiled fingertips on the leg of her denim overalls. Damn. She couldn’t believe she had done that again….

“Not to worry.” Dylan caught Hannah’s eye in the rearview mirror and winked. “I won’t tell anyone where you’ve been.”

“Har de har har.” With effort, Hannah kept her eyes on the road. She did not need to be noticing how much more handsome Dylan Hart seemed to get every time she saw him. Just because he was super well put together—even today he had traveled in a sleekly attractive business suit and tie—and looked mouthwateringly handsome on the television screen—did not mean she had to go all gaga over him, too.

So what if he had bedroom eyes, a mesmerizingly sexy smile and dimples cute enough to make her sigh out loud? Or expertly cut sandy-brown hair, glowing golden skin and crinkly laugh lines at the corners of his sable-brown eyes? He also had the exceedingly stubborn Hart jaw, and the personality that went with it. Plus a way of standing back and merely observing life, which she found extremely irritating.

“Where have you been?” Dylan continued conversationally as he moved around in the back seat, giving her repeated glimpses of his broad shoulders and sturdy compact body in the rearview mirror.

“Emergency call, working on a vintage Jag,” Hannah muttered over the rustle of clothing being pulled out of a carry-on garment bag. One of his masculine, nicely manicured hands accidentally brushed the side of her face. What was he doing back there?

More rustling as Dylan sat back slightly and shrugged out of his suit jacket and tie. “Today?”

Hannah knew what he was thinking—she was in this wedding, too. “I had time,” Hannah said deferentially while Dylan pulled a shaver out of an expensive leather toiletries bag and began running it over his jaw. “Or I thought I did.” She spoke above the buzzing noise of the razor and scowled. “Until your flight was late.” Now they were all off schedule. And she would have even less time to put herself together before walking down the aisle—on Dylan Hart’s arm!

“Weather delay.” Dylan shrugged. He slapped on some deliciously enticing aftershave, moved his head toward the window and peered out at the afternoon sky. “Looks like it’s clearing up here, though.”

“Finally,” Hannah sighed in relief, taking the turn-off to Holly Springs. “After days of rain.”

Was that her imagination or was she hearing him undress? “Do you have your seat belt on?” she asked with a frown, telling herself what she was imagining could not be so.

Dylan chuckled and continued to move around behind her on the vinyl seat, much more freely than he should have. “Ah—not at the moment, no.”

He sounded distracted.

So was she.

Aware her heartbeat was accelerating and her imagination was soaring even more wildly out of control, Hannah gripped the steering wheel even tighter. She tried not to think about the way her skin had tingled when he had accidentally brushed her face. Hannah reminded primly, “We’re on the highway, Dylan!”

Safety, however, seemed the least of his concerns. Dylan moved around all the more. Out of her peripheral vision, Hannah saw the shirt he had been wearing whip past the back of her head and the starched white tuxedo shirt come off its hanger.

“I trust your driving—you having a chauffeur’s license and all,” Dylan replied lazily, the hard muscles of his chest flexing as he worked his way into the required shirt in the confined space.

Oh, my. Was it getting hot in here or what?

Hannah reached for the AC controls and turned it to maximum cool as beads of perspiration gathered between her breasts. “Even so…” Hannah reprimanded. She heard another, even more telling zip and whoosh of cloth moving over skin.

“I can’t exactly get my pants off with my lap belt fastened,” Dylan drawled.

He had to be teasing her. He would not actually be stripping down all the way in her vehicle. Right…?

Hannah glanced over her shoulder, sure she would find she had been imagining things. Instead, her eyes widened at the sinewy chest, visible through the unbuttoned halves of his crisp white shirt, and the sexy lines of his broad, muscular shoulders. At six foot, Dylan Hart might be the shortest of the five Hart brothers, but there was nothing small about him.

Hurriedly Hannah turned her gaze back to the road. Her palms were trembling. Her emotions ran riot. “What are you doing?” she demanded in a strangled voice, trying without success to forget the rest of what she had seen. Long muscular legs. Black silk bikini briefs clinging to…

Never mind what the fabric was molding!

She had a job to do here and that was to get them both to Janey and Thad’s wedding!

“SOMEONE NEEDS TO ASK Hannah Reid to dance,” Mac Hart said.

Dylan looked at his oldest sibling. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised Mac would be the one to bring this up. Mac had always been the law-and-order member of his family, even before becoming sheriff of Holly Springs some five years prior.

“Yeah,” Fletcher chimed in. Having recently discovered romance himself, with florist Lily Madsen, the vet in the family was now into chivalry, big-time. “The reception is almost over and no one has asked Hannah to dance.”

“No surprise there,” Dylan muttered, looking around for the town’s premier mechanic, relieved to find her nowhere in sight. Although Hannah was often reserved in what she had to say—to him, anyway—she had a way of looking at him that made him think she always expected more from him.

“Hannah’s like a—” Dylan had been about to say “sister,” but that notion had gone out the window the moment he had seen Hannah dolled up in the sexy black-and-white dress, black stockings and heels that his sister Janey had chosen for her bridesmaids.

“—like one of the guys,” Dylan finished. Although he’d always thought of her as a “plain Jane,” today she had transformed herself into an auburn-haired goddess. How come he’d never noticed her creamy skin and vibrant green eyes before? And it wasn’t that Hannah hadn’t always had a very remarkable set of curves on her. Just that they were usually hidden beneath a pair of grimy coveralls, or equally shapeless and masculine attire. On the job or off. “The way she is always talking sports and hanging out to drink beer and watch NASCAR and swap stories with the guys and stuff.”

“She doesn’t really watch NASCAR anymore,” Mac interrupted.

“Yeah,” the very married Joe Hart chimed in.

Dylan turned to Joe, amazed at the changes in his baby brother. Three months ago, all Joe had cared about was the sport he played. Then he had joined lives with his boss’s daughter, Emma Donovan. And now—much to Dylan’s aggravation—the pro hockey player considered himself the authority on wedded bliss. When, unbeknownst to all of them, it was really Dylan who had the “score” on that.

“Not since Hannah and Rupert Wallace broke it off,” Joe pointed out casually, helping himself to a last slice of wedding cake.

That had been two years ago, Dylan recalled. He glanced around, wondering where his brother Cal was. Since Cal’s wife, Ashley, had called to say she wouldn’t be coming to the wedding after all—the pretty doctor was stuck in Honolulu, working on her OB/GYN fellowship—Cal had been in a funk and kept mostly to himself.

“And it doesn’t matter how much she’s one of the guys,” Fletcher continued sternly. “She’s a bridesmaid. She ought to get at least one dance. And since you’re the groomsman who escorted her down the aisle at the church, it’s your responsibility.”

Dylan tried not to think what it would feel like to hold Hannah Reid’s surprisingly soft and feminine-looking body in his arms. Or see that knowing look in her eyes once again. Too much one-on-one time with her and he might do something really foolish—like kiss her.

“All right, all right,” he muttered in exasperation, giving in at last, telling himself he could manage to keep his secret desire for her at bay during one brief dance. “Where is she?” He was determined to get this over with as soon as possible.

“Last I saw she was headed upstairs,” Mac said.

“To help Janey change into her going-away outfit?” Dylan asked, aware that the groom—Thad—had just come back down to rejoin the two hundred or so guests left in the Wedding Inn ballroom.

His brother shrugged as one song ended and another began. Aware he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t ask the bridesmaid he had been paired with to dance, Dylan headed out into the marble-floored hallway and up the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor.

The door to the bride’s changing suite was closed. He could hear laughing female voices emanating from behind it. The groom’s changing suite, on the other side of the staircase, was empty. Thrusting his hands in the pockets of his black tuxedo pants, Dylan strolled that way, killing time, as he waited for the women to come out. And that was when he heard it, the voices a little farther down the hall. Coming from the dressing suite usually reserved for the groom’s parents.

“Got any tips on dealing with—what’s his name again?” Dylan heard Hannah ask.

Curious, and wondering just who she was with, he strolled soundlessly closer.

“R. G. Yarborough,” Dylan was stunned to hear his brother Cal reply in a crisp, matter-of-fact voice. “And it’s important to start out on the right foot with him,” Cal added somewhat impatiently. “So wear a skirt.”

Dylan frowned. Did she even have one? Aside from the bridesmaid dress she had worn tonight, and the gowns from the various other weddings she had been in? What was it women said about that? Always a bridesmaid never a bride?

Hannah’s beleaguered sigh whispered out into the hall. “What else?” Hannah asked Cal reluctantly.

Trying not to think why his brother—whose own decade-long marriage to his college sweetheart seemed to be having trouble—would be advising one of the most beautiful tomboys in the area who to see or what to wear, Dylan leaned against the wall.

“He’s probably going to be difficult,” Cal continued advising, as if he was a coach before a game, and Hannah was one of his players. “But if you use all your charm…show Yarborough you really know what you’re doing—”

Know what you’re doing? Dylan’s eyes widened at the various interpretations of that sage and somewhat sexual-sounding advice.

“How old is he again?” Hannah interrupted, sounding as if she could barely keep track of the conversation at hand. And no wonder, given the sound of what his brother was asking her to do here! He’d be flummoxed, too.

“Forty-five, fifty, near as I can figure. And married,” Cal said, his voice dropping another warning notch. “So—”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hannah promised.

“Good.” Cal sounded relieved. When what his orthopedic-surgeon older brother really ought to feel, Dylan thought resentfully, was guilty. Guilty as hell. For arranging anything with Hannah and a married man who was way too old for her. For heaven’s sake! Didn’t Cal think about the fact that Hannah was not exactly experienced when it came to men? Hell, Dylan couldn’t even recall Hannah even dating anyone save that NASCAR driver, Rupert Wallace, if you could even call those dates. Mostly, Dylan recalled the two of them with their heads bent over some car engine…

Hannah, up to her elbows in grease and wrenches…

“So where is this guy going to be?” Hannah asked.

“You’re to meet him in an hour at Sharkey’s Pool Hall. In Raleigh.”

Not the best neighborhood. Or the classiest establishment for a woman to go into. With or without a date.

“If the preliminary goes well, maybe he’ll take you back to his house from there.”

Preliminary, Dylan fumed, feeling more shocked and incensed than he had in all of his twenty-eight years. Preliminary what!

“Yarborough’s wife won’t mind?” Hannah asked, sounding both concerned and skeptical.

“Out of town.” Cal’s voice held a dismissive shrug. “She took the kids to California to visit family for two weeks.”

Never dreaming what was going on behind her back, Dylan was willing to bet, recalling with chilling accuracy how he had felt when similarly betrayed.

“So basically I’ve got that amount of time—” Hannah speculated thoughtfully.

There was another pause, rife with meaning.

His curiosity killing him—none of this sounded like the compassionate older brother or the affable mechanic he knew—Dylan hazarded a discreet glance around the open doorway. There were no lights on and the room was shrouded in shadow, but through the semidarkness he could see Hannah with her back to the wall, staring up at Cal. The expression on her face was the same one she wore when she was trying to figure out a particularly thorny mechanical problem on one of the expensive automobiles she worked on at the business she owned, Classic Car Auto Repair. She narrowed her eyes at Cal. “You said the guy is loaded?”

Hands thrust in the pockets of his tuxedo pants, Cal shook his head in disgust. “Yarborough’s got so much money he doesn’t know what to do with it,” he replied in a voice that was equally calculating. Cal took his hands out of his pockets and spread his hands wide. “Which is, of course, part of the problem. Had R. G. Yarborough a little less—”

Hannah nodded in understanding. “You’d be able to deal with him a lot more effectively,” she said.

“Right,” Cal agreed.

Dylan, wary of being seen, ducked back out of sight again but remained within earshot of the low, urgent voices.

“Well, don’t worry. I’m sure I can manage him.” To Dylan’s mounting dismay, the smile was back in Hannah’s voice.

Even as Dylan’s brother got grimmer…

“And one more thing, Hannah,” Cal warned. “No one, and I mean no one, can know about what we’ve got going here.” His voice caught momentarily. “If Ashley were to get wind of it—”

No joke, Dylan thought, aware what Cal’s semi-estranged wife might think. The same thing he was thinking right now.

“I understand completely, believe me,” Hannah promised in sweet sincerity. “You don’t have to worry for one second, Cal. No one—and I mean no one—is going to hear about this from me.”

THE TROUBLE WITH eavesdropping, Dylan thought, was what you thought something meant, might be completely misconstrued. For instance, there was no way Cal was supervising and setting up the twenty-eight year old Hannah Reid’s secret nocturnal activity with a wealthy-as-all-get-out man she had never met. And might not, from the sounds of it, even really want to meet under normal circumstances. At least not for socializing.

So here he was, an hour later, getting out of a cab in front of Sharkey’s Pool Hall…never having had that dance he was supposed to request from her.

He walked in, not sure what to expect. Hannah was standing by a pool table, a bottle of beer in her hand. She was dressed in a short black skirt, stockings and heels that showed off her spectacular legs. A red knit tank top with a high neck and a racer back clung to her ample breasts, and made her slender shoulders and bare arms look incredibly feminine. A man Dylan assumed was R. G. Yarborough was standing next to her. He was fifty, at least, and attractive in that money-to-burn way. That was if you liked spiked gray-brown hair and an exceptionally hard body that appeared manufactured by steroids, fancy gym equipment and maybe even plastic surgery. Plus his appearance—college T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, baggy cargo-style jeans and an earring in one ear—practically screamed midlife crisis. All in all, not a good guy for an innocent-in-the-ways-of-the-world woman like Hannah to be tangling with.

Jacket hooked over his shoulder, bow tie hanging undone on either side of the open collar of his pleated white tuxedo shirt, Dylan skirted the large, rectangular hall and numerous pool tables to the long wooden bar along one side. Keeping to the shadows, he approached the bartender and asked for a bottle of light beer.

He leaned against the bar, watching. And he wasn’t the only one. A lot of male eyes were on Hannah at that particular second as she set a triangle on the green-felt tabletop. The bartender, included. “Know her?” he asked Dylan.

Dylan nodded, but even as he did he was wondering if he really did. The sexy-as-hell woman in front of him wasn’t even close to the lady mechanic and all-around tomboy he recalled growing up with.

“Yeah, well, she hasn’t been in here before. I guarantee I’d remember that little filly if she had been,” the bartender murmured.

And no wonder. Hannah’s pretty face was alight with feminine mischief and barely reined-in flirtation as she bantered animatedly with the group of men standing around the pool table. Color flooded her face. Her auburn hair was flowing in unruly waves down around her bare shoulders. Every time she moved, her hair brushed her silky-looking skin and drew attention to the sumptuous curves of her breasts. Worse, as she captured another loose ball and fit it into the triangle, the tank top rode above her waist, baring even more silky-smooth skin. Dylan felt a tightening in his groin, and was willing to bet, every other man there did too.

As she straightened, slowly, R. G. Yarborough reached out and stroked a hand along her hip. Hannah tensed visibly but didn’t resist as she turned to face him. She murmured something—Dylan couldn’t make out quite what—and the rich guy responded by pulling out his wallet and extracting several bills.

Hannah mocked whatever he was offering, but appeared ready to take him up on his proposal.

Normally, Dylan would have remained on the sidelines, no matter what was going on. But this was too much. He didn’t know what Cal had gotten the naive Hannah Reid into, but Dylan was for damn sure not going to stand idly by and watch someone he’d known from their elementary-school days get hurt.

He moved away from the bar and sauntered toward the pool table where Hannah was still flirting madly. “Money?” Dylan heard her say as she tucked the bills back into Yarborough’s hands. “Come on. Surely—” Hannah batted her eyelashes at him “—you and I can wager for something a little more interesting than that….”

Yarborough looked down at Hannah, a lecherous gleam in his eyes. “Well, maybe we could at that,” Yarborough flirted back as Dylan stopped just short of them. Determined to interrupt before this charade went any further, he said casually, “Hey, Hannah.”

She looked over and froze, the color draining from her face. Recovering admirably, she said, “Dylan. Fancy meeting you here.”

“What’s that saying?” Dylan asked, pretending to all those witnessing the scene that he had some claim to Hannah. “Wherever you go-est, I go-est?”

Yarborough looked Dylan up and down, then turned to Hannah and asked, “This your husband?”

Hannah’s smile tightened. “No. Most definitely not.”

“Boyfriend?” Yarborough persisted.

Dylan clamped a hand around Hannah’s shoulders. “Hannah doesn’t like the term boyfriend,” he said. “Too high school. But to answer your question, yes, she and I do go back a ways.”

Hannah glared at him in a way that said back off, then turned back to R.G. “It’s not what you think. Dylan’s like a brother to me.”

“A brother who does not want to see you hurt,” Dylan continued, looking at her just as meaningfully.

Hannah propped her hands on her hips as a crowd began to gather round them. She was so piqued with him that steam was practically coming out of her ears. “Since when are you my keeper?” she demanded, even as the two guys nearest them elbowed each other. “Hey,” one of them said, taking a closer look at Dylan. “Aren’t you that guy that used to be on W-MOL, doing the sports?”

“Yeah. Dylan Hart, isn’t it?” someone else asked, edging closer.

“You coming back to work on one of the local TV stations again?” another asked excitedly.

“Yeah,” chimed a fourth. “You were good!”

Looking relieved to no longer be the center of attention, Hannah patted Dylan on the arm. “Maybe you should attend to your fan club and let me continue here.”

Dylan looked down at her, still not sure what she had been about to wager. He couldn’t say why exactly, he just knew he was more certain than ever that she was doing something she did not want him, or anyone else in Holly Springs, to know about. “No way.”

Her soft lips took on a mutinous line. “Excuse us, will you?” Hannah tugged him aside. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking out for you.”

She drew a deep breath, clearly exasperated, as she apparently did not want to be kept away from the unsavory types, by him or anyone else. “How did you even know I was here?” she hissed.

Wondering if he would ever in a million years understand women and why they were drawn to rich losers over decent hardworking guys like himself, Dylan replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “I followed you from Holly Springs.”

That gave her pause, Dylan noted with grim satisfaction. “Why?” she asked a lot more cautiously.

Dylan shrugged, never taking his eyes from her face. This much at least he had been prepared to answer. “You’ve got my stuff in the van. My carry-on luggage. The clothes I was wearing earlier. It’s all in the back.”

Yarborough strode over. “Hey, babe,” he drawled so lasciviously Dylan wanted to punch his face. “You going to play or not?”

To Dylan’s chagrin, Hannah looked torn, as if she wanted to go off with R.G., just not in front of Dylan, or anyone else she knew from Holly Springs.

Not gonna happen, Dylan decided. He winked over at her with a playfulness he knew she would not appreciate. “I don’t mind.” He shrugged his shoulders lazily. “I can wait.”

Hannah dug into the front pocket of her tight black skirt. “I’ll just give you the keys and you can go on out and get your stuff.” She pressed them into his palm, her fingers warm against his.

Dylan planted his feet firmly beneath him and resisted the way she was practically pushing him away. “I also need a ride back to Holly Springs,” Dylan continued matter-of-factly.

Abruptly, Hannah stopped pushing. “I thought you followed me here,” she said with a frown.

Dylan examined her keys. “In a cab.”

Her pretty pine-green eyes radiated displeasure. “You can’t take a cab back?”

Dylan shrugged. “I’m out of cash. But that’s okay.” He leaned against the pillar at his back, prepared to do whatever it took. “Like I said, I can wait.”

Thwarted, Hannah gave up. “Wait here,” she commanded furiously as she stalked off, R. G. Yarborough in tow, and said something to him that he looked none too happy to be hearing.

There was another brief exchange. One that Yarborough seemed to be on the losing end of again, then Hannah headed back to Dylan, her strides long and sexy. “You’re turning out to be one royal pain today,” she told him as they headed toward the door, side by side. “You know that, don’t you?”

“So I’ll make it up to you,” Dylan drawled, wondering how it was that he could have known Hannah Reid as long as he had and never made a single pass at her.

“How?” Hannah snapped, giving him yet another hot, aggravated look.

Dylan reached past her to open the door. Still determined to find out what was going on with the former tomboy, he smiled at her gallantly. “I’ll buy you dinner.”