Читать книгу The Borrowed Ring - Gina Wilkins - Страница 10

Daniel motioned for B.J. to keep talking. She figured if Drake was eavesdropping on her, she was going to make it count. “He creeps me out. Obviously thinks he's God's gift to women—but the joke's on him. He's a slug.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. Still speaking in a soothing, placating tone, he said, “Now, sweetheart, you're just tired. It has been a stressful day for you.”

He could say that again. And then again, for emphasis.

She had told her uncles recently that she wanted more exciting and challenging assignments than the computer searches she had been doing for the past months. She had never imagined that this seemingly in nocuous assignment would go so wildly off course.

Speaking of her uncles… “I need to call home.”

Daniel returned from the bedroom, tucking his little spy gadget back into his pocket. Something about the way he walked told her all was clear even before he spoke. “We can talk freely now. At least, we can until we leave and return—at which point I'll sweep the rooms again, just to be on the safe side.”

“I need to call home,” she repeated. “But first… maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on?”

Grimacing in response to her renewed anger, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the prissy white brocade sofa that matched the rest of the delicately fancy furnishings in the overdone room. Overdone in B.J.'s opinion, anyway. She preferred simpler, less ornate surroundings. Her idea of resort decor would have involved wicker and cotton, thick cushions and inviting ottomans.

Without directly responding to her, Daniel moved to the white-painted-and-gilded wet bar built into one corner of the room. He opened a small refrigerator and scanned the contents. “Would you like something to drink? We have sodas, juice and bottled water. Unless you need something harder—and I wouldn't blame you if you did, considering everything.”

She started to curtly decline anything, but then she realized she really was thirsty. “I'll have a bottled water.”

He carried one around to her, motioning for her to sit down. She chose a chair that sacrificed comfort for style, perching on the edge of the seat with her water bottle clutched tightly in her hand.

She did not take her eyes away from Daniel's unrevealing face as he sat on the sofa opposite her, sipping soda and looking remarkably relaxed. How could he be so calm about this bizarre situation? And what exactly was the situation?

“I'm waiting,” she reminded him. “I'd like to know what I'm doing here. Why you let them believe I'm your wife. I want to know what you're involved in—and why you seem so sure I'll be in danger if I tell the truth. Mostly I want to know when I can leave.”

He took his time answering, and that only annoyed her more, as he seemed to be weighing his words. Deciding exactly what he could—or wanted—to tell her. “Two or three days,” he said finally. “That should be all it will take.”

“All it will take to do what? Damn it, Daniel, talk to me!”

He studied her face for a long moment, then absolutely floored her by chuckling. What on earth was there to laugh about?

“You've changed. You were so sweet-natured and easy to please. The perfect daughter, straight-A student, never caused any trouble, never said a cross word to anyone—except maybe your older brother and sister.”

He remembered all that about her? She had been exactly the way he described her, back when he knew her. It was only within the past three or four years that she had become aware of how tired she was of pleasing everyone but herself. Of living a sheltered, uneventful, unadventurous life that had become increasingly stifling and boring.

She had wished for excitement. She should have remembered that old adage about being careful what one wished for.

“You still haven't answered my questions,” she prodded gruffly.

Another brief hesitation and then he said, “I can't tell you much. Only that you've stumbled into a very complicated situation—as I assume you've figured out for yourself.”

“Go on.”

“Judson Drake thinks I have a wealthy wife back in Texas. He invited me to bring her along on this trip, but I had a convenient excuse to explain her absence. When you showed up at the farm, asking for me by name when no one should have known I was there—and asking with a very obvious Texas twang, by the way—Bernard put two and two together. I admit he isn't the sharpest thorn on the rosebush, but even he can handle that level of mathematics.”

“So why didn't you tell him that I'm not your wife? As clever as you are,” she said, adding an extra helping of sarcasm to her “Texas twang,” “you should have been able to come up with some sort of explanation for my arrival. Say, oh, the truth, for example.”

“Wouldn't have worked. My background, according to what Drake has been told, is one of upper-middleclass comfort. Private schools, public college, fortuitous marriage to a woman with money. Nowhere in that story is a mention of foster care. The truth about how I know you could have blown everything.”

“So the wife is as fictional as your upper-middle-class background?”

His face expressionless again, he nodded.

“Why have you told them these things?”

“I can't go into that right now.”

“You expect me to simply accept what you've told me and go along with this charade for the next two or three days?”

“I wish I could say you have the option of saying no. Unfortunately you don't. These are dangerous people, Brittany—”

“B.J.”

“Sorry. B.J. These men will not accept a change in my story now. One hint that I've tried to deceive them, and you and I will both quietly disappear. That's how they operate.”

“Then why are you here?”

He took a sip of his soda before saying, “There's a great deal of money involved for anyone who is clever enough to get a piece of it.”

“Money?” She stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You're doing this for money?”

He shrugged and drained the remainder of his soda.

B.J. set her water aside. She simply didn't know whether she could believe a word he said.

She had thought he might try to tell her he was an undercover operative for some branch of law enforcement. Would that have been any easier for her to believe? And if so, would it have been because she wanted to think Daniel was on the right side of the law?

“So what you're telling me,” she said slowly, “is that you're running some sort of scam on some very dangerous men. And I'm stuck helping you pull it off because I accidentally arrived at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That pretty well sums it up.”

“If I refuse, I might just 'quietly disappear.' And if I agree, I could end up making some big mistake, and then we'll still end up dead.”

“You won't make a mistake. All you have to do is remember a few details I'll tell you before we go out again.”

“And what do I tell my family when I call them?”

“You can't call them. I don't trust either the land lines or the airwaves here. Either one could be monitored.”

She shook her head. “You're going to have to figure out some way to let me call. Unless you want my uncles arriving in the middle of your big plan, of course.”

Which didn't sound like such a bad idea to her, actually.

“How would they know where to find you? You didn't have time to call anyone when we left.”

“For that matter, I don't know where we are exactly,” she admitted. “But I wouldn't be particularly surprised if my uncles track me down within twenty-four hours. You do remember who they are, don't you?”

He frowned. “I'm well aware that your uncle Jared is a rancher, since I spent nearly a year living with his family.”

“And my uncles Tony, Joe and Ryan are private investigators. Very good ones. And very protective of all their family members—even one who is on their payroll. Me.”

“You work for the D'Alessandro and Walker agency?”

“So you do remember them.”

“Vaguely. It seemed like your family found an excuse nearly every week to have some sort of party at the ranch. I couldn't help but remember a few details about them.”

“Then you should also recall that we're an extremely close family.” Almost suffocatingly close sometimes, she almost added. “They'll start looking.”

“You can send them an e-mail,” he said after a moment. “I have a small computer in my luggage. You can use that. Don't keep a copy.”

“And what should it say?” she asked.

“That you've decided you need a few days of vacation and they don't need to worry about you. You're twenty-seven years old. You don't have to ask permission to take a few days off, do you?”

He remembered an awful lot about her. Of course, she knew he was twenty-nine, because he was two years older than she, almost to the day.

“It's not something I've done before. Take off on impulse, I mean.” Even though she had often wished she could.

“Then it's about time you did, wouldn't you say?”

“Maybe. But this wouldn't exactly be my first choice of vacations.”

“Yeah?” Looking more masculine than he should have against the froufrou fabric, he stretched an arm along the back of the sofa. “So what would be your first choice?”

“Well…I don't know. I haven't really thought about slipping off on my own.”

His beautifully shaped lips curved into a very slight smile. “Liar.”

Okay, so maybe she had indulged in a few daydreams lately about getting away from the usual routines. “I guess I've thought about it once or twice,” she muttered.

“To where?”

“Anywhere. I've hardly been out of Texas. I've always wanted to go someplace really different and exotic—like—like Singapore. Or Hong Kong. Or Bali.”

And then she shook her head impatiently. “Darn it, you're doing it again. Distracting me from the questions you don't want to answer.”

Still wearing that annoyingly inscrutable smile, he merely looked at her.

“Will you at least reassure me that I won't be helping you break the law if I stupidly agree to go along with this ridiculous charade?”

He never changed expression. Nor did he bother to say anything.

She scowled fiercely-not that she figured it would affect him. “So my choices are to cooperate with everything you say even though you won't tell me why or refuse to go along and risk having Bernard make me disappear.”

“The options haven't changed since I first outlined them to you.”

“Maybe it has taken me this long to make myself believe this is really happening,” she grumbled.

“Since I assume you're choosing the option that keeps us both alive, we need to go over a few things.”

Though B.J. couldn't help but resent Daniel's assumption that she would make the choice he wanted her to make, she couldn't really argue with him either. She had no wish to face the business end of Bernard's weapon. “I suppose you're right. If I'm to play a part, it would be helpful if I have a script.”

A sudden thought occurred to her. “Wait a minute. Did you never mention your wife's name? You introduced me to Creepy Guy as B.J.”

“That's not a problem.”

Something in his voice struck her as odd, but he was speaking again before she could define it. “There's very little that you have to remember. We've been married for two years. You are a homemaker and community volunteer who leaves all business and financial matters to her husband.”

“Oh, gee, thanks for making me such a progressive, modern woman.”

He ignored her—something he did entirely too easily, she thought. “Last fall you suffered a miscarriage and you've been somewhat despondent since. You've had even less interest in my business dealings with your money, which means I'm free to speculate with it at my own discretion.”

The more he told her, the less enthused she became with her role. A mopey housewife. Terrific. “I suppose I adore the ground you walk on?”

That seemed to fit in with the chauvinistic tale he had concocted.

He looked almost amused by her resigned question. “Of course. I've been the loving and solicitous husband since your loss. Which, of course, makes you less inclined to question my actions away from you.”

“So you don't love me?” It felt foolish to ask that of a man who was a virtual stranger—but it was only a charade, after all, she reminded herself.

A tiny shiver slipped down her spine when his dark eyes held hers for a heartbeat before he replied. “I've implied to Drake that I love your money more.”

She pulled her gaze from his, glancing down at her hands. “Then I would say you're in sorry shape, considering I don't have any.”

“My wife has plenty of money,” he corrected her.

The gold ring on her left hand glittered. She touched it with her right forefinger. “You just happened to have a woman's wedding ring on a chain around your neck? Just in case someone stumbled into your story?”

“The ring was my mother's. I've worn it for almost a dozen years.”

Despite the utter lack of emotion in his voice, B.J. felt her throat tighten anyway. She knew enough about his mother's fate to understand how much this ring must mean to him. He had carried it with him when he left the Walker ranch and he had worn it since as a reminder of—what? His mother's life? The injustice of her death?

“I'll take very good care of it,” she assured him.

“Thank you.” He stood then, glancing toward the bedroom. “Feel free to rest a while if you like. I'll make sure you aren't disturbed.”

“Actually…” Rising, she put a hand to her midsection. “I'm starving. It's been hours since I've had anything to eat.”

The smile he gave her then was quick and apparently genuine. “We can't have that. Room service or restaurant?”

Dragging her gaze from his amazing smile, she looked ruefully down at her wrinkled and travel-worn clothing. “Maybe room service would be best.”

Following her gaze, he nodded. “What size do you wear?”

“Size two. Why?”

“Shoe size?”

“Seven. Why are you—?”

“You'll need some clothing.”

He picked up a phone from an ornately carved and gilded writing desk. She listened in astonishment as he briskly and efficiently ordered a meal and then requested that an assortment of clothing, shoes and lingerie be sent to their suite for his wife's consideration. Despite what she knew about his impoverished background, he seemed to have adapted very well to a life of privilege.

Hanging up the phone, he moved toward the bedroom. “I'll set up the computer for you. You can send your e-mail while I unpack.”

She followed him into the bedroom. This room, too, was overly formal for her taste. Done in French style, it featured carved woods and lots of chintz and toile on little chairs and benches that looked barely substantial enough to support her weight, much less Daniel's.

Whose idea of a vacation room was this? She couldn't see herself putting her feet up on this furniture or lolling around still damp and sandy from a romp on the beach. Did people who were comfortable in rooms like this even like romping on beaches?

Daniel chuckled again in response to her expression. “You don't care for the decor?”

It irked her that he read her so easily when she could never tell what he was thinking. She waved imperiously toward another French writing desk. “Set up the computer. I have an e-mail to write.”

He reached for a leather computer case. “By the way,” he said casually, “you won't be able to hit send until I've read the message. Sorry, but I have to make sure you stay safe while you're under my protection.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I'll have you know I've been working for the investigation agency for over a year. I can keep myself safe.”

“Since my guess is that you've been working primarily at a desk, doing computer searches and making telephone calls, I doubt that you've learned a great deal of self-defense during your stint at the agency.”

Without giving her a chance to challenge his guess, he opened the computer, turned it on, then stepped back from it. “Let me know when you're ready, and I'll enter my code so you can send the e-mail. After I've read it, of course.”

“Jerk,” she muttered beneath her breath as she sank into the tiny chair in front of the desk.

Again he surprised her by laughing softly. “It's not the first time you've called me that,” he reminded her. “I'm sure it won't be the last.”

His voice grew more serious then. “But you will leave this resort safely. You have my word on that.”

The message had been approved and sent by the time their early dinner arrived. Daniel had read every word carefully, weighing the implications and trying to predict her family's reactions to the e-mail. She had said simply that she had been unable to find Daniel and wanted to take a few days to think about her future. She had sent her love and promised to call soon.

“They all know I've been increasingly dissatisfied with my job lately,” she had rather grudgingly admitted. “Sitting at a computer all day wasn't what I had in mind when I talked my uncles into giving me a job.”

“Most P.I. work these days comes down to just that,” he had observed with a slight shrug. “From what I've heard, anyway.”

“So I've discovered.”

“So what do you want to do?” he asked, discreetly keying in his computer password while he kept her distracted with conversation.

“I don't know,” she answered simply. And rather poignantly. “I only know I haven't found it yet.”

Barely twenty minutes later, he studied her across the small round dining table set against one glass wall in the sitting room. Apparently her confusion about the situation she had found herself in—coupled with a whirlwind day of travel—had not affected her appetite. She ate with a heartiness that amused him, considering her reed-slender figure.

He remembered that she had liked to eat when they were teenagers. She'd always been one of the first in line for helpings of the barbecued meats that had been the main fare of so many Walker family gatherings.

They didn't say much during the meal. He figured she was replaying the things he had said to her, trying to make sense of them and prepare herself for the role she'd been forced into assuming.

They had just dipped into their desserts when there was another knock on the door. Motioning for B.J. to continue to eat the strawberry shortcake she seemed to be enjoying so much, Daniel moved to answer.

A striking young woman in a brief red sarong-style sundress and sandals stood in the hallway next to a covered, wheeled garment rack. “Mr. Andreas?”

He couldn't help noticing the masses of sun-streaked blond hair, glossy, full lips, golden-tanned shoulders, high, firm breasts and long, tanned legs. He was only human, after all. “Yes.”

Her smile glittered, as did her violet-tinted eyes. Young Elizabeth Taylor eyes, he mused. He had no doubt that tinted contact lenses provided the color, but the result was quite nice. “I'm Heather. From the Beach-front Boutique? I understand your poor wife arrived without her luggage.”

“Yes. An unfortunate airline mix-up.” He turned toward the small dining area at the other side of the room. “B.J.?”

She was already up and moving toward them. Her short dark hair was mussed, any makeup she had worn earlier had worn off and her slightly oversize camp shirt and khakis emphasized her slender frame.

Many men, perhaps, would have preferred Heather's more obvious feminine charms. Yet Daniel found himself increasingly fascinated by B.J.'s subtle—and completely natural—attractions.

“Heather, this is my wife,” he said, helping her roll the bulky garment rack inside. “Darling, I'm sure you'll be glad to have some fresh clothing to change into.”

He noticed that Heather was eying B.J. in surprise, as if she had expected her to look different. Heather was accustomed, he imagined, to very wealthy men with sleek, ultragroomed eye-candy wives.

He didn't blame her for that expectation, of course. When he had very briefly considered casting the role of his “wife” for this trip, that was exactly the type of woman he would have selected. Someone who looked rich and pampered and a bit disconnected from the real world.

He had rejected the idea of bringing someone along because he was concerned that the situation would become too complicated. Too distracting.

He'd had no idea, of course, that fate would step in to provide a make-believe wife for him. And that fate's choice would be even more complicated and distracting than anyone else Daniel could possibly have found on his own.