Читать книгу The Borrowed Ring - Gina Wilkins - Страница 11

At Daniel's request, Heather left the clothing for B.J. to examine in private. She promised to return in an hour to collect the rack and invoice the selections.

When Heather departed, Daniel removed the cover from the wheeled rack. He motioned toward the colorful garments hanging from the top bar and neatly folded into clear plastic boxes fitted into the bottom part of the display rack. “There you are. A boutique on wheels, with everything in your size.”

Hands on her hips, she looked from the rack to his decidedly smug expression. “You enjoy snapping your fingers and having people jump to please you, don't you?”

His eyebrows lifted, as if he was surprised that she had even to ask. “Of course.”

“Just what have you been up to for the past thirteen years, Daniel?”

Displaying that annoyingly selective hearing again, he turned toward the clothing rack and plucked a hanger from the rod. “This would look good on you.”

The yellow cotton sundress clipped to the hanger was strapless and short and tailored to fit very snugly. “That's not really my style.”

“Yes, but remember, you're playing a new role here. You're wealthy, stylish and accustomed to designer fashions.”

“According to your backstory, I'm depressed and too self-absorbed to even notice that you're frittering away my money. Would a person like that really wear skimpy, brightly colored dresses?”

“Ah, but you also adore the husband who treats you like delicate and valuable glass. You would certainly want to dress to please him.”

She scowled, wondering if he was always so quick at coming up with counterarguments. Just once she would like to win one of their verbal skirmishes. “I don't like yellow.”

“In that case…” He replaced the sundress and pulled out a similar one in deep fuchsia. “Is this better?”

“Maybe I should just select a couple of things for myself,” she said, moving toward the rack.

“Since it's important that you present the image Drake is expecting, I feel compelled to assist you in your selections.”

“And when did you start talking like that? That isn't the way you used to talk when I knew you before. Back when you were Daniel Castillo,” she couldn't resist adding.

She hadn't been surprised to learn from a reliable source that he was now using his mother's maiden name, but she wanted him to know that this masquerade hadn't erased from her mind the reality of who he had once been.

For just a moment his self-satisfied smile faded. She could almost see a few painful old memories swirl in his dark eyes before he hid again behind the bland mask he donned so easily. “Yes, well, you aren't the only one playing a role.”

Changing the subject then, he pulled several garments from the rack, piling them into B.J.'s arms. “These look as though they would work for you. Why don't you take them into the bedroom and let's see how well they fit.”

She peered at him over the huge pile of clothing. “You expect a fashion show?”

His faint smile back in place, he dropped onto the sofa and draped an arm over its curvy back. “I think I'd enjoy that.”

She was strongly tempted to give him a suggestion he would not enjoy quite so much, but she bit her tongue to hold it back. For one thing, she wasn't one to use such language easily. For another, she had a glum suspicion that Daniel was right.

Given her own tastes in clothing, she would probably never pass for a wealthy socialite. Her poor mother had tried for years to talk her into dressing with more of an eye for fashion than comfort.

She sighed heavily. “When this is over, you are going to owe me big-time for saving your butt.”

“Technically you're saving both our butts,” he pointed out equably. “But when this is over, I will definitely owe you whatever penalty you choose to make me pay.”

“I'm glad you agree. Thinking about that penalty will help me get through this ordeal.”

He grimaced slightly, as though well aware of the punishments her imagination could conjure up. “Try on some clothes,” he said. “You have less than an hour before Heather will be back.”

Turning on one heel, she stamped into the bedroom, which wasn't easy when she could barely see over the pile of clothing she carried. Daniel didn't offer to assist her. He probably knew she would have snarled at him had he tried.

Daniel turned out to be surprisingly difficult to please. While B.J. would have just grabbed the first things that fit, he seemed to have a shrewd eye for what suited her best, rejecting the outfits that hung too loosely on her slender frame or were less than flattering to her skin tone. She was beginning to feel like a mannequin by the time he finally approved a couple of sun-dresses—including the fuchsia one—several summery capri-pants-and-top sets and one classic black sheath.

“This is too much,” she protested. “We aren't going to be here that long.”

“You never know,” he replied with a shrug. “Besides, the clothes look good on you. You should keep them.”

“And who's paying for them?” she asked tartly.

“That needn't concern you.”

“And yet it does.”

“Just try on the bathing suits, B.J.”

“No way am I modeling bathing suits for you.”

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Then pick a couple for yourself. You can't stay at an oceanside resort without a bathing suit or two. And be sure you keep enough nightclothes and lingerie for several days.”

She started to snap at him that she was perfectly capable of providing herself with lingerie, but she bit the words back. She just couldn't discuss underwear with Daniel, even if it was in defiance. Besides which, she did need some clean undergarments if she was going to stay here even for just two or three days.

Turning silently, she closed herself in the bedroom to complete her shopping without any further input from Daniel.

Heather had just left with the garment rack later when someone else knocked on the sitting room door. Since the dishes from their meal had already been cleared away, B.J. looked curiously at Daniel. “Now what?”

He shrugged and crossed the room to answer. She found herself thinking that he moved like a man braced for trouble, as if he half expected danger to lurk on the other side of the door.

She couldn't help wondering again just what he had been up to for the past thirteen years. She'd been able to find out very little about him through the usual sources.

He glanced through the peephole, relaxed visibly and opened the door. A moment later he closed the door again and turned back to face her. His arms were filled with a gigantic gift basket covered in cellophane and topped with a glittering golden bow. “It's for you.”

“For me?” Frowning, she moved toward him as he set the basket on a table.

Through the clear covering she could see that the basket was filled with beauty products. Body lotions, cleansers, moisturizers, sunscreens. An assortment of cosmetics. Dainty little soaps. Hair products, including a brush and a hand mirror.

She spotted a clear plastic case fitted with a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, a razor and a pink can of shaving gel. Everything a woman on vacation could possibly need. She had never cared much about brand names, but she suspected that the products in this basket were top-of-the-line.

“Did you order this, too?” she asked Daniel.

He shook his head and pulled a tiny card from a fold in the cellophane. The card bore the gold-embossed name of a resort gift shop. He held it so both could see the words as he read aloud, “'Not that you need any enhancement, but perhaps these things will be of use to you during your stay. Please ask for anything else you need. Judson Drake.'”

B.J. wrinkled her nose. “Eew.”

Daniel shook his head. “You're going to have to get past that tendency to shudder every time you hear his name. He's our host, and I'm trying to very hard to take him for a large amount of money. A little kissing up would definitely be in order.”

B.J. shuddered again. “If either of us is expected to kiss Creepy Guy, it had better be you.”

Reaching out to run a fingertip across her pouting lower lip, he murmured, “He's not my type.”

Her mind flooded suddenly with memories of the kiss with which he had greeted her at the farmhouse—had that really been less than eight hours ago?; it seemed longer—and yet she could still almost feel the warmth of his lips against hers.

Dropping his hand, he glanced at the wrinkled clothes she had donned again after trying on the new outfits. “Why don't you put on one of those new dresses and we'll go out for a drink and to listen to some music. We should let ourselves be seen.”

She gave it a moment's thought. She had a choice of going out for a drink or sitting in this suite with him—just the two of them—for the remainder of the evening. “A drink sounds good,” she said—perhaps just a bit too hastily.

He flashed her a smile. “I'll freshen up after you change. It won't take me long.”

Nodding, she turned toward the bedroom, leaving him gazing out the big window toward the darkening beach beyond. It was definitely a good thing she had chosen to go out, considering the way her hands were shaking merely in response to his lethal smile.

The sun had set by the time they went out, though the temperature was still pleasantly warm. Feeling as though she were playing dress-up, B.J. wore the fuchsia dress. The garment was a much brighter color than she would have chosen for herself, the bodice too lowcut, the hem too high. While she supposed it was fairly modest compared to some of the outfits she saw when they entered the rather crowded outdoor lounge, she would have been much more comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt.

Because it had seemed almost obligatory with the dress, she had even worn makeup for the evening, forcing herself to open the gift basket Drake had sent to the suite. She'd assured herself she didn't have to like him to take advantage of his generosity—especially since he probably had ulterior motives in making the gesture—but it still felt wrong somehow.

Daniel had told her she looked very nice. As usual, she hadn't been able to read his expression to judge whether he'd really meant the compliment or if he was only being polite. Glancing from beneath her eyelashes at the sleek, beautiful women occupying the candlelit little tables around them in the outdoor lounge, she couldn't help thinking that she must stand out among them like a plain brown sparrow in an exotic aviary.

Daniel, on the other hand, fit in very well with the glamorous crowd. His black hair still slightly damp from his quick shower, he wore a thin white shirt and loose cream-colored slacks that contrasted intriguingly with his dark skin and emphasized his long, lean body.

She noticed how many of the beautiful women—and a few of the beautiful men—turned to stare at Daniel as they crossed the stone floor to a rather isolated empty table. She wondered if it was only paranoia making her think she saw surprise in their eyes that a man like Daniel was with her.

“What's wrong?” he asked as he held her chair for her.

It bugged her that he sensed her moods so easily. “Nothing.”

He pulled his chair so close to hers that their knees touched beneath the tiny table. “Appearances,” he reminded her when she looked inquiringly at him.

“I'm not sure anything is going to make it appear that I belong at a place like this,” she murmured, waving a hand around the lounge, with its smooth stone floor, low rock walls lined with waving palm trees and huge pots of tropical flowers, colorful overhead lanterns and dozens of flickering candles.

In the center of the circular lounge was a small bandstand on which a five-piece ensemble played sultry dance music. A wooden dance floor surrounded the bandstand, making it easily accessible from any table, and several bronzed, toned, bleached and designer-clad couples took advantage of the chance to show off their dancing skills. The place was a far cry from the beer-and-barbecue joints her solidly middle-class family tended to frequent back home in Texas.

Daniel frowned. “Why wouldn't you look as though you belong here?”

She shrugged self-consciously. “I would never be able to afford to stay at a resort like this on my own.”

“That doesn't make you inferior to anyone here. Don't mistake money for class, Britt—B.J.”

A pretty blonde in a sarong—which seemed to describe nearly every employee at this resort—stopped beside the table. “What would you like?”

“Darling?”

B.J. gave Daniel a look. It would serve him right— not to mention prove her point—if she ordered root beer. “Why don't you order for us, darling?”

His smile flashed, giving her just a fleeting glimpse of the shallow dimple in his left cheek. She remembered having a rather obsessive fascination with that elusive dimple when she was fourteen. “Champagne, then—since it's your favorite.”

He glanced at the server and ordered a brand B.J. didn't recognize. Probably very expensive.

“Champagne is my favorite drink?” she murmured when the server moved away.

“It seemed to fit in character.”

Because it was making her rather nervous to be sit ting so close to him, gazing into his dark eyes, she forced herself to look away, turning her attention toward the bandstand. Reflections of the tiny white lights strung above them glittered like stars on the glossy grand piano and gleaming wind instruments.

Beneath the bluesy music she could just hear the sound of the ocean. The scent of tropical blooms drifted past her on a light breeze. The slow swaying of the dancing couples was almost hypnotic.

The server returned with their champagne. B.J. took an appreciative sip before saying, “One thing I will say about Creepy Guy, he runs a nice place.”

Though the corners of Daniel's mouth twitched, he glanced quickly around, silently reminding her that she had to be careful. “It does look nice,” he murmured. “On the surface.”

Yet another reminder that danger lurked beneath the exotic beauty here. Glancing around, she saw Bernard and another large man sharing a table near the stage. Though the men weren't looking her way, she had little doubt they had been aware of the moment she and Daniel arrived. She shivered.

Daniel slipped an arm around her, his shirt fabric very soft against the skin her dress left bare. “Cold?”

“No.” Definitely not cold. Not now, anyway.

“We can speak freely—as long as we keep our voices low.” He was practically nuzzling her temple as he spoke, so there was little danger of anyone overhearing him, even from the next table. The table he had selected was partially screened by the drooping fronds of a large potted palm, and she doubted that his selection had been made by accident.

She suspected that Daniel's every action was calculated and deliberate. Including the nuzzling.

“You should try to smile at me occasionally. Pretend to be intensely interested in what I have to say.”

“Gaze adoringly into your eyes?” she suggested too sweetly.

He chuckled and brushed a kiss against her cheek. “That would certainly be helpful.”

It was only the thought of Bernard sitting nearby and watching them that kept B.J. from jerking away. She was afraid it would take more acting talent than she possessed to pretend that the touch of Daniel's lips against her skin was an everyday occurrence for her. “I'll, uh, see what I can do.”

“Relax, B.J. I'm not going to bite you. Yet.”

Now he was deliberately trying to rattle her. “You always did have an irritating streak in you.”

“You're still under the impression that I was the one who put the little snake in your bag?”

“I'm quite sure you were. I saw you busting a gut laughing when I screamed and threw that bag about twenty yards into the bushes.”

His smile was a bit nostalgic. “It was amusing.”

“Admit it. You did it.”

When he merely looked at her, she frowned, a longheld belief beginning to waver. “It wasn't you?”

He shook his head.

“Then who…?”

Lifting his champagne flute, he murmured into it, “Far be it from me to squeal—but you might have a chat with your cousin Jason when you return home.”

She narrowed her eyes, picturing her brilliant and unconventional cousin, Jason D'Alessandro. “Practical jokes aren't Jason's style. Now, if you had blamed my cousins Aaron and Andrew Walker, I might have believed you. The twins were always getting into mischief when they were kids. Heck, they're twenty-one now and they're still always up to something.”

“I never figured out how you could keep all that family straight. How many cousins do you have, anyway?”

“My father was an only child with a small extended family. But my mother has five living siblings. Between them, and a brother who died years ago, they have fifteen offspring. Two of my first cousins, Shane and Brynn, have children of their own now.”

“Shane's a father?” Because Shane was the son of the couple who had served as Daniel's foster parents, Daniel obviously remembered him well enough to be surprised.

“Yes. He and Kelly married only a couple of years after you left the ranch. They have two daughters—Annie, who's eight, and Lucy, who's four.”

“Do they all still live at the ranch?”

She nodded. “Shane added on to his house when Lucy was on the way, but other than that, not much has changed since you were there.”

“How are—” He broke off the question, took another sip of his champagne, then set his flute down. “Would you like to dance?”

Apparently he had decided to close that door to his past for now. Was it because he was concerned about being overheard—or was it that he simply didn't like to remember those days?

“I don't dance very well.”

“Not a problem. Besides, Bernard and his friend seem to be waiting for us to do something. We shouldn't disappoint them.”

She glanced involuntarily toward the table near the stage. Bernard was staring right at them now, making no attempt to pretend otherwise. He nodded when she looked his way and lifted his glass in a salute of sorts.

Though there was nothing at all threatening about his actions, she felt her stomach muscles clench anyway. “Actually I'm getting rather tired.”

“Then we'll go back to our suite—after our dance.” Daniel stood and held out his left hand to her, the gold band on his finger gleaming in the reflected light from the candle on their table.

In other words, he wasn't giving her a choice. Apparently he considered it important that Bernard see them dancing together. She laid her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

He had been right—as always—when he'd said that it wouldn't be a problem that she wasn't an experienced dancer. He held her so closely and moved so slowly that all she had to do was sway in place along with him. He didn't have to remind her that they were being watched, but he gave her little choice except to cling to him as if there was no one else in the entire resort.

She felt his lips press against her cheek, and it was purely instinct that made her tilt her head to grant him freer access. It was better, she decided, to simply act without thinking for now. Every time she started wondering what Daniel was up to or why she hadn't made more of an effort to get herself out of this situation, her head started to hurt.

She had a nagging suspicion that she should be more anxious, less willing to cooperate with Daniel's instructions. She was still trying to convince herself that he was on the right side of the law. An undercover cop. A private investigator, maybe. She told herself he had been trying too hard to convince her that he was no better than the men he was here to do business with, which must mean the truth was just the opposite, right?

Or was she still operating under the influence of a girlhood infatuation? Unable to believe the worst of the boy she had never forgotten? The man who could make her pulse race with nothing more than a slight smile? Not to mention the way she was reacting to being held so closely against his long, lean, muscular body.

She had never before allowed her hormones to overcome her common sense—and this was a hell of a time to start.

Her cheek rested against his shoulder now. As the song was winding down, he reached up to tilt her face toward him. Before she could say anything, his mouth was on hers. The kiss effectively ended the dance, since it rendered her completely unable to move her feet.

“Now,” he said when he lifted his head several long moments later, “we can go back to our suite.”

Blinking dazedly, she realized that other couples were leaving the dance floor. No one seemed to be paying much attention to them, but if anyone had been, they probably saw a couple eager to be alone to continue where the kiss had left off.

As Daniel led her away with one arm holding her snugly against him, she knew that was exactly the impression he had intended to give.

B.J. looked rather pale as they reentered the suite a few minutes later. Motioning for her to remain quiet while he swept for listening devices, Daniel regretted again that she had been put into this position. She was dead on her feet, and no wonder, considering all she had been through that day.

He probably shouldn't have pressured her to go out for drinks and dancing, but he believed it had been a useful outing. It had definitely reinforced his tale that his “wife” was completely absorbed with him, so enthralled by his skillful wooing that she had no interest in anything else that went on around her.

Reassured that no one had been in to bug their suite while they were gone, he turned back to B.J. “You're exhausted. You need some sleep.”

Nodding wearily, she took a few steps toward the bedroom, then froze when he moved to follow her. “Um…where are you going to sleep? On the sofa?”

Had it only now occurred to her that their charade of marriage included sharing a bedroom?

“It's a king-size bed,” he pointed out, waving a hand in that direction. “We can both sleep in it without even bumping into each other during the night.”

She looked from him to that big bed and back again. “I don't think so.”

Reaching up to squeeze the back of his neck, he spoke with deliberate impatience. “Trust me, Brittany, you are entirely safe with me tonight. We can't risk anyone suspecting that our 'marriage' is anything other than what I've said, so we'll share the bed, but only for sleeping. I plan to crash for a couple of hours and then I have some work to do on my computer before I meet with Drake tomorrow.”

B.J. flushed, and it wasn't hard to see that she had interpreted his tone to mean that he had no interest in taking advantage of sharing a bed with her. His use of the name she had answered to as a teenager had probably reinforced the impression that he saw her only as an inconvenient reminder of his past, still just a girl in whom he had no particular romantic interest.

It hadn't been true then and it wasn't now. But he saw no reason to share that with her. Once she recovered from her embarrassment, she should be much more comfortable sharing this suite with him if she was reassured that she didn't have to worry about him making unwelcome passes.

At least, he assumed they would be unwelcome. And if they weren't—well, that created a whole new set of problems.

She lifted her chin in a proud little gesture he knew very well and pushed a hand through her short hair, making it stand in defiant spikes around her heated face. “You can sleep wherever you like. I'm so tired I won't even notice you're in the same suite. And tomorrow, after we've both rested, I expect for you to find a way to get me out of this intolerable charade and back to my life as quickly as possible.”

He nodded. “I'll wait in the sitting room until you're in bed. I'll try not to disturb you when I come in or when I get back up.”

She nodded curtly and turned toward the bathroom. “By the way,” she said over her shoulder, her voice still icy, “I really prefer to answer to B.J.”

“I'll try to remember.”

“Do that.”

The bathroom door closed with a snap that almost made him wince.