A Risky Affair (5 page)

“What
other
matter?”

Jill heaved a dramatic sigh. “You've ruined Lamar for all other women, Solange. My mama has been saying so for months now, but I didn't believe her until I saw the look on his face today. Poor Lamar.”

Solange nearly leapt from the sofa. “Poor
Lamar?
” she cried, full of righteous indignation. “
He's
the one who suddenly started canceling dates on me with no explanation and stopped returning my phone calls.
He's
the one who assured me nothing was wrong every time I asked him about our relationship.
He's
the one who waited until we were at a New Year's Eve party—and the clock was about to strike twelve—to pull me aside and tell me he needed space. And you're calling
him
poor Lamar?”

“Solange—”

“Do I need to remind you how utterly humiliated I was, standing in that roomful of couples who were kissing, throwing confetti and celebrating the new year after I'd just been dumped by my boyfriend?”

“Of course I remember how awful that was for you!
I'm
the one who left the party I was attending to go pick you up because you refused to let Lamar drive you home.
Humph.
A lesser friend would've made you call a cab.”

“I know,” Solange snarled. “Which is why I can't understand why you'd even
think
about referring to him as a victim.”

“I'm not saying he's a victim. I know how much he hurt you, and I'm not excusing that. But when I saw him at the bank today, I realized he still loves you, Solange. He never stopped.”

Emotion clogged Solange's throat, temporarily robbing her of speech.

Taking advantage of the moment, Jill quickly forged ahead. “You should have seen the look in his eyes when I told him you'd landed a good job and probably wouldn't be returning home. He looked crushed, Solange, like a dying man who's just been informed that the kidney he's been waiting for won't be a good match after all. That man still loves you, and I know he regrets messing up the good thing you two had.”

“Did he tell you that?” Solange asked, appalled by the glimmer of hope that bloomed in her chest.

Jill faltered for a moment. “Well…no. But he didn't have to. It was written all over his face!”

Solange's heart sank a little. “Whatever you say. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm not moving back to Haskell, and I'm not going to waste another minute of my life wondering what went wrong between me and Lamar Rogers. I have to move on.”

“You're right,” Jill agreed with a long, deep sigh. “And I guess having an affair with a sexy private eye is as good a place to start as any.”

Solange chuckled ruefully. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm not having an affair with Dane Roarke.”

“Why not?” Jill demanded. “Is he married?”

“I didn't see a ring on his finger, but we both know that doesn't mean anything nowadays.” Inexplicably, the thought of Dane Roarke going home every night to another woman left a bad taste in Solange's mouth. Or maybe that was the beginning of heartburn, she told herself. After all, she had no reason to care whether or not Dane was married. He was a complete stranger; he meant nothing to her.

“I didn't come to San Antonio to find a new boyfriend,” she said resolutely, as much for her own benefit as Jill's. “I came here to find a good job that would enable me to save money for law school.”

“I know. You've always accomplished whatever you set your mind to. This time won't be any different.” Jill paused. “Do you think you'll ever see him again? Dane Roarke, I mean?”

“Not unless I find myself needing the services of a P.I.,” Solange said wryly.

“Well, if you ever decide to try and find your birth parents, maybe you can hire him to help you.” Jill yawned. “Well, I'd better say good-night. You've had a long day, and I'm beat from pulling a double shift at the hospital. Call me once you're settled in at Crandall Thorne's ranch.”

“I will,” Solange promised. “Give Theresa my best.”

Long after Solange got off the phone with Jill, her best friend's suggestion lingered in her mind.

In the twenty years she'd known Jill Somerset, Solange had only raised the topic of finding her birth parents once, and that was after she'd had a big argument with her mother. Solange had been a headstrong, temperamental fifteen-year-old in the throes of her first major crush on a senior at the local high school. When Eleanor Washington forbade her from attending the boy's senior prom because she was too young, Solange had stormed off down the road to the neighboring farmhouse of her best friend's family. While ranting and raving to Jill about her unreasonably strict mother, she'd blurted out angrily, “I wish I could find my
real
parents. I bet they're nowhere near as mean as George and Eleanor.”

Immediately afterward she'd felt guilty. Her adoptive parents were good, honest, hardworking people who had shown her nothing but love and kindness throughout her life. While they could be rather strict at times, she knew it was only because they wanted the best for her and wanted to protect her from the same terrible fate that had befallen their teenage son, who'd died in a drunk-driving accident caused by his best friend.

She felt like a spoiled brat, an ingrate, for badmouthing her parents to Jill, so she'd never done it again. But she could never take back the harsh words she'd spoken that afternoon, nor could she stop the questions that began whispering through her mind like wisps of smoke from a flame.

At the age of fifteen, twelve years after being adopted by the Washingtons, Solange began to wonder about her biological parents. She wondered who they were, where they lived and what they looked like. And for the first time in her life, she allowed herself to ponder what would happen if she tried to find them. Thankfully, her curiosity had never morphed into an all-consuming obsession. She'd heard countless horror stories of adult adoptees who spent years and thousands of dollars searching for their biological parents, only to be disappointed in the end when their parents turned out to be horrible people. Solange had never felt a burning need or desire to put herself through the emotional roller coaster of trying to locate two individuals who obviously hadn't wanted her. But every now and then, when she least expected it, the curiosity would return, and the same questions would invade her thoughts.

In the aftermath of losing her adoptive parents, the questions had returned with increasing frequency.

Lying in bed that night, Solange stared up at the darkened ceiling, Jill's words echoing through her mind.
Was
it a sign that she'd crossed paths with Dane Roarke, who happened to be a private investigator? Was he meant to help her track down her biological parents?

Solange frowned in the darkness. George and Eleanor Washington had never been entirely comfortable discussing her adoption with her. They'd always told her that the most important thing was that they loved her as if she were their own flesh and blood, and they'd raised her accordingly.

“It's not where you came from, but where you're going,” Eleanor had been fond of saying, particularly whenever Solange broached the subject of her adoption.

Unfortunately, their reluctance to discuss the details of her past had left her with more questions than answers about her future. And their untimely deaths had left her with no one in the world other than some distant relatives scattered around the country, whom she hardly knew, anyway. At no time had she felt the full magnitude of this realization more than in the days following the funeral—and now.

She was completely alone.

Maybe it was finally time to rectify that, Solange thought.

Maybe after she'd been working for Crandall Thorne for a while and had earned enough money, she could hire Dane Roarke to help her find her parents.

She felt a twinge of excitement at the thought, and told herself it had more to do with the prospect of eventually locating her birth parents than with seeing the sexy private investigator again.

Closing her eyes, Solange rolled onto her side and let exhaustion tug her to sleep within minutes.

O
n his way to the office late Saturday morning, Dane made a slight detour that led him to the Alamo City Inn. He drove around the parking lot until he found Solange Washington's blue Plymouth. Secretly relieved to discover that she hadn't checked out of her room yet, he parked beside the ancient clunker, grabbed a sealed envelope from the passenger seat and climbed out of his truck.

According to the contact information she'd provided, Solange had been a guest of the extended-stay lodge since arriving in San Antonio a week ago.

Dane made his way across the parking lot toward the old, two-story stucco building surrounded by gently swaying palm trees that almost made one forget the hotel's location—smack-dab in the middle of an industrial park. As he strode past an overflowing metal trash bin and a deserted swimming pool littered with brown winter leaves and other suspect debris, he couldn't help but wonder why Solange Washington had chosen to dwell in such a dump, even temporarily. Surely she could've afforded better with the large sum of money she'd received from her parents' life insurance policies. Unless, of course, she'd already run through her inheritance.

Shoving aside the cynical thought—since it was none of his damn business what the woman did with her money—Dane climbed a flight of stairs and strode down the open walkway until he reached room 206. He rapped his knuckles lightly on the door, then waited.

After several moments, the door swung open. “I'm ready now. You can come—” Solange broke off abruptly at the sight of Dane, those dark, thick-lashed eyes that tilted exotically at the corners widening in surprise.

“I'm sorry. I thought you were the maid,” she said, her cheeks flushed as if she'd been exercising or lifting heavy items—he guessed the latter. “What are you doing here?”

Dane held up the yellow envelope he'd brought. “I forgot to give these to you on Thursday. Copies of your signed paperwork.”

Solange frowned slightly. “You didn't have to come all the way out here,” she said, reaching for the envelope.

Dane handed it over slowly, letting his eyes roam across her body from head to toe. With her chestnut-brown hair scooped into a ponytail and wearing a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans that molded long, shapely legs, she was as beautiful as he remembered. And he ought to know. He hadn't stopped thinking about her since meeting her two days ago. Personally delivering the documents to her had given him a legitimate, if somewhat lame, excuse to see her again.

“You could have saved yourself a trip and mailed this to me,” Solange gently chided.

“It's no trouble,” Dane drawled, propping a negligent shoulder in the doorway. “At Roarke Investigations, we pride ourselves on going the extra mile for our customers—figuratively and literally.”

“I see.” Those lush, bow-shaped lips twitched with barely suppressed humor, as if she could see right through the bogus explanation. “Well…thank you, I suppose.” She sent a brief glance over her shoulder. “I'd invite you inside for a cup of coffee, but I was just about to leave. I have to check out of the room by noon.”

“That's right. You're moving into Thorne's ranch today, aren't you?”

She nodded, her mouth curving in a playful smile he could easily become addicted to. “I'm assuming that I passed the background check, otherwise I'd still be looking for employment.”

Dane smiled a little. “You passed.”

Solange glanced at her watch. “Well, I'd better—”

Dane straightened from the doorway. “I'll help you carry your stuff to the car. Going the extra mile,” he reminded her when she opened her mouth to decline the offer.

“All right. If you insist.” Smiling, she stepped back and opened the door wider.

As Dane shouldered past her into the room, her fresh scent filled his nostrils—soap and a subtle trace of perfume, something exotic and undeniably feminine, like her. Resisting the compulsion to draw greedy gulps of it into his lungs, he glanced around. On the floor near the door were two large suitcases and four small cardboard boxes. Those items were the only indication that someone was checking out, not checking into the modestly furnished room. The place was immaculate, from the spotless kitchen countertops to the carefully made bed. He wondered half-incredulously what the maid could possibly do to make the room any cleaner, and didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Solange laughed.

“My mother was a compulsive neat freak,” she said ruefully. “I learned from an early age to pick up after myself.”

Dane chuckled. “Looks like you did a little more than pick up after yourself. You
do
know that the maids are paid to clean the rooms after each guest leaves?”

“Of course.” Solange gave a dismissive shrug. “No harm in making their jobs a bit easier, though. And they're not paid
nearly
enough. Take my word for it.” Sidestepping him, she walked over to one of the suitcases and knelt down to unzip it and place the envelope he'd given her inside.

He was transfixed by a sliver of smooth golden-brown skin revealed above the waistband of her low-rise jeans. Almost at once, he saw himself standing behind her and slowly, deliberately, raising her T-shirt over her flat belly and past her rib cage until her high, round breasts—braless in this particular fantasy—sprang free, filling his eager hands. He imagined kneading and caressing them, then brushing the pad of his thumbs across her nipples until they tightened in response and a breathless moan of pleasure escaped from deep in her throat. He imagined pressing his lips to the fragrant nape of her neck, grinding his body against the lush, curvy roundness of her bottom and—

“All set,” Solange announced, interrupting his lustful daydream as she straightened from her kneeling position.

Dane quickly schooled his features into an impassive expression that belied the throbbing ache in his groin. “Do you have everything?” he asked huskily.

She nodded, gesturing to indicate the suitcases and cardboard boxes. “This is it. All my worldly possessions.” Her voice held a trace of sadness that tugged on his heartstrings, and he remembered that she'd lost most, if not all, of her belongings in the house fire that had killed her parents nearly a year ago. She must have had to start all over again when she moved in with her childhood friend.

Not wanting to arouse her suspicions by letting on how deep he'd dug into her background, Dane said, “Well, from what I understand, you'll be well provided for at Thorne's ranch. So not having a lot of stuff actually works to your advantage.”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “You're right.”

He answered with a slow, lazy grin. “I usually am.”

She laughed, that soft, smoky sound that sucker-punched him in the gut. “I'll try to remember that, Mr. Roarke.”

“Dane.”

“Hmmm?”

“Call me Dane,” he told her. “Mr. Roarke is my father, who doesn't tolerate being called anything else.”

Solange gazed at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right…Dane.”

“Much better.” He picked up both suitcases as if they were weightless, showing off just a little for her benefit. “Shall we go?”

In no time at all, he and Solange had carried everything down to the parking lot and began loading up her car. Although it was old and rust-stained, the interior of the Plymouth was as tidy as the hotel room she had just vacated. No loose change, discarded paper cups or fast food wrappers on the floor to speak of. Dane didn't know whether to be impressed or appalled.

Before he could decide, he was distracted by the warmth of her body as she hovered behind him, watching as he arranged one of the cardboard boxes on the backseat.

“Does it fit?” she asked anxiously. “Can you get it in there?”

It was too much to expect his mind not to head straight for the gutter, not with her seductive heat seeping into his bones. He cleared his throat. “It should be fine,” he managed thickly.

“Are you sure?” She pressed closer, the soft, enticing fullness of her breasts grazing his back. Dane closed his eyes as a fresh wave of arousal swept through him, making him grow instantly hard.

He must have grunted or made some other inarticulate sound. “Let me help you,” she offered.

He was beyond help. “It'll fit, don't worry.” His voice was a low, rough growl he hardly recognized as his own.

Misreading the reason for his tone, Solange backed away. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Didn't mean to imply you couldn't handle it on your own. It's just that I packed the car myself before leaving Haskell, so I have a pretty good idea how and where everything should go.”

Dane had a few ideas of his own that had nothing whatsoever to do with maneuvering boxes around the backseat of her car. In fact, right now he could think of far better uses for the backseat in question.

“Why don't you go check out while I take care of this?” he suggested. “It's almost twelve.”

“Okay. I'll be right back.”

Her absence bought him time to load everything into the Plymouth and, more to the point, get his raging libido under control. When she returned from the lobby a few minutes later, he stood holding the car door open for her.

Solange beamed a smile at him that made him feel absurdly heroic. “Thanks so much for all your help, Dane,” she said warmly.

“No problem.”

As she slid behind the wheel of the car, he closed the door and took a step backward, already thinking ahead to the cold shower that awaited him when he got home later—if he could hold out that long. Never before had another woman wreaked such havoc on his senses, making him feel as horny and restless as an adolescent boy. And yet, Dane wanted nothing more than to prolong his time with her. He knew once she drove out of that parking lot, there was a very good chance he would never see her again. With her tucked away in Crandall Thorne's remote, secluded ranch, buried deep in the Hill Country, Dane wouldn't be able to just drop by unannounced, claiming he was “in the neighborhood.” And even if he tried, Thorne would probably have him tossed out on his ear, the irascible old bastard.

Solange rolled down the window to look at him. Wisps of dark hair had escaped from her ponytail to frame her exquisite face. “Well, I guess I'd better hit the road,” she said, and he wondered if he'd only imagined the trace of reluctance in her voice. Was it possible she shared his desire to prolong their time together? “Mr. Thorne's expecting me by two.”

Dane inclined his head. “Drive carefully,” he murmured.

“I will. Thanks again for everything.”

“My pleasure.”

What occurred next could only be interpreted as divine intervention.

When Solange turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. She frowned, trying to crank the engine a second time.

Nothing. Not even a single click. Just dead silence.

Solange groaned loudly, leaning her head back on the headrest and closing her eyes. “I was afraid this was going to happen sooner or later,” she grumbled. “Why couldn't it have been
later?
”

“Pop the hood so I can take a look,” Dane instructed.

Even before he checked the transmission fluid, timing belt, battery connections and starter, Dane knew what the problem was. He'd diagnosed it often enough as a part-time mechanic in his father's auto repair shop back in Houston. And he couldn't help feeling a perverse surge of pleasure, as if he'd been given a rare, unexpected gift at someone else's expense.

Solange climbed out of the car and slowly skirted the fender to stand beside him. “What's the verdict?” she asked warily.

Dane straightened from leaning over the engine and gave her a slight, grim smile. “Do you want the good news or bad news first?”

“Start with the bad, I guess.”

She looked so forlorn that he felt guilty for thinking only of himself a moment ago—well, almost. “The bad news is that you need a new engine. The one you have has finally given up the ghost.”

She nodded, closing her eyes as she wearily pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Don't keep me in suspense. What's the good news?”

If she'd been looking at him, she would have seen the wicked gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he answered, “The good news is that after your car has been towed, I'll drive you to Thorne's ranch myself.”