Dangerous Ladies (42 page)

Devlin’s lies.

Her lies.

“I’m out of here.” She vaulted off the bed, one hand sinking into the mattress, the other mashing his stomach.

He
oofed
as she drove the air out of him.

It was farther to the floor than she expected. She stumbled when she landed, then stood with her back to him and took a long breath—a long breath that did nothing to restore her good sense.

Her brain clamored for her to get far away. Her body urged her to climb back on the mattress and make it rock.

And her common sense insisted on asking the logical question—had he mentioned Majorca on purpose? Had he wanted to stop them before they went too far? That suggested that a cool mind still operated beneath the heat of passion, and that one thought brought her temperature down to a reasonable simmer.

She pulled the robe closer around her, covering herself. She faced him.

He reclined on the bed, sheet to his waist, arms tucked under his head. Muscles bulged on his chest and pecs; hair dusted his armpits and breastbone. His hair glowed like a dark halo against the white pillowcase. His eyes smoldered with intensity.

He didn’t look like a man in possession of a cool mind. Maybe he’d mentioned Majorca by mistake. “Are you always so reckless?”

“Never.” He sat up on one elbow. “That’s why I fell in love with you—you transform me from a dull businessman into a dashing beachcomber who knows what’s important in life.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

She swayed toward the bed, pulled by the gravitational force of his desire.

She pulled back. “You’re good.” She’d always appreciated flattery as much as the next girl. Apparently she appreciated it a little too much.

“Let me put on my clothes. They’re harder to get out of.” She headed into the bathroom, sure she had seized control of her destiny again, and determined to ward off any more of his lightning-fast, underhanded, seductive maneuvers.

“I threw away your clothes.”

M
eadow caught her breath in outrage. She stopped. She turned.

Devlin smiled a panty-dropper smile.

Too bad she wasn’t wearing panties.

“Excuse me?” She stepped toward the bed, a half smile on her lips, fire in her eyes. “You threw away my
clothes
?
”

“The shop downtown is sending out outfits appropriate for my wife.” He sounded so . . . innocent. So reasonable.

“Outfits
appropriate
for your wife?” Her voice rose. “What does that mean?”

“It means I like the way you dressed in Majorca.”

“And that would be?”

“In sundresses. With flowers in bright colors.” He wiggled his fingers over his chest to indicate something
.
Bright-colored flowers, she guessed.

“Sundresses? With . . .” Normally she wore jeans and T-shirts. And Birkenstocks. With socks. “If I’m your wife, why don’t you have my clothes from Majorca?”

Promptly, he said, “I left them there, hoping you would return.”

The fresh-washed morning sunshine lit one half of his body and face, and left the other half in shadow. Who did he think he was?
Some supervillain capable of lightning-fast changes designed to amaze and confuse her?

Because someone needed to bring him down to earth.

Like targets, his nipples drew her gaze. Grabbing one, she twisted.
Hard.

“Ouch!” He grabbed himself. He looked down at the bruised nub. “What was that?”

“A purple-nirple.” She watched in grim satisfaction as he rubbed the ache. “And no normal woman wears a flowered sundress for everyday. I wear jeans.”

“You can’t know that. You don’t remember.” Sarcasm. Definitely sarcasm.

“Are you trying to make me into a Stepford wife?” A spooky thought. Was that his intention? “I know what kind of woman I am. And I certainly know what I wear. What all women wear. You need to look around.”

“I don’t look at other women. I’m married.”

She snorted. “I’ll call and get you an eye appointment.”

“That’s a very wifely duty.”

Conversation between them wasn’t an exchange of ideas; it was a fencing match.

Worse, she was enjoying herself when she was actually angry at him. Very angry about . . . something . . .
Oh, yeah.
“Don’t ever get high-handed and toss my clothes again.”

“Of course not. I won’t have to.” He swung his legs out from under the sheets. “Not now. You’re here with me, and I intend to keep you close.”

Devlin was too tall. The way he loomed distracted Meadow, made her aware of his erection tenting his dark blue boxers, her bare feet on the cool hardwood floor, their recent and all too steamy intimacy. The things he said sounded less like banter and more like a threat, and when a woman had gone as far as she had—and that was far too far—she would be a fool to ignore her alarm. “Keep me close? What does that mean?”

“You’re not well. You have a concussion—”

“Minor!”

“And you have amnesia about the most important moment of our lives.”

She hated that he held that trump.

“More important, I’m opening a hotel here on the private, exclusive shores of South Carolina. It’s the wave of the future; all of these old homes are falling to reduced incomes and increasing costs. But the wealthy here are still wealthy—and hostile to me, and there’ve already been incidents of sabotage.”

“Oh,” she said blankly. Such a scenario was so out of her league, she didn’t know what to say. “Like what?”

“A few of the more important families made it clear that the merchants in town would find their mortgages inexplicably foreclosed on if they sold us anything. I’m trucking in groceries from Charleston.”

“That’s medieval!”

A smile quirked his mouth. “That’s South Carolina. It’s one of the original thirteen colonies and still run by the same families.”

“You’re kidding.” She was from the West. From the mountains of Washington and a family of bohemians, artists. Of course, her grandmother had told her about the old South Carolina family traditions that choked the life out of a person. But Isabelle had run away, and the stories she told sounded like fairy tales from long ago.

Now Devlin was saying nothing had changed? One look at his stern face convinced her he was serious. “What else have they done to the hotel?” Meadow asked.

“I built a cell tower behind the hotel. Someone knocked it down.”

“Cell tower?” With a jolt she remembered. “My cell phone.” She slapped her rear as if expecting to find a pocket. “Before you tossed my pants, did you retrieve my cell phone?”

“It’s here on the nightstand.” Sitting down on the bed, he extended his hand. “I have guards patrolling this place—”

“So how did I get in?” She didn’t think he was lying about this.

“A guard who found shelter from the storm when he should have been making his rounds, combined with untested generators that allowed power outages. The problem will be fixed today.”

“Fixed? You mean, the generators will be up and running?”

“And the guard replaced.” His gaze grew cold.

She didn’t like that expression. It reminded her of last night. It reminded her only too clearly that he had some ulterior motive for this farce he was playing, and if she didn’t get that painting and get out of here fast, he was going to squash her like a bug. “Ah, come on. That was a heck of a storm!”

“I pay top dollar, and I expect the best.”

“Yes, but . . . the poor guard! He’s got no job.”

She saw no visible softening on Devlin’s face. “He should have thought of that before he signed the contract.”

“I guess.” Meadow honored her own contracts, but at the same time, her heart ached for the unknown man.

“Look. These people who want to stop me from opening are determined, and they’ve got the money to back that determination. I can’t take the chance that someone will seize the opportunity to hurt my wife, and a sloppy guard would expose you to danger. You do understand, don’t you?” Charm thawed his expression. With his dark hair disheveled from the night and that quirk of his lips, he looked almost . . . sincere. Intent. Interested in her. Only her.

Reluctantly she placed her hand in his. “Sure. Except . . . are you really going to tell people I’m your wife?”

“Of course.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth across her palm.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what excuse he would make when she disappeared. But then he’d ask why his wife would disappear, and she’d be stammering around, trying to come up with a good lie. Her mother always said there was no such thing as a good lie, that the universe rewarded the truth and punished a falsehood.

Meadow’s gaze fell on their joined hands, then on the bed. With
last night’s debacle and this morning’s precipitate passion as cases in point, Meadow had to admit that her mother was right.

She could reveal the truth—she cast a glance at his harsh face—and be arrested for breaking and entering with intent to commit grand theft.
Good idea, Meadow.

Devlin watched her flounder with the dilemmas of truth versus lie, him versus prison; and the way he smiled made her suspect he found her struggles all too amusing.

Jerking her hand from his grasp, she picked up her phone.

As she flipped it open, he said, “I looked for numbers, but the phone is blank.” He strode across the room to the dresser and pulled a pair of jeans out of the drawer.

“You snooped in my phone?” He’d had the nerve!

“I thought it might reveal some names that would tell us where you’ve been.” He pulled on the jeans.

“Oh. Yeah.” Thank God Judith had thought to have Meadow wipe the memory or he’d be talking to her mother right now. Meadow could imagine how her mother would sound—as disappointed and upset as the time she’d caught the thirteen-year-old Meadow eating a hamburger—meat!—at her friend’s.

What a horrible memory that was!

“So there’s no cell service out here?” To avoid his gaze, she watched the little signal searcher do its gyrations.

“Until last year, the residents of Amelia Shores hadn’t allowed anything so crass as a cell tower to pollute the ambience of their elite village, and even now the signal doesn’t reach out to the mansions.”

“Medieval,” she muttered again.

“I’m building another tower for the hotel’s guests, but it isn’t scheduled for assembly until the day before the grand opening. Then the frenzy of disapproval from the other mansions’ residents will be at its height, and they won’t even notice the tower going up behind the house.”

“Yeah. Probably not.” She snapped her phone closed. “I want a shower.”

He opened his mouth.

“Alone.”

He closed it.

“So where are these flowered sundresses?” She needed to search the house for the painting, and she needed to search fast.

“They’re not here yet. I’ll see what I can find you in the gift shop.” He started for the door.

“Jeans. A T-shirt,” she called after him.

“It’s going to be eighty-five today.”

“Shorts and a T-shirt, then.”

He stopped and ran his unsmiling gaze over her.

“What?” She spread her hands.

“Five-five, one hundred and twenty-eight pounds, A cup, pants size six, shoes a size eight.” Then he continued out, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t ask if he was right.

“One hundred and twenty-
six
pounds. What’s wrong with that?” A man with such acute powers of observation could probably read every thought before it crossed her mind—and she prided herself on keeping an open mind.

She was in such trouble.

She had to find that painting and get out of here. She wanted—desperately wanted—to go home to her parents with enough money to pay for her mother’s medical treatment . . . and now Meadow had a second reason for haste.

She needed to get away from Devlin—before he lay further siege to her wary self, and ruined all of her well-made larcenous plans.