Leave It to Cleavage (21 page)

“Yes.” She shifted her weight. “Just late.”

“What time is your flight?” he asked as if he didn’t know.

“An hour and a half from now.” She shifted her weight again.

“We’re going to Atlanta,” Andie piped in. “We can give you a ride.”

Miranda’s look of panic was brief, but unmistakable.

Blake watched her face, willing her to say yes. Driving her to the airport would be a lot easier than trying to pick up her trail once he got there. “I have to drop Andie first, but I can run you on down to Hartsfield-Jackson after that. You can call the airline from the car and try to get on a later flight.”

She didn’t meet his gaze. “I really hate to put you out.”

“It’s no trouble.” He picked up her bag and carried it to the Jeep. Andie slid into the backseat, but Miranda still stood where they’d found her. The tow truck’s flashing light sent slivers of brightness streaking across her face. “Look,” he said, walking back to her, “you can stand here on the side of the road and wait for a better offer. Or you can catch a ride back to Truro with Gabe and just forget about the whole trip. Hell, you’ll barely have two days in San Francisco by the time you get there.” He shrugged and began to wave Gabe over.

“No, wait.” She swallowed. “I don’t want to disappoint Tom.”

“No, of course not.” He paused. “Given how he’s been away working so hard and all.”

Her head jerked up. Without another word she went and conferred with Gabe, then stalked around his car, climbed into the front passenger seat, and slammed the door. Hard.

He spent the drive to Atlanta biting back the questions he wanted to hurl at her, but he couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t seem at all anxious about getting to the airport, and she hadn’t bothered to get her cell phone out to call and make arrangements.

The number of things that didn’t add up just kept adding up.

A few minutes after leaving Andie at her mother’s, he and Miranda were on 85 speeding south toward the airport. Her face in the occasional spill of streetlight appeared pinched, and her gaze remained fixed on traffic. Her hands were clamped in her lap.

“Don’t you think you should call and see about getting on another flight?” he asked.

She turned toward him for the first time. “No, I think I’ll just wait until I get to the airport. It’ll probably be easier to explain what happened in person.”

“Are you going to call Tom?”

“Hmm?” She looked as if this had never occurred to her. “No, he, uh”—she looked down at her watch—“is probably in the air right now.” She looked back out the windshield. “I’ll call and leave a message at the hotel once I have a new arrival time.”

They lapsed back into silence. He could feel the energy rolling off her and knew deep in his bones that she was as aware of him as he was of her. Part of him wanted to pull over and kiss her and tell her everything would be okay. The other part wanted to grill her mercilessly until he understood what in the hell was going on. Before he could figure out which approach to take, the signs for Hartsfield-Jackson Airport began to appear. A few minutes later they were pulling to a stop in front of the Delta check-in. They stood now beside the car with her carry-on wedged between them.

“Will you be all right?” he asked.

“Sure.” Her gaze strayed toward the terminal and then scanned the traffic, settling on a taxi that whizzed by.

“Maybe I should wait and make sure you get on another flight.”

“No!”

He cocked his head and studied her more closely.

“I mean, thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be on the next plane out.”

She went up on her toes and brushed her lips across his cheek, which created its own little burst of electricity, then stepped back quickly. “Thanks for the ride.” Her gaze flitted over the traffic, the other passengers, everything but him. She didn’t look toward the terminal, either. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Have a good flight.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll do that.” And then she picked up her bag and walked toward the terminal.

He watched her until she disappeared from view and then, because he was in the business of following up on hunches, and because the kiss she’d given him was not the kiss of a woman happily getting on a plane to visit her husband, he got in his car, drove it around to Arrivals, and pulled in to the curb just beyond the line of waiting taxis. When an airport cop came over to check him out, he flashed his own badge and settled in to wait.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Miranda came out of baggage claim and hailed a cab. He turned his head to hide his face as her taxi flew by, then he slid into the flow of traffic a few cars behind to follow her.

He could hardly wait to see where they were headed.

chapter
20

T
he bath in the suite of the Ritz-Carlton was glorious, the champagne from the minibar heavenly. Miranda continued to soak in the tub long after the water had cooled. Her body felt languid, and her brain, the one that had been racing at top speed for the last two months, had slowed to a comfortable jog. Best of all, no one from Truro could see her or judge her. No one could ask her to solve even the smallest problem. Or write an article about her. For this brief moment in time she was in complete control of her world, even if that world was about 730 square feet and located in Buckhead.

She climbed out of the tub with real regret, then wrapped herself in the terry-cloth robe the hotel had so thoughtfully provided. The feel of its bulky softness sliding against her naked skin made her tingle. Blake Summers popped into her head unsummoned, and she tingled some more.

Ho-kay
. Padding barefoot across the bathroom’s marble floor, she entered the bedroom and crossed to look out the marvelous bay window. Traffic inched along Peachtree toward Lenox Mall and Phipps Plaza, where Selena Moore’s flagship store was located.

If she’d had any more antiques to sell, she could be shopping right now. Or being fussed over at any one of the day spas within a stone’s throw of the hotel. But she’d shot her wad on this weekend escape—which, based on her bank balance, should have taken place in a Motel 6.

Searching for a distraction that didn’t require dressing and going out, Miranda zeroed in on the room service menu. She pushed the extravagance factor from her mind and focused on the potential comfort factor. Food was good; large quantities of it even better. Making her selections used up a good ten minutes, but after placing her order she was back in bed staring inward. Her fears and responsibilities stared back.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Closing her eyes, she pushed them away and searched for something more attractive to think about. Like Blake Summers. Naked. And knocking on the hotel room door.

Miranda groaned. The suite was spacious, but not large enough to allow her to outrun her fears or her feelings. She was alone in a beautiful suite designed for two, while her husband, who was probably wearing prettier underwear than she would have been if she were wearing any, was somewhere else and had no plans to return.

All of her hopes for Ballantyne hinged on Monday’s meeting with Selena Moore and her ability to convince the Ballantyne board that Custom Cleavage—as she now thought of her idea—was the only way to save a business they didn’t even know was foundering. Equally bad, she had become fodder for the Truro rumor mill, and people thought she was pregnant, even though she wasn’t and probably never would be.

The first tear took her by surprise. It was hot and salty and took its time meandering down her cheek. The second came a lot faster. And it totally pissed her off. She swiped at it with the back of her hand and ordered herself to cease and desist. She was not going to be that woman in the mirror again; her crying days were over.

A knock sounded at the door, and she offered up a prayer of thanks for the interruption. Pulling the robe tighter, she went to the door and looked through the peephole.

A waiter, looking nervous, stood behind a rolling cart piled high with domed silver platters. She opened the door and discovered that a girl had to be careful what she wished for.

Blake Summers stepped, unsmiling, up behind the waiter. “Lucy,” he said, taking in the robe and the cart full of food. “You got some serious ‘splainin’ to do.”

Blake flashed his badge and the waiter hightailed it toward the elevator. Taking control of the cart, Blake pushed it into the room and closed the door behind them.

“Where,” he asked, “is Tom?”

Too stunned to pretend, Miranda looked him directly in the eye and told the truth. “I wish I knew.”

This little revelation rocked him back on his heels. “Then who did you come here to meet?”

“No one.”

His features etched with disbelief, Blake swept through the suite, doing what looked like a very thorough check for potential felons.

Miranda followed along. “Aren’t you going to look under the bed?”

He turned to face her. “Is there someone under there?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll skip it.”

They regarded each other warily. They were alone and they both knew it. She was naked under the robe, and she suspected they both knew that, too.

His eyes became less hawklike and she could practically see his mind rearranging the facts as he knew them, trying to fit the pieces together in a way that made sense. As if that were remotely possible.

Miranda couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry or jump his bones. She contemplated doing all three, though not necessarily in that order.

“So if Tom isn’t here, where is he?”

“Beats me.”

“You’re telling me you really don’t know where your husband is.”

She considered lying, but it was a lot harder to bluff without clothes on. Besides, she wasn’t sure what the point was anymore. And she didn’t think she had the strength. She really, really wanted to feel Blake’s arms around her. A promise that everything was going to be okay would be nice, too.

She nodded her head and her eyes welled up. God, she was tired of crying.

He took a step toward her but stopped a good foot away and his voice turned coolly professional. “When did you last see him?”

“January eighth.”

“Talk to him?”

“January eighth.”

She could see that she’d surprised him again. She and Carly must have been pretty convincing after all.

He glanced around the suite again, and she had the sense that he still expected someone to jump out from behind the drapes or something. He was wearing khakis and a black T-shirt that pulled tight across his chest, but he didn’t need a uniform to look like a cop. “And this is?”

“Camouflage . . . R and R . . .” She shrugged, and before she could stop it, another tear slid down her cheek. “I’m not sure anymore.”

“Damn it, Miranda. You should have told me.” His tone turned wry. “It’s not like I didn’t give you every opportunity.”

She sniffed and her eyes welled up again. “I couldn’t.” Lifting a sleeve, she swiped at her nose with the terry-cloth.

“But why all the secrecy? If your husband left you, why the charade?”

“Because Ballantyne is in trouble, and I was afraid everybody would panic if they realized he was gone and the only thing standing between them and bankruptcy was”—she sniffed—
“me.”

She sniffed again, and he reached over and grabbed a tissue out of the box on the desk and shoved it at her.

“I can nail a pageant interview in five seconds flat, but I don’t exactly have a track record of wowing them in the boardroom.”

She watched his internal struggle through tear-filled eyes. He paced the room, still disbelieving, still trying to work it out. When he walked past her to sit on the sofa, she followed and sank into the corner next to him.

“Jesus, Miranda. Don’t you have any idea where he is?”

“No.” Another sniff. “He left a note saying he wasn’t coming back.”

“I’m assuming you’ve tried to find him.”

“Yes, but I have a news flash for you. The reason the wife is always the last to know is because nobody wants to tell her anything. Not the airlines, not the hotels, not the credit card companies. I’ve been making car payments for a Mercedes I can’t even find.” She wadded the tissue into a ball and pressed it to her nose.

He went to the desk, rummaged in the drawer, and came back with a notepad and pen. When he sat down his gaze dropped to the bare triangle of skin where her robe came together, and she thought she heard a small groan. She didn’t know if he’d ever questioned a seminaked woman in a hotel room before, but it was clear he intended to try.

“I’ve retained a divorce attorney and a PI, but I can’t afford any more spotlights in the ‘Truro Tattles’ until I convince the board that I have a plan to save the company.”

She crossed one leg over the other, and both their gazes jerked downward.

Blake pulled his gaze back to the pad of paper. He scribbled something on it, then asked, “Do you
have
a plan?”

“I think so. I have a meeting here on Monday that I’m hoping will clinch it. Wednesday I get my chance to convince the board. But I need to put that plan into effect before everybody realizes how far into the toilet Tom put us.”

She didn’t think this was the time to bring up the word “fraud.” And as much as she wanted to be honest with Blake, she didn’t think this was the time to initiate a full police investigation. Or mention that she now knew Tom had shipped himself the goods intended for the fictitious accounts and pocketed the money. And really, when you came right down to it, what would exposing Tom’s love of lingerie or the affair he’d apparently been having achieve?

She watched Blake make notes on his pad and told herself she wasn’t actually lying to him; she was just withholding certain details until the time was right.

He made another note and then looked up to meet her eye. “Do you have
any
clues at all?”

She could see just how hard he was working at staying focused and wished she could admire him for it. But she’d told him everything she felt she could, and her body’s tingling was turning into a pretty persuasive clamoring. “It’s hard to pump people for information when you’re pretending you don’t need any.”