Set Up (19 page)

He shuddered. Damn, what in hell was he thinking? Hadn't he learned anything? The extent of his carnality made him sick. That he could be aroused by the woman after what she'd done to him was disgusting.

Hell, she’d never cared anything about him. The sole reason she'd come on to him had been because of her sister.

Careful not to wake her, he walked away. He might be a fool, but he wasn't that big a one. He'd best stay far away from Amanda Jane. In mind and in body.

The clock radio said it was nearing six o'clock. That meant nine in Atlanta. Poor Claire must have had an awful evening, and no one deserved it less. She'd long been Cal's hero. He could never live up to her.

More unprofitable thoughts. He’d let her down royally this time. The one person who'd never failed him, and he'd repaid her by being unable to keep his pants zipped.

Him and his damned libido. His mother was right. He was a weak fool.

Unwilling eyes went back to Amanda.

His libido that he couldn't repress.

He dropped into the armchair by the bed.
Stop beating a dead horse. Figure out what to do next
.

Right. He already had an agency calling hotels, searching for Noelle. If she was still in Las Vegas, he'd know her whereabouts by morning. Once he found her, he'd get the answers to his questions, in particular, the identity of her accomplice who, as now seemed apparent, had been Sonny Kirkman.

The problem was the one Claire had raised. Who killed Sonny? With Noelle here, that ruled her out. And where was the journal and Cal's studs? With Noelle?

The studs could be a separate thing from the book. If Sonny, assuming Sonny was the thief, had found the journal when stealing them and decided to make a little money on the side by taking it, too, then the diamonds may already have been sold.

Which made sense. Plenty of collectors would buy stolen gems without batting an eye. Miles, for instance. But he'd worry about the studs later. The big question was what Sonny had done with the journal.

For now, his hopes for recovering it lay in Noelle.

Amanda shivered in her sleep.

The room was chilly. The gray dress was made of some thin stuff that couldn't be warm. He folded his share of the coverlet over, cocooning her between its top. She stirred and sighed, but didn't wake.

After turning up the thermostat, he sat back down and started to light a cigarette despite the non-smoking ban.

No, the smoke would wake her up. He put the cigarettes away. She was tired. Let her rest.

He leaned back wearily, watching her sleep as he waited for his phone call.

* * * *

Chimes woke Amanda.

She heard a man speaking, recognized him as Callaway and opened her eyes.

His back was to her, cell phone to his ear.

Noelle. Someone was calling about Noelle. She sat up, joints hurting from sleeping so hard.

“So she left without a forwarding address. All right. Keep at it.”

He pocketed his cell and turned to meet her inquiring look. “Noelle was in this hotel until early this morning. She's gone now, not in the city.” When he drew up the Roman shades, gray light with garish streaks from flashing fluorescents and neons filled the room.

“What time is it?” Amanda's mouth was dry and cottony.

“Seven-thirty.”

Her stomach growled. “In the morning?”

“No, sugar. There are three hours difference, remember? Seven-thirty in the evening. Ten-thirty at home. Time for dinner out here.”

She started to get up, pulled the place in her back where the thermostat had gouged it in the cottage.

He saw her flinch. “What's the matter? Sleep the wrong way?”

She wouldn't complain of her injuries at his hands. “Yeah. It'll go away.”

Callaway picked up the hotel phone to make flight arrangements to Atlanta while Amanda went into the bathroom. After washing her face, she felt better.

He stopped pacing when she came out and scowled. “The first plane we can get on leaves at seven tomorrow morning.”

For some reason, she felt like crying. Another day away from the shop meant disgruntled customers, disturbed personnel, and nasty rumors to deal with when she returned. And she still had Noelle to worry about. Everything was closing in.

She blinked back tears. “Then I need a toothbrush.”

“The concierge is supposed to send up some things in a few minutes.” He glanced at her wrinkled dress and away as if embarrassed. “Along with clothes from one of the shops.”

“Oh. Okay.” She should have known he'd think of everything. “They couldn't find out where Noelle's gone?”

His shoulders tensed. “Left this morning on a flight to Atlanta.”

“I'm sorry.”

He met her gaze. “Not as sorry as you will be.”

She was damned tired of his threats. “The worst thing you can do is put me in jail. The next worst thing you can do is ruin my business. You're about to do one. I'm beginning not to care about the other.”

After a beat of silence, he laughed, his real laugh that lit his eyes and erased the strain on his forehead and softened the set of his mouth. There was even a hint of the dimple under one corner.

“I'll do what I can for your business,” he promised carelessly. “So long as you help me find your sister. And my, um, my studs.”

“What can I do?” She spread her hands. “I didn't even know about her divorce. Why do you think I can help you?”

“Because,” he said, pulling cigarettes from his pocket, “according to what I'm told, she always comes to you when she needs anything.” His lighter flared. He drew on the cigarette, closed the lighter, and put it away while blowing out a thin cloud of smoke. “Everyone says so.”

The sight of the capable hands in their simple task evoked an uncalled-for reaction in Amanda. She cleared her throat. “You aren’t supposed to smoke in here.”

“Sue me.”

She picked up a magazine to fan at the swirling gray cloud. “If Noelle has as much money as you think, she won't need me for anything.”

He ignored her pointed fanning. “She'll get dumped sooner or later.” He cocked his head to appraise her. “And come crawling back to big sister.”

She was irrationally annoyed at his casual dismissal of Noelle. More annoyed at his indifference to herself. “How do you know she'll get dumped?”

“Because she's the type that always gets dumped. You, now.” He took a step toward her, reached out, and drew the back of his hand down her cheek. An assessing gesture rather than a caress. His cologne filtered through the smoke. “You're altogether different. I expect you've never let a man dump you in your entire life.”

It took all her will power not to balk under the touch of those astute fingers, all her self-control to meet his eyes. “I expect you're right.” She returned stare for stare, adding without emotion, “If you intend to give me bronchitis as well as destroy my business and put me in jail, you can keep blowing that smoke in my face.”

“Should I care if you get bronchitis?” But he put the cigarette out, slowly, deliberately, while his gaze wandered to her mouth. “Give me a reason I should care.”

His eyes fastened on her lips were unnerving.

Amanda licked them, and wished she hadn't. She recognized the signals, knew what was coming, but didn't try to avoid it. Didn't want to avoid it.

Her skin tingled and her breasts swelled while a longing started in her depths and spread upward, preventing her from looking away as he bent and touched his mouth, acrid with tobacco smoke, to hers. His lips were gentle. His tongue, if possible, was gentler, finding the parting of her lips and stroking, willing them to open to him.

As they did. Her heart thumped in her ears and blocked out the hum of the air conditioner. His mouth took its fill of hers as he demonstrated his mastery over her will.

Their bodies never touched.

He drew his face away unhurriedly, satisfied.

“Why did you do that?” she asked hoarsely.

He gave her the little boy's smile, changed somehow. Saddened. “Because I wanted to.”

“Don't do it again.”

“You didn't stop me.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts.

His smile twisted, mocking her. Or maybe himself. He opened his mouth but a knock on the door interrupted what he would have said.

“That's our supplies,” he said instead. “Let's see what they've brought up and then go down to dinner.”

* * * *

He'd been about to admit that he was stupid, weak and irrational where women were concerned and that he couldn't control his impulses. He had been on the verge of telling her he'd kissed her because she seemed fragile and looked like she wanted to be kissed.

No, those weren’t the real reasons. He’d wondered if the sedate Amanda Jane would taste like the redhead he'd been so wild to possess in Houston.

That's why I kissed her
. Not because, despite her show of composure, he'd sensed she was tired and uncertain, in need of comforting.

Not because her only crime was in caring too much about her damned sister.

Chapter Twelve

After bathing, donning new underwear and a dress chosen from several sent up by the boutique, Amanda looked into the mirror with, if not pleasure, resignation. Though she would have preferred a sober color, her choices had been pastels and rich jewel hues. Because none had price tags, she had steeled herself to select an aquamarine cotton with a discreet neckline and handkerchief hem that fell below her knees. The simple lines shrieked expense.

Noelle would have hated it.

She didn't want to think of Noelle.

Noelle had managed to lie to her and betray her. Someone had coached her sister. That was the only explanation.

What could have driven Noelle to do such a thing?

She wanted to blame Edward but couldn’t. He'd tried, she was sure. But thanks to her disability, Noelle had no idea of how to deal with life.

Amanda knew, though. Had she listened to her conscience, she and Noelle wouldn't be in such a mess.

In the crowded elevator, she was pressed inside the perimeter of Callaway's scrubbed masculine fragrance. Like Amanda, he wore fresh clothes from the hotel boutique. Creased khakis and a buttoned plaid shirt turned him into a tourist. The two of them blended in with everyone else milling around in varying degrees of casual and fancy dress.

They ate in the Chinese restaurant, at a secluded table beside a small fountain that issued a continuous soothing trickle of water. As electronic fireworks whizzed overhead, Callaway told her about Sonny Kirkman.

His nimble fingers manipulated the chopsticks with practiced precision. She wouldn’t mind learning how to eat with them, but not tonight. “You think he's connected to Noelle? That he was her lover?”

“He knows, knew,” he corrected as he put more lemon chicken on his plate, “my weakness for redheads. He was in a position to reserve your theater box. As Robert's assistant, he had opportunities to learn the safe combination that Robert, Claire and I all used. And Sonny's spent a lot of time here in Las Vegas lately, where your sister came.” He brooded a moment. “Women liked Sonny. He could get them to do anything.”

Amanda shivered. “And now he's dead. That's why you're so sure Noelle will get in touch with me. Poor Noelle. Losing her family and now her lover.”

He wielded his chopsticks in chilly silence.

Should she tell him about the conversation overheard at Johanna's wedding? Yes, better not hold anything back. She put down her fork. “At the wedding, I was in the garden. I overheard some people talking. A man was blackmailing Senator Swift, and I think it was Sonny.”

That startled Callaway so much he sloshed hot tea over the edge of his cup. “Matthew?” He wiped at the spilled tea with his napkin. “What did they say?”

Pausing, she tried to remember the conversation.

He caught her lower arm. “What? What did you hear?”

“Give me a chance to think. I'm trying to remember the exact words.”

He sat back but kept his hold on her arm.

She mistrusted the way that contact affected her. “Sonny mentioned a diary.” The rest poured out. “Something about the publicity if reporters got hold of it. The senator said he felt threatened, that he couldn't get that much cash on Sunday.”

Callaway jerked away as if she were tainted and picked up his chopsticks.

The connection hit her, out of the blue. Her fork clattered on the table. “The book you're after. That isn't...?”

“Isn't what?” He challenged her to say the words.

She rescued her fork and picked up shrimp and rice to avoid his accusing eyes. “Nothing.”

“Go on.” His chopsticks lay still. “Isn't what?”

The food in her mouth made her sick. “Is the diary the same book that was taken from you?”

“Stolen from me, thanks to you.”

Cold enveloped her, so forbidding was his face. “I didn't know.” She put the fork down, appetite gone. “I'm sorry.”