Slow Hands (6 page)

“Your bargain…”

“I made a promise to the organizers of the auction and my promise is like my handshake. My dad would clobber me if I didn’t stand by either one of them. So that’s what I am going to do.”

Whether you like it or not
. He didn’t say the words. But she heard them just the same.

Maddy noted the challenge, realized he was throwing down a gauntlet, daring her to
not
live up to her end of the bargain. And her competitive spirit rose. She might have been raised in a mansion, but the owner of that mansion had been Jason Turner, who had his financial hands spread over half the city and his fingers touching the other half. He kept them there by shrewdness and sheer will. Something else she’d inherited from her dad.

She suspected their fathers would get along well.

“All right then,” she said, meeting his stare, “so will I.”

“You won’t regret it,” he said, his eyes darkening even further as he stared at her, raking his gaze from her hair to her cheek, then to her mouth and her throat in a look more appreciative than predatory.

She already regretted it. How had she let herself be dared into saying yes?

She opened her mouth to lay down a few ground rules for their “date.” It would be brief, platonic and completely romance-free, without question. She fully intended to meet him at the ball field and leave immediately after the last out of the night. And that would be the end of it.

No touching. No sexy looks. None of those cute jokes that made the stupid dimples on her face put in an appearance. And from here on out, her palms were staying dry. So were her private parts.

Before she could say anything, however, they were both startled by the sudden opening of Maddy’s office door.

“Maddy, I need to talk to you about…oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had an appointment. Your secretary’s not outside and your calendar was clear.”

Maddy leaped from her seat so quickly her chair went sliding backward against the wall. Her father had just entered the room, carrying a folder and wearing his “We have a problem” look that usually meant they were skipping lunch.

He quickly forgot his problem though, as he stared curiously at Jake Wallace. Maybe because nobody had been on her electronic appointment calendar. Maybe because the dark-haired man was smiling too intimately to be a client looking for a loan. Maybe because Maddy was so flustered. Or maybe because the heated tension in her office was about as thick as the stack of her father’s prenups and divorce notices.

Which was pretty damn thick.

“Dad!” she said, wondering how her day could have gone downhill so rapidly. No more words came out of her mouth. Her brain had just emptied, probably because the whole reason she’d attended the bachelor auction was to keep her father’s wife out of
this
man’s bed.

Jake stood, saving her from having to say anything. But when he spoke, Maddy wondered whether he’d done her any favors at all.

“I’m not an appointment,” he said, smiling at her father, comfortable and at ease as he rose to extend his hand. “I’m Madeline’s date, and I’m here to take her to lunch.”

“I
THINK
your father likes me.”

Jake didn’t have to hear the annoyed, huffy little sound Madeline Turner made to know she wasn’t happy about that. He could still picture the mortification on her face when her father, the very well-known Jason Turner, had practically pushed her out the door with her lunch “date” after offering Jake a hearty handshake and a broad smile.

Funny, he’d have thought coming face-to-face with one of the wealthiest men in Chicago would have been at least slightly intimidating. Jason Turner might not be known nationwide, but there wasn’t a person in Chicago who hadn’t heard of the rich philanthropist, a man who was as well-known for his charitable works as for his stormy love life.

Jake hadn’t been intimidated, though. Maybe it was because he’d seen enough accident scenes, helped enough crime victims, responded to enough tragedies, that he realized all the money in the world didn’t mean a damn thing when it came to stopping a bullet or avoiding flying through the windshield of a car.

Everyone bled the same—red. There was no such thing as blue blood. Which was, perhaps, why he also felt entirely at ease in his pursuit of Madeline Turner, who the society pages liked to call the Ice Queen of the Financial District. He’d found that out in the two days since the auction. He’d been doing some research.

Personally, she wasn’t a bit icy. Confident and a little unreachable? Sure. But not cold.

Professionally? Well, he really didn’t give a damn what she was like behind that fancy desk at work. He didn’t want her for her connections to a major Chicago bank. He wanted her for the excitement he’d felt in his gut from the moment he’d peered at her from behind the black drapes at the auction the other night. And he wanted to know what had been behind her tension and her determination, which hadn’t been able to disguise her innate earthy sensuality.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said as they reached the corner of Madison and State, heading for the closest lunch café. “Despite his business reputation, my father is a hopeless romantic, who’d love to see me settle down. He’d be happy if an intoxicated mime in full makeup came to take me to lunch, as long as he was single and breathing.”

“I hate mimes.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I mean, what kind of kid thinks ‘Gee, when I grow up, I wanna paint my face and annoy people for a living.’”

She raised a droll brow. “One who wants to be a clown?”

“I think I’d feel better if my kid said he wanted to be a lawyer.”

“Perish the thought,” she said with an exaggerated shudder.

“I’ve never seen a drunk one, though. That might be entertaining.”

“You obviously don’t lunch at the Chicago Club with all the rest of the high-priced defense attorneys.”

“I meant the mime,” he explained, enjoying sparring with her, liking the smart comebacks and that smile lurking on her mouth. What he most wanted now was a full frontal attack of those gorgeous dimples and that light laugh he just knew was hiding behind the twitching lips and the twinkling eyes.

“Watching them fall and not be able to get up in their invisible box might be fun.”

It finally worked, he got her to relax. “You’re right.” A tiny grin appeared, finally widening into that brilliant smile, complete with a flash of those dimples. God, she had the kind of smile that could stop traffic. She was absolutely made for it.

Among other things.

Feeling even more confident about his sneaky way of getting her to have lunch with him, he took her arm as the light changed. Instinct. Good manners toward females had been hammered into him from the time he was old enough to understand what the words
put the seat down
meant.

One good thing—she didn’t flinch. A second one—she didn’t pull away, either. It was something, at least.

“So your dad’s a real romantic, huh?” The image didn’t quite fit with the “ruthless mogul” the papers made him out to be.

“Don’t go there.”

“Touchy subject?”

“His romantic track record’s not exactly one for the books. Yet he still wants everything to be roses and fairy tales, true love all around, as impossible as that may be.”

They crossed the street with the rest of the streaming flow of humanity. On a sunny summer afternoon,
everyone
stepped outside to bask in the sunlight. And many of them did it at Millennium Park. That was where he intended to take Madeline after they grabbed a take-out lunch. He sensed she wasn’t the picnicking type, especially in the middle of a workday, but he intended to try to convince her, anyway.

“Why is it impossible?” he asked as they stepped onto the opposite sidewalk.

“What?” she asked, glancing up at him in confusion, obviously having forgotten what she’d just said.

That said a lot. Mainly that she didn’t think about love very often. He tucked the realization away, knowing he’d have to get to know this woman bit by bit, piece by piece, because that was all she was going to allow until she let her guard down.

“Why is falling in love impossible?”

She sighed as they continued walking. “
Falling
in love isn’t the problem,” she murmured. “It’s the staying in love part that I don’t have much faith in.”

“I have two parents, four grandparents, and about fifty aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who’d say you’re wrong about that.”

She finally turned to really look at him, a hard, skeptical glint appearing in those big brown eyes. That was when he knew—the woman had been burned. Badly. The realization made something twist inside him, deep down, to the nice-guy core who detested the jerks who hurt women.

“And I have a father, a sister, a couple of former stepmothers, several cousins, aunts, uncles and friends who say I’m right.”

He gaped. “Not a single successful marriage in the bunch?”

Her gaze shifted, her lashes lowering over suddenly sad eyes. “My parents were supposedly happy.”

Confused, he waited for her to continue.

“My mother died when I was very young. My father once said the years he spent with her were the most blissful of his life.”

“So it is possible.”

“They were only married for five years before she got sick.”

“God, you’re a pessimist.”

“And you’re an optimist?”

“Hell, yes. My glass may only hold beer instead of champagne, but it’s almost always half full.”

Jake had seen too much sadness and tragedy in his work to let himself feel anything but intensely grateful for all the good things in his life. His family, the great childhood, his job, his friends.

And now…well, now, maybe Madeline Turner. If only she’d let him get close enough to find out.

“So, what do you want to grab for lunch?” he asked, still not telling her he intended to get her to the park so she could unwind, unbend, maybe let her guard down a little.

He wanted to see the breeze off the lake blowing in her hair. Wanted to see another genuine smile, maybe even a flash of unguarded interest, as he’d seen in her eyes earlier in her office. Just like the flash that she had obviously seen the other night when they’d met.

Women hated being objectified, he knew that. And Jake had never—ever—treated any woman like a sexy body with a head stuck on it. But pausing to appreciate the soft, mouthwatering curves on this particular one had been as instinctive to him as drawing in his next breath of fresh June air.

She’d noticed. He’d noticed her noticing. Even now his hands tightened and his mouth hungered at the thought of watching her shimmy out of that glittering blue cocktail dress she’d had on.

He’d wager she’d been wearing something very black, very silky and
very
sinful underneath it. The thought of exactly what that might have looked like against the unbelievably lush curves of her body had been enough to keep his imagination racing and his libido roaring throughout the long, sleepless night after she’d left.

He sensed tonight wouldn’t be much better, though she couldn’t look more different than she had then. Today, dressed in her businesswoman’s armor—a tailored light blue suit, silky blouse, skirt short enough to show a stunning pair of legs, but not so short that she’d send a man into cardiac arrest—she looked entirely in control. Every hint of the sexy, almost-impulsive woman who’d cut through all the bullshit games and bid a small fortune for an evening with him was gone. She had been replaced by a smooth, impeccably mannered businesswoman.

The completely unflappable professional was still incredibly hot. And the idea of
un
smoothing her, tempting her into forgetting her manners and her reserve and going wild—with
him
—already had his pants fitting a little tighter than they’d been this morning.

She was a contradiction…ice maiden and sexy, earthy woman in midnight-blue. He wanted them both. Badly.

“We really don’t have to continue this facade.”

“What facade?”

“This…impromptu lunch. Obviously you were startled into making the offer when my father showed up.”

He grinned. “The best part was that you were startled into accepting it.”

Her face flushed the tiniest bit, but she waved a hand, as if shooing a pesky little insect—or that pesky little detail—away. “Whatever the case, my father’s office is on the twentieth floor. He’s not watching to make sure we really are going on a date.”

“Don’t consider it a date,” he conceded. “Let’s call it a lunch meeting. Just a casual get-together so we can figure out our
real
date.”

Her back stiffened. “
That’s
not a real date, either.”

“What would you call it?”

“A planned meeting.”

“Sounds cold. What about a shared experience between two friends?”

“We’re not friends.”