Black-Tie Seduction Page 3

  She never wanted to feel that sense of helplessness or hopelessness again. Respectability, security and safety. She’d needed them most as a child but had never received them. As an adult, she’d earned them and she never took them for granted.

  Life was work. Life was hard. How many times had her father driven that point home? Often enough that she’d absorbed it along with the blows from the back of his hand.

  Yeah, she thought pragmatically. Life was hard. But life was also precious.

  And that’s why she didn’t like Jake Thorne, with his life-is-a-lark attitude and his damn-the-torpedoes grin. He took everything for granted. So much so that it puzzled her how someone like him had gotten invited to join the Cattleman’s Club—a club that was about duty and honor and public service. And if some of the rumors were to be believed, it was also a club where the members were covertly active in thwarting any number of horrible situations. In fact, she’d heard specific rumors that the club had been instrumental in breaking up a black-market baby network and once had prevented a bloody overthrow of a small European principality. Jacob Thorne just didn’t seem to fit the Cattleman’s profile.

  Fun and games. That seemed to be as deep as he got. She didn’t know how to react around someone who was always smiling and joking. The way he’d joked with her the other night.

  “Him and his condition,” she sputtered under her breath, remembering how he’d told her she could have the saddlebags if she met his condition.

  Nothing had changed there, she admitted, as with a brief hug she begged off Alison’s offer to stop at the Royal Diner for a diet soda that was really a ruse to get her to talk. Christine wasn’t ready to confide that part of her life with Alison, although she’d come as close to telling her as she had anyone.

  Instead she went home. She still wanted the box with Jess Golden’s things for the Historical Society. And because this was serious business, she knew what she’d known from the beginning and simply hadn’t wanted to admit.

  She’d have to give in to Thorne’s condition. Eat some crow and call him. Tell him she’d reconsidered. She’d go to his damn ball—so he could have some fun at her expense.

  She undressed, brushed and flossed, then slipped into a white cotton nightie. She plopped down on her back in bed and stared at the ceiling in the dark.

  First thing tomorrow she’d call him.

  Oh, joy. Something to look forward to. A conference with the evil twin.

  Two days after the auction, Jake waded through a dozen voice mails at his office at Hellfire, International, hating it that he wasn’t on-site with his men.

  “You get caught up in another fire,” his doctor had warned him before he’d released him from the hospital after his accident, “and the next time you won’t walk away. The damage to your lungs is just too extensive to risk it. They can’t take another hit.”

  Sidelined. Jake hated it. To take his mind off the reality that ate at him every day, he started thinking about the auction again. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Not just that he’d gotten ornery and outbid Chrissie Travers for the box of junk, but why he’d told her he’d give her the stuff if she’d go with him to the ball.

  Now, where in the name of anything sane had that come from? Okay. Sanity probably hadn’t had anything to do with it. Sheer impulse had.

  Still, that didn’t explain why he’d asked her. Probably because he’d figured she’d do exactly what she’d done—stick that little nose of hers high in the air and turn him down flat.

  He glanced at the box he’d brought to work and set on the floor in the corner. It was as closed up and secretive as the prickly Ms. Travers.

  “Let’s just call it a testosterone moment,” he muttered grimly and leaned back in his leather chair. For some inexplicable reason, the woman was always messing with his hormones. And that in itself was a major puzzle.

  She was so not his type. Uppity little tight-ass. That’s what she was. He’d always gone more for the party girls who wanted to have a good time, knew how to have a good time and didn’t beat themselves up the next morning after they’d had a good time. Prissy Chrissie wouldn’t know a good time if it sneaked up and bit her on her cute, curvy butt.

  So why did he find himself grinning at the prospect of seeing her again? And why did he have this recurring fantasy of biting the cute little butt in question?

  Uncomfortable with his turn of thoughts, he sobered and stood abruptly, tucking the tips of his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. He walked to the window of his fourth-floor office and stared down at the street.

  Well, well, well, he thought, feeling a little too much pleasure when he saw who was walking down the street. Speak of the devil—or in this case, the saint. There she was. Little Miss Priss, in all her starched-panties glory.

  He leaned a shoulder against the window frame, crossed his arms over his chest and looked his fill as she marched down the sidewalk toward his building. All she needed was a uniform and she could be captain of a drill team.

  What made a woman, he wondered and reached up to scratch his jaw, who was put together in a package like a sweet little china doll think she had to go through life like a caricature of a turn-of-the-century, stiff-backed, prim and proper suffragette?

  Hell, he bet she did starch her panties. And they were probably white. Most likely cotton. With days of the week that she always wore on the proper day.

  Why that image made him hot, he had no idea.

  She was within a block now and he couldn’t help but appreciate the view. She was barely five-four. Her pale blond hair and large hazel eyes gave her a cute, fragile, elfin look that in his weaker moments made him want to protect her as much as provoke her. Since he was fairly certain she’d never let anyone protect her—regardless that she looked as delicate as the petals on a yellow rose—provoking her was a much better bet.

  And again, she was not his type. She was the exact opposite of Rea, who’d been svelte, sexy and as predatory as a jungle cat. Thoughts of his ex made him shiver. Too bad he’d been so blinded by the svelte, sexy parts that he’d missed the other characteristic until it was too late.

  Whoa, what’s this, he wondered when he saw Chrissie cross the street. Without a doubt she was on her way up to see him.

  Fine. He walked away from the window, picked up the box and set it on his desk. He’d been about to have his secretary call a courier to pick it up and deliver it to Chrissie anyway. This would save him a buck or two. He’d had his fun. Now she could have her precious box. And the musty-smelling saddlebag that was in it.

  His secretary, Janice Smith, who had been with him from the beginning seven years ago, buzzed him on the intercom as he settled in behind his desk.

  “Yes, Janice.”

  “Christine Travers is here to see you, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Send her in.”

  He rocked back in his chair. Propping his elbows on the arms and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, he prepared to be magnanimous. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as being obnoxious, but, hey, if nothing else, it would be a kick to throw her off guard by being nice.

  She should have called, Christine realized when she found herself standing outside Jacob Thorne’s office door. Her palms began to sweat. She should have saved herself the stress of a face-to-face meeting.

  But that was the coward’s way out and she’d never been that. She wasn’t starting now. Not for someone like him.

  She turned the handle and stepped inside, expecting…well, not really knowing what to expect when she entered his inner sanctum. He did, however, manage to surprise her.

  The office was large but not ostentatious. The furniture was top-of-the-line but functional, all stylish black lacquer and shining chrome. There wasn’t a dead animal in sight—either on the floor made into a rug or on the wall in the guise of a hat rack or displayed as a trophy. She grudgingly gave him points for that. And for the stunning collection of photographs adorning the walls.

  Each dramatically f
ramed photo was of a different oil fire site. And each photo captured all the fury, the danger and the unyielding hunger of the flames shooting into the air like geysers and of the courageous men who risked their lives putting them out.

  “Impressive, aren’t they?”

  She jerked her attention from the photographs to the man lounging idly behind a desk that was far from empty yet neat and uncluttered. He was watching her with a look that made her think of a lion lounging lazily in the sun, overseeing the lioness doing all the work. Clearly, though, he was a hands-on boss if the stacks of paperwork were any indication. Okay. So he got another point for being involved.

  “Very,” she agreed belatedly with a nod back to the photos, because what was really impressive was the way he looked behind that desk and she didn’t want him to see how he had affected her. Since her cheeks were hot, she figured they were also pink. It was a curse of her fair complexion.

  In the meantime she’d never seen him in business mode. She’d seen him at death’s door, as pale as the hospital sheets beneath him. She’d seen him all sexy swagger and irritating indolence, as he’d been the other night at the auction. This man-in-charge persona was disconcerting—and unexpectedly appealing.

  His shirt was white. The top button was undone and his cuffs were rolled up on his strong forearms. His brown suit jacket and a truly stunning silk tie hung on the coatrack behind him. Style. He had it. In spades.

  “That one was taken in Kuwait,” he said when she averted her attention to a print that, once she was able to study it without being hyperaware of him, gave her chills just thinking about the fierceness of the blaze.

  “I’ll go to the ball with you,” she said without turning back to him.

  Okay. It was out. She hadn’t intended to just blurt it out that way but now that she was here, now that she was suddenly aware of him as an entity other than the proverbial Thorne-in-her-side, she wanted to get this over with and get away from him as quickly as possible. And away from this unbelievable resurgence of attraction that not only blindsided her but also shook her composure. The sooner they cut this deal, the sooner she could go on about her business.

  When she was met with nothing but silence, she drew a bracing breath and turned toward him.

  He was frowning. Not a gloating or even an angry frown, but more as though he was in deep thought or contemplating something heavy.

  “I said I’d go to the ball with you,” she repeated, and he finally rocked forward in his chair and came to attention behind his desk.

  “So you did.”

  And still he scowled.

  Perplexed, she eyed him with wary suspicion. “Wasn’t that the condition?”

  “Of me turning over the box?”

  Her exasperation at the way he was drawing this out came in the form of an impatient breath. “I believe it was.”

  “Ah. Well, you just said the magic word. Was. That was my condition. Two days ago. But now, we’re dealing with today.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “There was a time limit?”

  “It seems so, yeah.”

  Sure. Now he was smiling.

  Because this was still a joke to him. He had never intended for her to go to the dance with him. Just as she’d thought. He’d merely been playing with her, and when she’d called him on it, he’d figured a way to weasel out of the invitation. It shouldn’t have hurt so much.

  “Why is this stuff so important to you anyway?” he asked, standing. He walked around the desk and settled a hip on its corner.

  “Historic value,” she said truthfully.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “Musty saddlebags? Old guns? A lady’s purse? What else? Oh, yeah. A faded map.”

  Her heart jumped over itself. “You looked?”

  “You may have heard. It’s my box. I’m pretty sure that means I’m entitled to look.”

  This was going nowhere. And she’d had enough of his fun and games. She’d figure out another way to get the box of Jess Golden’s things to the Historical Society. Maybe she could get some of the city matriarch types to put a little heat on him or something.

  “Sorry to have taken your time,” she said and headed for the door.

  “Wait. Wait. You haven’t heard the new condition.”

  She stopped, her hand on the door handle, and let out a deep breath. Knowing she was going to regret this, she turned and met his smug smile. “New condition?”

  He pushed off the desk. “Tell you what. Let’s talk about it over lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  He reached around her to open the door. “You know. The light meal between breakfast and dinner?”

  “But—”

  “I’ll be back in an hour or so, Janice,” he said, herding Christine out of his office and into the reception area with a hand at the small of her back. “Anybody calls, tell ’em I’ll get back to them—unless it’s Ray. If Ray calls, tell him to phone my cell.”

  Christine was far too aware of his hand touching her there, ever so lightly at the small of her back. “I’m not going to lunch with you.”

  “Oh, lighten up, Chrissie, would you? It’s noon. I’m hungry. I figure you’re hungry, too. It’s that simple. It’s not like it’s a date or anything.”

  She told herself his last statement didn’t sting. And it wouldn’t have—at least not so badly—if Janice, stylish and chic in her tailored white blouse and short red skirt, hadn’t glanced up and cast Christine a sympathetic look when they passed the desk.

  He’d just made it clear to anyone within earshot that Jacob Thorne didn’t consider Christine Travers datable.

  Which was perfectly fine. She lifted her chin. She didn’t want to date him anyway. And she didn’t want to go to lunch with him. What she wanted was to get as far away from the reproachable evil twin as she could, considering they lived in the same city.

  And that was the truth.

  Three

  Okay. Jake had surprised himself again. He simply had been going to give Chrissie the box. End of story. So what had happened to the plan?

  Why was he sitting across from her in a booth at the Royal Diner happy as a damn clam because little Chrissie looked all pouty and put out?

  As usual the diner was packed. It never seemed to matter that the greasy spoon, with its smoke-stained walls, cracked bar stools and chipped countertops, had seen better days. The place stayed popular with the locals for two basic reasons: nobody knew their way around a grill like Manny Hernandez and nobody gave lip like the mainstay waitress, Sheila Foster. A lot of guys came in just to let Sheila rag on them. Himself included.

  Montgomery and Gentry belted out a song from the beat-up jukebox as Jake watched Chrissie pick at one of Manny’s burger baskets with all the enthusiasm of a Fear Factor competitor contemplating eating a box of scorpions.

  “You don’t like the burger?”

  “Do you know how much fat is in one of these things?” she grumbled.

  “So why did you order it?”

  “I didn’t. You did. I wanted a salad and you said I was too thin and why didn’t I eat something with some substance. So I said fine, I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “I forgot.”

  Actually he hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d wanted to see her eat something that he figured she would consider sinful. And then he wanted to watch the lady enjoy sinning. Wait until she saw the pecan pie with ice cream that followed his standing lunch order.

  He didn’t know why but he was suddenly determined to loosen her up and make her enjoy herself in spite of her determination not to. Not, he told himself, because he particularly cared, but because sometime during the course of this day—okay, if he were being honest, it was long before today—she had started to become a personal challenge to him.

  People liked him. Pretty much without exception. Chrissie Travers was the major dissenter. For whatever reason, he wanted to change that.

  As a rule, folks liked his teasing.
They liked his sense of humor. They liked that he thought life should be lived to the fullest whenever possible because so much in these times was tough to deal with. And they liked that he knew about tough from the trenches. Just as he knew what it was like to face down death and come out on top.

  A near-death experience like he’d had five years ago had a tendency to change a man’s outlook on life—it had sure as the world prompted him to want to live the rest of it on terms of his own making. Terms that included squeezing out as much pleasure as possible. Unlike the super-duper-serious Christine Travers, who was his polar opposite when it came to pursuing fun.

  So he’d pulled a squeeze play on Chrissie, who really wasn’t too thin or all that difficult to squeeze. He’d said she was thin to get her riled again and see the color rise in her cheeks because she looked so pretty in pink. In fact, despite her spinster-slash-warden suits, which ranged in color from navy blue to black to—God save her—dirt brown, she looked kinda cute just the way she was. Well, cute except for the sourpuss attitude that was going to give her wrinkles before she turned thirty.

  The woman was a puzzle. Flat out. And he did love a puzzle. Which probably explained why he kept trying to fit the pieces together.

  “So. Tell me,” he said, digging into his own burger, “what do you do for fun?”

  She blinked at him as if she didn’t understand the question. “Fun?”

  He shook his head, swallowed and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I’m sensing a severe shortfall in your basic vocabulary here. Lunch. Fun. Do I dare introduce the word play?”

  The woman had some expressions. Most of them pinched—as if she was sitting on something prickly and was too polite to take care of the problem in public. What would people think?

  He wondered what it was going to take to make her smile. He’d given it a halfhearted effort for five years now and so far he hadn’t hit the magic word, number or combination. Maybe it was time he got serious.