“IS THE COAST CLEAR?”
Parked a half block away, Tessa Dalton watched her attorney’s house, her chest tight. The front window sheers fluttered. Karen stepped into view and waved, then scanned the street outside, lending a second pair of eyes to confirm that Tessa was safe to leave the confines of her rental car. Damn, she resented taking such paranoid precautions, but she hated ambushes even more. Most of the guests had already arrived at Karen’s, and if Tessa could just slip inside the house relatively unnoticed, she might actually have a good time.
Switching her cell phone to her other ear, Tessa listened to the tropical Jimmy Buffet beat playing in the background of Karen’s party, the perfect sound track for small talk and laughter on a hot Miami night. A mortgage payoff celebration should have been the last place Tessa wanted to be, but with every measure of music, she longed to dash inside. Escape. Enjoy. Relax. Besides, Karen deserved Tessa’s support for the long hours her attorney had logged while working on her high-profile divorce, not to mention the even longer hours she’d spent bolstering Tessa’s confidence in the human race. Karen had promised an evening of good music, food and laughter with people who had enough class to ignore Tessa’s current situation. A night like that could go a long way toward restoring her faith in her fellow man.
Well, maybe not her fellow man, but her fellow woman at least had a decent shot. And after nearly six months of self-imposed exile—protection from her world as it unraveled around her—Tessa wasn’t about to let an opportunity for some long-deserved fun slip away.
Still, caution couldn’t hurt.
Karen’s sheers skimmed back into place. “Looks clear to me,” her attorney concluded. “I’ll send a friend out to meet you. I’m so sorry about today at the courthouse. I don’t know what happened to your bodyguards.”
Tessa smirked. “Yes, you do. You’re just too devoted to that innocent until proven guilty credo to say it out loud.”
Tessa had no doubt her wily, soon-to-be ex-husband and his powerful father had been behind the defection of her protection. Daniel had likely doubled their salary so they’d leave her vulnerable to the reporters hovering around the Palm Beach County Courthouse. The ravenous swarm couldn’t have anticipated that she’d have no more meat to give them. Since she’d announced her separation from the prince of West Palm Beach and then had had the audacity to deny his claim to her wealth, the press had picked her clean.
Which didn’t mean the insects didn’t return to the carcass every so often, to make sure they hadn’t missed a morsel of muscle, a prime cut of cartilage—anything they could twist into another outrageous lie.
Tessa scanned the street one last time, hating that she felt like a prisoner in such a wide-open space. A van caught her attention, causing a prickle along the back of her neck. “Who’s catering your party?” she asked, suspicious.
“Lido’s from South Beach, why?”
The Lido’s logo, complete with palm trees and a setting sun, spanned the side of the van. So much for trusting her instincts. Hello, paranoia. Glad to meet you.
“I have a serious craving for strong Cuban coffee,” she said to cover her overactive imagination.
“I’ve got a whole carafe here, just for you. I’ll be waiting by the front door,” Karen said, her inflexible attorney voice replaced with her more natural, feminine inflection. “I can’t believe you came all the way to Miami to celebrate with me. Means a lot.”
“Hey, I owe you,” Tessa said. “And more than just your retainer and fees, you know?”
“You’ve paid in full. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to pay off my mortgage,” she joked. “Now get in here so we can party.”
“I’m on my way.”
Tessa disconnected the call, pocketed the phone and pulled the keys out of the ignition. She took a deep breath, exhaled. God, this could be such a mistake. Going out in public, opening herself up to the snide remarks and speculative glances of strangers. She knew that sooner or later, she wouldn’t give a damn about what other people thought. That, at least, was her goal.
Besides, she owed Karen, and couldn’t blame her attorney for the mess she now faced. It wasn’t Karen’s fault that Tessa had preferred to bank on love instead of legalities, ignoring her attorney’s advice years ago about a prenuptial agreement before her marriage. It also wasn’t Karen’s fault that Tessa had thought she’d found true love with a rotten, double-dealing son-of-a-bitch who’d sucked the magic out of Tessa’s romantic heart just like the pool vacuum hose he’d accused her in court of using as a sex toy.
She had only one more day left until the judge issued a final ruling in her divorce. For over three weeks, she’d sat in the courtroom, listening to Daniel, his family, his attorneys and his lying private investigators paint her as a sexual deviant, an insatiable seductress who’d fucked everyone from the pool boy—emphasis on the word boy—to the elderly cook, a woman, no less. They’d used her secret love, the erotic stories she wrote under a pseudonym, as the main evidence against her.
Tessa’s editor and agent had come to her defense, but they lived in New York. Daniel’s attorney had made a strong case that they couldn’t have known about Tessa’s sordid life of excess in West Palm Beach. Of course they didn’t know. No such life existed. Except for the fact that she wrote erotic stories, Daniel’s claims had been fabricated, bought and paid for to ensure that Daniel not only got his hands on the money she’d inherited from her filthy-rich father, but that he kept every dime of his own. He wanted everything. Homes, cars, cash—spoils he’d purchased from business deals Tessa had helped arrange through her contacts or had at least supported with her social aptitude.
She’d been the perfect corporate wife, and now she’d become the perfect society pariah. Her so-called West Palm Beach friends had either deserted her long before the trial or they’d bolstered Daniel’s salacious tales with misinterpretations of their own.
Vilified and crucified in the courtroom, on the television newsmagazine shows and in the tabloids, Tessa could either run or hide. Or she could say, “screw ’em,” and go have a good time. If reporters came after her again, the worst they could do now was slow her progress to her coffee.
She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror under the dome light, unlocked the car and opened the door. No sooner had her foot met the pavement than someone yanked the handle out of her hand and shoved a microphone in her face.
“Mrs. Reese, is it true you’re writing a memoir of your sexual exploits? Who is the publisher? Do you have a release date?”
Tessa grabbed for the door, but the reporter placed her body between Tessa and the handle.
“Get out of my way,” Tessa demanded. Enough was enough. Pushing out of the car, she swung her purse, only half trying to hide her grin when the heavy leather bag punched the reporter in the gut.
Luckily, the piranha had quick reflexes or Tessa might have knocked her over when she slammed her door. Tessa ducked under the symbiotic cameraman and hurried toward Karen’s house, not giving a damn if the woman followed. Or pressed assault charges. Chances were, after tomorrow, she’d have nothing left to be sued for.
A quick glance to her left verified Tessa’s earlier suspicions as another cache of reporters rolled out of the Lido’s van, armed with lights, cameras and microphones. She had no time to congratulate herself on sensing trouble—or berate herself for not listening to her instincts. She judged the distance to Karen’s front gate, but couldn’t sprint fast enough. In seconds, she was surrounded. Bulbs blinded her. Microphones poked her in the face, ribs. Questions, accusations and lurid, disgusting suggestions assailed her from all angles, all volumes. She wanted to stand her ground, scream, fight—but she settled for a startled yelp when a strong hand grabbed hers and yanked her out of the melee.
Within moments, she was through Karen’s gate and darting to the backyard with her rescuer. Behind them, Karen stood barking above the din, threatening lawsuits if one member of the uninvited press set foot on her private property. Only after they rounded the corner into the quiet backyard did Tessa take a minute to identify her knight in shining armor.
“You!” she said, disbelieving. She’d seen her Galahad in the courtroom, taking notes and weaving his stories with the rest of the media. He was a hard guy to miss. Six foot two, rakish dark hair, pewter eyes that missed nothing. Karen had told her his name. Granger. Colton Granger. With the Chicago Sun-Times.
“You okay?” he asked.
Tessa quickly traded one bout of shock for another, but glanced down to find her clothes in place and her body unhurt. Unhurt, but not unaffected. Colton Granger was one fine specimen of male flesh—and her female flesh couldn’t help but tingle whenever they shared less than ten feet of space, even in the courtroom. Another woman might have wondered how the heck she could feel anything remotely like sexual interest after what Daniel had put her through, but Tessa was both shocked and pleased to learn that her slimy ex-husband hadn’t killed her natural-born passions.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she answered. “Why are you here?”
“Karen sent me out to meet you.”
“Where’s your press pass?” she cracked, slinging her purse over her shoulder. Ready to strike in case her instincts to trust this man—even briefly—were off by a country mile.
He ignored her question and slipped his hands into the front pockets of his loose-fitting khakis. “Karen said you craved coffee.”
She couldn’t resist. The press had played her up to be the poster girl for fallen women. Why not live up to the reputation a little?
“I crave a lot of things, haven’t you heard?”
His eyes narrowed, darkened. When he tightened his jaw, the clench emphasized the rugged, squared shape of his chin, the full curve of his generous mouth. Tessa swallowed and remained silent, no moisture in her throat, her tongue thick.
He wanted her.
Instinctively, she took a half step backward. She’d thought she knew what a man looked like when his concealed desire broke through to the surface. She’d thought her current situation with her divorce and trashed reputation had given her ample armor to protect her from succumbing to even a little hint of want or need for a man.
She’d thought wrong. In a flash, Colton revealed a depth of hunger she’d only dreamed up in her books. Then just as quickly, the look was gone.
She held up her hand and stepped forward, reclaiming the ground she’d nearly lost. “Why are you here again? No, wait. Don’t bother answering unless you know why I’m here in this ridiculous situation, too. I’m betting only my therapist can answer that one.”
He chuckled; she rolled her eyes. She hated men who found her funny. No, that wasn’t true. She simply hated men in general. But she wasn’t so possessed with loathing that she’d blindly lump Colton Granger into the whole rotten barrel. He had just pulled her from the throng. And, in truth, he’d been the one reporter to give her a fair shake in the press, questioning the veracity of Daniel’s claims in the respected print of the Chicago Sun-Times.
This incredibly handsome man had taken her side. Twice now. She could at least produce a civil response. And if he rewarded her with another glimpse of his intense appetite for…what? Her? Her story?
“Thanks for the escort,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
She waited, but though his jaw clenched again, nothing flashed in his eyes except compassion. “How about you grab a step on the porch and catch your breath? I’ll track down your drink of choice.”
“I should go in. I promised Karen.”
“She’ll understand if you take a minute to get yourself together first.”
She tugged at the sleeves of her blouse, a sheer purple confection she couldn’t resist pairing with tight jeans and ankle boots. Panels of silk hid her bra from view, but revealed her bare tummy through a plum haze. Never in her life had she had the audacity to buy such sexy clothes, much less wear them, but she’d already been publicly pegged as a slut. Why not enjoy some of the benefits?
“Don’t I look together?” she asked, wide-eyed with feigned innocence. She smoothed her hands down her sides, emphasizing the curves beneath the blouse, the slim cut of her jeans.
The return of his hunger, so clear in his dark gray gaze, surged through her like electricity. And her reaction—a tiny prickle of heat between her thighs—so unexpected and overwhelming, nearly sent her running. Luckily, Colton seemed to wield great control over his needs, which he once again tamped down just by clearing his throat.
But when he licked his lips seconds before he spoke, he jolted her with another wave of hot awareness.
“You look like you could take on the world,” he answered.
She allowed a half smile to quirk through. “Maybe I’ll just take you on.”
He tilted his head to the left, his expression doubtful. “Promises, promises.”
She couldn’t help but laugh and the light, tinkling echo sounded so strange coming from her. She had no intention of taking him on, or any other man for that matter, but for the first time in forever, she at least felt comfortable in her skin.
When was the last time she’d allowed herself the freedom to indulge in a round of harmless flirting? When was the last time she’d allowed a man into her personal space at all? Maybe having her life torn to the point where she had nothing to lose and everything to gain wasn’t so much a tragedy as an opportunity. For change. For liberation.
She followed Colton up to the gleaming white, wraparound porch of Karen’s Cape Cod-style mini-manse and sank to the bottom step. Behind her, the screen door creaked, and she closed her eyes. The sound of the party surged, waned, then surged again less than a minute later, finally dulled by his firm closing of the door.
“This ought to smooth out the rough spots,” he offered.
She turned to accept her coffee, but instead, her hand met the cold glass of a longneck beer bottle. Mexican, with lime. She thought she might cry with gratitude.
“You read my mind,” she said, swiping lime around the lip of the bottle before taking a long, cold sip. The beer eased down her throat, icing her frazzled nerves into cool submission.
“I have a knack for anticipating what a woman wants.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “My turn to say, ‘promises, promises.’”
His grin had no hint of contrition or capitulation. “You do that to men, don’t you? Incite the natural male instinct to show a woman a good time?”
She smiled. “I’m just sitting here, innocently drinking my beer.”
Gray eyes—gray, intense eyes, she amended—cast a glance toward the longneck bottle she dangled suggestively between her knees. Oh, that. Maybe his instincts weren’t the only ones rising unbidden to the surface, simply from their shared company. To counteract the effect of her inadvertent sensuality, she lifted the beer to her lips and took a most unladylike, unseductive swill.
With a chuckle, he twisted the top off his own brew and matched her swig for swig. The atmosphere alternately crackled between charged and comfortable, and surprisingly, Tessa didn’t know which she liked better.
“You’ve been quite the rescuer tonight.”
He tilted his head again, and this time an errant sweep of thick, black hair swung down over one eye much like a pirate’s signature patch. He raked the lock back with a strong, long-fingered hand decorated with a gold college ring. Now, who was trying to be seductive?
“Right place, right time.” His voice hinted at an accent buried deep within his sultry baritone.
“And I don’t suppose you want an exclusive interview for your trouble?” she suggested, unable to tone down the not-so-subtle bite in her question.
“That would be crass.”
“Isn’t Crass 101 a required course at journalism school?”
He chuckled again, the warm sound inspiring Tessa to take another long, cooling drink from her beer.
“Where I was born, crass is a horrible offense.”
She placed the accent. Southern, but carefully hidden beneath a Midwesterner’s cadence.
“I’ll have to visit your Oz someday,” she joked. “Be a nice change of scenery.”
They remained silent on the porch, Tessa sitting on the step, Colton standing along the rail. After she’d downed half the bottle, she turned and gave him a good once-over, one last time. As intrigued as she was by Colton Granger, Tessa couldn’t allow a foolish dalliance right now—not even with a sexy reporter who seemed to be on her side. She had hard decisions to make about her life, and she needed a clear head to make them. She’d learned the hard way that even the smallest hint of passion tended to muddle her brain worse than San Francisco fog.
The light from the porch sconces rimmed Colton’s broad shoulders with a glimmering sheen, casting his face in shadow, causing Tessa to instantly compare him to the mysterious warriors and princes she wrote about in her novels. Or used to write about. Before Daniel blew her cover. Before he decimated her love for her one talent in life.
Tessa took another sip. She knew she’d had too much beer too fast, but she needed the fortification. Under any other circumstances, she would have cut off this interaction with Colton immediately after she’d thanked him for his help. She didn’t need strange men in her life. She was having enough trouble with the guys she knew. Better to nip this in the bud. Nothing like a little reality to drown the last of the heat sizzling between them.
“You don’t want an interview. Good for me,” she said.
“You could ask me a question.”
She eyed him skeptically, but his expression remained open, honest.
“Okay,” she said. “Why is a Chicago reporter following a divorce case in West Palm Beach? Other than as means to annoy my soon-to-be former father-in-law?”
Martin Reese’s company headquarters had recently relocated to the Windy City. He’d spent a good deal of time and money buying whatever political favors he could there. But he was a relative newcomer in a town that prided itself on two mayors from the same political dynasty. Colton’s columns about the lurid Reese divorce trial had to have fueled public speculation that old Marty didn’t want to deal with. In Florida, he could control the damage. In Illinois, he was out of his element.
Colton didn’t answer, but cleared his throat guiltily.
Bingo.
“Well, whatever your reason for sticking up for me, thanks. You got the old man’s goat, too.” She remembered the scene so clearly—someone shoving the newspaper in Martin’s face after a lunch recess, just a few days into the divorce hearing.
Controlled, cool Martin Reese had turned a particularly bright shade of red and barked several interesting expletives at no one in particular. At the time, she hadn’t understood her father-in-law’s ire, but after she’d found out, she’d considered Colton Granger to be a brave, if not brilliant man.
Now, she could add sexy to the list. Lucky, lucky her.
“I’m surprised he didn’t have you fired,” she added.
“Oh, he tried.”
She raised her bottle. “Kudos to your editor, then.”
“Have you read my columns?”
She sighed. “Funny, but I’ve been avoiding newspapers and television lately.”
“My stuff is good. I’ll send you copies. Though they would have been better with that exclusive interview.”
She swiped her tongue over the lime, closing her eyes and enjoying the tangy bite. “So, that is what this is about, then.”
“Nope. Tonight is off-the-record.”
Once glance told her he was serious. “Damn, but those fifteen minutes of fame go by quick,” she said, snapping her finger. “From the crowd out front, I figured I had at least another five left.”
“You have a smart mouth, you know that?”
Too bad she didn’t have a smart heart to match. “Betrayal tends to make a woman a little bitchy. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“I can handle justified resentment.”
Good, because she had that in spades. “So, tell me, what do you want, Colton Granger, defender and rescuer of women in desperate need of privacy and beer?”
He grinned, but didn’t hesitate. “Honestly, just one answer to one question. Off-the-record.”
She smiled. Of course. A journalistic veteran like him could probably pack one heck of a punch into one question. Oh, well. What did she have to lose? Tessa had had enough of trying to project the right image to the court, of defending herself against Daniel’s ludicrous accusations, and mostly, of running from the tabloid press that seemed to follow her everywhere. She’d had fun in these few minutes with Colton when she’d slipped into the role Daniel had created to destroy her—the flirt, the seductress, the insatiable woman with a thousand secret needs. More fun than she’d had in months. And she’d definitely had Colton’s interest, which also felt very, very good.
Colton seemed to handle her transformations with aplomb, as if he expected no less than her cold quips one minute, hot innuendos the next. And as a reporter, he was legit. Why not answer his question? Could be a real kick.
“Fire away,” she challenged.
He eased down next to her and placed one boot—comfortably worn tanned leather—beside her foot on the lowest step. He watched her squeeze lime juice into the bottle, then stuff in the rind until it floated in the last of the amber lager.
His smile would have been devastating on someone completely sober. Tessa had achieved a light buzz. She blamed her heightened awareness on the beer, the stress. And Colton’s irrepressible magnetism.
Yet she wasn’t so loopy that she’d forgotten the uncertain life she now faced thanks to her inexperience and naiveté with men—especially the handsome and charming ones. Though what Colton may or may not ask—and what he may or may not print in the paper tomorrow, despite his off-the-record promise—couldn’t possibly affect the outcome of her case.
She curled her hair behind her ears, wishing for something to tie the thick tresses away from her neck. The Miami night had cooled to a humid eighty-five degrees. The acrid scent of citronella burned her nostrils, but kept the buzzing swarms of mosquitoes at an impotent distance. Salsa music danced into the air through a newly opened window and she watched Colton’s fingers tap a rival beat on the bottle.
“Are you game to discuss Charlene Perrault?”
She shifted in her seat. Her “secret identity” wasn’t a favorite topic. For the past month, she’d struggled to convince the court that Charlene Perrault was a writer of fiction, not a crazed nymphomaniac. A task necessary after Daniel had revealed with lascivious glee that Tessa Dalton Reese, socialite, was the force behind Perrault, the author responsible for some of the edgiest erotica published in the mainstream market since Anne Rice donned the pen name A. N. Roquelaure and sent Sleeping Beauty into sexual servitude.
As Charlene Perrault, Tessa had taken up the gauntlet where Rice had left off. With a lighter touch and a strong spirit of romance, her carnal fairy tales fired the imaginations of men and women alike. And thanks to her prize Pulitzer-like divorce, the books, produced by a small-press publisher, were selling like proverbial hotcakes on a cold day.
“Is that your one question?” she asked.
“Not exactly. What I want to know is, are you Charlene Perrault?”
She glanced at him sideways, but when her vantage point proved ineffective, she twisted her entire body. She searched his face, finding his expression blank, cool. She’d expected another glimpse of lascivious undertones and, for an instant, suspected he’d used this opportunity alone with her to see if the nympho-author wanted a quickie on the back porch.
With a sting of disappointment, she realized that wasn’t why he’d asked.
“Everyone in the free world knows I’m Perrault, Mr. Granger. Wouldn’t you rather ask me why I married Daniel in the first place? Why I didn’t sign a prenuptial agreement to protect myself? Why I didn’t just pay off the putz when I had a chance with the millions my Daddy left me?”
He shook his head. “I’m not interested in your past. Just your future.”
He scooted back on the wooden porch step, his jeans rasping against the painted pine, so confident and comfortable with who he was. Tessa couldn’t control the sudden quiver rattling her insides, until she harnessed a flash of anger. How dare he, a perfect stranger, care about her tomorrows when she wasn’t yet sure there’d be anything to care about? How dare he ignite fires she had no business burning?
“How about if I ask you another question first?”
“Why not?” He drank a draft from his beer. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Everyone has something to hide.” She punctuated her insight with a snort, a cynical grunt that she might have contained in the past, simply because it wasn’t refined. Too fucking bad. The sound expressed a hard-won wisdom she planned to hold on to for the rest of her life.
“I won’t make it too hard. You’re a reporter….”
“A columnist,” he corrected.
“Even better! You spout opinions, probably hang tight to some single-minded agenda.”
He nodded. Tipped back his beer. “You could say that.”
“Okay, then. Do you believe every word you write? Every idea? Every judgment?”
“I try.”
Honest, but noncommittal. How lucky for him. She took one last drink from her beer, then set it down in the inch-or-so space that separated them. Standing, she rubbed her hands down the front of her jeans, then hooked her thumbs in the empty belt loops.
The anger simmering inside her now shot to the surface in hot arcs. “You have no secrets and you believe every word you write? Then you’re one lucky guy. Either that or you’re too good to be true.”
She’d meant her words to sting with sarcasm, but he had the cool audacity to drain the rest of his beer without looking the least bit offended. Either he didn’t give a damn what other people thought of him, or he was a true master of controlling his reactions.
After tamping down her admiration, she rolled her eyes and headed toward the door. She peeked through the half-moon window on the door and spied the kitchen, relatively empty. She’d go in, exchange the required small talk, then find one of the five bedrooms in Karen’s house and crash until court tomorrow, when some self-righteous judge would decide if she’d at least hold on to the legacy her father had left her. She had her hand on the screen-door handle when a business card flicked in front of her.
“For the record,” Colton said, “I’m too good to be true just the same as you’re too bad to be believed. If you ever want to really answer my question or just set the record straight, get in touch.”
Tessa snatched the card, stuffed it in her pocket and forced her gaze forward to the glossy white panels in the door. After she heard those sexy boots of his depart down the steps and across the walkway, she risked a glance over her shoulder. He was just as hot on the flip side, and she was just as determined to stay away.
Hmm. In less than ten minutes, he’d jump-started her libido and had given her food for thought. Either she was drunker than she realized after just one beer, or this Colton Granger knew how to fascinate and entice a woman recently convinced she’d be jaded and lonely for the rest of her life.
With a groan, Tessa opened the door. She couldn’t help leaning toward the second theory, even though every fiber of her being hoped like hell for the first.