Dangerous Flirt (12 page)

S
o, how many of your neighbors are pissed off at you for not selling?” Hank's disembodied voice filtered through the closed bathroom door in Beth's hotel room.

She wrapped the blow dryer's twisted cord around its handle and stuffed it into the basket under the sink. “Most, but I can't imagine any of them are behind this.” No, the worst she'd gotten were a few dirty looks and
snide comments whispered behind her back.

“Me neither. Mrs. Cranston is a royal bitch, but she doesn't hit me as the type to get her hands dirty like this.”

She tried to picture the brittle, thin eighty-year-old Mrs. Cranston in a black ski mask spraying graffiti and tossing hamburger wrappers around Beth's grandparents' house. If the situation hadn't been so serious, the image would have made
her laugh.

She'd known her neighbors for most of her life, ever since she'd gone to live with her grandparents. It didn't make sense that any of them would do this. She even worked with Mrs. Hunihan, who lived a few miles up the road, and hadn't noticed any difference in the way the executive secretary acted toward her. What motive would there be? Money, sure, but even as ticked off as some of
them were, they weren't violent folks.

“That leaves the buyer.” His voice sounded stronger, he must have moved closer to the door.

Turning, she gazed at the closed door, picturing him on the other side in his jeans and lightweight gray dress shirt. Sitting next to him in the taxi on the way over here had been torture. She'd tried to stay on her side of the seat, but he'd felt no such compulsion
and her skin sizzled from his nearness. Excitement bounced around her stomach at the memory and she laid her palm against the door to steady herself.

What was wrong with her? She had to distance herself from him before it was too late, but with who knows who after her, she wasn’t going to get rid of him anytime soon.

She slipped her black, knee-length dress from the hanger on the bathroom door,
lowered the back zipper and stepped inside it.

“You haven't been able to get any more information about who it is?”

Raising the dress up, she slid her arms into the cap sleeves then cracked open the door, hoping to see him on the other side. No such luck. “Nope, all roads lead to a farmer who has been dead for a decade.”

“Damn, what I'd give to have access to my computer right now.”

“You can't
log in from mine?”

“No, we have a closed system that only allows certain IP addresses access.”

Beth wriggled inside the dress, one arm stretched behind her back, trying to reach the zipper. Her fingers brushed the metal zipper pull, but couldn't grasp it enough to yank it up. Hunching over, she inched the fabric higher until she reached the zipper. She grunted and jerked it upward until it snagged
on something and wouldn't go any higher.

Shit. Shit. Shit
.

Tugging it harder was an exercise in futility, but she tried anyway. Her shoulder ached from the awkward position and her glasses had slipped down her nose so far they were in danger of dropping off and smashing to the floor. Having to show up late to the conference with her only pair of glasses held together by a piece of tape was
the last thing her career needed right now. Admitting defeat, she stood and adjusted her glasses. The world came back into focus with Hank standing in the now completely open bathroom door.

“Need help?”

A childish part of her wanted to say no, but who was she trying to fool? She needed Hank for more than just the zipper. “Yes, thank you.”

Beth turned her back to give him access to the trouble
spot. Goose bumps prickled her skin when his hands touched the small of her back, his thumb resting against the curve of her ass. Unable to stop herself, she shivered.

He didn't say a word.

She couldn't, even if she were able to form a single thought at the moment.

Instead, she closed her eyes when he tried to pull the stubborn zipper higher, only to have the smooth material of her dress slide
up her bare thighs.

He cleared his throat. “Um…looks like I…uh…need to pull it down first.”

She peeked at his reflection in the mirror. He concentrated on the zipper as if the fate of the world were at stake. His hands shook as he lowered the zipper to the middle of her back and hesitated, staring at the expanse of skin on display, before sliding it ever so slowly upward. When he reached the
top, he took a step back, flexing his hand as if it had been stung. His gaze met hers in the mirror and neither moved.

Possibilities hung heavy in the electrified air, constricting her chest and scaring her down to her hot-pink toenails. Hank looked at her as if she could be the best thing to ever happen to him. Like she was perfect. Like he loved her.

“Beth.” He whispered her name, his tone
a combination of plea and promise.

Staring at the reflection of his hazel eyes in the mirror and seeing the hope they held sent reality crashing down on her.

Amanda had twisted him into knots promising they'd start a family, after they bought the boat or the house or the dream vacation. But she'd always changed her mind. He'd confessed to Claire that not having a family wasn't the only reason
for the divorce, but it was a big one.

She loved him too much to put him through that again.

The realization hit her like a slap to the face. How she'd called love lust for so long, she had no idea. She loved him. Always had. Her throat tightened with regret for all the things lost before they were realized.

If they ever got serious, she'd have to tell him she couldn't have kids, make him choose
between her and family. Family meant everything to both of them and she was destined not to have one—at least not one of her own blood. She wouldn't force that fate on him when she knew just how much his family line meant to him. Blinking away the tears flooding her eyes, she swallowed past the lump in her throat.

Doing the right thing hurt like a bitch.

“Thanks for your help.” She smiled weakly
at his reflection. “We'd better get a move on.”

Confusion and hurt flashed across his face before he squared his jaw and nodded at her. “Yeah, of course. I'll wait for you in the lobby.”

Without pausing for a response, he spun on his heel and strode out the door. A second later the hotel room door clicked shut.

Beth sank down on the edge of the tub. Shaking like a loose roof shingle in a tornado,
she gasped for breath as her heart exploded into a million sharp, jagged pieces.

Fifteen minutes later, Beth had to fight the urge to sneak back into the elevator when she saw Hank standing alone by the hotel's rotating front door. Her body ached like she had the twenty-four hour flu and she had the nausea to go with it. Nothing like realizing
you loved the wrong man to make you wish you could curl up into a ball and never get out of bed.

A woman tugging a screaming toddler stopped next to her at the elevator bank. The bawling child's misery drew Hank's attention her way. The ice in his gaze did nothing to melt the heat flooding her body at the mere sight of him. Sighing, she trudged toward him. This was the path she'd chosen, she'd
just have to push her way through it. Maybe in a few days, it wouldn't hurt so much.

Hell, she might as well admit it would more likely be decades before that happened.

The Nebraska football fight song blaring out of his jeans pocket saved her from having to make small talk. Without acknowledging her, he pushed his way through the rotating door, obviously assuming, correctly as it turned out,
that she'd follow.

Back ramrod straight, he stood perfectly still and didn't even make a flicker of a movement toward his phone when it started ringing again. For as long as she'd known him, he'd been unable to let a phone ring. The Layton family curiosity would drive him to pick it up, but not this time. The vein near his temple bulged as he ground his teeth throughout the thirty-second jingle.
If he kept this up, he wasn't going to have any molars left. Pissed off didn't begin to describe him.

As for her, she felt like shit. It had taken ten minutes of deep breathing and pacing before she could get her emotions under control. Now they were waiting in the taxi line and her gut twisted with anxiety. She yearned to say something to make him feel better, let him know that it wasn't him,
but before she could open her mouth, the fight song went off in his pants again.

“You gonna get that?”

He kept staring at the back of the sixty-ish valet's shaved head. “Nope.”

“Look, Hank—”

“Save it Beth, okay?” He turned and glared at her, tension streaming from his tightly wound body. “We're friends, but you won't even trust me to help you when someone's threatening you. You kiss me, but
then you pretend there's nothing between us. I spent too many years with a master manipulator who turned me inside out every chance she got to ever go down that path again. From now on, you're just my little sister's best friend who happens to be in trouble. I'm with you until we find out who’s behind the threats, but don't expect me to act like nothing's changed. I'm done chasing you when you obviously
don't want to be caught.”

And she thought she couldn't feel any worse.

Dropping her chin to her chest to hide her watery eyes, she fought to regain her tenuous hold on her emotions and bite back the apology ready to spill out of her mouth. No. This was for the best. She could do this. She had to do this.

“Your cab.” The valet's soft voice contrasted with the dirty look he leveled at Hank. Opening
the door, he smiled warmly at Beth.

When Hank didn't move, she walked toward the cab's open door. “Thank you.”

“Arriba los corazones,” the valet said as she slid across the cab's backseat.

Hank sat down next to her, shutting the door after him. “What was that all about?”

“I think he was trying to be nice.”

“Oh yeah? What did he say?”

Beth shrugged. “I know a few phrases and words, but I
don't speak Spanish. My grandparents were pretty firm in their desire to raise an All-American girl. They thought it would give me the same advantages as the white kids.”

Of course, now one of her biggest hobbies was genealogy and she'd signed up for Spanish classes at the local community college. The reminder of her grandparents laid a heavy weight on her shoulders. What would they think of
how she'd turned out? The fact that she was an attorney, was it proof they'd made the right choices? How did you ever know?

Weariness settled into her bones as she contemplated the uncertainty of it all. Needing a distraction, she grabbed her phone and turned it on, not taking her eyes off the small screen while it powered up.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Paris.”

“Oui, oui.” The cabbie chuckled
at his joke.

Hank busied himself with his phone, a deep worry line denting his forehead. She was about to ask what the trouble was when the jingle of her own phone announced it was ready.

The blinking red message light at the top of her cell flashed like crazy. Between taking a shower, getting ready and finishing her Power Point, she'd received forty-five texts.

CLAIRE: WHAT HAPPENED? U OK?

CLAIRE: ARE WE SISTERS? SO EXCITED!!!!

CLAIRE: WHAT'S GOING ON? UR NOT ANSWERING.

CLAIRE: U AND HANK GETTING IT ON? :)

CLAIRE: THAT WAS A JOKE!

CLAIRE: OOPS, JUST TALKED 2 MOM AND IT SLIPPED OUT. KINDA SORTA ON PURPOSE. DON'T HATE.

UNKNOWN: YOUNG LADY, DID YOU ELOPE WITH MY SON? MAKE HIM ANSWER HIS PHONE. I HAVE CALLED TWELVE TIMES. HE IS NOT TOO BIG FOR ME TO STRAIGHTEN OUT.

CLAIRE: CALL
ME IF UR NOT ON UR WAY TO TAHITI.

Her fingers hesitated over the tiny keyboard. What to say? That she made a massive fool of herself with Hank? Again? No, that just sounded pathetic. That she'd probably been drugged by God-knows-who? Not unless she wanted the entire Layton clan to descend upon Vegas en masse. That she wished Little Elvis had pronounced them husband and wife? Definitely no. Just
the thought made her body as jittery as the time she ate an entire bag full of chocolate-covered espresso beans.

Forget it. She'd call later. Firmly, she shoved the phone into her briefcase. It took all of three heart beats for the second thoughts to come rushing in. This was not a conversation she wanted to have via text, but she couldn't not respond. Knowing Claire, if she didn't answer soon,
her best friend would be on the first flight to Vegas. She pulled the phone out and started typing with her thumbs.

BETH: AM OK. NOT MARRIED. EXPLAIN LATER.

After hitting send, she slid her finger across the screen until Hank's mother's text appeared. Glenda Layton was not someone to toy with. When it came to her children and getting them married off, the woman was a five foot, eight inch Pit
Bull with an attitude problem. No way was she explaining this fiasco to Glenda. That little bit of heaven was all Hank's.

“You need to call your mom.”

“Yeah, she left me a million messages.” He ran his hands through his brown hair, leaving tufts of it sticking straight up. “She even texted. I didn't think she knew how to do that.”