Wife for a Day (2 page)

Another pause. Sam's nerves were jarred by the sound of a slamming phone. She thought about leaving, but the weight of the tux she needed to deliver pulled on her shoulder, and the hope of collecting a good-sized, much-needed tip made her stay.

Sam swallowed and knocked lightly.

No answer.

She knocked a little harder.

The door flew open, and a man the size of John Wayne filled the doorway. “What do you want?”

Of all the…
Stay calm
, she told herself, as his words rumbled around her.
Remember the tip. Remember what's going to happen to you in four weeks and two days
.

“I'm from Antonio's,” Sam said through a forced smile.

It seemed to take a good ten seconds for her words to penetrate his skull. He eyed her up and down, probably the same way he would analyze a heifer. “Right. The tux.” He looked at his watch. “You're late, but what the hell. Nothing else has gone right today.” He turned away, walking back into the room, where he removed the stopper from a crystal decanter
and poured an inch of liquor into a sparkling tumbler.

He hadn't invited her in. In fact, he hadn't said one civil word since he'd opened the door. She might have grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, but she'd been taught that no matter what your station in life, good manners were the true sign of impeccable breeding.

Jack Remington swigged down half the booze and turned. A ray of light glanced off his light brown hair. It was shot full of gold, and the hair in his sideburns was turning white.
He works too hard
, she told herself, sizing him up.
Probably spends his days and nights bossing people around
.

As if he'd heard her thoughts, he stared at her with his sun-bleached brows knit together. “I haven't got all day. Are you going to stand in the hall or come in?”

“I'm not going to do either,” Sam said, the words slipping over the end of her tongue before she could catch them.

“You're what?”

“You heard me.” Sam's better judgment had just flown down the hallway and caught the express elevator out of the hotel.

She pushed the garment bag from her shoulder and let it slide to the floor. Already today she'd kissed her much-needed job good-bye
and now she was saying so long to this tip.

Stalking toward her, Jack Remington stopped mere inches away. He was tall. Real tall, but she was no slouch herself and in four-inch killer heels, she came close to staring straight into his heated blue eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Leaving.” She looked down at the garment bag lying in a heap between them. “That's your tux, Mr. Remington. If it doesn't fit, go naked.”

She didn't bother waiting for a response. She just turned, headed back to the elevator, and stabbed two fingertips at the down arrow, hitting instead the rock-solid hand that had just slid over the button.

“I was led to believe that you'd alter the tux if it didn't fit,” he said.

“And I was led to believe that rich people have manners.”

He raised an eyebrow. “My apologies.”

As if his curt repentance was enough, Jack Remington grabbed the sewing machine from her hand and strode back to his suite, leaving Sam standing at the elevator, watching his back.

A nice back, she had to admit. There was a strong possibility that his body—not to mention his good looks—were the only nice things about him. Still…she studied him. She'd
never been keen on men who dressed like they belonged onstage at the Grand Ole Opry, but she admired the way his white cowboy shirt stretched tightly across wide shoulders. His slacks were charcoal, not too tight across the butt, not too loose. In fact, they were impeccably tailored, as if she'd done the fitting herself. He wore cowboy boots. Not the hundred-dollar variety with cow dung crusted on the soles, but a pair that must have cost a good thousand or more, and it looked as if he'd just left the hotel's shoeshine stand because the black leather glimmered when he walked.

For all his riches, Jack Remington wasn't wearing Gianfranco Ferre or Messori, not even tropical menswear like some others she'd seen at the Breakers. In fact, Jack Remington didn't look like he belonged in this hotel any more than she did.

“Are you coming?” he asked bluntly.

She knew she should keep her lips buttoned, but she looked into his frowning blue eyes and smiled her sweetest, most innocent smile. “Say please.”

His eyebrow rose again, then he swept the garment bag up from the floor and waited silently for her beside the door. She strolled back to the room, thinking about asking him again to say please, then decided that she'd
pushed about as far as she could at the moment. She might have salvaged her tip. No need to court trouble again.

Besides, she could push confidence and bravado just so far.

The inside of the main room was…well, it was beyond compare. The apartment she'd rented in West Hollywood hadn't been much bigger than this living room, and it definitely hadn't been as well put together.

Scattered about the room were lavish arrangements of roses, lilies, and orchids, and Sam could detect the scent of gardenia coming from somewhere in the suite. She'd never seen anything so luxurious, but she wasn't going to let Mr. Remington think she was impressed.

When she heard the door close behind her, she did a slow turn to inspect the room, then looked at the cowboy millionaire and pretended she had as much right to be demanding as he did. She pointed to the farside of the room. “That desk over there will be perfect for the sewing machine.”

Obviously, he hadn't heard her, because an arm that felt like granite brushed against her shoulder as he walked into the connecting room. “I prefer the bedroom.”

“The lighting's perfect out here. I think—”

“
I
think we'll use the bedroom,” he said,
and Sam didn't bother to argue as she followed him.

He tossed the garment bag on the bed and set the sewing machine on the vanity near one of the windows. “I'm in a hurry.” He looked again at his watch. “I've got an engagement party in two hours, and I can't be late.”

“Yours?”

“My what?”

“
Your
engagement party?”

He laughed, and the first hint of a smile touched his lips. “No,” he said flatly. “My sister's.”

“Oh, that's right,” Sam said, unzipping the bag. “I read all about her and the polo player. What's his name?”

“Peter Leighton.”

Ice could have formed on his words, and Sam decided to steer away from the subject of Australian polo players getting engaged to Palm Beach socialites, and said the first thing that came to mind. “I would have thought someone like you would already own a tuxedo.”

Jack Remington raised the lid on a humidor and pulled out a cigar. He rolled it just beneath his nose, cut off the tip, then stuck it in his mouth while she took a pair of highly polished black shoes and all the pieces to the tux out of the bag.

Fire shot out of the silver lighter in his hand, and she could hear it sizzle as he held it close to the cigar and puffed. She could see his eyes studying her through the swirling smoke. “Are you always so inquisitive?” he asked.

“When the situation warrants it, I suppose.” She lifted the trousers from the bed and slid open the zipper. “So, why don't you tell me what happened to your tux?”

“Why don't we just fit the one you brought?”

“I can listen and work at the same time.”

“An admirable trait.”

“Quite. Now take off your clothes.”

Jack had never encountered a woman like the redhead. She wasn't just inquisitive, she was bossy, too. It was a rare occasion when he gave in to a woman, but he didn't have time to argue. There wasn't time to send her from the room while he changed, wasn't time to find a tailor who concentrated more on the clothes than on him or worked instead of talked.

And, Jack decided, even if he found a tailor with those qualifications, he'd never find one as easy on the eye.

Sitting in an armchair, he leaned over to remove his boots. Seconds later a pair of sky-high heels came into view, along with ten toes that seemed to tap to unheard music. He
looked up, following the long length of her legs. She reached out and for a moment he thought she was going to help him pull off his boots. Instead, she plucked the hand-rolled Montecristo from his lips.

“This is in the way, Mr. Remington.” She held the cigar gingerly between the tips of her index finger and thumb. “I can't do my job with you puffing nonstop, so I'll just stick it in the ashtray for safekeeping.”

She walked across the room, her hips swaying provocatively. On some other woman the action might have seemed forced, but a natural seductiveness emanated from the redhead. She could probably bewitch him if he were in any mood to be seduced.

But he wasn't. Not at the moment, at least. Arabella Fleming had seduced him once with an exquisite smile and with hands that slid over his body like those of a highly skilled masseuse. She was smart, sexy, and a month ago he thought she'd be the perfect wife, but she'd dumped him over the phone—he looked at his watch—twenty-two minutes ago. They were never, ever going to get back together, a fact Arabella had made perfectly clear.

That meant he could look at the redhead all he wanted.

She set the Montecristo in the ashtray and turned. Her mass of flaming curls spun about
her, almost in slow motion. She was one hell of a good-looking specimen.

He tossed one boot then another across the room, as the redhead moved toward him. He stood, unbuttoned his trousers, and slid open the zipper while the woman appraised his entire body in much the same way he would a prizewinning stallion. The only difference: her face didn't show any emotion. No pleasure. No excitement. No nothing!

“I thought you were in a hurry,” she said, standing in front of him with her arms folded under sumptuous breasts. “We'll be here all night if you don't take off your clothes.”

He started to shove down the trousers.
Damn!
He was wearing the black-silk thong Arabella had sent him a week ago and made him promise to wear when they flew to Florida. Her note tucked into the gift box had said something about fooling around at fifty-one thousand feet, with the other passengers just a few feet away from the action. He hadn't been thinking straight when he'd put the damned thing on this morning.

“Is there a problem?” the redhead asked.

Jack refocused his thoughts on her inquisitive brown eyes. “No.”

“Well, there's no need to be modest. I may be a woman, but I'm also the finest tailor you'll find in Palm Beach. I've seen it all,” she
said, moving closer. Long, slender fingers captured the top button on his shirt and worked their way down, releasing each one as if she'd unbuttoned men's shirts a million times before. He could smell the dizzying scent of her perfume, could almost feel the heat of her skin, and taste the sweetness of the bright red lipstick on her mouth.

“You know,” she said softly, “Mr. Antonio had a customer once who wanted me to personally tailor his underwear.” She peeled the shirt away from his body, her eyes casually skimming his chest and arms. “He had this purple silk thong that just didn't fit right. I made a little tuck here, a little tuck there, and
voilà!
it was perfect. Even his boyfriend approved.”

“I'm not the least interested in having my underwear tailored,” Jack said, his hand still positioned over his zipper.

“It doesn't look like you want these trousers tailored either. Funny thing about tailoring, you can't do it unless your client is willing to put on the item you're planning to alter.”

Her eyes trailed to his fingers, then back again to his face. “Would you like me to leave the room while you change?”

He'd never been afraid of anything in his life, and he wasn't about to turn coward in front of the redhead. He dropped his slacks
and stood in front of her, all six feet four inches, 230 pounds of him, clad only in a thong.

The woman had the nerve to put a thoughtful finger over her lips and aim her eyes directly at the damned black silk. “You know, Mr. Remington, you look awfully good in that thong but, personally, I prefer boxers.”

“Have you ever worn a thong?”

“Once or twice. I'm not crazy about the feel. But, we all have our own personal tastes.”

She walked away, as if she'd lost all interest in the discussion and his body, and lifted the trousers from the bed. Turning them inside out, she dangled them in front of her.

Jack snatched the slacks from her hands. “I don't like wearing a tux any more than I like wearing a thong,” he announced. “But since the airline seems to have lost all my luggage, since you were the only tailor the concierge was able to find on a Friday night, and since I'm in a hurry, could you just get this damn thing fitted so I can get to my sister's engagement party?”

A smile formed on a pair of picture-perfect lips as he slid into the trousers, struggled with the wrong-side-out zipper, and finally fastened the button.

“Are you a big tipper, Mr. Remington?”

“Only when I'm pleased with the service.”

“You'll be pleased. I'm sure of it.”

She went to work immediately, running her fingers around his waistband, over his hips, down the outside of each leg, his thighs and calves. “You could have modeled for these trousers,” she said. “They're almost a perfect fit.”

“Good. Then why don't we move on to the jacket?”

“All in good time. I need to check a few spots on the trousers.” She placed one hand close to his crotch, and he gritted his teeth, fighting the natural instincts of his body. Never again would he allow a woman tailor to alter his clothes.

“There's a little problem with the fit here, Mr. Remington.”