A Risky Affair (12 page)

Frowning darkly at the thought, Dane shut off the water and stepped from the shower. As he reached for a large bath towel, the phone in his bedroom rang. Grabbing the towel and wrapping it around his waist, he left the bathroom and crossed to the nightstand as the phone trilled a third time.

He couldn't help but smile at the number displayed on the caller-ID screen. Lifting the receiver, he said, “Hey, Aunt Pam.”

There was a startled pause on the other end, followed by Pamela Hubbard's warm, familiar laughter. “No matter how many times you do that to me, boy, I'm always caught off guard.”

Dane chuckled. “How're you doing, Aunt Pam?”

“I'm doing just fine. Of course, I'll be even better if you tell me you're on your way over for brunch.”

He smiled. “I'm on my way over for brunch,” he said, though he couldn't fathom eating another large meal after stuffing himself on Rita's big country breakfast that morning. But no way was he telling his aunt, who'd always been like a second mother to him, that he'd cheated on her with another woman's cooking.

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “The gang's already here. Daniela, Riley, Janie and Lourdes are helping me put the finishing touches on the meal, and Caleb, Noah, Kenneth and Kenny Junior are waiting on you to play basketball. Everyone would have been so disappointed if you couldn't make it again.”

Dane held the phone away from his ear and grinned at it. No one did emotional blackmail better than Aunt Pam. Well, except maybe his own mother. And his cousin Daniela. Not to mention Veronica, his passive-aggressive sister-in-law. Hell, it seemed every woman in his life had it down to an art form.

His grin widened at the thought. “Don't worry, Aunt Pam,” he said, returning the receiver to his ear. “I'll definitely be there. And I'll even bring dessert.”

A
t seven o'clock the next morning, Solange was summoned to Crandall's library, where he'd apparently been up for hours poring over a stack of legal briefs, a half-empty mug of black coffee cooling on a corner of the cluttered desk.

She'd barely uttered a word of greeting before he told her she would be attending an Alamo City Chamber of Commerce meeting that morning, where a state senator named Richard Allen Vance would be speaking.

“He's running for reelection next year,” Crandall informed her without lifting his head from his paperwork. “He's been criticized for not doing more for poor blacks in his district. I want you to attend the meeting on my behalf and report back to me on what he has to say.”

Solange nodded. “What time does the meeting begin?”

“Eight-thirty. Which gives you an hour and a half to get ready and make the drive into town. Here's the address and directions to the convention center.” As she approached the desk, he peered at her over the wireless rim of his glasses, openly dissecting her beige V-neck sweater and gray wool slacks. “Is that what you plan to wear?”

The way he said it made it clear he expected her to change into more appropriate attire. “I, uh…I'll find something else,” Solange said before backing quickly out of the room.

She dressed in ten minutes flat, donning one of the best business suits she owned, a navy blue number with a fitted high-cut jacket and a pencil skirt with a modest slit up the back. She shoved her feet into a pair of matching pumps and hurried from the house before she could be subjected to another inspection.

The Alamo City Chamber of Commerce was an African-American organization that had been founded to provide, encourage and promote programs that contributed to the economic growth and development of minority and small businesses throughout San Antonio. In addition to a monthly meeting, they sponsored an annual leadership institute and were planning to launch a youth entrepreneurship program in the near future.

Their meetings were held at the Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center in downtown San Antonio. Even with the detailed directions Crandall had provided, Solange still managed to get lost. The downtown
she
was used to consisted of one main street that boasted a sprinkling of tiny shops and eateries, while downtown San Antonio was much larger—a labyrinth of meandering streets lined with historic buildings and Spanish colonial missions, old whitewashed structures that sat empty, Mexican restaurants on every corner and lushly manicured parks. It was a colorful maze that bustled with morning commuters and early-bird tourists aboard red-and-green streetcars.

By the time she found the convention center, located on the famed Riverwalk, and pulled into the parking garage, she had seven minutes remaining before she'd be late. Bypassing the old elevator, she sprinted up the stairs and hurried through the large building in search of the right conference room.

When she reached her destination, she was relieved to find people talking and milling about, while others helped themselves to coffee, fruit and breakfast pastries arranged on a table in the back of the room.

With a small sigh of relief, Solange made her way over to the table and poured herself a cup of pulpy orange juice. While she munched on a raspberry Danish, she surveyed the roomful of strangers. Although most were dressed in business attire, she noticed that a few attendees wore jeans, T-shirts and sneakers.

No one's looking down their nose at them,
she thought, still somewhat irked that Crandall had made her change before she left the house. If he intended to hassle her about her clothes every time he asked her to go somewhere, she'd have to splurge on a brand-new wardrobe with her first paycheck, which hadn't been in her plans.

Something told her when it came to dealing with her new employer, she'd have to get used to doing
a lot
of things that weren't in her plans.

At that moment, her gaze was drawn to the door, where a handsome man in his midforties, with skin the color of almonds and neatly cropped hair dusted with gray at the temples, had entered. She knew by the expensive cut of his dark suit and the small entourage that accompanied him as he strode purposefully into the room that he must be Senator Richard Allen Vance, the guest speaker.

A hushed silence swept through the room as conversations came to an abrupt halt and people headed quickly to their seats. Balancing her cup of orange juice and a notepad, Solange made her way toward the front and claimed an empty chair in the fourth row.

“Is this seat taken?” inquired a deep, masculine voice. A voice that had echoed through her dreams all night long, joined by images so carnal she'd awakened more than once drenched in perspiration and panting for breath.

Solange glanced up sharply. Her heart thudded at the sight of Dane Roarke standing there in a double-breasted navy blue suit with a crisp ivory shirt and a blue-and-burgundy-striped silk tie. He looked so incredible, so powerfully male, that Solange could only stare at him in awestruck silence.

That sensuous mouth twitched. “I'll take that as a no,” he murmured, and before she could react, he lowered himself into the chair beside her. As he did, his warm, hard-muscled thigh brushed hers, sending a rush of tingling heat through her entire body. She jerked away as if she'd accidentally touched a hot burner.

“W-what are you doing here?” she demanded in a tone that inadvertently accused him of following her.

Dane chuckled, low and soft. “Same thing you're doing. I came to hear the senator speak.”

Of course. It was a free country. He had just as much right to be there as she did. She'd have to be a paranoid idiot to imply otherwise. “Are you a member of the Alamo City Chamber of Commerce?”

“Roarke Investigations is. My cousins and I take turns attending the monthly meetings. Guess I drew the lucky straw this time.” He smiled at her, slow and sexy, and her pulse accelerated. “What about you?”

“I'm here on Mr. Thorne's behalf.”

Dane nodded. His lazy gaze ran the length of her, lingering for a moment on her tightly crossed legs sheathed in sheer nylon, before returning to her face. “Look at that,” he said huskily. “We're wearing the same color. We must have read each other's minds this morning.”

When her nipples puckered against her lace bra, Solange blamed it on the air-conditioning, and not on the way his dark, heavy-lidded eyes and hypnotic voice were wreaking havoc on her nerve endings.

“Maybe you should sit somewhere else,” she lightly suggested. “That's what women usually do when they show up at a party wearing the same dress—they stay as far away from each other as possible.”

Humor tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Nice try,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his legs. “But I think I'll take my chances and stay put. Besides, the place appears to be filling up pretty fast.”

A quick glance around the room showed Solange there were still several empty seats left. She considered pointing this out to him, but before she could open her mouth, a man approached the podium at the front to introduce the guest speaker.

Over the next two hours, Senator Richard Allen Vance eloquently discussed his views on the state of the black community in San Antonio and shared his vision for urban revitalization, education reform and economic development in low-income areas of his district. Although Solange diligently took notes, she found it difficult to concentrate on anything beyond Dane's nearness. His clean-scented male warmth surrounded her, teasing and tantalizing her senses. His long, muscular legs were stretched out before him, and every so often he'd shift in his chair, adjusting his position. Once, when his knee accidentally brushed hers, Solange stiffened as her nipples hardened and liquid heat erupted in her belly, trailing a searing path through her veins.

Dane's eyes met hers.
Sorry,
he mouthed.

Solange nodded wordlessly, not trusting her voice. Their eyes held for a prolonged moment before she forced herself to return her attention to the podium.

After the senator finished speaking, he fielded questions from members of the audience, many of whom were downright confrontational.

“When you first ran for the Texas Senate seven years ago, you made some of the same promises we just heard,” said one middle-aged black woman. “Why should we believe you'll keep any of those promises once reelected, when you've failed to do so for the past seven years?”

Over half of the room began clapping and murmuring in hearty agreement.

Dane leaned close to Solange and whispered, “Tough crowd.”

She grinned at him, though she couldn't help feeling a twinge of sympathy for the senator, who wore a brave smile on his face as he waited for the noise to die down.

Clearing his throat, he said quietly but firmly, “Thank you for your honesty, ma'am. As you might imagine, it distresses me to hear that so many of you believe I haven't fulfilled my duties to the constituents of my district. If you look at my legislative record, however, you will see that many of the issues I have voted in favor of have greatly benefited the small-business community, Texas schoolchildren, senior citizens, those in the health-care industry and many others. Let me assure you that my work in the Senate isn't finished. There's still much work to be done, and with your continued patience and support, I truly believe we can make our district one of the best in the state.”

This time it was Solange who leaned over to whisper in Dane's ear. “Spoken like a true politician.”

He chuckled softly and winked at her, and they shared a conspiratorial smile.

Senator Vance announced that he had another speaking engagement, for which he apologized profusely, and encouraged everyone to contact his office with additional questions or concerns. A few attendees weren't to be put off so easily, detaining him even as he tried to edge out the door with his staffers in tow.

Solange, who'd returned to the refreshment table to snag another raspberry Danish, watched in amusement as the senator tried, as discreetly as possible, to extricate himself from the growing crowd without offending anyone. His senior aide, whoever he or she was, deserved to be fired, Solange mused.

A moment later, the smile froze on her lips when she glanced across the room and saw Dane talking to a beautiful brown-skinned woman in a tailored forest-green skirt suit that accentuated her curvy build and long, shapely legs.

Solange frowned. One minute Dane had been laughing and conversing with a group of older businessmen—not that she'd been tracking his movements or anything—and the next minute he was flirting shamelessly with a woman who would, in all likelihood, become his newest conquest.

Not that the so-called victim seemed to mind.

As Solange watched, the woman laid a familiar hand upon his arm and smiled up at him as if he were the last man on earth. Solange supposed she couldn't really blame her. Dane cut quite a dashing figure in his double-breasted Italian suit. Who was she kidding? He was wearing the
hell
out of that suit. But then again, Dane Roarke could wear the hell out of a burlap sack.

As Solange stood there watching him and the woman engage in their little mating dance, the Danish and a half she'd eaten turned to a wad of dough in her stomach. She carefully wrapped the remainder in a napkin, tossed it in the trash along with her empty cup and started quickly from the room. Several men gave her interested smiles as she passed, but all she cared about was making her escape.

As she neared the exit, she heard Dane call out, “Solange, wait up!”

She kept walking, pretending not to hear him above the noisy drone of conversations. She hurried through the door and down the long, carpeted corridor toward the escalator, but it was no use. In no time at all he'd caught up to her with those determined, ground-eating strides of his.

“I didn't hear a fire alarm go off,” he said, sounding vaguely amused and not in the least out of breath, which only increased her annoyance. He could at least have the courtesy to
sound
winded after chasing her down the hallway.

She shot him an impatient look. “I'm kind of in a hur—”

Dane reached out, gently grasping her elbow and halting her steps. A pair of dark, penetrating eyes searched hers. “So you were going to leave without saying goodbye?” he asked softly.

Solange bristled, her chin lifting in haughty defiance. “What difference does it make? You seemed to have your hands full.” The moment the caustic words left her mouth, she knew she'd made a big mistake. She'd come off sounding like a scorned lover, jealous because he'd been paying more attention to another woman. Which was ridiculous. She had no right to be jealous when she'd made it perfectly clear to him yesterday that she had no interest in dating him.

Judging by the knowing gleam that filled Dane's eyes, he thought the same thing. Solange waited in silent dread for him to point out her own hypocrisy, but to her immense relief, he merely smiled—a soft, relaxed smile that hinted at something wicked.

“Have lunch with me,” he murmured.