A Risky Affair (2 page)

Solange couldn't stop the wry smile that curved her lips. “Makes you wonder why he was so willing to part with me then, doesn't it?”

Crandall chuckled dryly. “Not at all. When I told him about the position and asked if he could recommend anyone, he indicated that you, out of all his employees, would benefit the most from a change of scenery.” He paused for a moment, then added soberly, “Allow me to express my condolences on the passing of your parents.”

Solange nodded. “Thank you.”

With his elbows braced on the desk, Crandall steepled his fingers in front of his face and quietly studied her. “Ted tells me you grew up in Haskell.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Not much to do in a small town like that, I would imagine.”

Solange bristled. “Depends on what you're looking for,” she said archly. “I liked my small town just fine.”

“Touché,” Crandall murmured, his mouth twitching. “I never meant to imply otherwise, Miss Washington. Were you born there? In Haskell?”

Solange hesitated. “Yes, I believe so.”

Crandall raised an eyebrow. “You don't know for sure?”

“I was adopted as a child. Some of the details of my past are a bit, um, fuzzy to me.” Eager to change the subject, she said, “I assume you've had a chance to review my résumé. Are there any questions you'd like to ask about my employment history?”

Crandall gave her a long, assessing look. “As you can imagine, I have a vast number of resources at my disposal. For this position, I could have selected a qualified candidate from a pool of prescreened applicants courtesy of an executive search firm. But I decided to cast my net wider and open the search to the general public, in the hopes of finding someone truly extraordinary. A diamond in the rough, if you will.” He paused, his eyes narrowing on her face. “What can you tell me to persuade me you're that diamond, Miss Washington?”

Solange smiled. “One of my college English professors always lectured me on the importance of showing, not telling, in my writing.” She reached inside her attaché case and withdrew a laptop computer containing the PowerPoint presentation she'd prepared for the interview. “Rather than
tell
you why I'm the best person for this job, Mr. Thorne, I'll
show
you.”

Crandall leaned back in his chair with a coolly amused expression. “You have my undivided attention.”

When Solange left the ranch house forty minutes later, she honestly believed she'd seen the last of Crandall Thorne.

He'd remained mostly silent throughout her presentation, watching her with an impassive expression that made her wonder what he was thinking. Nothing seemed to impress him—not her beautifully designed PowerPoint slides detailing her skills and qualifications, nor had she impressed him with her demonstrated knowledge of the law or her recitation of the facts surrounding his very first court case.

To make matters exponentially worse, as she was escorted to the front door following the interview, Solange had lost her footing on the slippery tile floor and would have landed squarely on her butt if she hadn't reached out quickly and grabbed the first thing she could—a fistful of Crandall's shirt. He'd kept her upright, but at the expense of several buttons, which popped free and scattered across the floor. With her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, Solange had apologized profusely to her frowning host and left as gracefully as she could.

As she slid behind the wheel of her car and cranked the engine, Solange grimaced, thinking back to the conversation she'd had with her former boss three weeks ago.

She'd been having a bad day. Not only was she appallingly behind on a report, but earlier that morning she'd sent one of the attorneys to court with the wrong affidavit, then she'd misfiled an important case document that had taken several hours to track down. When Ted Crumley appeared at the entrance to her cubicle and asked to see her in his office, she just knew he was going to fire her. Ted was the managing partner at the small law firm where she'd worked for eight years. At sixty-six, he was medium height, thin, with silvery brown hair that receded from his broad forehead, and a reddened, bulbous nose that gave him the appearance of having a perpetual cold. His suits, though not as expensive as anything worn by Crandall Thorne, were always neatly pressed, his worn, sensible loafers still polished to a high gloss. He took as much pride in his appearance as he did in the daily operations of the family law practice he'd helped to establish thirty years ago—which was what made Solange so nervous about his request to see her.

She needn't have worried.

Instead of firing or even reprimanding her, he'd offered her something else, something she'd never expected but had been secretly longing for.

The chance to start a new life.

“Have you ever heard of Crandall Thorne?” he'd asked.

Solange stared at him. Of course she'd heard of Crandall Thorne! Any aspiring attorney worth her salt had heard of the man, and she said as much.

Ted chuckled. “Well, it just so happens that Thorne and I attended law school together at UT. We've kept in touch for a while, and he recently called to tell me about a position he was hiring for. He needs a personal assistant, preferably someone who doesn't have any ties to San Antonio politics or media, and someone who would be interested in relocating.”

“And…and you thought of me?” Solange didn't know whether to be flattered or offended that her boss seemed so willing to relinquish her to another employer.

A soft, rueful smile lifted the corners of Ted's mouth. “I thought of you because you haven't been the same ever since your parents died almost a year ago. I know that grief and the stress of settling their estate have taken a serious toll on you, even if you're too proud to admit it. I thought of you because you've never ventured beyond Haskell, and even a small-town lawyer like me can recognize what a travesty that is. I thought of you because it would have been selfish of me to deny you such an incredible opportunity simply because I didn't want to lose the best paralegal this firm has ever had.”

Tears had welled in Solange's eyes, blurring her vision. Blinking and swallowing hard, she'd whispered, “Crandall Thorne is a very rich, powerful man. What if he doesn't think I'm good enough to be his personal assistant?”

“I don't think you have to worry about that,” Ted said with a gentle smile. “If Crandall is the excellent judge of character I still remember, he'll realize within minutes of meeting you how lucky he'd be to have you working for him.”

Solange had thanked him and left his office before she embarrassed both of them by bawling like a baby. She'd needed less than a day to reach a decision, and within a week she'd loaded all her worldly possessions into the clunky old Plymouth, kissed her friends goodbye and headed out of town, leaving behind the only home she'd ever known.

She'd told herself that even if Crandall Thorne didn't hire her, she was doing the right thing by moving to San Antonio and starting anew. But now that the much-anticipated interview was over, and she faced the very real possibility that she wouldn't get the job, Solange wondered if she'd been too hasty in her decision to leave home. Crandall Thorne had hated her on sight, and unless her instincts were completely off base, she had probably seen the last of him.

Which meant she might have upended her life for nothing.

After Solange Washington's ignominious departure, Crandall changed his ruined shirt, then returned to his study and closed the door. His hand shook slightly as he dialed the number of his executive secretary, Arlethia Cunningham, at the downtown law firm where she'd worked for over twenty years.

“My three o'clock appointment just left,” Crandall said without preamble.

“Oh? And how did it go?” Arlethia asked warily.

Crandall lifted Solange Washington's impressive résumé from his desk, gazed at it for several moments then set it aside and leaned forward in his chair. A solitary vein throbbed at his temple. “I want you to call Miss Washington. Call her first thing in the morning and offer her the job.”

“Sir?”
Arlethia made no attempt to hide her surprise. “Are you sure? She's the only candidate you've interviewed—”

“I know that,” Crandall snapped. “Tell her the offer is contingent upon her passing a complete background check, which is to be administered through Roarke Investigations.” After rattling off a series of instructions, Crandall hung up the phone and scrubbed a hand wearily over his face.

The reason he'd told his secretary to call Solange Washington in the morning was to give him time to change his mind. But, of course, he knew he wouldn't. Once he reached a decision about something, he rarely, if ever, reversed it. He'd built his reputation on being steadfast and resolute in his decision-making, both in and out of the courtroom. He'd also survived by keeping his friends close and his enemies closer.

In the case of Solange Washington, he'd need to keep her as close as possible.

Suddenly restless, Crandall rose from his chair and wandered over to a pair of French doors that overlooked a small courtyard, the stucco walls covered with a network of vines that were dry and brown this time of year.

A moment later, the door opened and Rita Owens—his longtime housekeeper who'd never believed in knocking—stepped inside the room. “Was that your only appointment of the day?”

Crandall glanced over his shoulder at her. “Yeah. So what?”

Rita shrugged, folding her arms across her chest. “I just wondered, that's all. I was thinking about catching a nap before dinnertime, and I wanted to make sure you weren't expecting any more visitors. Though I certainly wouldn't mind if they were anything like Miss Washington. She was something, wasn't she? So sweet and well-mannered. You can tell she had a good upbringing.” Rita paused, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “You know, she kinda reminded me of someone. Someone I once knew.”

“Me, too,” Crandall said softly, remembering Solange Washington's clear, golden-brown skin, shoulder-length hair, big dark eyes and enchanting smile. His chest tightened painfully. He turned away from Rita, adding in a raw whisper, “You have no idea how much.”

T
wo days later, Solange stepped through the double-glass doors of Roarke Investigations, a private-detective agency housed in a single-story brick building located ten minutes away from the hotel she'd called home since arriving in San Antonio.

Her days at the Alamo City Inn were numbered, according to Crandall Thorne's secretary, who'd called Solange with the unexpected job offer. Solange had been scouring the Help Wanted ads when she received the phone call, and two days later, she was still in shock. Not only would she get the coveted opportunity to work for Crandall Thorne, but she'd do so while residing at his sprawling country estate, with its breathtaking views of the surrounding valley and mountains.

All she had to do was pass a background check, and then she'd be on her way to achieving her goals.

Finding no one behind the large oak desk or seated around the brightly furnished reception area, Solange ventured farther into the office. From somewhere down the narrow corridor, she could hear voices, male and female, and what sounded like the rapid clicking of a camera.

“Hello?” she called out.

There was no answer. She hesitated a moment, wondering if she should just wait for someone to emerge from the back to assist her. But then she heard the low, husky rumble of masculine laughter, and she found her legs moving of their own accord, drawing her toward the owner of that voice.

The first thought that occurred to her when she reached the open doorway at the end of the corridor was that she'd made a wrong turn somewhere and wound up at the wrong building. The large conference room had been converted into a photography studio. In the center of the room, a slender, twenty-something Asian woman wearing baggy jeans and a blunt pageboy haircut was crouched on the floor, snapping photographs of a man who stood against a white canvas backdrop with his back to her. Solange's mouth went dry at the sight of him. He was tall, at least six-three, with skin the color of mahogany, broad shoulders and hard, sculpted muscles that bunched and flexed beneath a pair of suspenders. Charcoal trousers hung dangerously low on lean hips and hugged a firm, muscled rear end you could bounce quarters off. He was stunningly, brutally masculine—so potently male he stole her breath. Solange couldn't tear her gaze away.

He wore a black fedora, the kind sported by ace private detectives in the hard-boiled mysteries of old. With his face averted and the hat slanted low over his eyes, Solange had only a teasing glimpse of his profile—the ruthlessly square jaw and sensual mouth were enough to whet her appetite for more.

And then, suddenly, she got her wish.

At the photographer's flirtatious coaxing, the man slowly turned and flashed a dazzling white grin that set off a flurry of flashbulbs—and jack-hammered Solange's pulse. Before she could catch her breath, he noticed her standing in the doorway. Beneath the low brim of his fedora, the killer smile wavered and a pair of black, piercing eyes locked with hers.

If Solange thought she'd had trouble looking away before, it was now an impossibility. The stranger's heavy-lidded eyes probed hers with searing intensity, trapping the air in her lungs. He was as darkly handsome as his profile had suggested, with razor-edged cheekbones, a strong, masculine nose and those full, sensuous lips that ought to be registered somewhere as a lethal weapon.

As Solange stared at him, his gaze slid down her body as if he could see through her creamy silk blouse, through her tan slacks, her mismatched lace underwear, right down to the quivering flesh beneath.

To show him she could, she returned his bold appraisal, letting her eyes trace the wide expanse of his shoulders and the hard, sinewy muscles carved into his chest and abdomen. Without warning, she envisioned herself standing before him and dragging the suspenders off his shoulders, then lowering her head to flick her tongue over one flat dark nipple. She imagined taking it into her mouth and gently suckling, teasing and pleasuring him. The thought was enough to make her shiver.

When one corner of the man's mouth lifted, Solange was surprised to find her own lips curving in response.

A movement to her right caught her eye, and she suddenly remembered there were two other occupants in the room, including the photographer, who had followed the direction of the man's stare and was now looking at Solange with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“I'm sorry,” Solange murmured, stepping into the room. “I didn't mean to interrupt. I must be at the wrong address. I'm looking for Roarke Investigations.”

“You've found it.” The sexy stranger came toward her, moving with the fluid ease and grace of a panther. As he drew nearer, Solange didn't know whether to look at his face or his bare chest—both were equally riveting.

“Dane Roarke,” he introduced himself, wrapping his big, warm hand around hers. Tingles of awareness swept through her body. Their eyes held.

Solange's mind went completely blank.

“You must be from the temp agency,” he said. His deep, resonant voice brushed across her awakened nerve endings like a slow, hot caress. “We've been expecting you.”

She swallowed hard, and shook her head. “No, actually, I'm not from the temp agency. I have an appointment with you this morning. My name's Solange Washington.” She glanced around the room at the camera tripod, lighting equipment and the young woman who was now packing up her supplies with the help of her assistant. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not at all. In fact, you rescued me,” Dane Roarke confided with a chuckle, and her stomach bottomed out at the low, sexy rumble. He was wrong—
she
was the one in desperate need of rescuing.

“Hey, I heard that,” the photographer retorted as she approached them. Smiling easily, she passed a business card to Solange. “Hi, I'm April Kwan. I'm shooting a calendar featuring twelve of San Antonio's hunkiest men in law enforcement. Dane graciously agreed to be Mr. January.”

“I don't know about the ‘gracious' part,” Dane grumbled. “My cousins didn't exactly leave me much of a choice, telling me at the last minute that their wives wouldn't allow them to pose for the calendar and volunteering me instead.”

April grinned. “Well, thanks for being such a good sport about it. And remember that all proceeds from the calendar will benefit breast cancer research and education in San Antonio, so your willingness to be photographed half-naked was for a good cause. The women of San Antonio will thank you.” Her dark eyes danced with mirth as she looked at Solange. “I'm taking orders, if you're interested. These calendars are gonna sell like hotcakes.”

Solange could definitely believe it, especially if the rest of the models looked anything like Dane Roarke. Before she could respond to the girl's inquiry, Dane said, “I'll send her an autographed copy,” and proceeded to usher Solange from the room.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his warm breath fanning the nape of her neck as he guided her down the hallway with a hand at the small of her back. She could feel the heat from his body and wondered if he'd forgotten he was shirtless. She certainly hadn't. “The photo shoot ran a bit longer than I'd expected.”

“That's all right,” Solange said. “I was a little early.”

“The early bird gets the worm,” Dane murmured whimsically. He stopped outside a small, windowless office dominated by a large wooden desk and black metal filing cabinets along one wall.

“Have a seat,” he said, waving her into one of the visitor chairs.

As she sat, he rummaged through the clutter on his desk until he located a manila file folder labeled with her first and last names. He opened the folder and pulled out a small sheaf of papers, which he passed to her, along with a pen and clipboard. When their fingers brushed, a melting warmth spread through her veins. Their eyes met for a prolonged moment.

“These are some forms for you to fill out and sign,” Dane said softly. “I'll be back in a little while.”

Solange nodded wordlessly, waiting until he'd closed the door behind him before drawing a deep, calming breath. She couldn't remember the last time, if ever, she'd been so fiercely attracted to a man, so acutely aware of him. Not even her former boyfriend Lamar Rogers had elicited such a response from her in the three years they'd dated. It was crazy. Sure, Dane Roarke was good-looking, virile and incredibly appealing, but that didn't mean she had to lose her mind. She'd always been a smart, savvy, coolheaded woman when it came to dealing with members of the opposite sex. But there was nothing remotely
cool
about her hot-blooded reaction to Dane Roarke.

Relax, girl,
she told herself.
After today, you'll probably never see him again, anyway.

She frowned, unsure whether that was a good or bad thing.

Shoving aside the unsettling thought, Solange started on the paperwork Dane had given her, which included detailed questionnaires about her employment and educational history, a drug-testing consent form, as well as a confidentiality agreement. She'd heard that Crandall Thorne had been involved in the hiring of every employee at his law firm since its inception. Considering that Solange, as his soon-to-be personal assistant, would be privy to sensitive information about him, she fully expected to undergo a background check comparable to those administered by the FBI.

Dane returned to the office as she was completing the last form. When Solange glanced up and saw that he'd put on a shirt, she didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“All finished?” he asked briskly.

Solange nodded, passing him the paperwork attached to the clipboard.

He leafed through the forms as he rounded the desk and sat. While he was preoccupied, she covertly studied him. Without the fedora, she saw that his black hair was cropped close to his scalp, matching the smooth texture of his heavy eyebrows. Those piercing onyx eyes were rimmed with thick lashes, long enough to touch his cheeks as he looked down. His big hands were liberally sprinkled with black hair, his fingernails short and clean. Her gaze lingered on his left hand, searching his dark skin for traces of a wedding band, inexplicably relieved when she found none.

“No middle name?”

His deep voice jerked her to attention. Her eyes snapped to his face and found him looking at her. Her face heated with embarrassment at the realization that he'd caught her checking him out. “I'm sorry. What did you say?”

His mouth twitched. “I asked if you have a middle name.”

She shook her head. “No. Just Solange.” She waited for him to comment on how unusual her name was, or to ask her if she knew she shared her name with a popular singer's sister, but he merely nodded and continued his perusal of her paperwork. After another moment, he gave a satisfied nod and set aside the clipboard.

Leaning back in his chair, he regarded her with lazy indulgence. “So you're going to be working for Crandall Thorne, huh?”

“It appears so.”

Dane shook his head slowly at her. “Brave woman.”

She let out a startled laugh. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Dane chuckled softly. “You're new in town. I'll let you find out on your own.”

Solange gave him a wry smile. “How well do you know Crandall Thorne?”

“Well enough. His son is married to my cousin Daniela, so we're practically related. Not to mention the fact that Crandall's one of our biggest clients. We do all of the employee background checks for his company.”

Solange arched a teasing brow. “Aren't you afraid I'll go back and tell him you were badmouthing him?”

“Nah,” Dane drawled lazily. “You don't strike me as the type to stab a man in the back like that.”

Solange grinned. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it was.” His hot, possessive gaze roamed across her face, making her pulse quicken. “One of many compliments I could pay you, Miss Washington.”

Her belly quivered, and she felt a thrill of pleasure at his words. Clearing her throat, she said, “I have a lot of errands to run this morning. Was there anything else you needed from me?”

“Actually, there is.” Dane paused for a moment, watching her carefully. “Mr. Thorne asked me to invite you to take a polygraph test.”

Solange stared at him in dumbfounded silence. She couldn't have heard right. “A
polygraph test?
He wants me to take a lie-detector test?”

“Only if you're willing to,” Dane said mildly.

Solange shook her head in disbelief. She'd fully expected Roarke Investigations to conduct a thorough background check on her, but this was going overboard. “I'm sure you and Mr. Thorne are aware of the Employee Polygraph Protection Act of 1988, a federal law that prohibits employers from requiring employees to take lie-detector tests.”

Dane inclined his head. “I'm aware of it, as is Mr. Thorne.”

Solange said coolly, “That means employers are prohibited from even
suggesting
that an employee or applicant take a lie-detector test, nor can they decline to hire an applicant who refuses to take one.”