Deceiving Derek (4 page)

Her singing sucked.

The door slammed shut as Ridge walked past
Claire Merriweather’s jiggling butt and set his basket on the first
washing machine in the row. Claire had hired him for tonight’s
party. However, the reserved tones of her voice mail requesting his
services in no way matched her enthusiastic bouncing on spiky
sandals. Purple panties peeked from the hem of her lingerie as she
danced, and countless straps crisscrossed her spine. Swinging a
plastic cup, she cannibalized an upbeat song about kissing
girls.

“I copped a feel—
hiccup!”
she belted in a flat
soprano. “La, la, la, his—
hic
—nightstick!”

Ridge recognized the side of her head,
although not her daring outfit. During his performance in a
fourth-floor apartment of the building, she’d remained within his
vantage point in the hostess’s kitchen, prepping snacks and mixing
drinks. She’d worn totally different clothes then. A conservative
blouse and jeans that had nicely hugged her round behind.

How had the girl who’d avoided his gaze while
paying him at the door transformed into this out-of-tune sex
kitten?

Her glass swung again. The creamy concoction
sloshed onto the scuffed linoleum beside a humming dryer.

Ridge’s mouth quirked.
Naturally
. The booze.

“Hello,” he called.

Her eyes fluttered half-open. Poking her
earphone, she bastardized the song again.

“Hello!” Ridge walked toward her, banging the
washers. Her gaze riveted to the bulletin board.

He frowned. Didn’t she realize her vulnerable
position? A woman alone in the unlocked laundry donned in lacy
nightwear placed herself in unnecessary danger. Any loser—not
him—could waltz in and see her.

Take advantage of her.

Attack her.

She licked an ad on the flyer-infested
bulletin board.

Ridge did a double-take.
Licked it!

Narrowing his gaze, he stopped directly
behind her. She tongued the ad a second time.
His
ad. For his stripping
business.

Nine of the original thirteen detachable
paper strips inscribed with his cell phone number hung from the
glossy eight-by-ten. Butchering the pop song, Claire Merriweather
tore off every last slip. Giggling, she stuffed them into her
top.

Ridge rolled his eyes. In the color photo
adorning the flyer, he wore the navy policeman costume she’d
specified for the party. Stainless steel handcuffs dangled from his
thick black belt while he gripped a strategically positioned
nightstick. The intentional visual had netted him a generous profit
as one of two part-time summer jobs. Under other circumstances,
Claire’s thievery might flatter him. But registration for
second-year med school occurred in a week.

Nobody
messed with his tuition money.

He stepped within an inch of her. “Excuse
me?” Voice hard, he tapped her shoulder.

Shrieking, she jumped. Her drink winged out
of the cup, drenching the flyer. One of her earphones popped out,
the white cord swaying.

Ridge, you idiot
. What on earth was he thinking,
scaring the pants off her?

“Sorry.” Grasping her shoulders, he turned
her around. “I hit the washers to catch your attention—”

“It’s you!” Green eyes wide, she thumped the
empty cup onto the droning dyer. “My cop-a-feel!” She threw her
arms around his neck. Her full breasts crushed the loose T-shirt
covering his chest, and the sweet aroma of Irish Cream drifted from
her lips.

Ridge pushed her away and held her there. Not
that he didn’t appreciate her enthusiasm. In fact, certain parts of
his body appreciated it too much.

“You were at the party tonight,” he reminded
her in case her neurons had misfired. “You hired me for your
friend, Tanya. I danced with her. In Alicia Maxwell’s apartment.
Remember?”

A loopy grin plastered Claire Merriweather’s
face. “I wouldn’t exactly say I hired you for Tanya.” The papers
advertising his cell number fluttered in her top. The purple
nightie—babydolls, that was it—had wide shoulder straps and lacy
stuff that nipped at her waist and flared at her hips. He liked the
tiny white bows along the hem. He liked the large bow centered on
her cleavage even better. But…

Up close, on a wildness scale of one to ten,
Claire’s outfit rated a three. The neckline didn’t plunge, and the
skirt concealed her butt—when she wasn’t bouncing around. The
papers jutting from her top and the dangling music cord lent her
the appearance of a disorganized cat burglar on a midnight
heist.

“Oh yeah, you hired me for Tanya,” Ridge
stated. “She’s the bride.”

Claire’s dimples flashed. “You look like Demi
Moore’s ex.”

Ridge squinted. “Bruce Willis?”

“No, silly. The young one. Don’t
you—
hic
—twit?”

“What? Oh, you mean tweet.”

“Uh-huh. Twit.” She lifted a finger, and his
grip on her slackened. “Soshul networking. Ash-
hic
has an account.” She
nodded sagely. “You should sign up. You’d get a ton more
calls.”

Ridge grunted. “If you hadn’t destroyed my
ad, I’d get calls the conventional way.”

Her eyebrows wiggled. “You pack quite a
package, Ridge.” Her gaze traveled to his pajama pants, which he
wore commando.

His jaw firmed.
May lightning strike me dead. Now. I’ll
donate my body to science
.

Two weeks ago, when Claire had hired him over
the phone, her voice had sounded professional. Sensible. They’d
discussed his rates and arrival time at Alicia Maxwell’s apartment,
the duration and heat level of his performance. He had no problem
flirting and stripping to a leather G-string, but drew the line at
mimicking sex with the guest of honor.

In tonight’s case, Tanya, Claire’s
friend.

He released her shoulders.

Her hands whipped under his T-shirt.
Jesus!
Her
palms skated over his pecs and abs. His pajama pants ran the risk
of tenting in an energetic salute.

“Make love with me,” she murmured.

“Stop.” Grabbing her wrists, Ridge flipped
her hands back out. “
Claire
. I don’t know what you think I’m
advertising—” other than the party dances “—but I will not sleep
with you.”

“Aw.” She pouted. “Not even if I tip
you?”

“Especially not then.”

She blinked. “What’s wrong with me?”

“I don’t pick up drunk women.” Actually,
between the med school grind and grabbing whatever work fit his
busy schedule, he hadn’t gotten laid in longer than he cared to
consider.

“I’m not drunk,” Claire enunciated very
clearly. Her bleary eyes signified otherwise.

“It doesn’t matter.” Ridge released her
wrists.

“You won’t take me home?” She wobbled on her
sandals. “No one ever takes me home. No one says I’m beautiful.
Everybody thinks I’m fat. No one loves me. Everyone loves Tanya.
Everyone loves Lacey. Some people even love Alicia. But I’m
unlovable!”

“You’re not unlovable. And you’re definitely
not fat.” Why did women think all men wanted to date human pogo
sticks?

“If I were five-seven and had great boobs,
then would you have sex with me?”

Ridge trained his gaze on her face. “You do
have great boobs.” From what he’d noticed moments ago.

“You’re not looking at them. You’re not
feeling them.” Flinging her arms in the air, she launched herself
at him. “Catch!”

Instinctively, Ridge’s hands shot up. Her
rack landed in his palms.
Oops
.

“There.” Her loopy smile returned. “Now tell
me they aren’t great.”

“I never said they weren’t great.” Damn, they
felt amazing. Spilling over his fingers. Firm yet soft.
Perfection.

Don’t look down
.

He looked down.

His thumb edged the center bow, his fingers
pressing the paper strips lining her bare skin above the modest
neckline.

Look back up, Pederson. Don’t you dare squeeze these
babies. Not even once
.

She slumped against him. Ridge stumbled back
a step as her temple knocked his chin and her head sagged onto his
shoulder. Her arms flopped, trapping his hands against his
chest.

“Claire?” He glanced at her face.

Her mouth had slackened with sleep, her eyes
sealed shut.

Damn it
.

She’d passed out with her hot knockers
filling his hands.

What the hell did he do now?

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CHAPTER 1

“What?”
Justin Kane shot up from his desk, gripping
the cordless phone so tight that his knuckles threatened to pop out
of their skin. “Tina, you can’t do this to me.”

“Oh no? Well, I’m doing it, lover.” Justin’s
apparently soon-to-be ex-girlfriend’s voice grated over the line.
“You’ve taken advantage of me for the last time.”

“Taken advantage?” Justin echoed like some
slow-on-the-uptake parrot. She made him sound like a class-A
jerk—as if she’d never had a hand in defining the casual nature of
their relationship. He shook his head. “I’ve never taken advantage
of you any more than you’ve taken advantage of me.”

“Then let’s say I’ve grown tired of the
game.”

“Game? Tina, wait, this isn’t a game.”
Racking his brain for a recent list of sins he must have
com-mitted, Justin paced his efficiently organized office above the
main Vancouver branch of his three CycleMania bike stores. He
couldn’t let Tina walk out on him now. The ink hadn’t been applied
to the deal with Willoughby Bikes yet.

He wanted that distributorship, and he needed
Tina’s help to get it.

“Besides,” he reminded her, “I thought you
liked what we have going together. I thought you liked it as much
as I do.”

“I did like it, Justin, but things change. Or
maybe I should say I’ve changed. Do you know what this weekend
means to me?”

“Of course I do. The same as it does to me.
The Willoughbys are flying in tomorrow, and we’re taking them to
Whistler.” The nearby mountain resort town would serve as the
perfect backdrop for convincing Nathan Willoughby that CycleMania
would fit seamlessly into the British bike manufacturer’s growing
worldwide “family” of distributors. Justin had been counting on
Tina’s presence to cement the image of stability the English
businessman demanded.

Tina snorted, rather delicately, but a snort
all the same. “Work is the first thing you would think of. But if
you try real hard, you might come up with something else.”

Justin shoved a hand through his hair. He
had
been
trying to decipher this disconcerting new dialect of Tina-speak,
and he’d wound up several thousand syllables short. What did she
expect? She’d propelled him into alien territory.

“It’s your birthday?” he guessed.

“No, it’s not my birthday. That was in April.
It’s July.” A huff of irritation resounded in his ear. “Damn it,
Justin, you’re dense. You’re either dense or you don’t care.”

He frowned. When had his superficial and
how-he-liked-her Tina transmuted into this perplexing pod person?
Dragging in a breath, he focused on a framed poster of the
Cyclone—Willoughby’s pro-level, full-suspension mountain bike—he’d
hung on the wall to inspire motivation.

“What then?” he asked.

“It’s the six-month anniversary of our first
date.” Her tone assumed the durability of quick-dry shellac.

Shit
. He hadn’t realized they were keeping track. “I
didn’t think that sort of thing mattered to you.”

“I didn’t, either—in
January
. Like I said, I’ve changed.
I’m thirty-four now, Justin. Your mid-thirties might spell fun and
games to you, but my damn clock is ticking. I want to get married,
maybe have a baby. I’m not prepared to wait forever for you to
decide you want the same.”

“Come on, Tina, be reasonable. You can’t
suddenly announce that you’re thinking babies and marriage when all
along we’ve agreed they’re not on the agenda.” Justin refused to
repeat his father’s mistakes. He wouldn’t mix marriage and raising
a family with building a business, the way his father had done with
his law practice. He’d thought Tina understood and accepted that
about him.

“Oh please. I refuse to feel guilty for doing
this. My needs have changed and yours haven’t. It’s that
simple.”

“But to break up with me now? Nathan
Willoughby and his wife expect to meet you. How can I take them to
Whistler without you?”

“Tell them I have the flu.”

“And next week?”

“Tell them I fell off a cliff. I don’t care.
You’ll think of something. You always do.” She paused. “Listening
to you, Justin, it’s clear you don’t want me. Not in the way I
need. So why should I worry about this weekend? About whether or
not you close this deal? Fend for yourself, big guy. That’s what
you’ve done all this time, anyway.” She hung up.

“Tina!” He punched in her number—and went
straight to voice mail.

He tossed the cordless onto the desk.
Sitting, he scrubbed a hand over his face.

Hell, what a mess. What now?
He couldn’t go to
Whistler without Tina. He’d look like a heel spending a carefree
July weekend with the Willoughbys while Miss Personality Switcheroo
supposedly lay in bed with a fever. Yet he couldn’t say she’d
dumped him, either. One indication that Justin’s life was a
shambles and Nathan Willoughby would write him off as unreliable.
Justin could kiss the exclusive dealership rights for Willoughby
Bikes in Vancouver and the distributorship for Western Canada
goodbye.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. He might
be an ignoramus when it came to the female of the species, but he
knew his business and he wasn’t willing to risk it. The four-month
window he’d established for opening more bike stores depended on
the financing the Willoughby Bikes deal would pro-vide. Justin
wasn’t about to abandon that major step in his carefully
constructed master life plan be-cause Tina had sprouted maternal
instincts the way most women sprouted leg hair.