Not What It Seems (Escape to Alaska Trilogy) (10 page)

Cassidy grimaced when the sound of ceramic mug hitting hardwood reverberated in her head. “Thank you. Death warmed over is the latest morning look, very popular with jetsetters.” She blew on the hot beverage, tentatively took a sip. And then she dug into her purse and extracted a bottle of painkillers.

“Coffee, with a Tylenol chaser?” Clayton set a glass of water in front of her without being asked.

Cassidy popped two pills into her mouth and sipped just enough water to swallow them. “That’s my first choice. If the Tylenol doesn’t work, I might consider the whole matter hopeless and ask you to just shoot me.”

“Is the pathetic excuse for a human being before me the result of your date with our friend, Mr. Rock?”

“We danced into the wee hours of the morning at Platinum Jaxx. I consumed several Paralyzers—they work by the way...my brain is paralyzed—and I recall several tequila shots, too. I totally forgot about the early shift.” Cassidy placed her elbows on the counter, rested her head in her hands, and closed her eyes. The room started slowly spinning, and she forced her eyes open again.

“Should have traded shifts with someone.” Clayton leaned against the back counter, crossed his arms.

“Never thought of that. Brain’s a little fussy this morning.” Cassidy lifted her coffee mug, thought better of it, and set it down again.

“A little?”

Cassidy groaned. “Does ‘dead’ qualify as an acceptable excuse to leave work early?”

“How about a nice cold beer? Hair of the dog?” Clayton asked, grinning broadly.

Cassidy’s stomach flipped and then resettled. “Are you a sadist? If it’s your intention to off me with a beer instead of a bullet, it would accomplish your goal right now.”

“So when are you and Mr. Wonderful going out again?” Clayton chuckled. “Providing you live, of course.”

“Randy assured me he’d call again, but we haven’t firmed up any plans.” Cassidy risked another sip of coffee. The java and Tylenol stayed down. So far, so good.

“That’s encouraging,” muttered Clayton.

“Did you say something?” Cassidy raised her head, slowly blinked, and met his eyes. Clayton’s murderous expression meant one of two possibilities: disappointment in her behavior or jealous of Randy. “When was the last time you danced the night away in a woman’s arms, Mr. Morrison?”

Cassidy laid her arms on the counter, rested her head on her crossed arms, and closed her eyes. No spinning this time, thankfully.

“Don’t fall asleep. I’ll call the cops and have you hauled off to the drunk tank.”

“Very funny,” muttered Cassidy, not even moving an eyelash. It hurt to blink.

Until this morning, she’d enjoyed her date with Randy Rock beyond words. She loved his intelligent conversation, his fun-loving attitude toward life. Most importantly, she respected the well-educated, well-mannered gentleman. And Randy had treated her like a queen.

Considering their rhythmic gyrations on the dance floor, the other club patrons probably visualized their identical movements in a bed. Lord knows, Cassidy had.

“Okay, I won’t tolerate women passing out on the bar’s countertop. Go home and sleep it off. You’re obviously in no shape to work, or do much of anything else, except expire. And I’d hazard a guess that women dying on my barstools would reflect negatively on the business.” Clayton rounded the bar, grabbed Cassidy’s purse and hoisted her off the barstool. He parked the purse strap on her shoulder and steered her toward the front door.

“Where are we going?” Cassidy almost stumbled on the front door runner, but Clayton tightened his grip.

“I’m driving you home. I assume you didn’t drive in this condition.” Clayton swept her up in his arms.

“Patricia dropped me off on her way to work.” Cassidy threw her arms around Clayton’s neck, knocking his Stetson onto the floor. She laid her head on his shoulder and began running her fingers through his wavy curls.

“That’s what I thought.” Clayton hooked a toe under his cowboy hat and sent it sailing over the bar, landing safely on a chair. “Could have played placekicker for the Seahawks, if I’d had a mind to.”

“You smell good,” whispered Cassidy, nuzzling his neck.

Clayton shifted her position in his arms.

“Ouch. Don’t throw me around. My head hurts.” Cassidy groaned.

“I did not
throw
you around. I gently moved you away from my neck for fear you’d start nibbling on it.” Clayton headed outside and set her on her feet beside his Porsche. When her knees buckled, he grabbed her and braced her against the vehicle with one hand while he dug in his pocket for his car keys with the other. “And I can’t imagine why your head hurts.”

“Oh-oh.” Cassidy knocked Clayton’s hand away, staggered to the boulevard, and threw up while leaning against a lovely young evergreen tree.

****

The next morning, Cassidy tip-toed into the bar, hoping Clayton hadn’t arrived at work yet. No such luck.

“Look who just strolled in, the neighborhood lush. Good morning, Miss Du Pont.” Clayton stood behind the bar, smiling broadly. “Do you require a cup of coffee this morning?”

“No thank you. I’ve had my morning coffee already.” Cassidy felt herself redden. “Thank you for driving me home yesterday. And I’m sorry I behaved so badly.”

Clayton unloaded the last of the glassware in the dishwasher rack and hung them in the proper slots overhead. “That’s all right. Everybody ties one on once in awhile. Just so you know…I’ve called the city.”

“What? Why?” asked Cassidy, frowning.

“I warned them one of their evergreen trees might perish from some form of alcohol poisoning.” Clayton chuckled.

Cassidy felt herself redden a shade deeper. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded his head and chuckled.

Cassidy held her head high. “If I can ever repay your kindness, just ask.” And then she turned on her heel, headed toward the swinging doors leading to the back rooms.

“There is one small thing,” called Clayton, hands on hips.

Cassidy froze in her tracks, turned, and met his eyes.

Oh God, she wondered, what was he going to demand of her? Donate a month’s worth of tips to Mothers Against Drunk Drivers? Clean the bar’s bathrooms for a month? Plant another damn evergreen tree?

“What?” she asked, with a grimace.

“Do me the honor of having dinner with me on Sunday night.”

Cassidy gaped. He’d refused an invitation to dinner when it was her idea. And she’d even insisted on picking up the check. Now, he was suggesting dinner with him on Sunday night.

“Did I hear you correctly?” Cassidy shook her head. “You’re asking me out to dinner? On a date? Just the two of us?”

“Dinner on Sunday night. My treat.”

“Umm…okay…I guess so,” mumbled Cassidy.

“Such a gracious acceptance from such a refined young lady.” Clayton chuckled and shook his head. “Why haven’t I asked you out to dinner before?”

“I’m sorry. You caught me completely off guard.” Cassidy straightened her back. “I’d be delighted to accompany you to dinner on Sunday evening.”

“Wonderful. Wear that little black dress you wore for your date with Rock.” Clayton turned and busied himself behind the bar.

****

The remainder of the week passed in a blur, and the weekend flew by all too quickly. At four-thirty on Sunday afternoon, Cassidy stepped into the glass-walled shower in her ensuite and turned the water on full blast. Ever since Clayton asked her out, Cassidy couldn’t stop worrying about the planned dinner date.

One little mistake. And now her penance would be an entire evening enduring Clayton Morrison’s company. The date represented a disaster just waiting to happen

The two of them complemented each other like oil and water; tolerated each other like cats and dogs. Why had she accepted? To fulfill an obligation? In spite of his annoying rules and persistent curiosity about her past, she found him extremely attractive. And wasn’t dinner out with Clayton exactly what she’d wanted? Her grandmother’s words rang in her ears:
Be careful what you wish for.

And why had Clayton suggested dinner together as repayment? Had her plan worked? Did dating Randy ignite a jealous streak in him? He suggested the date as repayment for rescuing her from a bad situation. Shouldn’t she be taking him to dinner? Believing Clayton asked her out because he found her equally attractive would be too much to expect. Or was it?

The longer she contemplated the whole idea, the more confused she became. But she’d accepted his invitation. Now, keeping her senses about her was imperative. She couldn’t let the wrong information slip. If Clayton learned her secret, would he betray her whereabouts to her father? She simply had to trust him.

The plastic bottle of body wash slipped through her wet hands and crashed onto the bottom of the shower narrowly missing her toes. She bent to retrieve it. As she lathered herself from face to feet, she recalled trying to guess his intended destination. Patricia had assured her Clayton hadn’t called for a reservation at Endless Nights, and Cassidy had discreetly inquired at three other downtown restaurants without any success.

Where was he taking her? To McDonald’s for a Big Mac? She wouldn’t put it past him.

Cassidy stepped out of the shower, toweled herself off, and applied lotion to every inch of her body.

Clayton Morrison never failed to confound her: rescuer one minute, tormentor the next. And she didn’t harbor any illusions that this date would be anything but torture. She’d picked up her little black dress from the drycleaner yesterday and hung it in her closet ready for their evening together. She couldn’t imagine why Clayton had insisted she wear it.

“Why the invitation? Why the dress? I’ll drive myself crazy worrying about this,” she scolded herself aloud, as she dried her hair.

Short hair dried so quickly, she noted, compared to the hour she used to spend drying her long brunette locks before rushing out the door to work. She should have cut her hair ages ago. She’d visited her new stylist yesterday for a root touchup, the one downside to dyeing her hair. But the extra visits to the hairdresser and the extra cost were justified if it assisted with her anonymity and freedom from discovery.

An hour later, Cassidy donned the Vera Wang little black dress, and the same sandals and pearls she’d worn for her date with Randy. Clayton’s request to wear the dress puzzled her still, but considering his chivalrous rescue the other day, she owed him one. And she loved wearing the comfortable, sexy dress.

Did Clayton consider her sexy? Now where had that thought originated? And did she even care one way or the other?

As she slipped diamond studs into her ears, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Deer in the headlights,” she muttered aloud. “Really, how bad can a date with Clayton be? One innocent date: a delicious meal, lively conversation, a pleasant drive home, and then a warm handshake with a polite thank you and good night. You can do this.”

She cocked her head and listened. The doorbell rang again.

“Show time.”

When Cassidy threw open the front door, she almost fainted. Clayton Morrison stood before her, holding an enormous bouquet of white and yellow roses in one hand. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, striped tie and a huge smile. She checked his other hand for a briefcase; he looked positively ‘corporate’.

“I’m sorry. I’m expecting a guy in jeans, plaid shirt and a Stetson. I don’t believe he’s the jealous type, but I can’t promise anything. For your own good and to be on the safe side, you best skedaddle.” She couldn’t contain the smile that crossed her lips.

“Cute. Invite me in, or I’ll turn tail and run before that other fool shows up.” He handed her the roses. She quickly counted two dozen.

“By all means, come in. And thank you for the beautiful roses.” Cassidy stepped back and allowed her date to enter the foyer. “You clean up real good, Mr. Morrison.”

“Thank you. And you look…acceptable. At least, the other morning’s green tinge is gone from your face.” Clayton grinned, broadly.

“I’ll never live that down, will I?” She carried the roses through the house to the kitchen, and he followed.

“Nope.” Clayton tilted his head. “I love that little black dress.”

Cassidy mustered up her best southern drawl. “This…old…thang?” They both laughed.

While she filled a crystal vase with water, ripped open the plastic plant food packet and dumped it in, she wondered why Clayton had bought her flowers. What was he thinking? Twenty four damn roses. Had anyone ever bought her two dozen roses before? Yes, once. Her parents arranged for twenty-four red roses to be delivered to her apartment the day she learned she’d passed the bar exam.

What’s Clayton up to now? He’s acting like…like…like this was an actual date!

“Are you ready to go?” Clayton grinned. “I’m all duded up, and I’m not missing dinner.”

“Flowers into the vase, grab my purse, and set the house alarm. Two minutes and we’re out of here.” Cassidy stuffed the roses into the vase, knowing Patricia would rearrange them a half dozen times before she’d be satisfied. And then she led the way down the hall to the front door.

“Will I need a coat?” She grabbed her clutch purse off the hallway table.

“I doubt it. It’s going to be a beautiful evening.”

“Are we still talking weather?” She raised one eyebrow, and Clayton chuckled. She punched four numbers into the alarm system, and then followed him out the door.

Clayton assisted her into his Porsche. She grimaced as she settled herself in the same vehicle he’d rescued her in last Wednesday morning. Truthfully, she couldn’t remember the ride home. She’d either momentarily passed out or fallen asleep. After the embarrassing session beside the tree, it was a wonder he hadn’t dropped her at the drunk tank after all.

“What model is this?” Cassidy fastened her seatbelt and ran her hand across the seat’s soft leather.

“A brand new Panamera.”

“Do you love it? I…” Cassidy blanched. She’d almost blurted out that she loved her Cayenne, the model she’d received on her twenty-fifth birthday two years ago. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought. Keep your wits about you.