Passion and Scandal (17 page)

The inside of the house was an even bigger surprise than the outside had been. It seemed, at first, to be one big open space, with a high, beamed ceiling, bare wood floor, acres of windows that let in the pink glow of the setting sun and a huge fireplace at one end. But a closer look revealed that it was divided into cooking, dining, and living spaces by two tiled counters and the clever arrangement of furniture and area rugs.

"Did you do all this yourself?" she asked, wondering if there might have been a wife or live-in love somewhere in his past.

"I worked with the architect on the plans and picked out the furniture," he said, taking her purse and jacket from her to set them down on one of the counters. "But my sister Laurie helped me with the dishes and towels and all that decorating stuff." He waved a hand around, silently indicating the urns full of fragrant eucalyptus, the woven baskets that held magazines and kindling, the knitted throw over the back of a sofa, the tall wrought-iron candlesticks on the wooden dining table.

"It's really lovely. I'm impressed."

"It's comfortable," he allowed, watching her move around the main room of his house, wondering how she would feel about sharing it with him for the rest of their natural lives. He wanted to ask her right now. Wanted to tell her she could change anything she wanted. Wanted to tell her they'd sell it and start over if she didn't like it. Wanted... But it was too soon. Way too soon. They had other matters to settle first. "Do you want to eat first, or take that shower?" he asked instead.

"Shower," she said. "I had a cup of coffee and a piece of baklava at the Greek deli before—"

"Before some idiot driver almost ran you down," he finished for her, not wanting her to spend too much time dwelling on what had happened. It would be better for her, easier, if she didn't have to come face-to-face with the knowledge that what had happened probably hadn't been an accident.

"Let me show you where the shower is." He reached out to take her elbow, then remembered in time and took her by the hand, instead, linking his fingers with hers as he led her across the great room to one of the arched doorways opening off of it.

They walked down a short hall, then turned and entered a large airy bedroom done in desert shades of beige, brown, and dusty blue. There was a king-size bed under a skylight, wide-paned glass doors leading to a lattice-covered deck, and an adobe fireplace in the corner. "You'll have to use my bathroom," he said, motioning toward the half-open door across the room. "It's the only one that's fully stocked."

"I don't want to put you out of your own bathroom," she said. "Just give me a bar of soap and a towel and point me to a guest bath. I'll be fine."

"You're not putting me out. All I have to do is dig up a clean pair of jeans and I'm set." Unable to resist, he lifted their clasped hands, turning them to place a kiss on the back of her wrist before he untangled his fingers from hers.

Willow felt a sudden attack of dizziness come over her that had nothing to do with the hit she'd taken to her head. She leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, watching as he moved to the tall bleached-wood dresser against the wall.

"I can offer you sweatpants and a T-shirt to put on after your shower," he said, pulling the items in question from a drawer as he spoke. "Or there's a robe hanging on the back of the door in the bathroom, if you'd rather wear that."

"Sweatpants and a T-shirt will be fine."

"Help yourself to anything you need in the bathroom. The new toothbrushes are on the top shelf of the linen closet. And there's aspirin in the medicine cabinet." He put the clothes in her hands. "I'd suggest you take a couple of them. If you're not aching yet, you will be. Almost getting run over will do that to you."

Oh, I'm aching, all right,
Willow thought as she stood there, staring up at him. But it didn't have anything to do with nearly getting run over.

"Are you going to be all right in there by yourself?"

"What?" She blinked. "Oh, yes. Fine. I'll be fine."

"I'll be right outside the door." He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek, ostensibly brushing a stray hair out of her face. "Holler if you need me."

* * *

Holler if you need me.

And just what would he do if she did? Willow wondered. Come striding into the shower like a knight in shining armor and... and wash her back? She faltered a bit at the thought, nearly dropping the soap, wondering if she dared test him that far, wondering if... No, she was thinking crazy again; what
was
it about that man that made her want to listen to her hormones instead of her head? It was too soon for that kind of intimacy.

The same sound arguments that applied last night after his refusal had forced her to come to her senses still applied. For all the instant chemistry and surprising affinity of mind they seemed to share, she barely knew him. Even though she accepted the inevitability of an intimate relationship with him—because he was right, it
was
going to happen—two days' acquaintance wasn't long enough for a smart woman like her to risk sharing the secrets of her body with a man. Not to mention those of her heart and soul...

* * *

Steve stood outside the bathroom door with his fists clenched, listening to the sounds of the woman he wanted with every fiber of his being taking a shower in his bathroom. She was standing in
his
shower. Using
his
soap. Sliding
his
washcloth over the sleek, naked curves of her body.

He closed his eyes, imagining how it would be if he joined her in the shower, remembering the feel and taste of her breasts. The way her hips had moved in mindless need against his. The shuddering breaths and little gasping noises she made. The way her arms had clasped him and held him close, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

He lifted his hand, reaching for the doorknob, his whole body urging him to go in and take what he knew she would willingly give him. He would pull back the shower curtain and she would turn, not really startled to see him,
expecting
to see him, and she would lift her arms toward him, her eyes burning with passion and need and fierce feminine welcome.

He was so attuned to her responses, so sure of how she would react, that it was hard to remember he'd only known her for two days. Hard to remember that she was a client who'd come to him looking for help. Hard to remember she'd been battered and bruised and probably wasn't up to the sort of fast and furious sex he was aching to give her.

It was hard, period.

He dropped his hand, waiting silently, tensely, for the shower to stop. When it did, he lifted his fist and rapped sharply on the door. "Everything okay in there?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. "You still on your feet?"

"Don't come in!" she called, an edge of panicked excitement in her voice, and he knew she had been imagining things, too. "I'll be out as soon as I get dressed and dry my hair."

"Take your time," he said, his mind automatically forming a picture of her standing there, dripping water on his blue bathroom rug, one of his striped towels clutched to her breasts as she stared at the door. "I'll be in the kitchen, throwing some sandwiches together. They'll be ready whenever you are."

* * *

They sat across the dining table from each other, eating vegetable soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches. She had blow-dried her hair with his dryer, used the antiseptic spray she found in his medicine cabinet on her elbows and thigh, just to be on the safe side, and taken two aspirin as he had suggested to forestall the headache that hadn't yet developed. She felt clean and cozy, and ridiculously coddled, dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and a pale blue T-shirt that hung halfway down her thighs.

"Okay," she said, waiting until he had taken a healthy bite of his cheese sandwich before she spoke. "Spill it."

Steve chewed and swallowed. "Spill what?" he asked, reaching for his iced tea to help wash the sandwich down.

"This house," she said, gesturing at the room with her soupspoon. "The office on Hollywood Boulevard. You've got to admit they don't go together."

"Why not?" he asked blandly.

"Don't give me that look," she said. "You know why not. Your office belongs to a semisuccessful P.I. who's just about managing to make ends meet. Your books, by the way, tell the same story. This place was built by someone with money." And taste, but she didn't tell him that. "Lots and lots of money. Either you've got a really successful—and, therefore, probably illegal—sideline going, or some rich Los Angeles socialite has you on retainer for something other than your skill as an investigator," she said with a sly grin, deliberately choosing the two possibilities that would be most likely to get a rise out of him.

He didn't take the bait. "Maybe I'm independently wealthy."

"Are you?"

"Would it make a difference if I was?"

"To what?" she said, puzzled by the question.

"To you."

"To me?" It took her a minute to understand what he was getting at. And then her eyes narrowed, snapping fire. She started to rise up out of her chair.

"Gotcha," he said, and grinned at her.

She gave him a mutinous glare and sat back down. "That wasn't funny," she said.

"Sure it was. You're just mad because I didn't react when you tried to insult me."

She ducked her head, hiding a grin as she bit into her sandwich. He was right, damn him. How had he learned to read her so well in just two short days? She swallowed her bite of sandwich. "So, are you really independently wealthy?"

"Yes, I really am."

She tilted her head, her eyes speculative as she stared at him across the table. "I don't see how," she said. "You're an abysmal businessman who hasn't got the slightest idea of how to keep a proper set of books."

"I have a trust fund," he said, not the least bit offended by what she obviously thought he would consider a major insult. "My sister Laurie manages it for me. She's an investment banker."

"You're kidding."

"No, really, she is."

Willow gave him a wry look, letting him know that she knew that
he
knew that hadn't been what she meant. "Where did a semisuccessful P.I. get a trust fund?"

"My mother's maiden name was Fallon. Her family used to own quite a lot of what was once arid farmland in the San Fernando Valley, way back before the Aqueduct was built in the early 1900s. Down through the years they've managed to hang on to most of it. Only now it's tract homes and shopping centers and light industry."

Willow was silent for a moment, considering that. She'd never heard of the Fallons but she knew what it meant to have owned land in the Valley before it became the home of some one-third of Los Angeles's entire population. And to still own it now.

"And your father's family? Did they give you a tidy little trust fund, too?"

"Mom married down," he said with a grin. "My dad is William S. Hart, the attorney."

She might not have heard of the Fallons but she knew who William S. Hart was. The famous civil rights lawyer had retired a few years ago, if she remembered rightly, after having made a name for himself as a fire-eater who often took on seemingly lost-cause cases that other lawyers saw no profit in.

"So that explains the house," Willow said, "but how do you explain the business you're in?"

"Does it need explaining?"

"Sure. I mean, with a background like that, why aren't you some high-priced lawyer with a Harvard degree and an office in Beverly Hills?"

"I was. The Harvard degree part," he said, amused by her thunderstruck expression. "Not the Beverly Hills part."

"What happened?"

"Lawyers have to play by the rules." He shrugged. "I like to do things my own way."

Willow didn't doubt that for a minute but there was more to it than that. A lot more. "And?" she prodded.

"And what?"

"That still doesn't explain why you do what you do, or why your office is located in a low-rent building on Hollywood Boulevard."

"I do what I do because I'm good at it, and I like it," he said, dismissively. "And my office is where it is because that's where most of my clients are."

Willow stared at him across the table, a considering look in her golden brown eyes. He could see the wheels turning as she tried to fit the pieces together. And then she pursed her lips and nodded, as if to herself, and her eyes widened. The look she gave him had him squirming in embarrassment.

"You're a big ol' fake," she said softly, as the truth dawned on her. "You're not a tough guy at all. You're a marshmallow underneath all those muscles. An idealist. A crusader."

"Knock it off," he grumbled, and buried his nose in his iced tea to keep her from seeing that his cheeks were turning pink.

But Willow had sharp eyes, and an even sharper tongue. She couldn't resist. He was so cute when he blushed. "You're a savior of lost children," she said. "A defender of women," she added, thinking of herself. "A righter of wrongs. A superhero fighting for truth, justice and the American way on the mean streets of L.A."

Steve put down the glass and met her gaze across the table, trying to stare her into backing off. She met his gaze unflinchingly, her eyes soft and glowing, bright with admiration... and something else. They stared at each other for an eons-long second, both of them suddenly breathing too fast, their hearts pounding too hard, their blood heated and screaming through their veins, both of them hovering on the brink of... something.

"A modern warrior knight with his own code of honor," Willow said, the teasing note all but gone from her voice. "A grown-up Boy Scout."

"Willow, damn it, I'm warning you..." he growled but it was an empty threat and they both knew it. He would no more hurt her than he would hurt a child. "That's enough."

"Whad'a'ya gonna do, tough guy?" Willow challenged.

With a groan, he reached out, grabbing her by her shoulders, and dragged her across the table into his arms.

Chapter 10