Wife for a Day (4 page)

“Wild horses couldn't keep me away.”

“That's not true, and you know it. I've watched you tame a dozen wild stallions. It's an obsession that used to keep you from eating, from drinking, and even from women.”

“My days of taming wild horses are over. We're supposed to whisper to them now.” He watched the redhead's wild eyes peeking up at him through her lashes. She seemed the kind of woman no man could tame, the kind of woman no man in his right mind would want to tame. The kind of woman he had no business thinking about taming.

“There won't be any horses, wild or otherwise, at the party tonight,” Lauren admitted. “I hope it won't be too boring for you.”

“Stick a glass of whiskey in my hand, and I'll be fine. Dance with me a time or two, and I'll be even better.”

“You'll be here on time, won't you?”

“Of course.”

“If you'd stayed here with me, I wouldn't have had to call you to make sure. I would have gotten to see you sooner, too.”

“I would have, but—”

“You don't have to make any excuses, Jack. I know how much you hate servants hovering around, how much you love your privacy, and
I know you can't get that here. Peter's the complete opposite. That's why we're perfect for each other. You're going to love him. I know it.”

That was doubtful, but Jack would never let his sister know his concerns. She loved Peter Leighton, and even now she was ticking off each of his virtues.

Jack didn't see many virtuous qualities in Peter. He might be a top-notch polo player. He might have a love of horses, but he was a playboy, and Jack didn't trust him any more than he'd trusted Lauren's first two husbands. Yet the background check he'd ordered had found nothing more than a string of former lovers, with the emphasis on former, who'd raved about the man and his assorted charms. If Peter loved Lauren as much as he professed, Jack could bring himself to overlook his fear that the investigation had left some stone unturned and that his sister would be hurt yet again.

“I hope Arabella had a good trip.”

Jack's attention was drawn back to the conversation at Lauren's mention of his ex-fiancée's name.

“You did tell her how much I'm looking forward to meeting her tonight, didn't you?”

Of course he had, but Lauren's feelings hadn't ranked high on Arabella's list of rea
sons not to kiss him and their engagement good-bye.

“Lauren,” he said, pausing as he sought the right words to tell his sister that there was going to be someone missing at her engagement party. “There's something I need—”

“Just a minute, Jack,” Lauren interrupted. He could hear someone talking excitedly in the background.

“I've got to go,” she told him in a rush of words. “Apparently the ice sculptor was drunk when he carved the statue—one of the lovers has a very distinct penis—and I'm afraid the caterer is on the verge of having a coronary.”

“Before you go, there's something I've got to tell you.”

“Tell me later, please. I want tonight to be perfect, and if I don't assure the caterer that everything's all right, there's no telling what will happen.”

He wanted the night to be perfect for her, too. He'd do anything to make his little sister happy. Hopefully, she would understand when he arrived at the party alone.

“Before I hang up, Jack, I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For finally settling down with someone
you love. You'll never know how happy that's made me.”

What could he say? She was happy now. Breaking her heart in two hours would be soon enough.

“I love you, Lauren,” he said. “I'd do anything for you.”

“Sometimes you do too much, Jack. But that makes me love you all the more.” He could hear her blowing a kiss to him through the line, then the click at the other end just before he hung up.

“Feeling a bit constipated?” the redhead asked, a grin touching her face as she laid the trousers out on the bed.

“You could say that.”

“My mama used to say—”

“Your mama's wisdom's not going to help me a whole hell of a lot.”

“No, I suppose it won't. It didn't keep me out of trouble, either.”

She came toward him, holding the altered shirt in her hand. “Why don't you try this on. As soon as I know everything fits, I'll get out of your hair and let you deal with your problems all on your own.”

Jack took the shirt from her fingers, wondering why he didn't like the fact that she'd soon be gone. He didn't know her and didn't have the time to get to know her.

He picked the trousers up from the bed and went to the bathroom, this time making sure she wouldn't stare. “I won't be a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

Sam sighed with relief when Jack Remington closed the door. He'd been watching her for nearly an hour, even when he was on the phone. He'd never know how nervous she'd been with his eyes focused on her every move. She could feel him staring and spent too much time wondering if or when he was going to pounce. She knew how to take care of herself. A self-defense class had taught her all the important moves, and she'd use every one if the wrong man approached. But Jack Remington didn't seem wrong at all. Right now he seemed nice, something she never would have expected from the gruff, ill-mannered man she'd met at the start.

She swept away the scraps of fabric and loose threads scattered on the table and carpet and boxed up the sewing machine. Then she waited, listening to the water running in the bath. He was doing much more than trying on the tux. She'd heard an electric shaver, something the hotel must have provided since all his other belongings had gone to places unknown.

Well, she wasn't going to leave until she made sure the tux was perfect. She'd done a
good job; she hoped for a good tip.

Prowling the room, she trailed her fingers over the rich wood furniture and fine upholstery. She sat on the sofa and rested her hand on the leather briefcase, tracing the initials
JR
embossed in amber cowhide. All the trappings in this room screamed
millionaire
, yet she sensed something down-to-earth inside Jack Remington.

She'd heard passion and warmth in his voice when he'd talked on the phone, and interest when he'd talked with her. It was amazing how something so simple could make her like a man she'd thought she would despise.

Crossing her legs, she leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes, letting herself dream that she belonged in Jack Remington's world. She'd never pictured herself in such a lofty place, but she had dreamed of someday living in an upper-middle-class neighborhood where families were presided over by a mom and dad, not a hooker and a drag queen. That's what her goal had been before her mama had died. Now her goal was to pay off Johnnie Russo. When that objective was met, she'd start saving again, start dreaming of better things, and hope someday to meet a man who didn't care about her past, who'd want her to be part of his future.

For now, or at least until she knew the tux
edo fit, she'd dream she was part of Jack Remington's universe. She was just imagining someone handing her a snifter of brandy when she heard Jack clearing his throat. Her eyes opened with a snap.

“Sleeping on the job?” he asked, a smile tilting his lips.

“Dozing. The couch was comfortable, and you were gone an awfully long time. Hope you don't mind.”

He shook his head, as he fastened the top button on his shirt. His cuffs still needed to be clasped with the gold cuff links she'd brought, but the crisp white fabric smoothed perfectly over the rock-hard stomach she'd admired earlier. She slowly perused every inch of him, and she liked what she saw, from the light brown, perfectly trimmed hair that had turned nearly white at his temples, to broad shoulders and narrow hips, to long, muscular legs encased in black trousers.

His feet were bare, and he walked toward her.

Her heart beat hard, fast, and she felt the blood rise in her cheeks. She waited for him to speak, but all he did was watch her, his gaze settling on her eyes, her nose, her breasts. Finally, he found her eyes again, and a slow, tentative smile touched his mouth.

It was impossible to draw her eyes from his
freshly shaved face, or to keep from inhaling the muskiness of his aftershave. She wanted to touch him, to see if his skin burned with the same intensity as hers.

“There's something I need to ask you,” he said.

Anything
, her insides responded, but her sanity stepped in and rescued her. “Ask away.”

But he didn't speak. He frowned, shook his head as if filled with doubt. He went to the bed, lifted the coat she'd altered, and tried it on.
Perfect
.

“You do nice work,” he told her.

“Thank you.”

He went to the window, as if he'd forgotten she was there. It seemed her job was over, that it was time to go, but she couldn't leave. He still had a question to pose. “I thought there was something you wanted to ask me.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Then I suppose you don't need me any longer.”

“No.”

Reality surfaced.
Stick with your dream of a middle-class world
, she told herself.
Jack's universe is too far above you
.

She got up from the sofa and walked toward the sewing machine, found her jacket, and slipped it on. He didn't look at her. Instead, he stared out the window at the first stars of
twilight, as if deep in thought. She wanted to catch one last long look at his eyes, wanted to hear his voice again. But he'd retreated to his world, and she'd soon be back in hers.

Gripping the handle of the sewing machine, she slipped the strap of her tote over her shoulder and walked to the door.

“Hope your problems go away soon,” she said, trying to sound unaffected by his stance and silence. She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Soon she'd be back in West Palm Beach, looking for a safe place to park her VW and to curl up in the passenger seat to sleep.

That was her world.

Peering over her shoulder, Sam took one last look at Jack Remington's back. She waited, hoping he'd turn around and smile. When he didn't, she closed the door behind her. The short walk to the elevator seemed to last an eternity. She pressed the
DOWN
button, heard the chime and watched the doors open.

“Wait.”

Relief rushed through her. She turned as Jack came down the hall.

“You forgot your tip.”

She laughed. She'd forgotten her much-needed money in addition to her senses. A foolish thing to do, something she wouldn't let happen again. “I was beginning to think my hints were a little too subtle.”

“There's nothing subtle about you.”

She watched him pull a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip. He took her hand and pressed it into her open palm. His fingers slid over hers, and wrapped around them. He didn't let go. Uncertainty clouded his eyes. “There's something I need to ask you,” he said once more. “Something personal.”

“You're not going to change your mind again, are you?”

“I should, but…no. Would you mind coming back to the room?”

“You can't ask me here?”

He shook his head. “Like I said, it's personal.” He took the sewing machine from her hand and walked at her side, holding the door open for her to enter. He set the case on the floor, and suddenly silence filled the suite as he walked away and paced the room in his bare feet.

A clock ticked somewhere, and she realized it was her own watch ticking off one minute, then two.

Finally, he stopped in front of her. “Remember that problem of mine?”

She nodded.

“I thought of a way to solve it.”

“Great, but why are you telling me?”

“You're the solution.”

“Me?”

“You.” He stripped another bill from his clip, followed by another and another until she'd counted out a thousand dollars. “I need a woman tonight.”

“
You what?
”

He frowned, as if she had no reason to be shocked. “It's a simple enough request.”

She laughed. “I'm a tailor, not a whore.” She slapped the hundred-dollar tip she'd earned against his chest and watched the bill flutter to the floor. “Go to hell, Mr. Remington. That's where you and every other rich man like you belong.”

She grabbed her sewing machine, threw open the door, and heard it bang against the wall as she rushed down the hall.

A big hand gripped her arm and pulled her to a halt. She tried to slap him, but he had her in too tight a hold. “Stop your struggling and give me a chance to explain.”

“What's to explain? I heard your request loud and clear.”

“But you put the wrong spin on it. I don't want a prostitute.”

“Then what do you want?”

“A fiancée.”

The rich definitely had a unique way of looking at things. “Is that what they call it in your world?”

“That's what they call a woman who's en
gaged to a man. I want to hire you to
act
as my fiancée—just for tonight.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

An elderly couple walked by, their eyes wide at the exchange. The diamond bracelets on the woman's wrist jangled as she gave Sam's arm a consoling touch. “Do you need some help?”

“No, thank you.” She tried to calm down, tried to digest Jack's statement.

“Could we talk about this privately?” he asked.

“I don't know if that's such a good idea.”

His jaw tightened. “Please.”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you hadn't said please the answer would have been a flat out no. Since you did say please, I'll give you five minutes and no more to explain why someone like you needs to
buy
a fiancée.”