Private Dancer (20 page)

Earlier that morning, near dawn, she’d awakened with a plan in her head. Why couldn’t they hire a private plane and beat the cruise ship to Fort Lauderdale? she’d told Sam. She knew it was a long shot even before he vetoed the idea and drowsily pulled her into his arms. He’d been such an adorable sleepyhead, all warm and cuddly and naked, she hadn’t been able to resist him.

Their lovemaking had been wonderful. Too wonderful, that was the problem. He’d been gentle, and so unexpectedly sensitive to her needs that she was moved nearly to tears. She had opened to him emotionally, surrendering her defenses in what must have been a desperate need for affirmation. When he told her how beautiful she was, she had cried. Worse, she had said things, sweet, reckless things that afterward she wished she could take back.

Now she tried to remember the words she’d used, the context, and all she knew for sure was that she had exposed too much. She had spoken from her heart, impetuously, foolishly. She’d said something about not wanting to be with any other man but him, about needing him in her life. She’d even revealed her fear that she might be falling in love with him.

Careful not to wake him, she sat up, holding the sheet to her breasts. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d made a total fool of herself, that Sam must think she was desperate. And she had no idea how to repair the damage.

Moments later, casting about for something to put on, she found a courtesy terry robe in the hotel bathroom. Though it was far too big, she wrapped herself in it and walked to the bedroom’s terrace door. The view was magnificent. The hotel overlooked a turquoise cove where transparent waters shimmered gently, but Bev was barely conscious of it.

The questions taking shape in her mind had transfixed her. Was she afraid of falling in love with Sam? Or afraid because she
was
in love with him? Had it already gone too far?

A soft musical sound interrupted Bev’s turmoil. She turned, confused, and saw a gleaming marble box on the night table next to the bed. As the chimes continued, she realized it was a telephone. She couldn’t imagine who knew where they were. Lydia? Her father?

She wasn’t eager to talk to either of them. How could she ever explain what had happened? As she forced herself to replay the steps of her investigation, trying to formulate some reasonable defense, reality crashed down on her. There was no way to explain it. Arthur was gone. They’d blown it.
She’d
blown it, because that was how her father and Lydia would see it. She represented Brewster’s, not Sam.

She opened the marble lid and stared at the sleek black receiver a moment before picking it up. “Yes?”

“B-Bev?”

The stumbling voice sent a shot of adrenaline through her.
“Arthur?”

“I—I hoped you’d still be there, Bev. I’m sorry—”

“No, Arthur, it’s all right! Where are you?”

“In Key West ... with Lydia.”

“What? You went back? That’s wonderful!” Bev thought she could hear someone sobbing softly in the background. “Who’s crying, Arthur? Is that Lydia? Is she all right?”

“She’s overcome, Bev, with happiness. We’ve been talking for hours, and we’ve decided to try it again. I promised I’d see a psychiatrist, and of course, I’ll join Con Artists Anonymous, if there is such a thing.”

Bev could hardly contain herself. As relieved as she was that she and Sam hadn’t blown the case, it was far more important to her that Arthur had turned out to be an honorable man! She felt as though her professional judgment had been vindicated. “What about the money, Arthur? How did you handle that?”

“I’m going to get a job as soon as I’m rehabilitated. Lydia has some contacts in the investment counseling industry back in Beverly Hills, but I think I’ll hang out my own shingle.”

“Attaboy! I can’t wait to tell Sam!”

“Oh, S-Sam. How is Sam? He didn’t look very happy last night.”

Bev glanced over at the man she’d just spent the most torrid night of her life with. He was stretched out on the bed like a sleek, muscular panther, sleeping contentedly in the morning sun. “I’d say he looks happy this morning, Arthur. Very happy.”

“You two worked out your differences?”

Soft laughter filled the line. “We did, yes. In a big way. You may have done us a favor, Arthur.”

Bev was bursting with relief and excitement by the time she hung up the phone. “Sam!” she cried, climbing onto the bed to shake him awake. “That was Arthur! Everything’s all right.”

“Get off me, woman,” he mumbled, “or you’re a wet spot on the floor.”

Undaunted, Bev began to tickle him. “Come on, Mr. Tough Guy. Wake up! Everything’s—oops!”

Bev had never been athletic, but she flipped onto her back like a pancake as Sam reared up. “What are you doing?” he asked, still half asleep. He raked a mop of tousled dark hair from his eyes, looking very naked and very sexy as he stared down at Bev’s helpless attempts to smother her own laughter.

“Nobody violates my armpits, babe,” he warned.

“I guess Mr. Tough Guy is ticklish.”

A raffish grin surfaced and his eyes glinted with dangerous lights. “She dares to mock Mr. Tough Guy? Let’s see if the lady flatfoot can take what she dishes out.”

Bev screamed “uncle!” before Sam had even touched her, but he straddled her anyway, yanking loose the tie on her bathrobe. He tickled her until she couldn’t breathe. And then he took advantage of her while she was still writhing helplessly. He kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts, and on down her vibrating body until he reached her toes. But it wasn’t until he returned to her weak spot—her inner thighs—that she begged him to stop. She couldn’t let him make love to her, not with so many things unresolved in her mind.

He gazed down at her, his pale blue eyes indecipherable. What was behind those eyes? Did he care about her at all? Was he capable of caring? “Sam, about those things I said while we were—”

He shushed her with a touch of his fingers to her mouth. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Lace,” he said quietly. “Sometimes we say things. It’s okay.”

He swung off her and helped her up, then settled himself against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to cover his hips. “So, what’s the deal with Arthur? You said everything was all right.”

“Yes, it is.” Bev closed the bathrobe, her insecurities burgeoning. Why had he changed the subject so quickly? Why had he covered himself? “Arthur went back to Lydia. How about that for a surprise? He’ll start therapy, and he’s getting a job.”

He stared at her as though he didn’t believe her. “Lydia is taking Arthur back?”

“Yes. Don’t you think she should?”

He snorted laughter. “Not unless she’s crazy. Does she think he’s actually going to change?”

Suddenly Bev felt very defensive. “Of course she does. And he will. He’s motivated.”

“Right, motivated by her stock portfolio.”

“Sam, he told me himself that he loved her.”

“Oh, babe, you heard him. He said he loved
all
rich women. What he loves is taking them to the cleaners.”

“God, but you’re cynical,” she said softly. His flippant remarks pierced her like a knife through the heart, but it wasn’t the words that stabbed her, she realized. It was his attitude. The cynicism felt like a personal affront, as though he were ridiculing her and the things she believed in. She turned away, not wanting him to see the sparkle of pain in her eyes.

“B.J.,” Sam said gently, “people don’t change because it’s the right thing to do, or because someone else wants them to. They change when it’s in their own self-interest.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong. He’ll change for Lydia. Arthur
will
change.”

Sam shook his head. “Why the hell do women always think that?” He knew better than to pursue the argument. She needed to believe that the Arthur Blankenships of the world could be salvaged. It was a romantic illusion she cherished. She needed to believe that any man could change through the love of a good woman, no matter how low he’d sunk—including Sam Nichols.

I don’t want to be with anyone else but you, Sam.

His gut knotted as those trembling words played back in his head. She’d said it as though she couldn’t believe it herself. And then her voice had caught and she’d poured out more sweet, damning secrets. He’d been too blown away to respond. His throat had turned into a fist, nearly strangling him. Why me? he’d asked himself. Why would she want to go and pick a bastard like me?

He glanced over at her pensive profile and felt a sudden need to touch her. There had to be some way to ease the turmoil between them. Maybe he could make a stupid joke, or kid her about her lousy standard operating procedure. The impulse to touch her moved through him like jagged glass.

“Hey, look, maybe I am cynical, okay? It’s a hazard of the trade. Most detectives don’t trust their own mother.”

Bev turned, surprised. That had sounded like the beginning of an apology. Hope glimmered, a dangerous emotion when dealing with a man like him. “I guess I have something to look forward to,” she said. “Getting cynical, that is.”

“It’ll never happen. You’re one of the lucky ones, born with a natural immunity.”

“And you’re the last cynical man?”

He laughed, an irresistibly husky sound. “I guess that makes us quite a pair.”

“Are we a pair?” Bev asked. The moment she’d said it, she wanted to cut her tongue out. He looked startled, then apologetic and wary. She felt her heart twisting. What more did she need to convince her that he didn’t want a relationship? His body language was screaming it. She told herself to change the subject, blow her nose, anything. But something compelled her to go on.

“How do you feel about us, Sam?”

“I think we’re great together.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then ... you’ll want us to continue seeing each other when we get back?”

His blue gaze was noncommittal. “Do you?”

Bev hesitated for just a split second before she answered. “Yes ... of course.”

“So what are we talking about here? Dating? A meaningful relationship?” He leaned forward, draping an arm over his knee. “That would be interesting. On whose terms?”

“Terms?”

“I’m no prize, babe. Maybe you ought to think about what you’d be getting into with a no-account like me. I drink, I gamble, I drive like a trucker. When the mood strikes me, I take off for parts unknown without asking anyone’s permission.” He took a deep breath and shook his head as though he didn’t like the sound of it any better than she did. “Sorry, Lace, but that’s how it is. No one holds me accountable for the way I live but me.”

Bev felt as though she’d run up several flights of stairs. Her heart was thumping, her breathing shallow. It was his recklessness that had attracted her—and now he was giving her a crash course on living with a reckless man. If he was trying to scare her off, he was doing a good job, she realized. A relationship with Sam Nichols on his terms was a sobering prospect. He was cynical by his own admission, but she could live with that. It was the rest—his moods, his stubbornness. He refused to answer to anyone. He isolated himself emotionally. He was a maverick down to the toothpicks he carried in the pocket of his leather jacket.

She hated the thought that flashed into her head next, but it wouldn’t be dismissed. What would her neighbors think of a roughneck like Sam? She lived in a quiet, tree-lined suburb where toddlers rode tricycles and their dads mowed the lawn on weekends. She had always planned on having that kind of life. She still wanted it.

Sam sat quietly, watching her, saying nothing. He could see it in her eyes, the rising doubts. Their lifestyles didn’t mesh, and she was trying to figure out what that meant, and how to fix it. Whatever solution she came up with might sound reasonable at first, but the price tag would be his freedom. She wasn’t the type to let down her hair and just hang loose with a guy—sex for sex’s sake, fun while it lasted. She’d have to marry him, reform him, turn him into a Stepford husband. That was the legacy of the “nice” gene she carried. He knew. He’d been through it before.

“Beverly Jean,” he said quietly, regret burning through the huskiness. “I’m not redeemable, if that’s what you’re thinking. I like my beer cold, my women hot, and my cards lucky.”

“
Women
? Plural?”

The hurt and disbelief that flared in her eyes was like a slap across his face
. Just tell me to go to hell, babe. Don’t let yourself in for this. You don’t deserve it.
His throat was tight and dry as he added, “Women, plural. That wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”

Add cold-blooded womanizer to the list of his flaws, Bev thought, turning away from him. Heat seared her chest as she breathed in, the air burning a path through her lungs. He was wrong when he said she was immune to cynicism. She felt plenty bitter and cynical right now. “I had a hunch you gambled,” she said, flinging his indifference right back at him. “Are you any good? Lucky at cards? Unlucky at love?”

He didn’t answer her, and when she turned around, he was standing at the terrace doors, staring out. He had on his jeans and his arms were folded against his bare chest. It was an unguarded pose, no male ego at stake, no swagger. Just a solitary man with the morning sunlight playing over his face and shoulders. A proud man, and probably a good man if he would ever give himself a chance. Bev felt the sting of tears as she allowed an unwelcome thought into her awareness. She couldn’t share him with other women. It would destroy her, but she wanted him desperately at that moment, even with all his flaws. He was the most desirable man she’d ever known.

“Maybe we ought to be thinking about getting back home?” he said, turning to her. He looked sad somehow, and weary.

Back home, Bev thought. Where she could feed her goldfish. Where she would never have to see Sam Nichols again.

Bev glanced at her watch, saw that it was nearly noon, and put aside the forms she’d been filling out. Harve would be in soon, minding everyone else’s business and full of bluster. He’d recovered enough to return to the agency on a part-time basis, but he was spoiling for the real thing, some down-and-dirty private-eye action. He’d also been after Bev to take on a new case since she’d returned from Nassau three weeks earlier, but she’d stood her ground. She would help with the paperwork, but nothing more. She’d had enough down-and-dirty private-eye action to last her until social-security age, thank you.