Two to Tangle

The mere idea that he was thinking along those lines startled him. No, the timing wasn’t great—it sucked, in fact. The last thing he needed during these last critical weeks of this project was to get distracted by a curvy brunette with a heart-breaking smile. But Trent had never been one to let what he needed prevent him from going after what he wanted. Right now, he very much wanted her.

As he walked down the corridor, he suddenly wished he’d asked for her room number, in case she got cold feet and decided not to come tonight after all.

“She’ll come,” he told himself. Remembering the sight of her standing in the rain, he knew the woman was a risk-taker at heart. Much like himself. She’ll come.

AT 10:05, CHLOE STOOD IN her hotel room, chewing a hole into her lip, staring at her own reflection above the bathroom sink. Troy hadn’t shown up at the dinner banquet, so it had been several hours since she’d seen him. Yes, she’d had several hours in which to totally chicken out on their date in the bar.

“You can’t do this. You know that, right?” she told the mirror.

It’s just a drink.

“Baloney, it’s not just a drink. You were there—you felt the heat, Chloe Weston. You meet him tonight and you might be with him until tomorrow morning.”

Is that such a bad thing?

“Yes. It’s a bad thing. You can’t get involved with your boss. This job is too important. Losing it could very well mean dropping out of school and getting a day job to make rent money.”

So when does living get to be as important as working?

That was the question of the hour. When did she get to live? Chloe had borne the emotional responsibility for her mother’s and sister’s well-being since she was twelve years old, right after her mother’s second husband had walked out. That had been the worst year, when Chloe and Morgan had been separated from their mother for months. Once they got back together, Chloe had been determined they’d never be parted again.

So Chloe was the one who’d learned to fake a communicable disease when the landlord came to call. The one who’d bartered baby-sitting services with the owner of the kids’ consignment store up the street to keep Morgan clothed. Through the other husbands, boyfriends, towns, people and jobs, Chloe had never let herself forget one thing: she was the one who had to keep it together. Morgan was too young and Jeanine too unpredictable.

Following her heart—or, in this case, her libido—was not something Chloe usually allowed herself to do. So why not do it…just this once? You know you want to. Don’t be a chicken.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered aloud to the insidious voice. She sometimes pictured a little cartoon devil, complete with horns and a tail, sitting on her left shoulder whispering in her ear when she contemplated doing something really stupid. On her other shoulder, there perched not an angel, but a two-inch-tall version of Sister Mary Frances.

The sister had been her second-grade teacher during Chloe’s single year at a parochial school—a year prompted by one of her flaky mother’s religious experimentation periods. That was before her real father had split, when they’d had something of a normal life. Chloe had spent most of second grade sitting in a corner until she learned how to behave like a proper young lady. Instead of learning patience and obedience, she’d actually used the time-outs to imagine ways to get even with the Penguin, as the kids called her. So the Sister Mary Frances voice seldom won out.

Finally, sick of having a conversation with her own sun-pinkened face in the mirror, she grabbed her purse and slammed out of the room. The mental arguing continued, however. She talked to herself in the empty elevator all the way down to the first floor, then right up until she reached the bar entrance. The place was crowded, so she stopped mumbling and cast a quick glance around. She nearly convinced herself he wouldn’t be here anyway, so it wasn’t worth getting so hyped up about.

Then she spotted Troy waiting for her in a corner booth. Any thought of turning chicken, slipping out the door and running to her room like a scared little virgin evaporated. Not just because he’d seen her. No, it was because of that look in his eyes as he stood and walked toward her. Not a Troy look. Not a confident, I-never-doubted-for-a-minute-you’d-show-up look.

No, this look was relieved. Appreciative. Anticipatory. “I was afraid you were going to stand me up,” he said, his voice husky and intense as he reached her side.

“I almost did.” Oh, gee, nothing like a little honesty to start an evening off right.

“What changed your mind?”

Brushing a stray wisp of hair off her face, she struggled to seem nonchalant. “I was thirsty.”

“I’m glad you were thirsty,” he said with a teasing smile. “I was afraid you might have cold feet.”

“My feet could sink the Titanic,” she admitted ruefully.

He chuckled as he led her back to the intimate back-corner table, which was even more hidden by a few hanging plants and an indoor garden area, complete with softly gurgling fountain.

Candlelight. Flowery plants. Shadowy secluded corner. Chloe Weston, turn those wobbly three-inch heels of yours toward the door right now.

“Back off, Sister,” she whispered under her breath.

He obviously noticed her sudden anxiety. “Is this all right? I asked for a quiet table so we could talk.”

She gulped. “Uh, sure. Fine.”

After pulling out her chair for her, he sat down opposite her. “Please, relax. I haven’t got the wrong idea. I know you’re here on business, you didn’t come here for this. You never planned to meet with a man you don’t really know in a hotel bar.”

“A dark, candlelit hotel bar with low, sultry, danceable music,” she muttered. His eyes widened and she shook her head. “No. This is so not me. I’m usually so boring. No adventures in hotel bars in my recent history. I’m an open book. A boring, what-you-see-is-what-you-get book.”

Sitting across from her, he reached out and caught one of her hands, which she’d just lifted to again nervously brush back her hair. “I doubt that. I saw you by the pool, remember? I think there are some deeply hidden facets of you I’d very much like to explore,” he said, his voice a seductive whisper.

Okay, that’s it. You’re in trouble now, missy.

As if he hadn’t noticed her heart beating so wildly she thought the veins on her temples were about to explode, he continued. “Let’s forget about who we ‘usually’ are for a while.”

Chloe stared at him, trying to gauge his meaning. Obviously Troy knew something about hiding his real identity—he did such a good job of it even she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the real tire-changing man beneath the business suits in the past few weeks. He’d obviously become adept at living a double life, slipping off his at-home persona as easily as he slipped off his sexy little gold stud earring.

Why shouldn’t she give it a try?

He must have seen the indecision in her eyes. “Forget all the standard reasons we shouldn’t be here together. You don’t do this, I don’t do this, we don’t know each other. Just let it go. Tonight we’re two people sharing an interesting evening together, getting to know each other. That’s all.”

“That’s really all?”

“Yes.” His voice lowered, his stare grew more intense. “Unless we both decide we want it to be more.”

Heck, she wanted it to be more already. Get out now, Chloe.

He glanced toward the table, at her hand, which still held tightly to her purse. Chloe knew he realized she was poised to flee at a moment’s notice. “So will you stay?”

Taking a deep breath, Chloe consigned the picture of Sister Mary Frances to the depths of her subconscious, briefly closed her eyes and nodded. “I’ll stay.”

“I’m glad.” He reached over and gently tugged the purse free of her fingers, pushing it to the side of the table, still within reach, but not clutched like a lethal weapon.

He held a hand up, waving to a waitress. “How about a rum punch? It seems appropriately tropical. Okay?”

“Yes, but only one or I’ll be dancing on the table.”

“There’s a sight I’d like to see,” he said. “Particularly considering the length of your skirt.” Chloe flushed as he laughed softly. “Don’t worry. I didn’t get the wrong impression. You look perfect. Sexy as hell—but still tasteful. Just right to show you’re a desirable woman, without flaunting it.”

“Well, I guess you know women’s clothes,” she murmured, feeling both embarrassed and at the same time very glad she’d worn the tight black miniskirt and sheer black hose.

“Now, should we introduce ourselves?”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re strangers. Isn’t it time for introductions?”

“Strangers in a bar?” she asked, catching on. This, obviously, was another way to separate themselves from reality—from the fact that they worked together in their everyday lives. That he was her boss, the managing director and part-owner of Langtree’s Department Store, and she a window dresser. They would be strangers. No outside ties. No encumbrances. No expectations. Maybe even no repercussions. “I think I like this idea.”

“My name’s Trent,” he said, as the waitress arrived with their oversize glasses. The woman leaned close to him as she placed their drinks on the table, her stare blatantly admiring. Chloe felt another shiver course through her. She was playing sexual games with this devastatingly attractive man—a man every other woman in the room had eyed at least once since Chloe had sat down with him. The anxiety Chloe had felt early in the evening began to slide away, replaced by something else. Excitement. Titillation. Why the heck not?

“Trent. How nice to meet you. My name’s…Claudia.”

He waited until the waitress walked away again before picking up his drink and raising it in a toast. Chloe lifted her glass as well and waited, expectantly.

“To stormy skies.”

She nodded. “And strangers getting to know one another.”

The first sip of rum punch was enough to convince Chloe she absolutely could not drink more than one. The thing tasted like straight rum, with a little cherry juice thrown in to give the alcohol a pink tinge. “Whew,” she gasped once the burning sensation in her throat had stopped.

“Good?”

“Very. Just potent.” She sipped again, noting the fiery sensation was no less strong the second time. But she was getting used to it. “So, uh, Trent, tell me about yourself.”

He shrugged. “Not much to tell. I work too much. Eat all the wrong foods. Don’t keep in touch with my family the way I should. I live in a beachfront apartment I really can’t afford and have never seen such a wonderful blending of shades in a woman’s hair before tonight.” He reached over and brushed some curls back off her brow, stopping her heart. “Gold, brown, reddish highlights. It has to be natural.”

Whoa…he’s good. She picked up her drink and sipped from it heartily, coughing and choking as the heat hit her belly again.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she choked out. “Now, uh, what do you do?”

He shrugged. “I own a landscaping business.”

Well, that was stretching the fantasy a bit, in Chloe’s opinion. Then again, it was his fantasy. And she’d already seen Troy Langtree’s sensory attraction for the outdoors. So maybe it really was a deep-rooted wish, one he’d hidden from the world like he’d hidden his killer smile and the amazingly strong arms and chest. Not to mention the charming, flirtatious attitude.

“What about you, Claudia?”

“Hmm,” she mused, playing along, trying to come up with her fantasy life, her deepest desire. What she’d do if she could be doing anything. “I’m a full-time grad student, and freelance graphic artist.” She sighed with pleasure at the fantasy. Imagine, working for herself, only when she felt like being creative, and being able to afford to go to graduate school. Sounded heavenly.

“Any family?”

She contemplated continuing the fantasy, but in the end stuck with the truth, saying, “Yes. A beautiful, brilliant younger sister, Morgan, who’s about to graduate high school. And a wonderfully creative—if a trifle irresponsible—mother who looks like she’s my age. You?”

He nodded. “I have a few family members in this area. My parents retired and moved to Colorado a few years back.”

Chloe sipped her drink, getting used to the strong brew and not choking this time. “No steady girlfriend?” she asked, not wanting to spoil the illusion, but needing to know just the same.

He seemed to sense that her nonchalance hid a keen interest. Reaching across the table, he took her hand. “I haven’t been seriously involved with anyone for over three years. Too busy working. And I hadn’t found the right woman yet.”

“What would she be like?” Chloe asked before she thought better of it.

He didn’t hesitate. “She’d have curly brown hair and amazing blue eyes. She’d love the beach, not be afraid of trying new things, like skydiving and windsurfing.”

Chloe shuddered. “I don’t do heights. High places make me nauseous. I’d feel sorry for whoever jumped out of the plane first and was below me on the way down.”

He laughed softly. “I’ll remember that.”

“So you want an adventurous brunette?”

“Not entirely. Adventurous is nice. But she also has to have an amazing smile.”

He was staring at her lips and she nervously licked them. She saw him pull in a deep breath, something hot and intimate flashing in his eyes. He finally looked away and picked up his drink.

“Anything else?” Chloe asked, feeling confused and yet completely fascinated by the intense heat she’d seen in his expression when he’d stared at her mouth.

He nodded. “Sense of humor is a must.”

Okay, now he was getting someplace. Humor she could do. Chloe loved to laugh. Given the choice between a gushy, oozy chick flick and a bawdy comedy, she’d go for the grins any day. Her comedy movie collection filled several boxes in her closet.

Her mother called her ability to laugh at life, to find joy in anything, her best feature. Chloe had once countered, “Thanks, Mom. Fabulous hair or a great figure would be nice. Heck, even brains! Sense of humor is almost as bad as telling the chubby kid she has ‘such a pretty face.’”

Of course, Sister Mary Frances had called her sense of humor her ticket to a century in purgatory.

“Do you like old comedies? Laurel and Hardy?” Chloe asked.

He shook his head. “I’m more of an Abbott and Costello fan.”

“Me, too. And Mel Brooks?”

“Oh, sure.”

“So we share the same tastes in comedy,” she said with a hopeful look. “Does that let me off the hook for skydiving?”

“Ever tried parasailing?”

“From what I hear,” she replied dryly, “parasailing requires some elevation, too.”

“Okay, I’ll keep you on the ground.”

You can keep me anywhere you want me…as long as you keep me. She took a sip of her drink and thrust the thought aside.

“This is good,” she acknowledged as she sipped the last few mouthfuls of her punch. Funny how she’d begun to enjoy the rich, spicy flavors—probably because the alcohol had burned every taste bud right out of her mouth. But she wasn’t complaining.

“I’m not opposed to seeing you dance on the table…or anywhere else. Would you like another drink?”

“Maybe I’d better have a glass of water,” she said. Okay, score one for Sister Mary Frances.

“Let’s make that two.”

For the next hour, Chloe found herself thoroughly entranced by the man sitting across from her. Troy—er, Trent!—was funny and sexy, smart and irreverent. He laughed at her jokes and teased her about not being able to handle her punch. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing her brag about her brilliant little sister. He even got her to open up about her worries. Chloe found it easy to tell him about her desire for normalcy, and her concerns about her unconventional mother, whom she dearly loved, but who couldn’t really be counted on for anything.

He once caressed a lock of her hair under the guise of pushing it off of her face, which had set her heart racing for several moments. He didn’t talk much about himself, seeming to really want to focus on her, as if his own life was completely boring and she the most fascinating person on earth. That was an unusual feeling for Chloe, who was well used to sitting in the background while her flamboyant mother soaked up all attention like a paper towel soaked up spilled milk. She even finally decided she was ready to handle a second rum punch.

“You’ve got to be sick of hearing about my family, phobias, video collection, or the various lists of do’s and don’ts by which I run my life,” Chloe said.

He shook his head. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of hearing anything you say.”

This time Chloe was the one to break their stare first. Confusion washed over her. This wasn’t quite the way she’d envisioned the evening. She’d been all set to be mysterious. To play along with his “strangers in a bar” suggestion.

But they’d gone well beyond playing sexy games. Well beyond seductive flirtation. She’d known she was attracted to him. She’d never expected to like him.

“I want to know more about you now,” she finally said. “Do you really like to do dangerous things like skydiving?”

He tilted his head to one side and lifted his hands up in helpless resignation. “Uh, yeah. I do.”

“Yikes,” she murmured, unable to picture the smooth, polished store businessman doing anything so impulsive. Trent, his alter ego, however? Well, yes, she could picture that.

“I don’t really skydive very much anymore,” he admitted. “No time, no money. I do still like to hang glide whenever I visit my folks out west. You really should try it, it could help you get over this problem you have with heights.”

“If I’m more than ten feet off the ground, I’d better have a floor or a fully operational Boeing 747 underneath me,” she countered. “Hang gliding, ha! It should be called strapping paper-framed wings on your back and pretending you’re not attempting suicide.”

He let out another laugh, and Chloe noticed, not for the first time, that every pair of female eyes in the place turned to look at him. Approvingly. Hungrily.

She reached across the table and touched his hand, sending a not-so-subtle message—he’s mine—to the overhormonal bar bimbettes in the room.

He immediately responded by taking her fingers and entwining them with his own, sending shards of heat rushing up her arm. Chloe stared at their hands, marveling again at the darkness and strength of his against her own pale, soft skin. When she finally lifted her gaze to his face, she found him studying her, a half smile on his seductive lips.

“You ready to get out of here?” he asked softly, leaning close and lowering his voice to a more intimate level.

Chloe waited for the length of two heartbeats but felt like two hours for him to continue. And go where?

“The storm’s over. We could go for a walk on the beach.”

Chloe released the breath she’d been holding. “Sounds lovely.” She meant it—a walk on the beach did sound perfect. But she still somehow felt a stab of disappointment. She told herself not to be an idiot. Even if he had issued a much more suggestive invitation, as she’d half feared—okay, half hoped—she wouldn’t have taken him up on it. Absolutely not. Uh-uh, no way, never gonna happen.

Well, probably never gonna happen.

Remembering the quick stop she’d made in the hotel store before dinner, and thinking of the condom right now burning a hole in her small black purse, Chloe acknowledged the truth.

Okay. Maybe gonna happen.

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