Almost A Honeymoon

“I wanted to check out the arrangements personally.” He plucked her coat and purse from her hands and tossed them to Lloyd. Before she could take two steps, he swept her into his arms.

“What are you doing? Put me down!” She shoved at his shoulders.

“Nuzzle,” he ordered her.

“Excuse me?” If frost could burn words, it had.

“I said nuzzle me. If you don’t, I’m going to kiss you. Your choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re being watched.”

Paige glanced around. “I don’t see anyone. Who cares, anyway?”

“A white-haired lady in a pink bathrobe has focused her romantic little heart our way from the main house. Dammit, Harry, nuzzle—”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He tilted her his direction, bringing their faces close.

“Tell me why I should,” she said quickly, restraining him as she hoped the right amount of mutiny rang in her voice.

He turned a triumphant grin on her. “Because we are about to enter the honeymoon cottage.”

“You’re jok—”

He closed the small gap between them, but she jerked away after the merest graze of lips.

“So help me, Harry—”

Paige buried her face against his neck, and she smelled leather and...pure, unadulterated male. He breathed a regular rhythm, apparently unaffected by her. She wished she could say the same for herself. She wanted to cling, although whether from fear or excitement, she didn’t know. Both jockeyed for position. No one had swept her off her feet before, literally or figuratively.

“You can let go.”

His words infiltrated the battle she’d begun to wage within. She loosened her hold as he set her down, her heels sinking into a lush carpet. He continued to hold her elbow as she wobbled briefly.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Her gaze took in the loveliness of the room, with its English countryside motif and warm, deep colors.

“You seemed to enjoy your role, wife.“

Paige ignored his grin. “I’m not stupid, Warner. I know it’s to my advantage to play the game.”

“Do you take that much convincing in bed, too?”

Paige gaped at his audacity.

“Personally, I like a challenge,” he continued.

“You smug, self-centered—”

Lloyd cleared his throat and stepped into the fray. “Miss O’Halloran, I’ve placed your bags in the bedroom. Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

The momentary cease-fire helped Paige find her center of control again. She turned slowly to the driver and extended her hand. “Please call me Paige. And you are?”

He accepted the gesture of friendliness. “Lloyd, Miss O’Halloran. A light snack awaits you, as you can see. I didn’t know your preference of beverage, so you’ll find a variety to choose from. If there’s nothing further?”

“Not unless you can snap your fingers and have this mess disappear.”

“Good night, then.” He touched two fingers to his forehead in salute. “Sir.”

Rye roused himself to say goodbye. He was so tired he could hardly stand. And Paige wasn’t making his life any easier. He watched her lift the cellophane off a tray of fruit and grab a bunch of red grapes before seating herself on the couch. He eyed the sofa hungrily, starved for sleep. His gaze shifted as she crossed one leg over the other. She arched her foot until her shoe fell to the floor, recrossed her legs and rid herself of the other shoe, then bounced her foot rhythmically as she popped one grape after another into her mouth. Her chewing slowed as she caught him staring.

“What?” she asked, the belligerent tone bringing him back to awareness.

Ignoring her, he slid out of his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Slowly, he moved to fix himself a plate of fruit, cheese and crackers. He uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured a glass. “Want some?”

No answer. He turned around and found her staring at the weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

She lifted her gaze. “Where did you get that? You couldn’t have had it on the plane.”

“Lloyd passed it to me as I climbed into the car. The holster’s in my bag. Why? Do guns bother you?”

“I’ve never known anyone who had one. I guess it makes everything seem so real.”

“I don’t waste my time on games, Harry. Wine?”

“Umm, yeah. Thanks. I guess I should have offered you some food. Sorry. I can’t quite assimilate all of this yet.”

He passed her the glass. “Just work with me, Paige. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible. Maybe after we’ve spent a few days together, we’ll find a way to—”

“Days?” she repeated. “How many days?”

“I couldn’t even guess.”

“But what about...”

He sat beside her and sipped his wine before placing it on the low table before them. “What about what?”

“Christmas. It’s only four days away.”

Her voice seemed suddenly small and faraway. He wondered at it, and at the expression that settled on her face, worry mixed with hurt. A Scrooge who likes Christmas? Deciding not to taunt her with the observation, he instead held his plate toward her. “Have some, if you want. We may have you back in time for Christmas. I can’t make any promises.”

She absently picked up a slice of Cheddar and nibbled on it. “I have to be home for Christmas,” she said softly, adamantly, after a minute of silence.

Rye shook his head. He really needed sleep. He devoured the rest of the food then stood and returned the empty plate to the table. “I can’t hold my eyes open. I’m going to sleep on the couch. Lloyd will be outside for tonight, so don’t worry about anything.”

“I guess I’m being sent to bed.” She stood, sweeping up her shoes as she did so.

He brushed by her to use the bathroom, and she filled her wineglass and fixed herself a plate of food while he was gone before retreating with it to the bedroom, elbowing the door shut as he dropped a blanket and pillow on the sofa.

“Don’t use the telephone,” he cautioned just as the door clicked shut.

She pulled it open after a few seconds, having divested herself of the food and wine. “Why not?”

“There’s a lot of sophisticated tracing equipment out there. One call, and your location could be pinpointed.”

“I want to call my father.”

“It’s after one o’clock in Boston.”

“So?”

“Don’t you think he’ll be asleep?”

“So?”

Rye opened a suitcase Lloyd had packed for him and pulled out a T-shirt and sweatpants. “This isn’t his fault, Harry. He’s been notified we’re here. Let him sleep.”

She took several long strides into the room. “Why should I? Why the hell should I? He’s treating me like a child! Why didn’t he tell me what was going on? He hired you without so much as a hint to me, his very adult daughter. And you, you dragged out the charade, letting me think I was in danger from you. I’ll bet you got a real kick out of that, didn’t you?”

He stood there listening but not hearing. Promises of sleep buzzed in his ears then rolled in waves down to his toes. He pulled his gun from his waistband and set it on the table beside the couch. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

She lifted her hands and laughed without humor at the ceiling. “I see. Another Patrick O’Halloran, are you? Your timetable. Your rules.”

“Paige—” He dropped onto the sofa.

“Your tone is quite clear, Warner. ‘Pity the poor emotional woman. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’ I’ve got news for you—I can damn well take care of myself.”

One boot fell to the carpet, then the other. He stood and turned to face her squarely. Her belligerent pose almost drew a smile, but he held it back, figuring she would hurl another accusation at him. “Look, Harry, I’ve had about four hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. I can’t deal with you right now.” He peeled his turtleneck over his head; he moved his hands to his belt buckle. “Now, you can stay here and watch if you want. I’m not particularly modest. But it would kind of shatter our professional relationship, don’t you think?”

Three

Her gaze wandered over him, dispassionately at first, then with interest. He saw the change as it unfolded, was unwillingly flattered by it, but shoved it aside. Resolutely, he unbuttoned his jeans, expecting her to run off. She didn’t budge. Her steady observation began to burn him, a core of heat that pooled low and fiery and spread through his limbs. She swallowed; he battled a desert-dry mouth.

He hooked his thumbs in the waist of his jeans and inched them down. “Sorry, I don’t have the finesse of an exotic dancer—”

Her eyes widened, as if finally aware of what she was seeing. He shoved the jeans down and off. The black cotton briefs covered the essentials, although not for much longer if she didn’t avert her eyes soon.

“Seen enough?” he queried.

She flashed a wicked smile and spun away, tossing her final words over her shoulder. “Great socks, Warner.”

Rye glanced down at his feet as the door clicked shut. Goofy stared up at him, his sister’s last birthday gift to him. Grinning, he pulled them off and slid into the sweatpants and T-shirt. He heard the sound of the bathtub being filled, then nothing.

* * *

Paige rested her wineglass on the edge of the tub and eased into the bubble-layered heat. Instantly soothed, she sighed. Physically exhausted but mentally wide-awake, she sipped her wine and faced the reality of her predicament, which seemed far more serious than she had thought at first. Rye’s presence should have been indication enough. He was never called in for light security work. He charged exorbitant fees and earned them; there was no man her father admired more. Long before she’d had contact with him, she’d heard tales of his exploits, tales so vivid he’d seemed like a mythical figure out of an action movie, tales, she’d suspected previously, rather like those of a fisherman describing the one that got away, a ten-inch fish taking on sharklike dimensions in the reenactment.

Rye Warner was no ten-inch fish. He was muscle head to toe and unafraid to show himself off. She hated brawny men, had always believed they were among the most egotistical people on earth. Who wouldn’t be when they spent hours every day preening in front of a mirror, admiring their own bodies? No, thanks. She’d take a thoughtful, sensitive man any day.

Right, Paige. Like Joey Falcon? She dropped her head back against the rim of the tub. He’d been romantic and charming, complimenting her constantly, always bringing her gifts, holding doors open, pulling out chairs—where had that gotten her? Of course, Rye sat on the other end of the scale. He probably didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, was the kind of man who wouldn’t slow down for a woman walking in high heels—the kind of man to flex his substantial muscles at the slightest twinkle in a woman’s eye.

Well, he wouldn’t find her a panting, drooling, stammering admirer. He could take his overdone pectorals and deltoids, and his bulked-up biceps and triceps, cover his rock hard buns and his...masculinity with a skimpy nylon bathing suit, oil up his rippling body and—

The image suddenly didn’t seem so disgusting. Quick, change the picture. Rye posed in front of an audience, his arms curled, one up, one down, his head twisted to one side, women screaming. There! That’s better. Egotistical jerk.

She would have to tread carefully with him. He pushed her buttons too easily, had done so from the first phone conversation she’d ever had with him, when she’d called to tell him he had to submit a detailed expense report, not simply an all-inclusive invoice for his expenses. It had been all downhill since, their rousing discussions sizzling across telephone wires. He had managed to do what no one else ever had. He’d made her lose her temper.

Until Warner the Barbarian had come into her life, she hadn’t gotten angry—ever.

Rages were her father’s expertise.

* * *

Snuggling deeper under the comforter, Paige ignored the sound of the shower running. Sharing a hotel room—or any room—with a man was unnerving. Her mind’s eye could picture the oversize man in the large tub, could picture the brass fixture he’d have to duck his head under to rinse shampoo away and the frilly shower curtain pulled around the curved rod overhead, vivid contrast to his utter maleness.

She had awakened half an hour ago, forced herself to complete her morning ritual of yoga and meditation, then had climbed back into bed when she heard Rye open the door from the living room that accessed the bathroom. She had slept ten hours, minus the times she woke after disjointed dreams starring her father, Rye and Joey in which she did a lot of running and hiding while they all searched her out.

The shower water cut off, and a variety of new sounds had her speculating on what he was doing. The silence of toweling off, the tap of metal against porcelain as he shaved, sixty seconds of blow-drying his hair, the rustle of fabric and jangle of a belt buckle as he dressed. She glanced at the bedside clock. Thirteen minutes, beginning to end, and he was done.

When she heard the latch of the door open and close, she began her own hour-long routine, eventually emerging from the room dressed in a royal blue wool skirt and pastel blue silk shell.

“Good morning,” she said as she entered the living room, determined to get off on the right foot with him today. He was seated on the sofa, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, a pen in the other. A yellow legal pad contained a list of numbered items that she couldn’t read upside down.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Paige crossed her arms over her chest and bit back a stinging response. “Did I ask?”

“You’re dressed up.”

“Pardon me. If I’d known I was going to be in need of them, I would have packed my prison blues. I was under the mistaken impression that I was here to attend business meetings.” She cocked her head at him. “Did you get up on the wrong side of the sofa?”

He slouched against the cushions and blew out a long breath. “Sorry. I had trouble sleeping. It’s been a grueling couple of weeks.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Coffee’s hot. Lloyd also brought pastries and fruit.”

After Paige served herself, she took a seat in a chair opposite him to use the same low table. “I want to talk to my father.”

“Any time. I have to route the call through another number.”

“How do I transmit data from my computer to the office?”

“You can’t.”

“But—”

“Think of this as a vacation, Harry.”

“And I’m supposed to fill my time watching you work? How exciting.” She bit into an almond-sprinkled bear claw and closed her eyes in appreciation as she savored the richness. She caught him staring at her, and looked down, expecting crumbs on her blouse or something. “What?”

He dropped his glance to the paper in front of him. “Nothing.”

She brushed the corners of her mouth, found no trace of food, then shrugged off his odd gaze. “Can’t we compromise in some way? I can’t just sit all day watching television. I’ll go nuts.”

“Do you have a printer?”

“No. I transmit by modem.”

“If I arrange for a printer, you could run things off, and I could have Lloyd fax them to your office, through another source, of course.”

“That’s fine for sending. What about receiving?”

“If you can figure something out, I’ll arrange it.”

His eyes focused on her mouth again, disconcerting her, making it difficult to swallow. She couldn’t get a handle on him this morning. He was distracted and intensely focused at the same time.

“Was the bed comfortable?” he asked as he wrote something else on the paper.

Her mouth curved teasingly. “Heavenly. It’s so big. I had plenty of room to stretch out and—”

He lifted his head. “This is the honeymoon cottage.”

“There was certainly room for two.”

He rooted her to her seat with his gaze. “I don’t suppose you’d consider trading beds? You’d fit on the couch a lot better than I do.”

“At your daily rate, you can manage a little discomfort, Warner. So, does security loosen enough to allow for maid service, or should I make my bed?”

“Management has been asked not to disturb us.”

“We can’t go out at all? Not even to eat?”

“Lloyd will keep us fed. Anything you want, just ask.”

“When does he sleep if he’s catering to us plus being a night watchman?”

Rye picked up the telephone receiver and began punching numbers. “He won’t be around every night. Just last night, because I was so tired.”

“Meaning, we pay for an extra man because you came to this job tired. No wonder your bills are so outrageous.”

“It’s all relative, Harry. What value do you put on your life?”

Paige opened and closed her mouth. He’d stumped her with logic, leaving her no argument. She drummed her fingers on the upholstered arms of the chair as she watched him punch in another series of numbers, then sit back, the slightest smile on his lips. His gaze dropped to her legs as she crossed one over the other, and she felt a tremor of awareness at the unspoken flattery in his eyes, hardly able to comprehend that such a little action could spur Warner the Barbarian’s interest.

“Warner here,” he said into the telephone before tipping the mouthpiece and saying to Paige, “Do you ever wear miniskirts, or is your standard the middle-of-the-knee look you’ve got on?”

She watched him catalog her body, zone by zone, forcing her to analyze her response to his blatant appraisal. Her nipples drew instantly into hard buds against sheltering lace that became suddenly abrasive, almost painfully so. Could he see her reaction? If she crossed her arms over her chest, would he smirk with self-satisfaction?

The longer he stared, the more she ached—and the more uncomfortable she became. She had to know what he could see.

She leaned forward to pick up her coffee cup and sent a quick glance down herself. Damn. There was no way his eagle eyes could have missed that.

“I’ve been known to expose my knees,” she forced herself to say into the heavy silence. “But since I work mostly with men, I have to be careful of the image I present.”

“It’s hard to imagine you letting down—” He jerked the receiver up again. “Patrick... No problems... Ask her yourself... All right, got it... Here, I’ll put her on.” He passed the phone to Paige.

“You all right, kid?” Patrick asked, after she said hello.

Paige welcomed the chance to divert her train of thought. “I’m furious with you.”

“What do you think of Warner? Nice touch, huh?”

She watched Rye add another line to his growing list. He’s younger than I expected, she thought. “As prison guards go, he rates a ten.” She returned a placid stare to Rye’s raised brows and a one-sided quirk of his mouth.

“He knows what he’s doing. You can trust him.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to, won’t I? Why didn’t you tell me about Joey? I’m not a child.”

“But you’re still my baby. You took care of me for a long time, honey. I’m just returning the favor.”

Paige slumped a little. “We took care of each other, Dad. We grew up together, but we’re both grown up now. I can handle the truth. Do you really believe I’m in that much danger?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you? What are you doing to protect yourself?”

“Security’s solid, honey. Don’t worry about me. Did Rye tell you not to call home?”

“Oh, yes. I got my orders.” She unconsciously watched Rye as he moved to pour himself another cup of coffee. Comparing the width of his shoulders to the slenderness of his hips made her stomach flip-flop. She looked away, willing herself to remember his ego. “Are you sure I can’t drum up some business while I’m here?”

“Rye says you need to lay low. He’s the boss.”

“What’s happening with Collins-Abrahamson?”

“The deal’s on hold until you get back.”

“Promise?”

“Have I ever lied to you, kid?”

Paige laughed briefly. “That was a joke, right?”

He sputtered. “I haven’t lied about anything important.”

“How about the other bodyguards you arranged for me?”

“Now, Paige, honey. Those were just little white lies. They weren’t meant to hurt you.”

“Uh-huh. I’m really angry, Dad. Don’t think we won’t discuss this further when I get home.”

“You’ll forgive me.”

“Don’t be so sure. Will I talk to you soon?”

“Every day, kid. Relax, okay? Pretend you’re on vacation.”

“Did you and Warner conspire? That’s exactly what he said. But as you’ll both recall, it was my vacation that started this mess.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Yeah, well, mine was a doozy.”

“It’ll turn out, kid. Keep the faith.”

She cradled the receiver softly. “This is the worst possible time for me to be away.”

“Why?” Rye finished the sentence he was writing, then looked up.

“We’ve got a big deal cooking, a potential merger. My father tends to take risks with the company he has no business taking. If I’m not there to intervene, I’m afraid of what will happen.”

“Your father built that company on risks.”

“But it’s stable now. A lot of people depend on him for work. He has to be more careful.” She stood and refilled her coffee cup before moving to stand by the mantel to stare at the fire. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll do what he wants anyway and tell me about it later.”

“Don’t you ever get messed up?”

She turned around. He had assumed a casual pose—one ankle crossed over his knee, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, a pencil dangling lightly from his fingers. She didn’t like the way he studied her.

“What do you mean?”

He gestured with a quick hand. “I mean nothing on you wrinkles or clings or droops. Not a strand of hair out of place. Would any dare?”

Rye watched her pat her hair, was interested in the way she touched an item on the mantel and examined the details before inspecting the next curio. His nose twitched at the unnamed scent that trailed her as she moved around the room. He suddenly wished her hair wasn’t so flawless, wanted to brush a loose strand behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her, to feel that little jolt between them that he chose to acknowledge and she probably chose to deny.

“Would you tell me about Falcon?” he asked.

“To what purpose?”

Rye grinned. “You must be dynamite in negotiations. Are you always so circumspect?”

“I can keep my own counsel, if that’s what you mean. I don’t let emotion interfere with the business at hand.”

“Until Falcon,” Rye said pointedly.

“Joey wasn’t business.”

He bowed his head. “Touché.”

Paige lifted her coffee cup then set it back down. “Joey Falcon is terminally cute.”

“Terminally cute.” Rye tried not to choke on the words.

“And doggedly devoted.”

“You liked that?”

“I don’t psychoanalyze myself. I guess I thought it was what I wanted, at least briefly. I don’t know. I don’t really even care anymore. I just want him out of my life for good.”

“That’s a real possibility, depending on who catches up with him first.”

Paige winced. “I don’t want him harmed. I just want him to stop being an albatross around my neck.”

She watched Rye fix a plate of food for himself and shook her head at his offer to get her something. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably.

“I was surprised when I found out your age,” he said at last. “Patrick is forty-six, right? That means he was eighteen when you were born.”

She embraced the sudden change of subject. “My mother was seventeen.”

He approached the hearth to stand beside her. “That’s what you meant when you said you grew up together. Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop...”

“My mother died when I was four. Her family had never accepted their marriage, so my parents had moved in with my dad’s father, supposedly just until Dad could finish high school. Grandad was the one who started O’Halloran Shipping. When he passed away—I was six, I think—the business was almost bankrupt. My father turned it around.”