Valentine Fantasy

Cait sighed and ignored the gleam in her friend’s dark brown eyes. “There’s no one. Can we change the subject, please?”

“Okay, so you’re not ready to share,” Jen teased, adjusting her thick raven hair over her shoulder with a gentle flick of the wrist. “I can respect that.”

Cait rolled her eyes, then reached for the folder with her notes on a fund-raiser being held in two weeks. She winced when her clawlike nails caught the end of the plastic in-box. She really had to have these things shaved down to a workable length before she hurt someone. “Did you want something specific, or were you in the mood to harass someone and I’m your unfortunate target?”

“There’s a new play in town opening this weekend and I’m reviewing it. Wanna tag along?”

“I can’t.”

“Ah-ha!” Jen laughed. “I knew it was a man.”

Cait set the file on the desk in front of her. Carefully, so she didn’t stab herself, she clasped her hands together. “It’s my parents’ fortieth anniversary this weekend and we’re throwing a party for them, or did you forget?”

Jen sighed dramatically. “No. I didn’t forget. I’ll try to stop by after the play, but I can’t promise anything. Do you have a date for the party?”

She thought of Jordan McBride, his rich sable hair and those pale hazel eyes that had swept over her, along with the shiver she’d had a hard time suppressing when he’d looked at her. He could definitely be filed in the drop-dead-gorgeous category with his wide shoulders, lean hips and athletic body. But his eyes drew her attention and held her. Lordy, they were the kind of eyes that could hold a woman spellbound for hours. If Fantasy for Hire really was in the business of seducing wealthy women out of their fortunes as Louden Avery had implied, then Jordan McBride was no doubt a success at his chosen profession. All the man had to do was smile and flash his sexier-than-sin eyes and women would blissfully hand over their wealth.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she admitted.

Jen crossed her arms over her chest and gave her an I-told-you-so look. “I knew it was a man.”

“It’s not what you think.” Cait stood and pulled her raincoat from the peg behind her desk. “It’s strictly business. Let’s get some cappuccino. My treat.”

“This must be good if you’re buying.”

Cait glared at her friend. It wasn’t that she was cheap, but she’d been taught the value of a dollar by her parents. Spending the money for her new look and the money to hire McBride hadn’t been an impulse. She thought of it more as an investment in her future. Her future as a real reporter.

By the time they crossed the street to the Higher Grounds coffee shop, placed their order and found a table in the back, Jen was prodding Cait with more questions. “Tell me about him,” she demanded, dipping the edge of her biscotti in her cup of latte.

Cait sipped her cappuccino, then set the cup aside. “I told you. It’s business.”

“Business? On Valentine’s Day?” Jen shook her head with mock dismay. “Honey, we need to have a little talk. You know what they say, all work and no play…”

“Will help me reach my goals sooner?” Cait finished.

Jen set the cookie aside and leaned forward. “Tell me about this business date. Is he gorgeous?”

Cait bit her lip. She knew she could trust Jen, and she was dying to talk to someone about her discovery, even if it meant a well-meaning lecture. Gorgeous didn’t begin to explain Jordan McBride. “Gorgeous has nothing to do with this. He’s a story.”

“Borrrrringgg. More tales of the rich and famous.”

Cait shook her head. “Not this time.” This time, she had a lead on a real story, a story that would have her editor, Edmund Davidson, stand up and take notice. She was convinced if she broke the story on Jordan McBride, Edmund would seriously consider moving her into investigative reporting. He continually told her she was too young, she needed more life experiences. How on earth did he expect her to gain experience if he kept sending her to debutante balls and fund-raisers? Last week she’d been assigned the opening of another art gallery funded by a bored housewife of some Montgomery Street financial wizard. Not exactly hard-hitting news as far as she was concerned.

“Oh?” Interested, Jen propped her chin in the palm of her hand. “Tell me more.”

Cait looked around the coffeehouse, making sure they wouldn’t be overheard, then very quickly explained her meeting with Louden Avery the previous afternoon and his claims against Fantasy for Hire.

“So, I hired myself a date for my parents’ party,” she finished, raising her cappuccino in mock salute. “I need the inside scoop and what better way to accomplish that than hiring my own fantasy?”

Jen sipped her latte then set the cup back on the Formica table. “How much did this fantasy date cost the paper?”

“Nothing. I took the money out of my savings account. If the story pans out like I think it’s going to, I’ll put it on my expense account.”

“How much?” Jen asked again, frowning.

Cait knew her friend had only been half teasing about her springing for coffee. They’d been roommates in college and Cait was used to Jen’s lighthearted badgering about her ability to squeeze a dollar.

“Jen, it’s really not important. What’s important is—”

“Cait, how much?”

Cait sighed. She adored Jen, but sometimes her friend was just a little too pushy. She thought about evading the question, but the other woman wasn’t a reporter for nothing. “Two thousand dollars,” Cait admitted quietly.

“Two thousand! Are you crazy? Cait, what if the story doesn’t fly? Then you’re out that money.”

“Shh, lower your voice.” She looked around and was relieved to find no one paying them any attention. “It’s okay. I’ll get it back.”

“Look, kiddo, I know where you work, okay? We’re not at the Herald because the pay is stellar. The Chronicle or Examiner we’re not.”

“Stop worrying, okay? I’m house-sitting for my brother for another few months, so I don’t have to worry about rent or utilities. I don’t have a car payment. Even if the story doesn’t work out and I don’t get reimbursed, I’ll have the money back in my savings by the time Brian returns from Europe. I’ll be fine.”

“What are you hoping to gain by this?”

“You know what I want, Jen,” Cait said, her voice filled with steely determination. “This story is going to prove to Edmund that I can write real news. If I have to attend one more charity function, I’ll scream.”

“I just think there’s a way for you to do this that doesn’t include cleaning out your savings account. When do you plan on telling Edmund what you’re up to?”

“I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Cait knew her friend was merely concerned for her welfare, but she had to go through with this, on her terms. She couldn’t lose this story. “If I tell Edmund, he’s either going to take the story away from me and give it to one of the ‘boys’ or shelve the idea. I can do this, Jen. I can expose Fantasy for Hire. When I handed McBride that money, he jumped on it, so I know there’s a story there. By the time I’m finished, this is going to be the biggest scandal to hit the Bay in months.”

“I just don’t think you’ve thought this out completely. What makes you think McBride is going to attempt to seduce you out of the fortune you don’t have?”

Cait grinned, her enthusiasm mounting. “I have it all worked out. I’m living in Brian’s house in Pacific Heights. The party is at the Palace Hotel. He’s going to think I’ve got money.”

“There’s still a problem. You said that this Avery character claims that this agency was paid for sex. How exactly do you plan on proving that?”

“Easy,” Cait said, tapping her lengthy acrylic nail on the rim of her cup. “I’m going to seduce Jordan McBride.”

2

JORDAN CHECKED his watch, then set aside the designs he’d been studying for most of the afternoon before rubbing at the tension building in his neck. Going into business for himself hadn’t turned into the profitable venture he’d imagined, but he had a decent beginning, and that was just fine with him. The desire to work for no one other than himself had been too strong to ignore, and he couldn’t complain about the progress he’d made since returning to San Francisco, even if he wasn’t yet blazing any trails. He’d done the architectural-firm route in Los Angeles and had been burned, which convinced him he was ready to fly solo. If he’d learned anything during his eight years with Lawrence and Brooks, it was that he wanted his successes, or his failures, to be his own in the future.

Lifting the drawing toward the light, he carefully compared the sketches to the preliminary model for the chain of strip malls planned along the central and northern coast. His presentation for the developer wasn’t for a couple of days. He needed to wrap this up as soon as possible so he could start on the actual plans for the Wyndhaven Town House restoration project he’d just been awarded. He’d be buried in meetings with the developer and contractor in another couple of weeks, and he still wanted to bid on a new high-rise complex for downtown. He had some ideas he felt fairly confident about, and the added commissions would give him the capital he needed to hire an assistant and locate reasonably priced office space.

Office space wasn’t his only real-estate concern. He and Austin owned the house, but with Austin married, the last thing the newlyweds needed was him around cramping their style. Selling the prime real estate was out of the question. The house had been in the family for three generations, and neither he nor Austin were willing to sell. They could have done so years ago when things had been tough, but they’d made a pact never to jeopardize the house. There’d been times they’d had to survive on canned soup and peanut butter and jelly for weeks, but in the end, the sacrifices more than made up for the cash the house could have brought them. Moving out of the Victorian for Austin and his new bride was Jordan’s only logical choice. What he needed to do was find his own place, but he was going to be around until the escrow on his Santa Monica condo closed in a couple of weeks, unless he wanted to throw money away on a rental.

The thought of money brought him back to what he’d been trying to avoid thinking about all afternoon.

Cait Sullivan.

He had a few ideas on how to fulfill her Valentine fantasy, but he still couldn’t understand why a woman as attractive as Cait felt she had to pay for the services of a total stranger. She’d mentioned not wanting any entanglements, so perhaps she was recovering from a bad relationship. Anything was possible, he decided, adding another Canary Island pine to the model.

His mind refused to remain focused on his work. Cait and her black-seamed stockings continued to intrude. With a disgusted sigh, he tossed the small pine tree back onto the table. He’d never get any work done at this rate.

He flipped off the light over his desk, and left the upstairs room he’d commandeered as his temporary office space. His real-estate concerns would have to wait until at least next week. His calendar had been filled by a sexy redhead with a fantasy. And for the price he’d been paid, he’d better deliver.

CAIT SNEEZED, dropped the fingernail file, then sneezed again from the dust cloud caused by her vicious filing. She nearly had the length of her new nails down to something she could live with, but her arm ached from the constant, repetitive motion.

Time for a break, she decided, tossing the nail file on the glass end table. She reached for the cardboard container of shrimp fried rice from Mr. Wong’s she’d picked up on her way home from the paper. The shrimp was cold, and she blamed it on her nails. They were a serious impediment to her life-style. Not only did she have trouble typing, which was a problem since she wanted to add a few more notes to her story, but attempting to fasten the button fly on her favorite pair of faded Levi’s had been impossible. After a ten-minute struggle, she’d given up and slipped into a pair of sweats instead, deciding that if she was going to function and perform the everyday tasks necessary to basic survival, she’d better shave a few millimeters from her fingers first.

She bit into another cold piece of shrimp and thought about the story she was convinced would change the course of her career onto the path she’d craved since she was a little girl. When she’d told Jen her plan, her friend had called her a certifiable idiot, then continued with a list of reasons why she might fail, not to mention a lecture on the danger she was placing herself in by attempting to seduce a total stranger. At the time, she’d waved Jen’s concerns aside, but as she dug through the container in search of more shrimp, she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps she was letting her ambitions cloud her judgment.

Her plan wasn’t exactly foolproof, and she knew it. Like, how did she get around actually having sex with her fantasy date? She’d worry about that later. A good investigative reporter took risks. Woodward and Bernstein had taken a monumental risk in exposing the Watergate scandal, and for a time, their lives had been in danger. Would the savings-and-loan scandal have been exposed if a reporter hadn’t ignored the risks involved? Or what about the reporters who put their lives on the line every day to bring news from Kosovo or other war-torn areas? Did those reporters worry about the risks?

No. The story came first. The story always came first, and her philosophy was no different from the greats’ before her. She knew she’d have to be alone with Jordan, especially since she planned to make it perfectly clear to him that she was on the prowl for seduction. She couldn’t very well convince the man that she was ripe for the picking in a roomful of people, especially with her family hovering around her. She’d have to find a way to be alone with him, and although she’d need to brush up on her seductress skills to pull this off, she knew she could do it. In the name of investigative journalism, in honor of the great reporters of years past, she could and would expose Fantasy for Hire.

Setting her shrimp fried rice aside, she picked up the industrial-strength emery board and continued to work on shortening her nails while listening to the evening newscast. More rain was predicted for the Bay area later that week, but the meteorologist promised clear skies by the weekend for Valentine’s Day in the most romantic city in North America. She smiled. Not even Mother Nature would dare spoil her parents’ anniversary party.

After finishing her nails and waiting for the coat of clear polish to dry, she snapped off the television and flipped on Brian’s elaborate stereo system. She found a rock station she liked, then sat down at her laptop computer and popped in the disk containing her notes on Fantasy for Hire.

She carefully read what she’d written during her meeting with Louden Avery. So far, he appeared to be correct in his allegations. The fact that Jordan McBride had taken the huge sum of money she’d offered him led her to believe there was some truth to the claim of money in exchange for sex. Of course, it was up to her to prove the claim, but she wasn’t too worried about that, even though she had no experience with seducing a man. Flirting, yes. She could handle flirting, but actual seduction? Maybe she’d better rent a few videos on the art of seduction. Like The Graduate, she thought with a grimace.

She clicked the icon for a blank page and centered Jordan McBride’s name at the top, then started typing what she knew about him, which wasn’t much. Other than the fact that he was gorgeous and more than willing to be her Valentine for a fee, she knew nothing about the man. She didn’t know if he owned the agency, or if someone else pulled the strings behind the scenes. All she had was Louden’s claim that an employee of Fantasy for Hire took money in exchange for sex. It was up to her to prove this was a common practice for the agency.

She pulled up another blank page and made a list of things she needed to learn about the agency. She needed to find out who owned the agency, but a huge help would be a list of previous clients. If she could find one more person to verify the claim made by Louden. That, coupled with whatever her own experience with Jordan might produce, would add up to the necessary verification. Obtaining a client list would be impossible, unless she crossed the legal line and resorted to breaking and entering.

She underlined the entry to think about later.

An hour later, she took a short break and headed for the kitchen for a cup of tea. She was pleased with her progress. The beginning was already shaping up, and she had a solid line on which direction she planned to take the article. As her investigation deepened, so would the depth of her story.

She set the teakettle on the stove, then pulled a mug from the cabinet as the chimes for the front door rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but that never stopped her nosy sisters from dropping by unannounced. Sometimes having four older siblings could be a royal pain, but she loved them anyway, even if they did think her business was their business.

She strolled to the front door and peered out the side panel to find a Toyota four-wheel drive she didn’t recognize parked in the driveway.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It’s your valentine,” a deep, velvety voice answered from the other side of the door.

Her heart stopped, then resumed at a maddening pace.

Her valentine?

She wasn’t supposed to see him until Saturday night. What was he doing here? Unless, she thought, narrowing her eyes, he’d decided she required further investigation as a potential target. She’d struggled hard not to flinch when she’d handed over most of the contents of her savings account. Obviously her plan had worked, and that pleased her. She’d hate to think she’d spent the money for nothing.

“Just a minute,” she called, then frantically swiped at the fingernail dust still clinging to her navy sweatshirt. She stifled a sneeze, ran her fingers through her hair in hopes of restoring a sense of order and pinched her cheeks for color. A quick glance down at her clothes caused a groan to escape her lips. What on earth would he think seeing her dressed in baggy sweats, her hair a mess and not an ounce of makeup on her face? So much for playing the socialite. She looked more like the hired help.

Pasting a welcoming smile on her face, she straightened her shoulders and opened the door. Her stomach flipped at the sight of him. Lordy, he was even more drop-dead gorgeous than she remembered. He wore the same navy polo shirt and tan trousers he’d had on earlier, but the worn, leather bomber jacket that matched the color of his wind-tossed, sable hair gave him a slightly dangerous appeal that put her feminine senses on alert.

“Hi,” he said, that rumbling voice jarring her back into reality—the reality that Jordan was really standing on her porch.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she said, taking another swipe at the dust on her shirt. She wanted him to think of her as someone who was polished and sophisticated, not as someone who lounged around the house in dust-covered sweats.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” He looked at her closely, his gaze sliding along her body as if searching for the curves beneath her baggy clothes.

Her temperature shouldn’t have heightened just because he looked at her, but it did. Good grief, how did she expect to seduce him when he had her heating up like a furnace with one simple sweep of his gaze?

“Were you sanding something?” he asked, looking closer.

She gave him a quick grin. “Sort of,” she muttered, and took a step back. Just taking precautions so I don’t poke your eye out when I get to run my hands through that thick hair of yours.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked, opening the door wider. If he was here to do a little investigating of his own, she’d be more than happy to oblige. Besides, maybe she could find an opportunity to learn more about him and the agency.

“I just dropped by to give you this,” he said and held out a red velvet, heart-shaped box of chocolates. “From your valentine.”

Stunned, she stared at the box, then up at him. She detected a hint of shyness that threw her off-kilter. When she’d first met him, she’d had the impression that Jordan McBride was the type of man who knew exactly what he wanted, and sought it with single-minded determination. She easily imagined him as the high-powered executive type. A take-no-prisoners kind of guy. Of course, she suspected the impression he gave was misleading. Take-the-money-and-run was a more appropriate description.

“Oh.” She reached for the beautifully wrapped box. “Oh,” she added with a little more emphasis when realization dawned. This had to be part of his plan to seduce her out of her supposed fortune. She recognized the shyness now for what it was—a ploy, a part of the game of seduction. Well, two could play this game.

She graced him with her best sultry smile. “Thank you, Jordan. That’s very sweet of you.”

A high-pitched wail sounded from the kitchen. “I was making tea,” she said, leading him into the house. “Would you like a cup? Or perhaps something a little stronger?”

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the foyer. “Tea’s fine.”

“I heard we’re due for more rain,” she said. With the box of chocolates still clutched in her hand, she led the way through the house to the kitchen, wishing she could think of something witty or charming to say. She’d attended enough society events, sat through numerous charity functions and listened to endless useless and boring conversations. Couldn’t she come up with anything to talk about besides the weather?

“Typical for this time of year,” he commented. He sidled up to the breakfast bar and watched as she retrieved another mug from the cabinet. “Nice place. You live here alone?”

Cait blinked. “Uh…” What did she say? She didn’t feel comfortable telling a total stranger she lived alone. To do so would violate every rule she’d ever been taught, but this was a business arrangement. She couldn’t very well conduct an investigation if she wasn’t willing to take risks.

Anything for the story.

“Yes, I do live alone,” she said, casting a surreptitious glance in his direction to gauge his reaction.

He nodded, then looked around the enormous, sterile kitchen. White ceramic tiles and white cabinets graced most of the room, the only break in color offered by way of aluminum-topped appliances and a few green plants scattered about. The plants were her touch, not that her brother was ever home long enough to see to their care. Brian had his own computer company and was often away on business.

Cait let out a slow breath, grateful he didn’t question her further on her living arrangements. Lying didn’t come easily, and she wondered briefly if that character trait would prevent her from becoming an investigative reporter.

No, she decided. She just needed more practice.

She finished preparing the tea, and led him onto the glass-enclosed patio overlooking Brian’s extensive ornamental garden. A flick of the switch bathed the sitting area in soft, romantic light, but the highlight was the illumination of the gardens with its variety of flower beds, plants and shrubs, complete with cobblestone bridge and waterfall. Whenever she saw the garden at night, she thought of intimacy and romance. Hopefully, Jordan would, too.

“Very nice,” he commented, taking the mug of tea she offered.

“My brother likes gardens,” she said, then briefly closed her eyes at her blunder. “So I had one designed for him that looks a lot like this one,” she added hastily, with a casual wave of her hand. She’d have to be more careful in the future. “Uh, would you like to see the rest of the house?”

Jordan turned to look out over the garden. “No, this is fine.” He hadn’t been sure what he’d expected to find by dropping by Cait’s tonight with the first of the valentine surprises he’d had planned for the week, but he couldn’t help being pleasantly surprised by the girl next door who’d greeted him. He still liked those black-seamed stockings, but she looked adorable right now—like the kind of woman who didn’t need the trappings of the social set to be happy, the kind of woman a man could have meaningful and intellectual conversations with, the kind a man looked forward to coming home to after a day at the office.