Лиза Джонс: Hot Secrets

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If Royce had ever seen a woman looking for escape, it was Lauren. She didn’t like the politics of her father’s world, nor most definitely the disposition of her stepmother. It was clear to him that Lauren was realizing that she had no real controlthat it all belonged to her father. She wanted outdesperately yearning for freedom. He’d spent years as a hostage negotiator, seen how people dealt with the feeling of being trapped, of having all control stripped. So when Royce watched Lauren reach for yet another glass of champagne, he knew she was in trouble. He knew she never had more than one drink. He knew this from her profile. He knew a lot about Lauren that he’d venture to say she didn’t want him to know. Most importantly, he knew it was time to escort her home before she did something she’d regret in the morning.

He shoved off the bar, intending to go after her, when Lauren headed down the stairs, and began weavingor rather wobblingher way in his direction. In several long strides, Royce was in front of her, gently shackling her arms to steady her. Her hand went to her forehead, distress in her delicate features.

She looked at him with wide eyes. “Thanks. I think”

“You drank too much.” He kept his voice low, and then leaned down near her ear, and whispered. “Perhaps regretting the invitation you gave me earlier?”

He felt her shiver, and then watched defiance flash in her eyes. “No. I’m not.” She paused. “It’s not you. It’s me.” She let out a breath. “It’s my stepmother. It’s the party. It’s my… I’m rambling and I never ramble but I’m only a little bit tipsy. That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I am doing, though. I do.”

She might know what she was doing, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t regret her actions in the morning. He wasn’t in the habit of causing regret in women, and he wasn’t going to start with Lauren. The best thing he could do was get her home safely, and walk away. Lord, please give me the will to do that and nothing more. “Did you drive to the party?”

She shook her head. “I’m a sensible subway and taxi girl. I won’t pay to park a car I barely drive.”

“That leaves you with two options to get home. I can get you a taxi or I can drive you home.” He wanted her to say ‘taxi,’ for her sake, for his. But he couldn’t let that be her answer, not and do his job. He needed to be her ride, to get to her home, to get closer to her.

She didn’t blink, didn’t look away, her voice soft and raspy, and oh so sexy as she said, “You know I want you to take me home.”

The obvious reiteration of the earlier invitation he couldn’t accept no matter how much he wanted to punched him in the gut. “Consider me your ride then.”

A few minutes later, the two of them stood in the lobby of the hotel while a valet pulled his truck to the bottom of several flights of outdoor steps. He slipped his arm around her waist and they headed into an unseasonably cool April evening air. They managed to make it as far as the bottom of the first set of stairs on the terrace area, when they were suddenly swarmed by reporters. Cameras flashed and microphones were shoved in their direction.

“Ms. Reynolds, how do you feel about the Sheridan execution?”

“Ms. Reynolds, tell us about your new murder trial.”

“Ms. Reynolds, do you consider yourself a legal vigilante?”

“What is Senator Reynolds’ feeling on the death penalty?”

Lauren tried to hide from the flashes.

“Get back,” Royce ordered. “Leave her alone.” He bent close to Lauren’s ear. “Just keep walking, and stay close.”

Someone stuck a microphone in Royce’s face. “Who are you? Are you her date?”

They were only a few steps from his truck when something ice cold splattered all over them. Lauren jumped and screamed. Several reporters cursed. Royce didn’t take time to consider what had been thrown or if there was real danger. Instinct and training had taught him to assume the worst, and act.

He yanked the passenger door open and helped Lauren inside the vehicle. At that moment, an egg smacked into the panel beside him and Lauren gasped at the thump. “What was that?” she asked, leaning toward him. He eased her back into her seat.

“Stay inside,” was his only reply, before he shut her inside the vehicle.

The hair on the back of Royce’s neck lifted as he moved to the driver’s side, and climbed inside the cab. The FBI had taught him to never ignore his instincts, and his instincts were screaming of trouble where he might otherwise find only irritation.

He locked the doors and started the engine. “You okay?” he asked, glancing Lauren’s way as he maneuvered them onto the highway.

She ignored his question. “That was an egg that hit your truck, wasn’t it?”

“It’ll wash off.”

“We should go to a car wash before it destroys your paint job. I feel horrible about this, Royce.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “You have no idea how much I want to wash the cobwebs from my brain right now, while we’re at it.”

“Hey,” he said, squeezing her hand. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. You don’t control what people do.”

“But I should have considered how I might put you in the line of fire. And I would have had I not stupidly drank too much champagne, which is not like me, by the way. I have a murder trial starting in two weeks, and when I juggle a high profile case, on top of the attention I get because of my father, it can get intense. I feel really, really horrible that I dragged you into my mess.”

“You said that already,” he said. “My truck will be fine. Stopping somewhere will only make us a target for ambitious reporters who might be following.” Or someone else who intended for them to stop, and intended to take advantage of the seclusion of a late night car wash stop.

“I’m willing to take the risk to save your truck.”

“I’m not and I have insurance for a reason.”

She hesitated and nodded, then touched her dress and smelled her fingers. “Champagne. I think someone threw champagne at us. Either that or I spilled it on myself and I’m more tipsy than I remember. But then, drunks don’t remember, now do they?”

“You’re not a drunk, and don’t put yourself down for relaxing a little. And yes, what was thrown on us was champagne, which is far better than getting hit with an egg.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I guess there’s that to cling to.” She hesitated, then, “Maybe it’s the tipsy part of this equation for me, but that scene back there rattled me way more than it normally would.” She shivered and hugged herself. “I’ve been around my share of creepy bad guys and I got that same feeling of malice rolling off the crowd.”

“It’s called a typical Friday night in Manhattan,” he said lightly, not about to tell her he’d felt it too, and because he wasn’t supposed to know where she lived, he added, “I need your address for the GPS.” She murmured a reply and he punched the information into the program. “Why don’t you rest your eyes until we get there?”

She nodded and slid down into the seat, a little too willing to do as he suggested from what he knew of her personality. She was rattled all right. She knew she was in trouble.

Chapter Three

Fifteen minutes later, Royce had paid the doorman a hefty tip to park his truck without hassle. Now on the fifth floor of the twenty-story Upper West Side residential building Lauren lived in, he waited while she fished a key out of the small beaded purse she’d gotten from the coat clerk back at the hotel. She produced a silver keychain which she proceeded to drop to the ground.

Royce scooped it up. “Let me,” he offered, and when she nodded, crossing her arms in front of her, he couldn’t help but notice how adorably nervous and vulnerable she appeared. He was being allowed to see what he doubted many had before him. This was a glimpse of what lay beneath the confident Assistant DA’s public persona, and it was so much more than what he gambled on. Lauren wasn’t a spoiled senator’s daughter, or even an arrogant public servant with too much power, as he imagined she might be. She was so much deeper, so much more than her beauty, and she didn’t even seem to recognize it.