Gina Wilkins - The Borrowed Ring

She pulled her gaze from his, glancing down at her hands. “Then I would say you're in sorry shape, considering I don't have any.”

“My wife has plenty of money,” he corrected her.

The gold ring on her left hand glittered. She touched it with her right forefinger. “You just happened to have a woman's wedding ring on a chain around your neck? Just in case someone stumbled into your story?”

“The ring was my mother's. I've worn it for almost a dozen years.”

Despite the utter lack of emotion in his voice, B.J. felt her throat tighten anyway. She knew enough about his mother's fate to understand how much this ring must mean to him. He had carried it with him when he left the Walker ranch and he had worn it since as a reminder of—what? His mother's life? The injustice of her death?

“I'll take very good care of it,” she assured him.

“Thank you.” He stood then, glancing toward the bedroom. “Feel free to rest a while if you like. I'll make sure you aren't disturbed.”

“Actually…” Rising, she put a hand to her midsection. “I'm starving. It's been hours since I've had anything to eat.”

The smile he gave her then was quick and apparently genuine. “We can't have that. Room service or restaurant?”

Dragging her gaze from his amazing smile, she looked ruefully down at her wrinkled and travel-worn clothing. “Maybe room service would be best.”

Following her gaze, he nodded. “What size do you wear?”

“Size two. Why?”

“Shoe size?”

“Seven. Why are you—?”

“You'll need some clothing.”

He picked up a phone from an ornately carved and gilded writing desk. She listened in astonishment as he briskly and efficiently ordered a meal and then requested that an assortment of clothing, shoes and lingerie be sent to their suite for his wife's consideration. Despite what she knew about his impoverished background, he seemed to have adapted very well to a life of privilege.

Hanging up the phone, he moved toward the bedroom. “I'll set up the computer for you. You can send your e-mail while I unpack.”

She followed him into the bedroom. This room, too, was overly formal for her taste. Done in French style, it featured carved woods and lots of chintz and toile on little chairs and benches that looked barely substantial enough to support her weight, much less Daniel's.

Whose idea of a vacation room was this? She couldn't see herself putting her feet up on this furniture or lolling around still damp and sandy from a romp on the beach. Did people who were comfortable in rooms like this even like romping on beaches?

Daniel chuckled again in response to her expression. “You don't care for the decor?”

It irked her that he read her so easily when she could never tell what he was thinking. She waved imperiously toward another French writing desk. “Set up the computer. I have an e-mail to write.”

He reached for a leather computer case. “By the way,” he said casually, “you won't be able to hit send until I've read the message. Sorry, but I have to make sure you stay safe while you're under my protection.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I'll have you know I've been working for the investigation agency for over a year. I can keep myself safe.”

“Since my guess is that you've been working primarily at a desk, doing computer searches and making telephone calls, I doubt that you've learned a great deal of self-defense during your stint at the agency.”

Without giving her a chance to challenge his guess, he opened the computer, turned it on, then stepped back from it. “Let me know when you're ready, and I'll enter my code so you can send the e-mail. After I've read it, of course.”

“Jerk,” she muttered beneath her breath as she sank into the tiny chair in front of the desk.

Again he surprised her by laughing softly. “It's not the first time you've called me that,” he reminded her. “I'm sure it won't be the last.”

His voice grew more serious then. “But you will leave this resort safely. You have my word on that.”

The message had been approved and sent by the time their early dinner arrived. Daniel had read every word carefully, weighing the implications and trying to predict her family's reactions to the e-mail. She had said simply that she had been unable to find Daniel and wanted to take a few days to think about her future. She had sent her love and promised to call soon.

“They all know I've been increasingly dissatisfied with my job lately,” she had rather grudgingly admitted. “Sitting at a computer all day wasn't what I had in mind when I talked my uncles into giving me a job.”

“Most P.I. work these days comes down to just that,” he had observed with a slight shrug. “From what I've heard, anyway.”

“So I've discovered.”

“So what do you want to do?” he asked, discreetly keying in his computer password while he kept her distracted with conversation.

“I don't know,” she answered simply. And rather poignantly. “I only know I haven't found it yet.”

Barely twenty minutes later, he studied her across the small round dining table set against one glass wall in the sitting room. Apparently her confusion about the situation she had found herself in—coupled with a whirlwind day of travel—had not affected her appetite. She ate with a heartiness that amused him, considering her reed-slender figure.

He remembered that she had liked to eat when they were teenagers. She'd always been one of the first in line for helpings of the barbecued meats that had been the main fare of so many Walker family gatherings.

They didn't say much during the meal. He figured she was replaying the things he had said to her, trying to make sense of them and prepare herself for the role she'd been forced into assuming.

They had just dipped into their desserts when there was another knock on the door. Motioning for B.J. to continue to eat the strawberry shortcake she seemed to be enjoying so much, Daniel moved to answer.

A striking young woman in a brief red sarong-style sundress and sandals stood in the hallway next to a covered, wheeled garment rack. “Mr. Andreas?”

He couldn't help noticing the masses of sun-streaked blond hair, glossy, full lips, golden-tanned shoulders, high, firm breasts and long, tanned legs. He was only human, after all. “Yes.”

Her smile glittered, as did her violet-tinted eyes. Young Elizabeth Taylor eyes, he mused. He had no doubt that tinted contact lenses provided the color, but the result was quite nice. “I'm Heather. From the Beach-front Boutique? I understand your poor wife arrived without her luggage.”

“Yes. An unfortunate airline mix-up.” He turned toward the small dining area at the other side of the room. “B.J.?”

She was already up and moving toward them. Her short dark hair was mussed, any makeup she had worn earlier had worn off and her slightly oversize camp shirt and khakis emphasized her slender frame.

Many men, perhaps, would have preferred Heather's more obvious feminine charms. Yet Daniel found himself increasingly fascinated by B.J.'s subtle—and completely natural—attractions.

“Heather, this is my wife,” he said, helping her roll the bulky garment rack inside. “Darling, I'm sure you'll be glad to have some fresh clothing to change into.”

He noticed that Heather was eying B.J. in surprise, as if she had expected her to look different. Heather was accustomed, he imagined, to very wealthy men with sleek, ultragroomed eye-candy wives.

He didn't blame her for that expectation, of course. When he had very briefly considered casting the role of his “wife” for this trip, that was exactly the type of woman he would have selected. Someone who looked rich and pampered and a bit disconnected from the real world.