Cara Summers - Risking It All - The Proposition / The Dare / The Favour / The P.I. / The Cop / The Defender

“And if she does?” Tracker asked.

“I’m trying to prevent that. I told her that Slade’s gone, that I’m his vice president in charge of retail acquisitions. That’s when she guessed I was acquiring Silken Fantasies.”

Tracker couldn’t prevent a laugh. “She’s as smart as her sisters.”

“I wonder if she knows that,” Hunter mused.

“How’s that?”

“Nothing.” He watched the huge black Labs race toward her, topple her over on the grass. When she sat up and looped her arms around their necks and let them lick her face, he was abruptly and totally charmed.

“I’m going to keep her here until we sort this out,” Hunter said.

“And just how do you plan to do that?”

The plan was beginning to take shape in his mind. “Jared Slade doesn’t give interviews. I’ll offer her the next best thing—an interview with his vice president in charge of retail acquisitions, Mark Hunter. I use that name when I travel,” he explained. “There’s even a personnel file on Mark Hunter in the Dallas office.” Then he thought to ask, “I assume there won’t be any problem with her staying here on the estate?”

For five beats there was dead silence on the other end of the line. “She’s the sister of a friend of mine. I don’t want to see her hurt. Her sister wouldn’t want to see her hurt. Neither would Lucas.”

Hunter’s brows rose. There was a clear warning in Tracker’s voice. “Let’s look at it this way. The interview will be legit, and it will be the next best thing to interviewing Jared Slade. She’ll have the scoop she needs to get her a full-time staff position at Celebs. And I’ll have the certainty that she’s here where I can keep an eye on her while you’re springing the trap we’ve set.”

“I don’t know,” Tracker said.

“There’s something else to consider. What if she’s not just lucky and smart? Someone sent an anonymous tip about my hotel to Celebs and not to the Post, as you mentioned earlier today. What if the bastard who set the bomb is using her as a pawn in the game he’s playing? Until we know what’s going on and who the players are, she’ll be safer here with me than she’d be trying to get a lead on Jared Slade’s whereabouts.”

As he watched Rory throw a stick for the dogs, he waited out the silence again.

“Why do I think that there’s a more personal side to this than you’re telling me?” Tracker finally asked.

“Because your nature is to be suspicious. But neither one of us wants her stumbling onto something that will lead her down to the Keys,” Hunter said.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “You’re right. I’ll be in touch when I have something.”

After hanging up the phone, Hunter walked to the French doors. Whatever he’d said to Tracker, he wouldn’t lie to himself. He wanted Rory Gibbs with him for very personal reasons that had nothing to do with her safety or protecting his anonymity.

He didn’t kid himself, either. Keeping her here was every bit as risky as letting her go. But he hadn’t built Slade Enterprises by running away from risks. He would just have to be careful. He watched her race across the lawn with the dogs chasing her and felt his body begin to harden again. Would she be that reckless, that abandoned when they made love again? He wanted to find out. He would find out, Hunter decided. Soon. That decision made, he began to plot a strategy for handling Rory Gibbs.

RORY WAS OUT OF BREATH by the time she reached to open the gate to the pool. The dogs pushed through it, jumped at her, licked her face, and finally sent her tumbling into one of the lounge chairs. Laughing, she patted one head then the other. “Down,” she ordered, then watched in amazement as they settled, tongues hanging out, one on each side of her chair.

“How do you like your coffee, miss?”

She glanced up from the dogs to see an older, distinguished-looking man in navy blue shorts and a crisp white short-sleeved shirt set a tray on the table next to her chair.

“Black, thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry for the trouble. I told him that I really didn’t need anything. Oh, my…cookies.” She beamed a smile at him as she reached for one and took a bite. “You’ve saved my life. Food always settles my nerves. Plus, chewing makes me think, and I left my bubble gum in the car.” She took another cookie. “These are delicious, Mr….”

“You can call me McGee. And the cookies are no trouble. Mr. Lucas likes to know that his guests are well cared for.”

“You shouldn’t have brought so many. I’ll probably eat them all.”

When he handed her a mug of coffee, Rory took a sip and then closed her eyes and sighed. “Perfect. This is French-pressed, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” McGee smiled at her. “You have a discerning taste. Mr. Lucas prefers French-pressed coffee.”

Rory smiled at the man over the rim of her mug. “I do, too. Could you pour yourself a mug and join me? Is that allowed?”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Strictly speaking, no. But it’s kind of you to ask.”

“What about the coffee beans? You must grind them yourself?”

“Yes, miss. The beans are grown in Kenya. Mr. Lucas has them flown in.”

She nodded. “Heavenly. And please call me Rory. Can you at least sit?”

When he did, she took another cookie. “You’ve been with Mr. Wainwright for a time?”

“Ever since he came back to take over the company. My son, Tim, works in the stables. If you want to ride, let him pick your mount. He’s a good judge.”

“Thanks. I won’t be staying long.” She took another sip of the coffee. “Mr. Lucas’s guest—do you happen to know his name?”

“Mark Hunter,” said a voice that she recognized. Turning, she watched him enter through the gate and approach her in that long-legged Terminator stride.

“Will that be all, miss?” McGee asked as he rose.

“Yes. Thank you,” she replied as nerves sprung to life again and twisted into a knot in her stomach. Mark Hunter. The last name suited him, she thought. Hadn’t she seen the hunter in him from the first? He had that look about him now as he sat down on the foot of the lounge adjacent to hers.

He was prepared, his quarry in sight. And she’d spent the time playing with the dogs and talking to Lucas Wainwright’s butler. She could have kicked herself. As usual, she was going to have to develop a plan by the seat of her pants. Once McGee had let himself out the gate, she reached for another cookie. “These are delicious.”

Mark Hunter filled a mug from the carafe. “You eat when you’re nervous, don’t you?”

“What makes you think I’m nervous?” she asked around a mouthful of chocolate crumbs.

He took her hand as she reached for another cookie. “Because your hand is trembling.”

“Did you talk to Jared Slade?” she said quickly, changing the subject.

He met her eyes. “Yes. He won’t agree to an interview.”

She straightened, swinging her legs off the side of the lounge so that her knees brushed briefly against his. “Mr. Hunter, there’s got to be some arrangement we can make.”

“You can call me Hunter. That’s what my associates call me.”

“Hunter, then. Mr. Slade doesn’t have to see me or even talk to me. I could give you some questions to ask him. You could tell me the answers.”

Hunter shook his head. “He hates the press. He’s not going to change his mind.”

Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “You knew that from the beginning. You conned me out of those pictures, knowing that I’d never get an interview. I could have published them. I should have turned them over to my boss. But I stalled her.”

He studied her as she spoke, watching temper darken her eyes and emanate from her in little sparks he could almost feel on his skin. Here was the passion that he’d only begun to explore in that dressing room. He wanted to taste it again. He wanted to push it, push her until she exploded in his arms.