Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | An Inconvenient Affair

An Inconvenient Affair
Catherine Mann
Hillary has always been a magnet for Mr Wrong.And her latest left her in trouble with the law. To clear her name, she’s agreed to go undercover as the ‘date’ for sexy billionaire playboy and secret agent Troy Donavan.His reputation is bad. But when his kisses are like molten sin, being sensible in the face of such desire is not an option.



This Christmas, we’ve got some fabulous treats to give away! ENTER NOW for a chance to win £5000 by clicking the link below.
www.millsandboon.co.uk/ebookxmas (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/ebookxmas)


“Can you just walk away from this?”
“It’s just physical reaction,” Hillary insisted.
Troy stepped in front of her. “Hillary, damn it … You confuse the hell out of me. I’m worried about you, and hell yes, I want to make love to you. But I also want time with you.”
“Honestly?”
“Spend a week with me. Get me out of your system so you can return to your regular life without regrets.”
“What makes you think you’re in my system?”
“Really? Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel the attraction, too? Remember, I was there when we kissed.”
“Okay, I’ll admit there’s … chemistry.”
“Explosive chemistry …”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the launch of my new series, THE ALPHA BROTHERHOOD. Some characters whisper to me as I write. Others boldly shout as I type. However, computer mogul/ Interpol agent Troy Donavan devilishly winked.
I adore edgy characters, and exploring the sketchy pasts of The Alpha Brotherhood offers a vast landscape for telling my next Mills & Boon
Desire™ books. These men have a Robin Hood sense of justice that leads them each to a no-holds-barred life … and love.
And so THE ALPHA BROTHERHOOD begins with An Inconvenient Affair. From Chicago to Costa Rica, I hope you enjoy Troy and Hillary’s passionate adventures!
Cheers,
Catherine Mann

About the Author
USA TODAY bestselling author CATHERINE MANN lives on a sunny Florida beach with her flyboy husband and their four children. With more than forty books in print in over twenty countries, she has also celebrated wins for both a RITA
Award and a Booksellers’ Best Award. Catherine enjoys chatting with readers online—thanks to the wonders of the internet, which allows her to network with her laptop by the water! Contact Catherine through her website, www.catherinemann.com, on Facebook as Catherine Mann (author), on Twitter as CatherineMann1, or reach her by snail mail at PO Box 6065, Navarre, FL 32566, USA.
An Inconvenient Affair
Catherine Mann






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my stellar editor, Stacy Boyd! Thank you for the
wonderful brainstorming session that gave birth to
THE ALPHA BROTHERHOOD.
It’s a joy working with you.

Prologue
North Carolina Military Prep
17 years ago
They’d shaved his head and sent him to a reform school.
Could life suck any worse? Probably. Since he was only fifteen, he had years under the system’s thumb to find out.
Hanging around in the doorway to the barracks, Troy Donavan scanned the room for his rack. The dozen bunk beds were half-full of guys with heads shaved as buzz-short as his—another victory for dear old dad, getting rid of his son’s long hair. God forbid anyone embarrass the almighty Dr. Donavan. Although, catching the illustrious doc’s son breaking into the Department of Defense’s computer system did take public embarrassment to a whole new level.
Now he’d been shuttled off to this “jail,” politely disguised as a military boarding preparatory program in the hills of North Carolina, as per his plea agreement with the judge back home in Virginia. A judge his father had bought off. Troy clenched his hand around his duffel as he resisted the urge to put his fist through a window just to get some air.
Damn it, he was proud of what he’d done. He didn’t want it swept under the rug, and he didn’t want to be hidden like some bad secret. If the decision had been left up to him, he would have gone to juvie, or prison even. But for his mom, he’d taken the deal. He would finish high school in this uptight place, but if he kept his grades up and his nose clean until he turned twenty-one, he could have his life back.
He just had to survive living here without his head exploding.
Bunk by bunk, he walked to the last row where he found Donavan, T. E. printed on a label attached to the foot of the bed. He slung his duffel bag of boring crap onto the empty bottom bed.
A foot in a spit-shined shoe swung off the top bunk, lazing. “So you’re the Robin Hood Hacker.” A sarcastic voice drifted down. “Welcome to hell.”
Great. “Thanks, and don’t call me that.”
He hated the whole Robin Hood Hacker headline that had blazed through the news when the story first broke. It made what he did sound like a kid’s fairy tale. Which was probably more of his dad’s influence, downplaying how his teenage son had exposed corrupt crap that the government had been covering up.
“Don’t call you that … or what?” asked the smart-ass on the top bunk with a tag that read: Hughes, C. T. “You’ll steal my identity and wreck my credit, computer boy?”
Troy rocked back on his heels to check the top bunk and make sure he didn’t have the spawn of Satan sleeping above him. If so, the devil wore glasses and read the Wall Street Journal.
“Apparently you don’t know who I am.” With a snap of the page, Hughes ducked back behind his paper. “Loser.”
Loser?
Screw that. Troy was a freakin’ genius, straight As, already aced the ACT and SAT. Not that his parents seemed to notice or give a damn. His older brother was the real loser—smoking weed, failing out of his second college, knocking up cheerleaders. But their old man considered those forgivable offenses. Problems one’s money could easily sweep under the rug.
Getting caught using illegal means to expose corrupt DOD contractors and a couple of congressmen was a little tougher to hide. Therefore, Troy had committed the unforgivable crime—making mommy and daddy look bad in front of their friends. Which had been his intent at the start, a lame attempt to get his parents’ attention. But once he’d realized what he’d stumbled into—the graft, the bribes, the corruption—the puzzle solver inside him hadn’t been able to stop until he’d uncovered it all.
No matter how you looked at it, he hadn’t been some Robin Hood do-gooder, damn it.
He yanked open his duffel bag full of uniforms and underwear, trying to keep his eyes off the small mirror on his locker. His shaved head might reflect the light and blind him. And since rumor had it half the guys here had also struck deals, he needed to watch his back and recon until he figured out what each of them had done to land here.
If only he had his computer. He wasn’t so good at face-to-face reads. The court-appointed shrink that evaluated him for trial said he had trouble connecting with people and lost himself in the cyberworld as a replacement. The Freud wannabe had been right.
And now he was stuck in a freaking barracks full of people. Definitely his idea of hell.
He hadn’t even been able to access a computer to research the criminal losers stuck here with him. Thanks to the judge, he was limited to supervised use of the internet for schoolwork only—in spite of the fact he could handle the academics with his eyes closed.
Boring.
He dropped down to sit beside his bag. There had to be a way out of this place. The swinging foot slowed and a hand slid down.
Mr. Wall Street Journal held a portable video game.
It wasn’t a computer, but thank God it was electronic. Something to calm the part of him that was totally freaking over being unplugged. Troy didn’t even have to think twice. He palmed the game and kicked back in his bunk. Mr. Wall Street Hughes stayed quiet, no gloating. The guy might actually be legit. No agenda.
For now, Troy had found a way through the monotony. Not just because of the video game. But because there was someone else not all wrapped up tight in the rules.
Maybe his fellow juvie refugees might turn out to be not so bad after all. And if he was wrong—his thumbs flew across the keyboard, blasting through to the next level—at least he had a distraction from his first day in hell.

One
Present Day
Hillary Wright seriously needed a distraction during her flight from D.C. to Chicago. But not if it meant sitting behind a newlywed couple intent on joining the Mile High Club.
Her cheeks puffed with a big blast of recycled air as she dropped into her window seat and made fast work of hooking up the headset. She would have preferred to watch a movie or even sitcom reruns, but that would mean keeping her eyes open with the risk of seeing the duo in front of her making out under a blanket. She just wanted to get to Chicago, where she could finally put the worst mistake of her life behind her.
Hillary switched from the best of Kenny G before it put her to sleep, clicking through the stations until she settled on a Broadway channel piping in “The Sound of Music.” Passengers pushed down the aisle, a family with a baby and a toddler, then a handful of businessmen and women, all moving past her to the cheap seats where she usually sat. But not today. Today, her first-class seat had been purchased for her by the CIA. And how crazy was that? Until this month, her knowledge of the CIA only came from television shows. Now she had to help them in order to clear her name and stay out of jail.
A moan drifted from the brand-new Mrs. Somebody in front of her.
Oh God, Hillary sagged back into her seat, covering her eyes with her arm. She was so nervous she couldn’t even enjoy her first visit to Chicago. She’d dreamed about getting out of her small Vermont hometown. Her job as an event planner in D.C. had seemed like a godsend at first. She met the exciting people she would have only read about in the news otherwise—politicians, movie stars, even royalty.
She’d been starstruck by her wealthy boyfriend’s lifestyle. Stupidly so. Until she allowed herself to be blinded to Barry’s real intentions in managing philanthropic donations, his lack of a moral compass.
Now she had to dig herself out from under the mess she’d made of her life by trusting the wrong guy, by believing his do-gooder act of tricking rich associates into donating large sums of money to bogus charities, then funneling the money overseas into a Swiss bank account. She’d proven herself to be every bit the gullible, smalltown girl she’d wanted to leave behind.
As of today, her blinders were off.
A flash of skin and pink bra showed between the seats.
She squeezed her eyes shut and lost herself in the do-re-mi refrain even as people bumped past. Focus. Will away the nerves. Get through the weekend.
She would identify her scumbag ex-boyfriend’s crooked banking acquaintance at the Chicago shindig. Give her official statement to Interpol so they could stop the international money-laundering scheme. Then she could have her life back and save her job.
Once she was back in her boss’s good graces, she would again be throwing the kinds of parties she’d wanted to oversee when she’d first become an event planner. Her career would skyrocket with her parties featured in the social section of all major newspapers. Her loser ex would read about her in tabloid magazines in prison and realize how she’d moved on, baby. Maybe she would even appear in some of those photos looking so damn hot Barry would suffer in his celibate cell.
The jackass.
She pinched the bridge of her nose against the welling of tears.
A tap on her shoulder forced her out of her silly self-pity. She tugged off an earbud and looked over at a … suit. A dark blue suit, with a Hugo Boss tie and a vintage tie clip.
“Excuse me, ma’am. You’re in my seat.”
A low voice, nice, and not cranky-sounding like some travelers could be. His face was shadowed, the sunlight streaking through the small window behind him. She could just make out his dark brown hair, which was long enough to brush his ears and the top of his collar. From the Patek Philippe watch to his edgy Caraceni suit—all name brands she wouldn’t have heard of, much less recognized, before her work with high-end D.C. clients.
And she was in his seat.
Wincing, she pretended to look at her ticket even though she already knew what it read. God, she hated the aisle and she’d prayed she would luck out and have an empty next to her. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“You know what?” He rested a hand on the back of the empty seat. “If you prefer the window, that’s cool by me. I’ll sit here instead.”
“I don’t want to take advantage.” Take advantage? The cheesy double entendre made her wince. A moan from the lovebirds a row ahead only made it worse.
“No worries.” He stowed his briefcase in the overhead before sidling in to sit down.
Then he turned to her, the light above bringing him fully into focus— And holy cows on her hometown Vermont farm, he was hot. Angular. But with long lashes that kept drawing her gaze back to his green eyes. He was probably in his early thirties, gauging from the creases when he smiled with the open kind of grin that made him more approachable.
She tilted her head to the side, studying him more closely. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him…. She shook off the feeling. She’d met so many people at the parties she’d planned in D.C. They could have crossed paths at any number of places. Although, she must have seen him from a distance, because if they’d met up close, she definitely wouldn’t have forgotten him.
His seat belt clicked as the plane began taxiing. “You don’t like flying.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You want the window seat, but have the shade closed. You’ve already plugged into the radio. And you’ve got the armrest in a death grip.”
Handsome and observant. Hmm …
Better to claim fear of flying than to go into the whole embarrassing mess she’d made of her life. “Busted. You caught me.” She nodded toward the row in front of her just as one of the seats reclined providing too clear a view of a man’s hand sliding into the woman’s waistband. “And the lovebirds up there aren’t making things any more comfortable.”
His smile faded into a scowl. “I’ll call for the flight attendant.”
He reached for the button overhead. She touched his wrist. Static snapped. At least she hoped it was just static and not a spark of attraction.
Clearing her throat, she folded her arms over her chest, tucking her hands away. “No need. The flight attendant’s in the middle of her in-flight brief—” she lowered her voice “—and giving us the death glare for talking.”
He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Or I can kick the back of their seat until they realize they’re not invisible—and that they’re being damned inconsiderate.”
Except now that he was so close, she didn’t notice them. Her gaze locked on the glinting green eyes staring at her with undisguised, unrepentant interest.
A salve to her ego. And an excellent distraction. “I guess we can live and let live.”
“We can.”
“Although, honestly, it doesn’t seem fair the flight attendant isn’t giving the evil eye to the handsy twosome.”
“Maybe they’re celebrating their anniversary.”
She snorted.
“Cynic?”
“And you’re trying to tell me you’re a true believer in flowery romance?” She took in his expensive suit, his dimpled smile and his easy charm. “No offense, truly, but you seem more like a player to me.”
A second after the words left her mouth, she worried she might have been rude.
He just laughed softly and flattened a hand to his chest.
“You think the worst of me. I’m hurt to the core,” he said with overplayed drama.
Her snort turned into a laugh. Shaking her head, she kept on laughing, tension uncurling inside. Her laughter faded as she felt the weight of his gaze on her.
He pointed to the window. “We’re airborne now. You can open the shade and relax.”
Relax? His words confused her for a second and then she remembered her excuse for nerves. And then remembered the real reason for her nerves. Her ex-boyfriend. Barry the Bastard Bum. Who she was hoping to help put in prison once she identified his accomplice in Chicago—if she didn’t get offed by the bad guy first.
She thumbed her silver seat belt buckle. “Thank you for the help …”
“Troy.” He extended his hand. “My name is Troy, from Virginia.”
“I’m Hillary, from D.C.” Prepping herself for the static this time, she wrapped her fingers around his, shaking once. And, yep. Snap. Snap. Heat tingled up her arm in spite of all those good intentions to keep all guys at bay. But then what was wrong with simply being attracted to another person?
Her ex had taken so much from her, and yes, turned a farm-fresh girl like her into a cynic, making her doubt everyone around her. Until she now questioned the motives of a guy who just wanted to indulge in a little harmless flirtation on a plane.
Damn it, there was nothing bad about chatting with this guy during the flight. He had helped her through her nerves about identifying Barry’s accomplice at the fundraiser this weekend. A very slippery accomplice who had a way of avoiding cameras. Very few people had ever seen him. She’d only seen him twice, once by showing up at Barry’s condo unannounced and another time at Barry’s office. Would the man remember her? Her nerves doubled.
She desperately needed to take full advantage of the distraction this man beside her offered. Talking to Troy beat the hell out of getting sloshed off the drink cart, especially since she didn’t even drink.
“So, Troy, what’s taking you to Chicago?”
Troy had recognized Hillary Wright the minute he’d stepped on the plane. She looked just like her Interpol file photo, right down to the freckles on her nose and the natural sun streaks through her red hair.
The photo hadn’t, however, shown anything below the neck—a regrettable oversight because she was … hot. Leggy with curves and an unadorned innocence that normally wasn’t his type. But then when had he ever given a crap about walking the expected path?
That’s why he’d shown up here, on her flight, rather than following the plan laid out by the CIA operatives, who were working in conjunction with the American branch of Interpol. To see what she was like in an unguarded moment.
Lucky for him that window seat was empty so he’d been able to wrangle his way in beside her. It had been too easy, and she was totally unsuspecting. She might as well have “fresh off the farm” tattooed across her freckled nose.
A sexy uptipped nose he wouldn’t mind kissing as he worked his way around to her ear. He’d expected pretty from her picture, but he hadn’t been prepared for the un-definable energy that radiated off her. It was as damn near tangible as her innocence.
This plane on the way to Chicago was the last place she should be. More so, that viper’s nest gala this weekend was absolutely the last place she should be.
Damn, damn, damn the “powers that be” for making her a part of some crazy power play. He could have accomplished the identification in Chicago without her, but they’d insisted on having her backup confirmation. It was obvious to him now that she was too naive to brush elbows with the sharks at that gala—a bunch of crooks using a fundraiser to cover up their international money laundering.
“Troy? Hello?” Hillary waved her hand in front of his face, her nails chewed to the quick. “What takes you to Chicago?”
“Business trip.” Truth. “I’m in computers.” More truth. Enough for now. She would see him again soon enough after they landed and when she learned who he really was … Well, she would likely change, close up or suck up. People judged him based on either his past or his money. “What takes you to Chicago?” he asked, even though he already knew.
“A fundraiser gala. I’m an event planner and, uhm, my boss is sending me to check out a chef at this weekend retreat.”
She was a really crummy liar. Even if he didn’t already know her real reason for going to Chicago, he would have sensed something was off in her story.
“A chef … In Chicago … And you work in D.C. You work for lobbyists?”
“I specialize in fundraisers for charities, not campaigns. I didn’t plan the one in Chicago. I’m just, uh, scoping out competition. It’s a pretty big deal, kicking off Friday night, running all the way to Sunday afternoon with parties and—” She paused self-consciously. “I’m babbling. You don’t need the agenda.”
“You specialize in polishing the halos of the rich and famous.” He smiled on the outside.
Her lips pursed tightly. “Think what you want. I don’t need your approval.”
A sentiment he applauded. So why was he yanking her chain? Because she looked so damn pretty with righteous indignation sparking from her eyes.
That kind of “in your face” mentality was rare. But it also could land a person in trouble.
He knew too well. It had taken all his self-control to buckle down and meet the judge’s requirements when he’d been sentenced at fifteen. Although, he’d found more than he expected at the military school. He’d found friends and a new code to live by. He’d learned how to play by the rules. He’d slowly gotten back computer access and started a video games company that had him rolling in more money than his pedigreed, doctor old man had ever brought home—three times over.
But the access had come with a price. His every move had been monitored by the FBI. They seemed to sense that the taste of megapower he’d felt delving into the DOD would be addictive. Irresistibly so. At twenty-one, he’d been approached with an enticing offer. If he ever wanted a chance at that high again, he would need to loan his “skills” to the American branch of Interpol on occasion.
He’d chafed at the idea at twenty-one. By thirty-two, he’d come to begrudgingly accept that he had to play by a few of their rules, and he’d even found a rush in being a sort of “on call” guy to assist in major international sting operations. He was committed to the job, as he’d proven every time they’d tapped him for a new assignment.
Over time, they also began utilizing him for more than computer help. His wealth gave him access to high-power circles. When Interpol needed a contact on the inside quickly, they used him—and other freelance agents like him. For the most part, he still provided behind-the-scenes computer advice. He was only called upon for something out in the open like this about once a year, so as not to overuse his cover.
Some of that caution would have been nice now, rather than recklessly including Hillary Wright in this joint operation being run by the CIA and Interpol. She wouldn’t be able to carry off the charade this weekend. She couldn’t blend in.
He’d known it the second he read her profile, even if they’d missed it. God only knew why they called him a genius and then refused to listen to him. So he’d arranged to meet her on this flight to confirm his suspicions. He was never wrong. He would stick by her side all weekend and make sure she didn’t blow the whole operation.
Granted, that wouldn’t be a hardship, sticking near her for the weekend.
For the first time in years he wasn’t bored. Something about this woman intrigued him, and there weren’t many puzzles in life for him. So he would stay right here for the rest of the flight and play this through. When she found out his full name—his public, infamous identity—she would pull away. She would likely never know his real reason for being part of this sting, and someone like Hillary Wright wouldn’t go for a guy with the reputation of Troy Donavan, especially so soon after getting her fingers burned in the relationship department.
Not that he would let that affect his decision to stick by her. She needed him to get through this weekend, whether she knew it or not.
A flight attendant ducked to ask, “Could I get either of you a complimentary beverage? Wine? A mixed drink?”
Hillary’s smile froze, the lightheartedness fading from her face with the one simple request. The mention of alcohol stirred painful memories. “No, thank you.
Troy shook his head. “I’m good. Thanks.” He turned back to Hillary. “Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine or something? A lot of folks drink to get over the fear.”
She inched away from the wall and sat upright self-consciously. “I don’t drink.”
“Ever?”
She refused to risk ending up like her mother, in and out of alcohol rehabs every other year while her father continued to hold out hope that this time, the program would stick. It never did.
There was nothing for her at home. D.C. was her chance at a real life. She couldn’t let anything risk ruining this opportunity. Not a drink. Not some charming guy, either.
“Never,” she answered. “I never drink.”
“There’s a story there.” He toyed with his platinum cuff links.
“There is.” And honest to God, the bay rum scent of him was intoxicating enough.
“But you’re not sharing.”
“Not with a total stranger.” She was an expert at keeping family secrets, of sweeping up the mess so they would look normal to the outside world. Planning high-profile galas for the D.C. elite was a piece of cake after keeping up appearances as a teenager.
She might look like a naive farm girl, but life had already done its fair share to leave her jaded. Which might be why she found herself questioning the ease of her past hour with Troy.
Nothing about him was what she’d expected once he’d first flashed that bad-boy grin in her direction. They’d spent the entire flight just … talking. They’d discussed favorite artists and foods. Found they both liked jazz music and hokey horror movies. He was surprisingly well-read, could quote Shakespeare and had a sharp sense of humor. There was interest in his eyes, but his words stayed light all the way to the start of the plane’s descent.
His eyes narrowed at her silence. “Is something wrong?”
“You’re not hitting on me,” she blurted out.
He blinked in surprise just once before that wicked slow smile spread across his face. “Do you want me to?”
“Actually, I’m having fun just like this.”
She sat back and waited for him to stop grinning when he realized she wasn’t coming on to him. Was she? She never went for this kind of guy, hair too long and a couple of tiny scars on his face like he was always getting into some kind of trouble. A line through one eyebrow. Another on his chin. And yet another on his forehead that played peekaboo when his hair shifted.
But then Barry had been Mr. Buttoned-Up, clean-cut and respectful. Except it had all been a cover for a deceitful nature.
Troy stared deeper into her eyes. “You don’t get to have fun often, do you?”
Who had time for fun? She’d worked hard these past three years building a new life for herself, far away from a gossipy small town that knew her as the daughter of a drunk mother. Barry had tarnished her reputation with his shady dealings—stealing scholarship money for God’s sake. And unless she proved otherwise, people would always think she was involved, as well. They wouldn’t trust her.
Her boss wouldn’t trust her.
She picked at the hem of her skirt. “Why would you say I’m a wet blanket?”
“Not a wet blanket. Just a workaholic. The portfolio under your seat is stuffed with official-looking papers, rather than a book or magazine. The chewed-down nails on your otherwise beautiful hands—sure shout stress.”
She’d tried balancing her career and a relationship. That hadn’t gone very well for her. Thank you very much, Barry, for being a white-collar crook—and not even all that good of an embezzler, given how easily he’d been caught. She’d been so busy with her job that she’d completely missed the signs that he’d been using her to get close to her clients—and sucker them in.
“Troy, I’m simply devoted to my career.” Which would be wrecked if she didn’t make sure everyone knew she was a hundred percent against what Barry had done. Her boss would fire her and no one else would hire her since the clients would never trust her. “Aren’t you?”
What exactly did he do in computers? She was just beginning to realize that they’d talked all about her and not so much about him and the flight was already almost over.
“Work rocks—as do vacations. So if you were taking this plane trip for pleasure, no work worries and you could pick up any connecting flight when we touch down—where would you go?”
“Overseas.” She answered fast before realizing that again, he’d turned the conversation away from himself.
“That’s a broad choice,” he said as the ground grew larger and larger, downtown Chicago coming into focus.
“I would close my eyes and pick, some place far away.” Far, far away from the Windy City gala.
“Ah, the old escape idea. I get that, totally. When I was in boarding school, I made plans for places to live and visit, places without fences.”
Boarding school? Interesting and so far removed from her childhood riding the ancient bus with cracked leather seats each morning with all the friends from her neighborhood.
She settled deeper into her seat. “Isn’t that the whole point of a vacation? To do something that is totally the opposite of your daily routine. Like open spaces being different from the walls of your old boarding school.”
“You have a point.” His smile went tight for a flash before his face cleared. “Where are you from originally—so I can get a sense of your daily routine when I’m choosing our great escape?”
Our? “Theoretically of course.”
“Theoretically? Nu-uh. You’re wrecking the fantasy.”
“Right, sorry about that.” His magnetism had a way of drawing her into this fantasy. No harm in that. “I’m from Vermont, a tiny town nobody’s heard of. Coming to D.C. was a big enough change for me—and now I’m going to Chicago.”
“But you don’t look happy about it.”
She forced herself not to flinch. He was too perceptive. Time to put some distance between them, let him show himself to be a jerk so she could move on. “I’m scared of flying, remember? And this is where you’re supposed to ask me for my phone number.”
“Would you give it to me if I did?”
“No,” she said, almost believing what she was saying. “I’m not in a good place to date anyone right now. So you can stop trying to charm me.”
“Can’t a guy be nice without wanting something other than engaging conversation?”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Did you really just say that?”
He slumped back in his seat, respect glinting in his eyes. “Okay, you’re right. I would like to ask for your phone number—because I am single, in case you were wondering—but since you’ve made it clear you’re not open to my advances, I’ll satisfy my broken heart and soothe my wounded ego with the pleasure of your company for a little while longer.”
God, he was good. Funny and charming, so confident he didn’t think twice about making a joke at his own expense. “Do you practice lines like that or are you just really good at improvisation?”
“You’re a smart woman. I’m confident you’ll figure it out.”
She liked him. Damn it. “You’re funny.”
“And you are enchanting. It was my pleasure to sit next to you on the flight.”
They’d landed? She looked around as if waking up from a nap to find more time had passed than she realized. Passengers were sliding from their seats. The aircraft had stopped.
Troy stood, hauling her simple black roll bag from the overhead. “Yours?”
“How did you know?”
He tapped the little dairy cow name tag attached to the handle. “Vermont. Highest cows to people ratio in the country.”
“Right you are.” She stood, stopping beside him. Close beside him. All the other passengers crowded the aisle until her breasts brushed his chest.
His rock-hard chest. That suit covered one hundred percent honed man, whipcord lean. The bay rum scent of him wrapping around her completely now, rather than just teasing—tempting—her senses.
But still, he didn’t touch her or hit on her or act in the least bit skeezy. “Have a great visit in the Windy City.”
She chewed her bottom lip, resisting the overwhelming urge to tug his silk tie.
The flight attendant spoke over the loudspeaker. “If you could please return to your seats. We have a slight delay before we can disembark at the gate.”
Hillary pulled away quickly, ducking into her seat so fast she almost hit her head. Troy reclaimed his seat slowly while the flight attendant opened the hatch. The yawning opening revealed the long metal stairs that had been rolled up outside. Confused, Hillary yanked up her window shade. They’d stopped just shy of the terminal. A large black SUV with some kind of official insignia on the door waited a few feet away. Two men wearing black suits and sunglasses jogged up the stairs and entered the plane.
The first one nodded to the flight attendant. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be quick with our business.”
The identical duo angled sideways.
Her stomach tumbled over itself. Was there a problem? In spite of what she’d told Troy, she hadn’t been freaked out about flying, but now she felt that lie come back to bite her as fears fluttered inside her. How long before she knew what was wr—
Not long at all, apparently.
The dark-suited men stopped beside her row. “Troy Donavan?”
Troy Donavan?
Her stomach lurched faster than a major turbulence plunge. Oh God, she recognized that name. She waited for him to deny it … even though she already knew he wouldn’t.
“Yes, that’s me. Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Troy Donavan.
He’d confirmed it. He was far from a nice guy, far from some computer geek just passing time on a commuter flight. His reputation for partying hard and living on the edge made it into the social pages on a regular basis.
“Mr. Donavan, would you step out of your seat, please?”
Troy shot an apologetic look her way before he angled out to stand in front of the two men. “We could have met up at the gate like regular folks.”
The older man, the guy who seemed in charge, shook his head. “It’s better this way. We don’t want to keep Colonel Salvatore waiting.”
“Of course. Can’t inconvenience the colonel.” Muscles bunched in Troy’s arms, his hands fisting at his sides.
What the hell was going on?
The “men in black” retrieved Troy’s Italian leather briefcase and placed a streamlined linen fedora on his head, the same look that had been featured in countless articles. If she’d seen him in his signature hat, she would have recognized him in a heartbeat.
He was infamous in D.C. for having hacked the Department of Defense’s computer system seventeen years ago. She’d been all of ten at the time but he’d become an icon. From then on, any computer hacking was called “pulling a Donavan.” He’d made it into pop culture lexicons. He’d become a folk legend for the way he’d leaked information that exposed graft and weaknesses within the system. Some argued he’d merely stepped in where authorities and politicians should have. But there was no denying he’d broken major laws. If he’d been an adult, he would have spent his life in jail.
After a slap-on-the-wrist sentence in some military school, he’d been free to make billions and live out his life in a totally decadent swirl of travel and conspicuous consumption. And she’d fallen for his lying charm. She’d even liked him. She hadn’t learned a damn thing from Barry.
She bit her lip against the disappointment in herself. She was here to put the past behind her—not complicate her future. She pressed her back against the body of the plane, unable to get far enough away from the man who’d charmed the good sense right out of her.
Troy reached for his briefcase, but the younger man took a step back.
The older of the two men held out … handcuffs.
Cocking an eyebrow, Troy said, “Are these really needed?”
“I’m afraid they are.” Click. Click. “Troy Donavan, you’re under arrest.”

Two
“Were the handcuffs necessary?” Holding up his shackled hands, Troy sprawled in the backseat of the armored SUV as they powered away from the airport. The duo that had arrested him sat in the front. His mentor and former military school headmaster—Colonel John Salvatore—sat beside him with a smirk on his face.
As always, he wore a gray suit and red tie, no variation, same thing every day as if wearing a uniform even though he’d long ago left the army.
“Yes, Troy, actually they are required, as per the demands of the grand dame throwing this gala. She’s determined to have a bachelor auction like one she read about in a romance novel and she thought, given your checkered past, the handcuffs would generate buzz. And honest to God, the photos in the paper will only help your image, and therefore our purposes, as well.”
It was always about their purposes. Their agreement.
He’d struck a deal with Colonel Salvatore at twenty-one years old, once his official sentence was complete. Salvatore had been the headmaster of that military reform school—and more. Apparently he helped recruit freelancers for Interpol who could assist with difficult assignments—such as using Troy’s computer skills and later utilizing his access to high-power circles. Other graduates of the military school had been recruited, as well, people who could use their overprivileged existence to quickly move in high-profile circles. For these freelancers, no setup was needed for a cover story, a huge time and money saver for the government.
A person might be called on once. Or once a year. Maybe more. Salvatore offered things no one else in Troy’s life had ever given him. A real chance to atone.
He may not have felt guilty at fifteen, but over time he’d come to realize the repercussions of what he’d done were far-reaching. His big DOD computer exposé as a teen had inadvertently exposed two undercover operatives. And even though they hadn’t died, their careers had been cut short, their usefulness in the field ruined.
He should have taken his information to the authorities rather than giving it to the press. He’d been full of ego and the need to piss off his father. He knew better now, and had the opportunity to make up for what he’d cost the government and those two agents.
And yeah, he still enjoyed the rush of flying close to the flame while doing it.
Troy worked his hands inside the cuffs. “You could have waited. There was no need to freak out Hillary Wright. I would think you’d want her calm.”
Her horrified, disillusioned blue eyes were burned in his memory as deeply as the sound of her laugh and the genuine warmth of her smile.
Sighing, Salvatore swiped a hand over his closely shorn head. “If you’d been on the private jet like you were supposed to be none of this would have happened. Stop caring what Hillary Wright thinks of you. She’ll be out of your life by Monday. Your time will be your own soon enough and, with luck, I won’t need to call on you again for a long while.”
The years stretched ahead in monotony. His company all but ran itself now. The past eleven months since he’d been called upon had been boring as hell.
His mind zipped back to Hillary and how he would see her for the rest of the weekend—how she would see him. “A bachelor auction, huh? That grand dame can’t expect me to strut down some catwalk.”
“When did you start worrying about appearances?”
“When did you start using innocents like Hillary?” he snapped back, unsettled by the protective surge pumping through him. At least he would have a chance to explain to her some of what had happened on the plane. He could claim the event swore him to secrecy about the handcuffing gig, even if he wasn’t authorized to tell her about his role with Interpol. “I thought your gig was to, uh, collaborate with the fallen.”
“My ‘gig’ is to mentor people with potential. Always has been.”
“Mentor. Jailer.”
Salvatore smirked. “Someone’s grouchy.”
Troy rattled his cuffs as they drove deeper into the skyscraper-filled city. “Could you just take the cuffs off?”
He hated being confined and Salvatore knew that, damn it. Although looking at the cuffs now, other uses scrolled through his head, sexy fantasies of using them with Hillary. Maybe he would lock his wrist to hers, and take it from there.
“The mistress of ceremonies has the key.”
“You’re joking.” He had to be. “That’s hours away.”
“When have I ever had a sense of humor?”
“Valid point.” Troy’s hands fell in his lap. He might as well settle in for the scenic ride through downtown Chicago. He would be free, eventually, and then he would check on Hillary. For now, he was stuck with Salvatore.
The colonel was one eccentric dude.
Sure, Salvatore was the Interpol handler for the group of freelancers whose lifestyles gave them a speedy entrée into a high-profile circle when fast action was needed. But it must blow to be an overgrown babysitter for Troy at some shindig hosted by a local grand dame at a downtown hotel. Tonight’s gala kicked off a whole weekend of partying for the rich and famous, under the pretense of charity work.
And apparently Salvatore wasn’t just here for Troy, but helping the CIA by being here for Hillary, too.
“Colonel, I am curious, though, why do we need Hillary for this? How much does she know?”
The more Troy learned about her, the more of an edge he would have over her the next time he saw her.
“She’s here to identify contacts of her former boyfriend. And because we and the CIA need to be sure she’s truly as innocent as she seems.”
Was his protectiveness misplaced? Could he have so misread her? Either way, it didn’t dim how damn badly he wanted to peel her power suit off with his teeth. “This is really just to test her?”
The colonel waved aside Troy’s indignation. “Speaking of Hillary Wright. Your little stunt—switching from the private jet to her flight? Not cool. I had to cancel lunch with an ambassador to get here in time.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
Sighing, Salvatore shook his head. “How the hell did you even get on that plane?”
“Really?” Troy cocked an eyebrow. “Do you even have to ask me, the guy who broke through the school’s supposedly impenetrable computer firewalls in order to hack your bank account and send flowers to the Latin teacher on your behalf?”
A laugh rumbled in the old guy’s chest. “As I recall, that trick didn’t go so well for you since she and I were quietly seeing each other and I’d already sent her flowers. She figured out fast who pulled that off.”
“But the flowers I chose were better—Casablanca lilies, if I recall.”
“And I learned from that. Same way you should accept you can learn from others once in a while.” Salvatore and the teacher had eventually married—and divorced. The man’s laughter faded into a scowl. “The internet is not your personal plaything.”
Troy held up his cuffed wrists. “These give me hives and flashbacks.”
Salvatore’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Because I’ll get the job done. I always do. I’ll find our mystery guy either in person or through the hotel’s security system. I will make sure this time that he doesn’t get away with hiding from the cameras. We will track his accounts and nail the bastard.” He’d only caught a glimpse of the guy once, a month ago shortly before they’d taken down Barry Curtis. If only they’d caught both men then … “But now, as far as I’m concerned, my job also includes making sure Hillary Wright stays safe in that pool of piranhas posing as scions of society.”
“As long as you don’t make a spectacle of yourself or her, I can live with that. Keep it low-key for once.”
“Okay, deal,” he agreed, perhaps a bit too quickly because Salvatore’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Time for a diversion. “One last thing, though.”
“You’re pushy today.”
“Look in my briefcase. I brought John Junior—” Salvatore’s only kid “—a copy of Alpha Realms IV. He’ll have a month’s head start mastering it before it hits the market.”
“Bribery’s a crime.” But Salvatore still reached for the Italian leather case. “What’s the favor?”
“It’s just a gift for your son from my software company. No strings attached.”
“What’s the favor?” he repeated.
“I don’t agree with your pulling Hillary Wright into this. She’s too naive and uninformed. After the party tonight, I want her sent home to D.C. Scrap keeping her around for the weekend.”
Troy would figure out a way to contact her in D.C., without all the hidden agenda crap. But make no mistake, he would see her again.
“She’s not so innocent if she was involved with Barry Curtis.” The colonel slid the video game into his black briefcase. “She’ll prove herself this weekend—or not.”
“Guilty of bad judgment, that’s all.” Troy was sure of that. What he didn’t know—something that bothered him even more—was if Hillary still had feelings for the creep.
God, why did he feel such a connection to a woman he’d only just met? Maybe because she possessed an innocence he’d never had.
“Are you so sure about her?” The leather seats creaked as Salvatore shifted back into place.
Troy was certain he couldn’t let her go into a ballroom full of crooks alone. “I’m sticking with her tonight and putting her on a plane in the morning.”
Salvatore patted his briefcase. “You should really keep me happy if you want me to put in a good word with your brother’s parole officer.”
Troy looked up sharply. Pulling in his brother was dirty pool, even for Salvatore.
“I’m not an enabler.” His brother, Devon, had more than a drug problem. He’d blown through his trust fund and had been sent to jail for dealing to feed his cocaine addiction. Troy forced himself to say blandly, “Do whatever you want with him.”
“Tough love or sibling rivalry?”
Anger pulsed—at Salvatore for jabbing at old wounds. “You’d better tell the driver to move this along so I can get out of these handcuffs before I have to take a leak. Otherwise you’ll have to help.”
“Bathroom humor is beneath you, Donavan.”
“I wasn’t joking.” He pinned Salvatore with an impassive look as the SUV stopped in front of the towering hotel.
Salvatore reached for the door handle as the driver opened Troy’s side. “Time to rock and roll.”
Standing in the elevator in the Chicago hotel, Hillary smoothed her sweaty palms down the length of her simple black dress. Strapless and floor length, it was her favorite. She’d brought it, along with her good luck charm clipped to her clutch purse, to bolster her and steady her nerves. It wasn’t working. Her hands went nervously to her hair, which was straight with a simple crystal clasp sweeping back one side.
She’d been nervous enough about this weekend from the moment she’d been asked to come to Chicago, but at least she’d had a plan. She’d thought she had her head on straight—and then she’d fallen right into flirting with a notorious guy seconds away from handcuffs. The experience had thrown her. Right now, she wasn’t sure of much of anything.
There’d been a time, as a little girl, when she’d dreamed of staying in a five-star hotel like this one, in a big city, with all the glitz included. As a kid, after she’d finished her chores on the dairy farm, she’d hidden in her room, away from her drunken mother. For hours and hours, Hillary had played on the internet, escaping into another world. Researching other places and other ways to live. Clean places. Pretty, even.
With tables full of food.
She’d spent a lot of time thinking about the cuisine, learning recipes, planning meals and parties to fill her solitary world. Even if only in her imagination.
Once she’d turned eighteen, she scrounged together enough college loans to get a degree in hospitality and economics. Three years ago, she’d landed with a major D.C. corporation that contracted out events planners. Someday, she hoped to start her own company. Be in charge of her own business. She refused to live her life as the scared little country girl she’d once been, hiding in her room, too afraid to slip out and grab a mushy apple from behind mom’s beer.
The elevator doors slid open and she smiled her thanks to the attendant before stepping out into the wide hall, sconces lighting the way into the glittering ballroom. Nerves ate at her stomach like battery acid. She just had to get through this weekend. She’d make the proper identifications, which would help confirm her innocence. Or at least get her off the hook, even if they still didn’t believe she’d known nothing about what Barry had in mind for those supposed college scholarships.
Forging ahead, she passed her invitation to the tuxedoed man protecting the elite fundraising bash from party crashers. Media cameras flashed. Even with spots in front of her eyes, she already recognized at least two movie stars, an opera singer and three politicians. This party rivaled anything she’d seen or planned—and her standards were top-notch. The ballroom glittered with refracted lights from the crystal chandeliers. Columns and crown molding were gilded; plush carpets held red-and-brass swirls.
A harpist and a violinist played—for now—but from the looks of the instruments set up throughout the room, the music would obviously be staggered. The stage was set for a string quartet. A grand piano filled a corner, with a 1940s-era mic in place alongside.
The dance—at two thousand dollars a head—was slated to fund scholarships. But then that was the root of Barry’s scam—collecting money for scholarships, most of which were never awarded, then funneling the cash out of the country into a Swiss bank account.
Bile rose in her throat. She thumbed the charm clipped to her bag, rubbing the tiny silver cow pin like a talisman, a reminder of where she’d come from and all she intended to accomplish.
Men wore tuxedos or military uniforms, the women were in long dresses and dripping jewels that would have funded endless numbers of scholarships. Well, everyone wore formal attire except for the gentleman in a gray suit with a red tie. Her contact.
Colonel Salvatore.
She’d been introduced to him by her lawyer. Apparently, the colonel worked for international authorities. The CIA had promised he would ensure her safety and oversee her cooperation while she was in Chicago. Only one more weekend and she could put this all behind her.
The colonel stepped up beside her and offered his arm. “Miss Wright, you’re here early. I would have escorted you down if I’d known you were ready.”
“I couldn’t wait any longer to get this evening under way.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I hope you understand.”
“Of course.” He started into the ballroom, moving toward the seating section with a runway thrust into the middle.
She recalled there being some mention of an auction of items donated by the elite from around the globe.
More money laundering? Couldn’t anyone or anything be genuine anymore? Was everything tainted with greed and agendas?
Salvatore gestured her toward a seat reserved with his name and “guest”. They took their places five rows back, not conspicuously in the front. She was also in the perfect spot to see both of the screens panning shots of the guests while a matriarch of Chicago high society took the stage to emcee the auction. Of course Colonel Salvatore had planned everything.
Hillary forced herself to focus on studying each face on the screen, on searching for the two familiar individuals who Barry had claimed were his “silent partners”—not that Barry was talking to authorities now that he’d lawyered up.
But then when had she ever been able to count on a man? Her father certainly hadn’t done anything to stop her mother from drinking or to protect Hillary and her sister. He’d buried himself in working in the fields, and as long as she worked alongside him, she was safe.
The hard work of her childhood had taught her to work hard as an adult. Life was just hard. Plain and simple. She was still trying to keep herself safe so her efforts could finally pay off.
As bid after bid went by for posh vacations, jewelry and even private concerts, her thoughts raced back to Troy Donavan and that hour of lighthearted banter on the plane. For a short snap, life had felt fun and uncomplicated.
Yet, it had all been a lie. She couldn’t have bantered with a more complicated person. Troy was a perfect example of the cold, hard truth. Everyone wanted something from someone else. People didn’t do things exclusively out of the goodness of their hearts. There was always a payoff of some sort expected. The sooner she accepted that and quit believing otherwise, the happier she would be.
Madame Emcee moved closer to the microphone, her gold taffeta dress smooshed against the podium. “And now, before we move on to dancing the night away, we have one final auction left for the evening, one not on your programs.” She swept a bejeweled hand toward the large flat screens. “If you’ll turn your attention to our video feed, you’ll see media footage you may have caught earlier.”
Troy Donavan’s face filled the screen.
Oh. God.
Hillary clenched her hands around her handbag, the silver charm cutting into her palm. She glanced quickly at the colonel to see if he’d noticed her panic. But her escort simply sat with his arms folded, watching along with everyone else.
In full color, high-definition, the whole runway scenario played out again in front of her. Troy, walking off the plane in handcuffs, wearing that quirky, undeniably sexy hat. Troy, escorted into some official-looking SUV. Hillary had been so rushed getting checked in and ready for the kickoff gala, she hadn’t even turned on the television in her room.
Madame Emcee continued, “But what does that have to do with us tonight? Prepare yourself.”
The lights shut off. The ballroom went pitch-black. Gasps rippled. A woman squeaked.
After a squeal of microphone feedback, the emcee continued, “For our final bid of the night, we have for you …”
A spotlight illuminated a circle on stage.
Troy Donavan stood in the middle, wearing a tuxedo now instead of his suit, but still cuffed with his hands in front of him. A white silk scarf gave him the same quirky air he’d had on the plane. Her eyes took in the whole man. How could she not? He’d been hot in a suit—in a tuxedo, he stole the air from the room.
“Yes,” Madame continued, her fat diamond earrings sparkling disco ball refractions all around her face. “Troy Donavan has offered himself as a date for the weekend. But first, someone must ‘bid’ him out of our custody in an auction. He’s been a bad, bad boy, ladies. You’ll want to handle with caution and by no means, let this computer whiz get his hands on your software.”
Laughter echoed up into the rafters from everyone—except Hillary. She sat stunned; her hands gripped the sides of her seat so tightly her fingers went numb. The whole arrest had been a gag, a publicity stunt for this party. She’d spent the entire afternoon thinking of him in a jail cell—and yes, sad over that in spite of her anger.
Now she was just mad. He had to have known what she thought in those last minutes on the airplane and he’d said nothing to reassure her. He didn’t even bother to lean down and whisper “Sorry” in her ear.
She should be relieved he wasn’t in trouble, and she was. But she couldn’t forget. He was still the Robin Hood Hacker.
Still playing games.
The bidding began—and of course it soared. Half the women and a couple of men were falling all over themselves to win a weekend with him. The war continued, shouts growing louder and escalating to over seventy thousand dollars. The ruckus continued until just three bidders remained.
Winning at the moment was a woman wearing skintight silver and chunky sapphires, with a sheen of plastic surgery to her stretched skin.
Not far behind, a college-aged student who’d begged Daddy for more money twice already.
And coolly chiming in occasionally, a sedate woman in a simple black sheath.
College girl dropped out after her daddy shook his head at the auctioneer and drew his hand across his throat in the universal “cut off” signal. Still the bidding rose another ten thousand dollars, money that would go to underprivileged schoolkids who needed scholarships. This was all in fun, right?
Yet, the way these people tossed around money in games left her … unsettled. Why not just write a check, plus cancel the event and donate that amount, too? Of course if they did that, she would be out of a job.
Who was she to stand in judgment of others? Of Troy?
As much as she wanted to look away from his cocky smile, which had so charmed her earlier, she couldn’t. The way she stayed glued to the bidding upset her. A lot.
She found herself rooting for the one less likely to entice him. Not that she really knew anything about him. But a part of her sensed—or hoped—Ms. Plastic Surgery with her wedding ring wouldn’t be at all alluring to Troy. And if she was, then how much easier it would be to wipe him from her mind.
But the sedate woman in the black dress? She could have been Hillary’s cousin. And that gave her pause. If that woman won and if she was his type, then that meant he could have been genuine on the airplane when he flirted….
As fast as “going, going, gone” echoed through the room, Ms. Sedate had a date with Troy Donavan for the weekend, won by an eighty-nine-thousand-dollar bid. And gauging from his huge “cat ate the canary smile” he was happy with the results.
The depth of Hillary’s disappointment was ridiculous, damn it. She’d spoken to the guy for all of an hour on a flight. Yes, she’d been inordinately attracted to him—felt a zap of chemistry she hadn’t felt before—but she could chalk that up to her vulnerable state right now. She was raw, with her emotions tender and close to the surface. After this ordeal with Barry was over, she would get stronger.
The emcee moved closer to Troy in a loud crackle of gold taffeta, which carried through the microphone. She keyed open the cuffs and he tucked them into his tuxedo pocket. He kissed her hand before taking the mic from her.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in that same carefree voice that had so enticed Hillary earlier as he’d calmed her nerves on the plane, “I’m pleased to be a part of such a generous outpouring tonight—all in the Robin Hood spirit and not a single computer hacked.”
There was no denying it. The crowd loved him. They all but ate up his irreverence and charm. All except Colonel Salvatore. He seemed—skeptical.
“As you’re all aware, I’m not known for playing by the rules. And tonight’s no different.” He motioned to the reserved woman who’d won the bidding battle. “My assistant here has been placing bids for me so I’ll have the opportunity to pick the lady of my choice for the weekend.”
Gasps, whispers and a couple of disgruntled murmurs chased through the partiers.
“I know—” Troy shrugged “—not completely fair, but I can’t be accused of driving someone else to pay more since I took the burden of the highest bid upon myself.”
Madame Emcee leaned in to the mic. “And it is a quite generous donation, may I add.” She nodded to Troy. “But please, continue.”
“Since we’re all here in support of a worthy cause, I hope my request will be honored by the woman I choose. After all, it would be a double standard if this bachelor auction didn’t work both ways.”
His cocky logic took root and cheers bounced from person to person like beach balls at a raucous Jimmy Buffett concert. Troy started down the steps with a lazy long-legged lope, microphone in hand. The men and women around Hillary whooped and shouted louder while Troy continued to speak into the mic. He paused at the first row, then moved on to the second and the third, playing the crowd like a fiddle as each woman wondered if she would be chosen. The spotlight followed him farther still, showcasing every angle of a face too handsome to belong to someone who couldn’t be trusted to use that charm wisely.
Abruptly, he stopped.
Troy stood at the end of row five. Her row. He stood beside Colonel Salvatore. The older gentleman—her contact—scowled at Troy.
And why not? He was making it difficult for her to stay low profile this weekend, which was what she’d been instructed to do. But then he couldn’t possibly know how much trouble he could cause just by bringing the spotlight to this row.
Troy extended his hand and looked Hillary straight in the eyes. “I choose you.”

Three
Her stomach fell as quickly as her anger rose, which was mighty darn hard and fast. What game was he playing now? She had no clue.
She did know that every single pair of eyes in this room was glued to her. She looked farther—and crap—her horrified face was plastered right there in full color on the wide screens.
Undaunted, Troy dropped to one knee.
Damn his theatrical soul.
“Hillary—” his voice boomed through the speakers “—think of the children and their scholarships. Be my date for the weekend.”
She wanted to shove him on his arrogant ass.
Troy shifted his attention to the colonel. “I assume you won’t mind me stealing your date?”
The colonel cleared his throat and said, “She’s my niece. I trust you’ll treat her well.”
Niece? Whatever. Sheesh. This was nuts.
A steadying hand palmed her back. Salvatore. Her skin turned fiery with embarrassment. She turned to him for help.
Salvatore smiled one of those grins that didn’t come close to reaching his pale blue eyes. “You should dance, Hillary.”
Right. She should get her feet moving and then people would stop staring at her. Determined to feel nothing, she put her hand in Troy’s—and still her stomach did a flip. She was not sixteen, for crying out loud. Although his grip felt so warm—callused and tender at the same time. Her body freakin’ tingled to life. She’d always prided herself on being in control of her emotions. The second she’d found out what an immoral creep Barry was, she’d felt nothing but repulsion at his touch.
She knew Troy was a liar, a crook and a playboy. Still her body sang at the notion of stepping into his arms and gliding across the dance floor.
Plus, he’d just bid nearly ninety thousand dollars to spend the weekend with her. Gulp.
The pianist began playing. A singer in a red dress cupped the microphone and launched into a sultry rendition of a 1940s love song.
Troy tucked her to his side and led her to the center of the empty dance floor. The spotlight warmed her already-heating cheeks. His silk scarf teased her hand as he held it against his chest and swept her into the glide of the music. She should have known he would be a smooth dancer.
She blurted out, “Is there anything you don’t do well?”
“I take it that’s not a compliment.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m here to work this weekend, not play games.”
“Believe me, this is no game.” He pulled her close.
She inhaled sharply at the press of his muscled body against hers. He wasn’t some soft desk jockey. He was a toned, honed man. Her mouth dried and her pulse sped up.
“Just relax and dance.” His warm breath caressed her ear. “And I promise not to sing along. Because, in answer to your question, I’m tone-deaf.”
“Thanks for sharing. But it’s not helping. You can’t truly expect me to relax,” she hissed, even as her feet synced perfectly with his. His strong legs brushed ever so subtly against hers with each dance step. “You just told a roomful of people and a pack of reporters that you paid nearly ninety-thousand dollars to spend the weekend with me. Me. A woman you’ve known for less than a day. We’ve only spoken for an hour.”
He guided her around the floor as other couples joined in. The shifting mass of other bodies created a sense of privacy now that all eyes weren’t so fiercely focused on them.
“Well, Troy?” she pressed. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”
“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” He nuzzled her hair, inhaling deeply.
She stumbled, bumped into another couple, then righted her steps, if not her racing pulse. “No, I do not. I believe in lust at first sight, but not love. Don’t confuse the two.”
All the same, she couldn’t help but draw in another whiff of his bay rum scent now that she was as close to him as she’d ever been. Swaying, she resisted the urge to press her cheek to his and savor the bristle of late-day stubble. The kind of slightly unshaven look that wasn’t scruffy, but shouted testosterone to a woman’s basic instincts.
But the music slowed and she rested her cheek against his chest, just over the silken scarf for a moment.
“Hmm.” His chest rumbled with approval. “So you admit you’re attracted to me.”
Of course she was. That didn’t mean she intended to tell him. “Correction—I was stating that you are simply attracted to me.”
He laughed softly, spanning her waist with a bold, broad palm. “Your confidence is compelling.”
“Not confidence, exactly.” She leaned back to study his eyes. “Why else would you have gone to all this outrageous trouble to spend time with me? Although I guess you’re so wealthy that perhaps the obscene amount of money doesn’t mean anything to you.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/catherine-mann/an-inconvenient-affair/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.