The Dare Read online

  As she dug in her bag for her camera, she took a quick glance around the lobby. A third man had come through the revolving doors with Jared Slade. She’d been too intent on watching the other two at the desk to pay him much heed, but she did so now. He was a large man with dark hair, wearing black jeans, a leather jacket and dark glasses. Rory blinked and stared. He definitely had fantasy-man possibilities.

  At that moment, he lifted the dark glasses and shot a quick look in her direction. She felt her heart skip a beat and her mouth go dry. Then as those dark eyes locked on hers, she felt a little punch of something hot right in her gut and her mind simply emptied.

  It was only when he turned back to talk to the bell captain that Rory remembered to breathe. And it was only as she drew in a second breath that the oxygen reached her brain and she began to think again.

  Well. She’d never reacted that way before to any man. But then, this one was remarkably like the fantasy man she’d created in her head—tall, dark, and handsome in a rough-edged sort of way. She began to chew on her bubble gum again. Would he have a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled?

  Time for a reality check, she reminded herself. Mr. Danger was probably a bodyguard with valet duties, since he seemed to be sorting out the luggage with the bell captain. When he glanced over in the direction of the registration desk, Rory scrunched herself farther down behind the palm tree. The last thing she needed was a run-in with Jared Slade’s bodyguard before she snapped her picture.

  She should have worn something green, camouflage fatigues. For one long moment—even through the palm fronds—Rory felt the large man’s eyes on her again. It felt like a mild sort of electrical shock along her nerve endings. She averted her own gaze and willed herself invisible. Her red boots would be hidden, but not the red cap. Since she’d started to develop her signature style, her sisters had teased her about being a slave to fashion. Was she about to pay the price?

  HUNTER MARKS FROWNED as he watched the woman in the red hat and boots squat behind a tall potted palm. Who was she and what in hell was she doing?

  He scanned the lobby again, but she was the only person there who seemed out of place. Lately, he’d been more paranoid than ever when he checked into a hotel. Small wonder since someone was threatening his company. The procedure was that his two employees—Michael Banks and Alex Santos—checked in while he scoped the lobby for possible reporters. The system had worked well for several years. So far no one had been able to print a photo of Jared Slade. No one, aside from his most trusted employees, even knew what Jared Slade looked like. And no one knew that Jared Slade used to be Hunter Marks.

  But the person who was sending him threatening notes knew. And more and more, Hunter was becoming convinced that the threat to Slade Enterprises was coming from within. He’d come to D.C. to get to the bottom of it.

  Hunter returned his gaze to the woman behind the potted palm. His eyes had been drawn to her from the moment he’d walked into Les Printemps. One glance had him thinking of pixies and elves. And that was not the usual turn his mind took when he looked at a woman. He prided himself on being practical rather than fanciful when it came to the female of the species.

  This particular specimen had been seated on one of the settees, not sipping tea or a cocktail as the other occupants of the lobby were. Instead, she’d been scanning the crowd while she blew a huge bubble. When the bubble burst, he’d watched in amusement as she pulled it off her cheeks and nose and poked it back into her mouth.

  He’d taken the time to study her face then. The cherry-red lips had drawn his attention first, and he’d found himself wondering if they would carry the flavor of the bubble gum. The errant thought along with the tightening and hardening of his body surprised him.

  Strange, because women never surprised him. And the pixie with the bubble gum was a far right turn from the type he usually dated. For starters, she looked too young. Of course, the slight build could account for that, along with the hair. From what he could see of it—a few wisps that peeked out from beneath the red cap—she wore her dark hair shorter than most men. He shifted his gaze down the black jean jacket and jeans to the red boots and felt his body go even harder.

  Then she glanced his way and for one long moment his gaze held hers. He felt a punch of desire so strong that for a second he couldn’t breathe. Then his mind filled with images of her and what he’d like to do to her.

  “Here you go, sir.”

  With some effort, Hunter dragged his mind back to reality as the bell captain handed him three tickets. His reaction to this odd woman was unprecedented.

  “The briefcase and the laptop will be taken up to the Presidential Suite for Mr. Slade,” the man said. “I’ll handle it personally. And the suitcases will be up shortly.”

  “Appreciate it,” Hunter said as he slipped a folded bill across the narrow counter. Then he leaned closer to the bell captain. “Do you see that woman over there, the one behind the palm tree?”

  The bell captain took a moment to scan the lobby casually. Les Printemps was a small hotel that prided itself on calling each guest by name. Hunter had researched it himself. The management catered to a very select clientele, a mix of foreign diplomats and celebrities, who paid premium prices because they valued their privacy and expected the hotel to protect it at all costs.

  “That’s Miss Rory Gibbs, sir,” the bell captain said, a wide grin spreading across his face.

  “Is she staying here?” Hunter asked.

  “No.”

  Hunter frowned. “I thought only registered guests were allowed in the lobby.”

  “She’s meeting her fiancé here. She said her father brought her here for high tea once, and she wanted to relive the moment with her husband-to-be. Sweet little thing. She reminds me a bit of my daughter.”

  Hunter returned his gaze to Rory Gibbs just as she pulled a camera out of her purse.

  Shit, he said to himself as he strode toward her. Perhaps she was a reporter, after all. He prided himself on having a sixth sense where the press was concerned. But this one had fooled him.

  There were only three people in his organization who’d known he was checking in to Les Printemps. Ms. Rory Gibbs was his ticket to finding out just who the traitor was.

  RORY’S HEART WAS BEATING so fast that she was sure the two men at the reception desk could hear it. One at a time, she wiped her damp hands on her jeans. She couldn’t afford to drop the camera. Dammit. She could still feel Jared Slade’s bodyguard/valet watching her and he was having the oddest effect on her whole system.

  Focus, she told herself. No one had ever taken a photo of Jared Slade. She needed this picture. Once she had it, she could negotiate step two of her plan—an exclusive interview with Jared Slade.

  “We want you to enjoy your stay at Les Printemps, Mr. Slade,” the neatly groomed woman behind the desk said as she pushed a key across the counter.

  Rory noted that the dark-haired man picked it up. But it was the blond man who said, “Thank you.”

  They would turn around any minute and she would finally be looking at Jared Slade. Which one would he be?

  Turn. Rory concentrated on sending out the message telepathically. But the blonde was asking about the health club facilities. Jared Slade was reputed to be a health nut.

  So the blonde was Jared.

  “Where’s the best place to take a run?” the dark-haired man asked.

  Or maybe the runner was Jared. And still they didn’t turn around. So much for her telepathic powers.

  Raising the camera, she pressed the button on the zoom lens and found herself viewing a close-up of a palm leaf. She pushed it out of her way, only to discover that the two men were moving away from the desk. She could see their faces in profile now. The darker haired man was tough looking and built like a boxer. The blonde had the long, rangy body of a swimmer.

  If she’d had to bet money, she still would have placed it on the blonde. But this was too important to trust in her luck. She had to
be sure. Edging her way out from behind the palm tree, she aimed the camera and said, “Jared Slade?”

  The blond man turned first, and she had three quick shots of him before someone behind her said, “Stop right there.”

  Whirling, she saw the fantasy man—Mr. Danger—striding toward her. He looked every inch the bodyguard now. In fact, the combination of sunglasses, black leather jacket and black jeans had her thinking for one giddy moment of the Terminator. Rory froze.

  She wasn’t sure if it was the sheer size of the man that intimidated her for a moment, or perhaps that odd little punch to her system threw her off. The only thing she was certain of was that all of his attention was totally focused on her. She could feel his purpose, feel him in every pore of her body. He was the Terminator personified.

  When he was still a few yards away, he held out his hand. “I’ll take that camera.”

  She clutched it tight to her chest. She wanted to run. The old Rory would have chosen that option in a nanosecond. Did she dare to stay? Tucking her gum into the side of her cheek, she said, “I’ll trade. You can have the pictures, but I want an interview with Jared Slade.”

  He took one step closer. “Not a chance. Just give me the camera.”

  Time to rethink her options. He was a lot bigger up close than he was from a distance, and he’d probably be able to outrun her. But if she handed over the camera…

  Stay in the game. Even as the words slipped into her mind, she feinted to the right, then darted behind the palm tree. Once she’d cleared the branches, she raced for the lobby door.

  HUNTER SWORE under his breath. By the time he skirted the damn potted palm, the little pixie had pushed her way through the front door.

  “Stay here,” he called over his shoulder to the two men who’d been at the registration desk. Then he ran toward the hotel entrance and made it out to the street just in time to see her turn the corner. By the time he reached it, she was nowhere in sight. She couldn’t have reached the next corner, so she had to be in one of the shops.

  Deliberately, he slowed his pace, allowing the other pedestrians on the street to flow past him. The first shop he passed had designer chocolates in the window. A quick glance inside told him that his quarry wasn’t there, and there was no obvious place to hide. The second shop had lingerie displayed in the window, and he spotted her moving quickly toward the back of the store with an armful of lace and satin in tow.

  Hunter glanced up at the name over the shop door and smiled slowly. This was his lucky day. Silken Fantasies was the very shop he’d come to D.C. to buy. Its location in the same block as Les Printemps was one of the reasons why he’d decided to stay at the small hotel. A quick glance at the tall, strikingly attractive woman behind the counter confirmed that she was the owner. At fifty, Irene Malinowitz was looking to retire so that she could spend time with her grandchildren. And Slade Enterprises was looking to turn Silken Fantasies into a very profitable chain.

  Slowly Hunter backed out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. He had to hand it to Rory Gibbs. She had a good plan. All she had to do was hang out in one of the dressing rooms until whoever was chasing her gave up.

  Except he’d never given up in his life—even before he’d become Jared Slade. Added to that, she’d had the bad luck of running into a shop where he knew the owner. When Rory had disappeared into one of the dressing rooms at the back of the shop, he moved closer to the window and considered his options. He wanted to talk to Rory Gibbs. He also wanted that camera, he reminded himself. The best way to fool her into thinking she’d taken a picture of the real Jared Slade would be to destroy the film.

  Then he would ask her how she’d known that Jared Slade was going to be checking into Les Printemps. Very few people in his organization had known that. Denise Martin, the chief administrative assistant in his Dallas office, and the two men he was traveling with—Michael Banks, his executive assistant, and Alex Santos, his accountant. Up until now, he’d trusted all three of them. But now, he was sure that one of them was a traitor. Even worse, one of them knew his past and wanted revenge.

  The problems at Slade Enterprises had started three months ago. There’d been an episode of stomach poisoning in his hotel in Atlanta and a fire that had caused some damage in a factory in upstate New York. He’d flown in to deal with each crisis personally. And both times he’d received notes with the same message: No matter what you do, soon the world will know who you are and what you did ten years ago.

  Hunter was sure that the person sending the notes had to be connected in some way to the scandal that had nearly destroyed not only his family’s business, but the town he’d grown up in. A scandal that he’d been blamed for. A scandal that had the power to destroy Slade Enterprises.

  Ms. Rory Gibbs might very well know who the writer of those notes was.

  Hunter took out his cell phone. Little did she know it, but Ms. Rory Gibbs had just walked into a trap.

  RORY LEANED BACK against the closed door of the dressing room and drew in a deep breath. She’d taken a risk when she’d chosen this store. Luckily, it had a place where she could hide. For the moment.

  Her last glimpse of the Terminator had been when she’d turned the corner. There’d been no sign of him when she’d ducked into the shop. When he couldn’t see her on the street, he’d have to give up.

  If her luck held. Crossing her fingers, she drew in another breath. The air was scented with lavender, and classical music poured out of a speaker that hung directly above her dressing room. In a minute, her heart rate would subside, she’d be able to breathe without panting, and her nerves would settle. And then she could figure out what to do next.

  “I don’t think you have the right sizes.”

  Rory jumped at the sound of the feminine, well-modulated voice behind her. “What?”

  She peered through the slats in the door and made out the red suit of the woman who’d welcomed her to the shop when she’d dashed in.

  “The sizes,” the voice said. “In your rush, you grabbed large, and I think you’ll find that petite will fit you better. I’ve brought you the same designs. Why don’t we switch?”

  As she opened the door, Rory glanced down at the bits of lace and satin she was clutching to her chest. She hadn’t paid any attention to what she’d scooped up when she’d dashed in. The Terminator had been on her tail.

  “Who recommended this shop to you?” the woman asked as they exchanged garments.

  “No one,” Rory replied. “I just came in—on impulse.”

  “Ah.” The woman smiled at her. “I get some of my best customers that way.”

  Rory took a moment to look at the items for the first time. Lingerie—tiny bras and what looked to be thongs—in various shades of the rainbow.

  “Wow,” she said as she spread petite sizes out on a nearby bench. “These don’t cover much.”

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve never been able to quite figure out the point.” Rory leaned down to finger the lace on one of the thongs. “I mean, no one sees this stuff.”

  The woman’s brows rose. “A lover would see it.”

  Rory shot her a look. “Not for long. Mostly, they’re just interested in getting me naked.”

  The woman’s laugh was low and infectious. “You need to look for a new lover. The first step would be to wear something like this.” She moved into the room, and lifted a cherry-red thong and matching bra from the bench, then handed them to Rory. “You’d be amazed at the difference something like this will make in a relationship. Wearing these next to your skin, you’ll feel sexier, more attractive, and much more confident about the way you appeal to men.”

  “Yeah, well, finding a new lover is pretty low on my to-do list right now.”

  “That could change if you met the right man.”

  The Terminator flashed into Rory’s mind and she felt her body go soft and hot as if something inside of her were melting.

  “Try these on,” the woman
said. “What have you got to lose?”

  Rory fingered the silky lace. The truth was she had nothing to lose. And this seemed to be her day for taking risks.

  “Red is definitely your color.”

  Rory glanced up to find the woman smiling warmly at her. She smiled right back, and held out her hand. “I’m Rory Gibbs. And you’re a very good saleswoman.”

  The woman shook Rory’s hand. “Thanks. I’m Irene Malinowitz. Let me know if there’s anything else I can bring in.”

  As Rory closed the door of the dressing room, she gave the red scraps a speculative look. She’d never worn red underwear in her life. Black, yes, when she was in the mood to feel a little “sexy” or when all of her white underwear were in the dirty-laundry hamper.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like to spend money on clothes. She did. Her maxed-out credit cards were a testimony to her weakness for fashion. But she preferred to part with her hard-earned plastic for what went on the outside—like the red boots or the jaunty little hat she was wearing.

  She fingered the red lace of the thong—what there was of it. What would it feel like to put on? Considering, Rory chewed on her gum and blew out a bubble. What the heck. It was kind of like taking a dare. And she had some time to kill. The one thing she knew about the Terminator was that he never gave up. She could picture him walking up and down the street, peering into shops.

  But first, she was going to find a place to hide the film so that he couldn’t just grab it from her. Pressing a button on the camera she was still clutching to her chest, she wound the roll to the end, took it out, and glanced around the tiny room for a hiding place. The only piece of furniture in the room was the bench. Wincing at the grossness of it, she removed the gum from her mouth, and then kneeling, she stuck the film container to the bottom of the bench.

  Cloak-and-dagger was not her specialty, but she could rise to the occasion—probably because she’d read so many Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries when she was a kid. And then there were all those late-night TV movies she’d watched that offered a thousand and one tips for foiling dastardly villains.