Hot Secrets (3 page)

Abruptly, Royce took her hand
and led her off the dance floor, forcing her to double-step to keep
pace in high heels. Too quickly, before she could gain her wits
back, Royce had her in a corner, where she leaned against the wall
as he rested a shoulder next to her. He was so close and so big
that she was successfully blocked from the view of the room.

Looking up at him, feeling a bit
intimidated as he towered over her, and a lot nervous about his
reaction to her words, she questioned him, “Royce?”

His voice was raspy when he
spoke, his eyes so intense she felt they might burn her skin, his
voice urgent, and oddly edgy. “What are you saying to me, Lauren?
Is something scaring you? Is there something you need to tell—”

“No,” she said quickly, thinking
again how terribly, horribly bad she was at seduction. The man now
thought she was in some sort of danger. “I mean yes.” She’d gone
this far, she wasn’t going to back down. Not when Royce Walker had
her trapped in a small corner and she liked it so very
,
very much. Lauren reached out,
forcing herself to act on her desire to touch him, flattening her
hand on his deliciously perfect chest.
Inhibitions be damned
, she vowed. “I… want…”

“You want what?”

“You.” Oh my God, had she really
just said that?

His eyes narrowed, his voice
lowering an octave. “Are you saying that scares you?”

“In a good way,” she admitted
softly, then louder, “In a good way.

Suddenly Julie’s voice broke
into their exchange. “Sorry to break up the party, but it’s cake
time, and everyone is looking for Lauren.”

Lauren could have screamed at
her friend’s untimely interruption.

Royce seemed to agree, flicking
a quick look over his shoulder and saying, rather than asking,
“Give us one minute.”

Julie cleared her throat.
“Hurry.” And then she was gone.

Royce fixed Lauren
with
a probing stare, his eyes
roaming her face, searching, his expression giving away nothing.
“You better go be with your father. We’ll talk afterwards.”

Her heart thundered in her
chest, and real fear, the kind made of rejection, balled in her
chest. No way was she going to wonder what he meant through the
rest of the party. “There’s nothing to talk about. You want me or
you don’t. Which is it, Royce?”

His reply came in actions, not
words. He tipped his head down and brushed his lips across hers.
The touch was brief, but somehow possessive and powerful, and a
shiver of pure arousal charged down her spine and spread to other,
much more intimate places.

“Oh, I want you,” he said, his
voice whiskey rough, where it had been a cool breeze only moments
before. “Which is exactly why we need to talk.”

Her stomach lurched. Not the
‘talk’ thing again. Why did they need to talk? Talking was what she
wanted to avoid. She needed an escape, not an inquiry.

Royce surprised her and laughed.
“Stop frowning.” He chucked her lightly on the chin. “Go celebrate
with your father so we can get out of here.” His mouth was so near
her ear, she felt the warmth of his breath. “
Together,
Lauren.”

***

Ten minutes later, Lauren was on
stage in the front of the room, trying to focus on her father and
the birthday gifts he was opening, not on Royce and what would come
after the party. But truth be told, her father’s public persona
meant far more to him than she did. Oh, he wanted her here, and he
wanted her to run for office, but only because it was good for his
image, for his politics, for that damn dynasty he, and his father
before him who’d also been a politician, aspired to create. And
because her political career would keep him in the spotlight
without the pressure of holding office.

As usual, her stepmother Sharon
stood quietly by his side, her long brown hair swept into an
elegant knot at her neck, her exotic features carefully crafted
into
a mask of happiness
and dedication. The press loved her. Her husband adored her for all
the wrong reasons.

Sharon’s gaze rushed over Lauren
and she moved towards her, her clingy light blue dress bringing to
mind the word
inappropriate.
She was so
tired of that word, but the truth was, Sharon
was
inappropriate. Sharon knew it too, and she knew
Lauren knew it. It was her father who didn’t seem to see things
clearly. Mr. Practical and Conservative looked the other way for a
set of surgically enhanced breasts that made him feel vibrant and
young.

“Lauren, dear,” Sharon drawled,
stepping to her side. “You seem distracted.”

Lauren’s teeth ground together
but she managed a nonchalant shrug. “You know how I feel about
these events.”

Sharon cast her a reprimanding
look. “This
event,
as you call it, is your
father’s birthday party.”

Lauren fought the childish urge
to roll her eyes, and with it, the pang of hurt inside her, a
longing for the family she’d once had, and lost. “I’m going to
suggest we have a backyard picnic or intimate dinner next year. You
know, the normal things
families
do.”

Sharon smiled, smugness
radiating off her like a second skin. “We’re not most families, and
thank God for it.”

“Exactly my point,” Lauren
mumbled and accepted a champagne flute from a waiter, feeling the
hot stare of Royce without even looking at him. But she knew where
he was in the far corner, leaning on the bar, waiting for her. She
tipped her wrist back to drink and silently vowed that tonight was
about indulging, about living a little.

“I see you received the watch,”
Sharon said, glancing at Lauren’s wrist. “At least thank us for
it.”

Lauren didn’t bother commenting.
Sharon would never understand the difference between giving love
and buying it. “Where is my
dear
brother
Brad?” she asked instead, unable to stop the intended jab from
slipping past her lips. She didn’t like Sharon’s son any more than
she liked Sharon. He’d been eighteen and Lauren seventeen when her
father had remarried, not three years after her mother’s cancer had
shattered her world, and though they were siblings by marriage, his
creepy flirtation had been almost instant. Now, seven years later,
nothing had changed.

“Brad,” Sharon replied, “is off
taking depositions in an important case for your father’s firm, and
your father would expect nothing less. In case you forgot, he runs
it now, after you refused the job.” Sharon’s eyes darted toward
Royce. “I see you have caught the eye of the oldest Walker brother.
You should be more discreet.”

No, Lauren thought, downing the
rest of her champagne. She was tired of discreet. Really darn tired
of it
and
Sharon. She might have said as
much, had Sharon stayed by her side one more second.

Lauren’s gaze immediately sought
Royce’s and found it. He was watching her exchange with Sharon. He
knew they’d fought, she realized. He was too attentive not to have
noticed. And oddly, considering the man was a complete stranger,
she had this sense that if she needed him, he was primed and ready
to act, to be there for her. For a girl who normally valued her
independence, Lauren was shocked to find that idea beyond sexy,
while still dipping into the realm of being downright comforting.
And for the first time all week, she let herself admit that she’d
been feeling uneasy, like she needed to look over her shoulder, for
no explainable reason. Correction, Lauren thought. No explainable
reason besides the obvious that she was readying for a murder trial
and dealing with her stepmotherboth in a two week span. If those
two things didn’t deserve a dose of comfort Royce Walker style, she
didn’t know what else did.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lauren tried to hide from the
flashes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll wash off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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