Natural Blond Instincts (4 page)

“I
'M STAYING
at the hotel,” Kenna said into her cell phone as she drove.

“
The
hotel? Can I stay with you?”

Ray was one of her closest friends. He was both a waiter and an actor, but mostly a waiter. And one of the few people who understood and accepted Kenna unconditionally. “I don't think you heard me correctly,” she said. “I'm going to be staying in my
father's
hotel.”

“So yeah, the atmosphere is bound to be a bit stiff, but baby cakes, the place is amazing. Have you seen the furnishings?”

“Yes, they're overpriced and pretentious.”

“You sound a little stressed.”

“Just a little,” she admitted.

“Because you're not breathing correctly. Remember—”

Kenna mouthed the words with him, rolling her eyes. “No one can stress me out but me. I
know.
”

“That's right, sugar. And don't you forget it.
Look, all you have to do is please Dad, right? He'll probably give you back control of your trust fund.”

“I don't want a trust fund.”

“Baby, sweetie, doll, you were born to own a trust fund.”

Kenna laughed. “I've changed.”

“Which is exactly the point of this whole thing. You're going to take this job and do it your way. Not theirs, not the conventional, easy way, but your way. Kenna-style. Do it, girl. Show 'em.”

“Yeah.” She smiled, and this time a deep breath worked. God, she loved this man. “You know I don't even own a pair of stockings.”

He laughed, but it was a warm and affectionate one. “With your legs, no stockings required. You'll figure it all out, Kenna. You always do.”

Yeah, she'd figure it out. But after she disconnected, her smile faded a little, because in a way she didn't often feel, she was unsure.

Not to mention good and lost. Damn, how had that happened? She should have paid more attention as she'd driven around, but her mind had been elsewhere. Now, she seemed far from the light, open, friendly streets she'd always known. The houses here were small and stacked nearly on top of each other. Peeling paint, barred windows, dead grass and an all-around I-don't-give-a-shit attitude
swamped her. Adding insult to injury, her car coughed, then stalled. “Hey,” she said and stared at the gauges.

Empty.

With a groan, she drifted to the side of the road and once again picked up her cell phone.

But instead of a dial tone, she received a recorded message. “If you've enjoyed your free phone hours, please call the following one-eight-hundred number to find out just how low a monthly rate you qualify for. Don't be without service for longer than necessary, call now.”

“Well, isn't that special.” She tossed the useless thing into the back seat with all the rest of the things she'd so hastily shoved in there after vacating her parents' house, then peered out into the summer night. The street was deserted and extremely dark, except for one house.

The sign on the porch read, Teen Zone.

With a sigh, she heaved herself out. Warm, salty air surrounded her as she made her way up the walk.

The teenage girl who answered the door took one look at her and laughed a bit cruelly. “Not a chance, lady. This place is for kids who need a place to go. You're
way
too old.”

“No, you don't understand. I just—”

“No offense, but Sarah will just send you to the shelter for hookers. It's down the street and around the corner. Get outta here.”

“Tess!” A woman appeared in the doorway beside the teenager. “Sweetie, that's not the way I taught you to answer the door.”

The girl hunched her shoulders. “Sorry.”

The tall, serene woman, who possibly owned the most calming voice Kenna had ever heard, gave Tess an admonishing look but gently squeezed the girl's hand. “We're here to help, remember? Not judge. Never judge.” She held out a hand to Kenna. “I'm Sarah.”

Kenna automatically took her hand. It was as warm as her expression and demeanor, and while Kenna appreciated it, she was no charity case. “I'm Kenna. I'm just out of gas. I was wondering if I could use your phone?”

Sarah smiled, and it was a generous one. “Of course. But I've got a five-gallon can in the garage, if you'd rather. I can spare you enough to get where you need to. Come in. Take a load off.”

Kenna took in the pitying look, then glanced down at herself, suddenly realizing how she must appear to them. Hair that probably looked as though she'd stuck her finger in a light socket, as it tended to do after a long day. Dress still sans jacket
and blatantly sexy, to say the least. Shoes, unquestionably hookerville. So she had a secret slutty side, she couldn't help it. “Look,” she said. “I can pay you—”

“No. No, it's okay.” Sarah pulled her inside, where a delicious scent engulfed her.

Brownies?
Kenna would pay big bucks for brownies.

If she had big bucks.

“As Tess said, this is a teen center for kids who need the escape, but I'd never turn anyone away.”

Sarah smiled. “Especially a lone woman at night in an area like this one.”

Kenna would have laughed, but it might have been a half-hysterical one, so she bit it back. “Honestly. I can pay.”

“Okay.” Amicably, Sarah led her through a living room that was small and short on furniture, but long on coziness. The walls were a faded yellow, or maybe that was just age. The couch, a well-worn red, had definitely seen its heyday, but looked comfortable enough. There were a bunch of folding chairs and a stack of magazines, as well as a television set with a dial. The seventies revisited all around.

There were several teenagers lounging around
talking or watching a show, each of whom glanced over with a disinterested expression.

Sarah took Kenna to the kitchen, which didn't look any more modern than the living room had. Here the walls were green and the cabinets didn't have fronts. The lovely seventies again. But the brownies on a plate on the scarred Formica table looked new and mouth-watering. Sarah pointed to them. “Would you like one?”

Only more than her next breath, but she didn't want to be any more indebted. “No,” she said regretfully. “I need to get going.”

Sarah nodded, seeming both serene and sad. “You don't have to, Kenna. No one has to. As Tess said, I could give you the address of a wonderful women's shelter.”

“Thank you. You're very kind, but I think you've misunderstood—”

“Just remember we're here.” Sarah led her through the back door to the garage for the gas, then walked out front with her. “And I'm always available if you need an ear, or help out of something too big to handle on your own.”

“Honestly, I'm not a prostitute. I'm not even on my own, not really. I—” She stopped short at the look on Sarah's face and followed the woman's gaze to her car.

The back of the faded silver Civic was overloaded with the mess she'd made when she'd decided to stay at the hotel. As usual when an idea grabbed her, she'd just acted on it. Without organizing, she'd collected her things, shoving all of it into the back seat. Dresses, shoes, makeup bag, blow dyer, more clothes, more shoes, a stuffed teddy bear from her childhood, you name it, it was back there, overflowing from her suitcases, making it look as though she lived out of the back seat of her car. “This isn't what it looks like. I just—”

“Oh Kenna, you don't ever have to pretend here.” Slipping a hand around her waist, Sarah hugged her. “We've all been down on our luck at some point, so just forget about the gas money, okay?”

“No, really. I can pay.” Thrilled to be able to do this at least, Kenna reached in for her purse, which unfortunately, was also a big mess, but when she opened her wallet she remembered she hadn't stopped at the bank. Not that there was much in her account at the moment, but—

Sarah put her hand over Kenna's on the wallet. “It's on me.”

Kenna looked into the woman's extraordinarily caring eyes and felt a lump clog her throat. “I'll be back,” she said rashly. “With money, I promise.”

“You don't need money here.”

“I want to repay you.”

Sarah smiled, a warm, giving, generous one that made Kenna wonder when the last time she herself had given that sort of smile to someone. Well, there'd been that cute guy at TGIF's last week, but other than that…she couldn't remember.

“You could come back and volunteer sometime,” Sarah said. “We always need help.”

“Okay, sure…” Working at a senior's center was one thing. Volunteering with sullen teens? She'd rather have root-canal surgery. She got into her car, waved when Sarah did, and drove off.

But she couldn't get the place, or Sarah, out of her head. The woman gave kindly to strangers, without strings. So utterly different than the world Kenna was driving to, and unexpectedly, the joy she'd found earlier in the records room of the hotel faded a little.

Sarah's world, riddled with poverty and injustice, suddenly seemed much more like the place for her, a place where she could make a difference, have an impact, put her ideas into action…

But six months was six months, and she'd promised her father.

She just really wished she'd at least taken the offered brownie.

W
ES PLAYED
three-on-three basketball every Monday night. They played hard and won hard, and when tonight's game was over, his team was only two victories away from becoming the rec-center league champions.

And two aspirins away from pain relief. He walked to the parking lot with his teammates, each of them trying not to whimper at their various aches and pains. Victors didn't whimper. Men on top of their world didn't whimper.

But, oh God, he wanted to.

“Heading to the pub, Wes?” his buddy, Nick, asked him.

The pub was where they ended up more often than not after a game. There, they either celebrated or commiserated, depending on how the game had gone.

Tonight, there'd be a lot of celebrating, and for a moment, he was tempted. But duty called so he shook his head. “I have to head back to the office.”

This was accompanied by boos and hisses, but as his teammates Nick and Steve were a doctor and an attorney respectively, who both put in even more hours than he did, he laughed them off.

He drove to the hotel and parked in his designated spot, noting the one next to him had a freshly painted sign that read Ms. Kenna Mallory. At least it was vacant.

The corporate floors were deserted. He'd given everyone the night off, including himself, but now that the hard play was over and some of his aggressions had been released, he wanted to get some work done. Especially since he'd spent most of the day soothing hurt egos and ruffled feathers. People resented the intrusion of Kenna Mallory at such a high level.

Serena had been the most upset, a situation that gave him mixed feelings. She was a junior conference manager, and reported directly to him, and though she was decent at her job, he'd always felt she had more ambition than actual skill. Given the way she'd gone on and on today, she'd forgotten that she, too, had once been given her job because of her last name. No entry-level positions for Mallory family members.

Either way, he hoped she'd gotten all her whining
and pouting out of her system, because when Serena was on a rant, everyone around her paid.

He sank to his desk and dug in. He loved his work, but he loved his time off as well, and wanted to make sure he got some this weekend, since he actually had a date and was looking forward to a few hours of mindless fun. He looked forward to everything he did these days, because though it had been years since he'd struggled to make something of himself, he'd never forgotten his humble beginnings.

With his current salary several times over what he needed, he was able to do pretty much whatever he wanted. Since he wasn't a frivolous man or one who needed luxuries, this mostly involved extreme sports or spoiling his family when they let him—buying his parents a house, sending them on vacations they'd never dreamed they'd be able to take, getting his brother through college—

A blur of creamy skin, blond hair and an unforgettable fuchsia skirt passed his opened office door. He glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock.

What the hell?

Standing, he rounded his desk to peek out, but yep, it was indeed Kenna Mallory's very fine back side wriggling its way down the hallway, her bare
feet in those strappy little sandals that seemed suicidal to him.

“So you're not just a nightmare,” he called out, half hoping she'd vanish.

Slowly she stopped, then pivoted to face him, her arms full of a variety of bags, all of which were overflowing with what looked like…stuff. Even as he watched, the blow dryer she'd slung over her shoulder started to slip. “It's not late enough for night mares.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Maybe you missed the Mallory part of the San Diego Mallory.”

“I meant,” he said dryly, “what are you doing in the offices this late?”

“I wanted to grab some nighttime reading material before checking in—” She broke off to growl in frustration as things started tumbling from her arms.

Wes scooped up the bag, but not in time to keep it from spilling out a magazine, a lipstick case, a styling comb, a compact mirror, a tube of mascara and two tampons.

Hunkering down to help, he deliberately avoided touching the tampons and scooped up the magazine instead.
Outside.
This city girl read an adventure
magazine? “I wouldn't have pegged you for an
Outside
kind of girl.”

“You couldn't peg me for anything—” she snatched it back “—as you don't know the first thing about me. And there happens to be a great article this month on relaxing beach vacations,” she relented. “If that matters to you.”

Unfortunately just about everything relating to her was going to matter to him, since they were likely going to be joined at the hip for a while, until some other more appealing job came along and she fluttered off.

On her knees, she started gathering things, tossing them back into the bag. “And anyway, at least until we establish some sort of routine…one that'll keep us from killing each other—” she pointed at him with the article in her hand, a tampon “—just get used to seeing me around.” She stopped and stared at the tampon, then glared at him as if it was his fault she was using it like a pointer.

“What makes you think we're going to kill each other?” he asked curiously.

She laughed. “Are you saying you're welcoming me with open arms?”

“I plan on welcoming you as I would any employee.”

“Well, isn't that a politically correct answer.”

“Look, Ms. Mallory—”

“Kenna. My name is Kenna.”

“Kenna.” He picked up some of her loose change and handed it to her. “I think we can do this in a friendly manner.”

“What? Vie for the next rung on the ladder?”

Okay, he probably deserved that. Maybe he'd been a bit stiff earlier. “I'm just saying we're stuck in this position together, and—”

“I'm not stuck. I'm never stuck. I do as I please, when I please, and working here pleases me.”

“For the moment.”

She froze in the act of stretching for a rogue pen, her skirt rising incredibly high on a tanned, toned thigh, reminding him that she didn't favor stockings. And being the weak male that he was, he wondered if her panties were as bright as the rest of her clothes. Like he needed to know that information.

“Look,” she said. “I'm taking this job seriously. So do me a favor and take me seriously. Oh, and by the way, I'm…moving in.”

When the words sank in, he raised his gaze to meet her unhappy one. “What?”

“I'm going to be staying here. At the hotel.”

Wes didn't often find himself rendered speechless, but somehow he wasn't surprised to find Kenna the woman to do it.
“Why?”

“Because that also pleases me.” She paused then muttered under her breath, “and it's the lesser of two evils.”

“Your father said you had to, right?”

“Of course not.”

“What did he do, threaten to cut off your credit card?”

If he'd been any closer, her look would have fried him on the spot. “I don't care about his money.”

“What
do
you care about?” he asked.

“Not his money,” she repeated. “I earn my own. As for what I do care about…I care about my life. Living it how I want to, which until now has been very different than this structured, cutthroat business atmosphere. How about you, Mr. Roth?”

“Wes.”

“Wes,” she said with an acknowledging bow of her head. “What is it you care about?”

“This structured, cutthroat business, for one.”

She actually laughed and reached for the last item on the floor, a lipstick, and put it back into the bag. “Well, that's going to make us quite the interesting pair.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” His gaze met hers, and…held. Humor still swam in her eyes, humor and intelligence and an easy love of life.

Damn if that wasn't suddenly, startlingly,
abruptly attractive. He stood. Backed way up, giving her room.

Giving
himself
room.

“I can do this job,” she said softly. “I'm good at fiscal planning. Marketing strategies. Structuring business goals. Budgeting, including the remaining renovations, growth…all of it. The one thing I'm not good at is dealing with people who make assumptions about the outer package…” She tossed her blond hair and straightened her stripper's body. “Don't mistake the outer package, Wes.”

“How about I won't if you won't?”

“What?”

He pushed up his glasses. “Are you going to deny you took one look at me and lumped me in with every other suit in the building, which, apparently, leaves a bad taste in your mouth?”

“Not a bad taste necessarily.”

“Then a bad attitude.”

She laughed again, and it was an amazing laugh, a contagious one. “Okay, you got me. I lumped you in with all the dark conservative suits. Just tell me this…what's wrong with color, Wes? Why don't any of you wear any color for God's sake?”

He looked down at his black basketball shorts, black basketball shoes and black T-shirt.

She laughed again. “You never even noticed that's the only color around here, did you?”

“No,” he said truthfully, and had to shake his head. “I swear I own a few things that aren't black.”

“Yeah? Prove it. Shock me tomorrow. And tightie whities don't count.”

He blinked.

“Underwear,” she explained. “Plain white Jockey shorts don't count as color.”

“I don't wear plain white Jockey shorts.”

He wore plain white knit
boxers,
because a guy had to have room.

“Whatever you say.”

She was most definitely baiting him, but he absolutely was not going to get into a discussion about underwear. Not at ten o'clock at night, on an empty floor, with no one around save this laughing, sharp-tongued and shockingly attractive woman staring at him.

No way.

She stood up. “So…how about this? I overlook the fact that you look like a Mallory clone, and you overlook the fact that I might appear better suited for wet T-shirt contests than board-room discussions.”

He thought about that. First the wet T-shirt—he couldn't help that—then her proposal.

She waited for a moment, then said, “Come on. I think that's an excellent second compromise, if I do say so myself.”

He felt his mouth curve in a smile, his first genuine smile when it came to Kenna. “Deal.”

“Deal,” she repeated and, gathering her things, walked away. “'Night,” she called over her shoulder. “Sleep tight.”

Sleep tight. He had a feeling he wouldn't be sleeping tight at all, not for a long time to come.