Chapter Two
Dancing with Royce Walker, there was no denying the simple truth. He did it for her. And whatever it was, it had her body tingling and her blood pumping at lightning speed. She not only wanted this man, for once in her life she wanted more than the fantasy of being more like Julie. For once, for one night, she wanted to let go, she wanted to just let herself go where desire led her, where this man would take her.
His lips brushed her ear. “You smell amazing.”
Lauren’s lashes fluttered before she looked up at him. There was something so powerful, so provocative about this man. She liked to be in control, normally resisted giving control away, which was one of the reasons the courtroom appealed to her. There she was respected, in charge and without her father’s influence. Royce wouldn’t let her have control. She knew this instinctively, but somehow didn’t care. Royce’s power was all his own, not bought or jockeyed for, a lethal quality she found alluring and sexy. A power he owned naturally, like a second skin, that simply existed as he did. And she wasn’t going to let this night with him escape because of insecurity.
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “You asked if you scare me.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, and lifted. “Actually, I asked if I was making you nervous, not scared.”
“Right. No. You don’t make me nervous. And you don’t scare me.” She allowed herself the freedom, the luxury, to run her hand discreetly across one of his broad shoulders and then down his arm, loving the feel of his muscles. It was bold for her to do so in public, at one of her father’s events, yet all she was thinking about was how every inch of this man was hard, male perfection. “But I think I might be scaring me.”
His hands tightened on her waist and his eyes narrowed. “Explain.” He pulled her a bit closer. “What’s wrong, Lauren?” He stopped dancing and just stared down at her with intense, probing eyes. “What are you telling me?” Desire spiked between them, and then lingered, a fine mist that seemed to travel over her entire body.
His reaction overwhelmed her, and sent a dash of uncertainty through her. What had made her think she could pull off the coy, flirty thing? She wasn’t Julie. She knew how to play the courtroom game. The bedroom variety was another story. “Nothing. I… It was silly. Forget I said anything.”
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 stepmother both 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 control that it all belonged to her father. She wanted out desperately 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 weaving or rather wobbling her 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 unseasonably 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.”
She hesitated and nodded, then touched her dress and smelled her fingers. “Champagne. I think someone threw champagne at us. Either that or I spilled it on myself and I’m more tipsy than I remember. But then, drunks don’t remember, now do they?”
“You’re not a drunk, and don’t put yourself down for relaxing a little. And yes, what was thrown on us was champagne, which is far better than getting hit with an egg.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I guess there’s that to cling to.” She hesitated, then, “Maybe it’s the tipsy part of this equation for me, but that scene back there rattled me way more than it normally would.” She shivered and hugged herself. “I’ve been around my share of creepy bad guys and I got that same feeling of malice rolling off the crowd.”
“It’s called a typical Friday night in Manhattan,” he said lightly, not about to tell her he’d felt it too, and because he wasn’t supposed to know where she lived, he added, “I need your address for the GPS.” She murmured a reply and he punched the information into the program. “Why don’t you rest your eyes until we get there?”
She nodded and slid down into the seat, a little too willing to do as he suggested from what he knew of her personality. She was rattled all right. She knew she was in trouble.