Mystery Man. Diana Palmer

      “Right. The enemy.”

      “He’s not so bad. He saved the hero, once.”

      “Well, so he did. I guess maybe he isn’t all bad.”

      “He’s just misunderstood,” he agreed.

      She chuckled. They were quiet for a minute or two. “Will you try to get Janie to come to our party?”

      He smiled. “I’ll give it my best shot. Just don’t expect miracles, okay?”

      She smiled back. “Okay!”

      As it turned out, Janine had to go to the Rourke party, because for once her little brother dug in his heels and insisted on going somewhere. He would, he told her firmly, go alone if she didn’t care to go with him.

      The thought of her little brother in the sort of company the Rourkes would keep made her very nervous. She didn’t socialize enough to know much about people who lived in the fast lane, and she’d never known any millionaires. She was aware that some drank and used drugs. Her sheltered life hadn’t prepared her for that kind of company. Now she was going to be thrust into the very thick of it, or so she imagined. Actually she had no idea what Canton’s friends were like. Maybe they were down-to-earth and nice.

      She hadn’t anything appropriate for a cocktail party, but she scrounged up a crinkly black sundress that, when paired with high heels, pearl earrings and a pearl necklace that her parents had given her, didn’t look too bad. She brushed her flyaway hair, sprayed it down and went to get her black leather purse.

      “I didn’t even have enough warning to go and buy a new dress. I hate you,” she told Kurt with a sweet smile.

      “You’ll forgive me. I’ll bet when he’s dressed up, he’s really something to look at,” he replied.

      “I’ve seen him dressed up.”

      “Oh. Well, he’s supposed to be the stuff dreams are made of. Karie says half the women in Chicago have thrown themselves at him over the years, especially since his wife remarried.”

      “They live in Chicago?” She tried to sound disinterested.

      “Part of the time,” he affirmed. “They have an apartment in New York, too, in downtown Manhattan.”

      “He may not ever be super rich again,” she reminded him.

      “That doesn’t seem to discourage them,” he assured her. “They’re all sure that any man who could make it in the first place will be able to get it back.”

      There was a sort of logic to the assumption, she had to admit. Most men who made that sort of money were workaholics who didn’t spare themselves or any of their employees. Given a stake, there was every reason to believe Canton Rourke could rebuild his empire. But she felt sorry for him. He wouldn’t ever know who liked him for himself and who liked him for what he had.

      “I’m glad I’m not rich,” she said aloud.

      “What?”

      “Oh, I just meant that I know people like me for myself and not for what I’ve got.”

      He folded his arms across his neat shirt. “Do go on,” he invited. “Tell me about it. What was that invitation you got back home to come to a cocktail party and explain how to get published to the hostess’s guest of honor, who just happened to have written a book…?”

      She sighed.

      “Or the rich lady with the stretch limo who wanted you to get her best friend’s book published. Or the mystery writer wannabe who asked for the name of your agent and a recommendation?”

      “I quit,” she said. “You’re right. Everybody has problems.”

      “So does Mr. Rourke. If you get to know him, you might like him. And there’s a fringe benefit.”

      “There is?”

      “Sure. If you nab him, you can buy him a plastic appliance like the one your favorite alien wears and make him over to suit you!”

      The thought of Canton Rourke sitting still for that doubled her over with laughter. He’d more than likely give her the appliance face first and tell her where she could go with it.

      “I don’t really think that would be a good idea,” she replied. “Think how his board of directors might react!”

      “I suppose so. We should go,” he prompted, nodding toward the clock on the side table.

      She grimaced. “All right. But I don’t want to,” she said firmly.

      “You’ll enjoy yourself,” he promised her. “Nobody knows who you are.”

      She brightened. “I didn’t think of that.”

      “Now you can.”

      He opened the door for her with a flourish and they walked down the beach through the sand to the Rourke’s house. It was ablaze with light and soft music came wafting out the open door of the patio. Several people holding glasses were talking. They all looked exquisitely dressed and Janine already felt self-conscious about her own appearance.

      Kurt, oblivious, darted up the steps to his friend Karie, wearing a cute little dress with a dropped waistline and a short skirt that probably had cost more than Janine’s summer wardrobe put together. As she went up the steps, she paused to shake the sand out of her high heels, holding onto the bannister for support.

      “Need a hand?” a familiar velvety voice asked. A long, lean arm went around her and supported her while she fumbled nervously with her shoe, almost dropping it in the process.

      “Here.” He knelt and emptied the sand out of the shoe before he eased it back onto her small foot with a sensuality that made her heart race.

      He stood up slowly, his eyes meeting hers when they were on the same level, and holding as he rose to his towering height. He didn’t smile. For endless seconds, they simply looked at each other.

      “This was Kurt’s idea,” she blurted breathlessly. “I didn’t even have time to buy a new dress…”

      “What’s wrong with this one?” he asked. His lean hand traced the rounded neckline, barely touching her skin, but she shivered at the contact.

      “You, uh, seem to have quite a crowd,” she faltered, moving a breath away from him.

      “Right now, I wish they were all five hundred miles away,” he said deeply, and with an inflection that made her tingle.

      She laughed nervously. “Is that a line? If it is, it’s probably very effective, but I’m immune. I’ve got a son and I’ve lived in a com…”

      He held up a hand and chuckled. “Give it up,” he advised. “Kurt is twelve and you’re twenty-four. I really doubt that you conceived at the age of eleven. As for the commune bit,” he added, moving close enough to threaten, “not in your wildest dreams, honey.”

      Honey. She recalled dumping a glass of milk on a pushy acquaintance who’d used that term in a demeaning way to her. This man made it sound like a verbal caress. Her toes curled.

      “Please.” Was that her voice, that thin tremulous tone?

      His fingers touched her cheek gently. “I’m a new experience, is that it?”

      She shivered. “You’re a multimillionaire. I’m working for wages.” Not quite the truth, but a good enough comparison, she thought frantically.

      He leaned closer with a smile that was fascinating. “I gave up seducing girls years ago. You’re safe.”

      Her wide eyes met his. “Could I have that in writing, notarized, please?”

      “If you like. But my word is usually considered equally binding,” he replied. His hand fell and caught hers. “As for the multimillionaire bit,