Plain Jane and the Playboy / Valentine's Fortune: Plain Jane and the Playboy. Allison Leigh

he thought. Turning to Jane, he inclined his head and asked, “Ready?”

      He wouldn’t believe just how ready she was, Jane thought. “I just have to get my coat,” she told him. She pointed vaguely in the general direction of the coatroom.

      There was a crowd around the desk, Jorge noted. No sense in their both standing around, waiting their turn. He’d have better luck getting to the front of the line if he went alone.

      “Why don’t you give me the claim number?” Jorge suggested. “I’ll go get it for you.”

      She wasn’t accustomed to such attentive gallantry. Usually, she was the one running the errands. Flipping open the clip on her clutch purse, she began searching through it.

      “It’s here someplace,” Jane murmured. She was forced to go through the purse twice before she finally located the small, square card with the red claim number on it. “Here it is,” she announced triumphantly.

      Jorge took the claim number from her, his fingers lightly, deliberately brushing against hers. He could see by the look in her eyes that he’d succeeded in sending yet another shock wave dancing through her body. Her reaction amused him and yet, there was something almost touchingly sweet about it.

      It was enough to make him feel guilty—if he wasn’t enjoying himself so much.

      “I’ll be right back,” he promised. “Don’t go anywhere.”

      There wasn’t a chance of that, she thought. Not even if they used dynamite. “I won’t,” she promised.

      Jane watched as he walked away, utterly mesmerized by the rhythmic movement of his hips. Utterly mesmerized by everything about him.

      Jorge really seemed to like her, she thought, stunned and awed and very thrilled. She had no idea why someone like him would have even stopped to give her the time of day, but right now, she didn’t want to dig too deeply. Didn’t want to risk the chance of all this suddenly fading away. For now, she was going to ride this wonderful wave for as long as she possibly could.

      Sighing, she closed her eyes and smiled to herself. Maybe, just this once, nice girls didn’t have to finish last.

      “Didn’t I tell you he was terrific?”

      Jane picked out the young voice from amid a sea of others and opened her eyes again. For a second, she thought whoever was speaking was talking to her. But as she turned around to look, she saw that the owner of the voice, a young teenager who looked about fourteen, maybe fifteen, but just barely, was talking to another, slightly older looking youth.

      She turned back around, not wanting the boys to think that she was eavesdropping on their conversation.

      But it was hard not to. The younger of the two sounded so enthusiastic.

      “All I had to do was point someone out and he had her eating out of his hand in less than five minutes,” he marveled. “He said it was easy, that all it took was just a matter of making the girl think she was the prettiest one in the room, the center of his attention. But it’s gotta be more than that,” Ricky insisted.

      “Well, du-uh,” Josh responded condescendingly. “When you look like Jorge Mendoza, all you have to do is stand still and half a dozen drooling women come running to you. It doesn’t exactly take an Einstein to figure that out, Ricky.”

      “I don’t know,” Ricky countered. “I mean, he’s a great-looking guy and all, but this woman I picked out, she looked a little standoffish. I really didn’t think Jorge could melt her as fast as he did.” He shook his head in quiet admiration. “But five minutes after he came up to her, he was kissing her.” He paused to laugh softly. “Really ringing in the New Year, if you know what I mean.”

      The one called Ricky was grinning broadly. She could hear it in his voice, even as Jane’s heart froze in her chest.

      “I think he’s taking her to his place,” she heard the young teenager speculate to his friend. “That wasn’t part of the bet, but—”

      “You actually bet him, you idiot?” the other teen asked incredulously.

      Ricky bristled. “Not money,” he protested. “It’s just that I didn’t think he could do it that fast. I just said the word. Like ‘I bet you can’t.’”

      She heard the other boy scoff. “I could have told you that you’d lose.”

      Jane felt sick. For a second, she was afraid she might throw up.

      They were talking about her.

      That was why Jorge had approached her out of the blue—because he’d made a bet with a teenager who wasn’t even old enough to shave yet.

      How stupid of her to think that a guy like Jorge Mendoza would be attracted to her. To think that he might have even liked her a tiny bit.

      A bet.

      Jane could feel angry tears forming in her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever, ever feeling this humiliated. This awful.

      She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t wait for him to come back. She never wanted to see that honeytongued bastard again. Who did he think he was, making her the object of a bet? she thought angrily.

      Clutching her purse to her chest, Jane swung around and forged a path to the front door. She bumped into people as she went, murmuring halfhearted excuses as she passed them.

      It was cold outside. Remnants of snow from the last storm crunched beneath her high heels, but she didn’t care.

      Wrapping her arms around herself, she searched for a passing taxi to flag down.

      There were none out on the street this time of night. Why? Didn’t they know it was New Year’s Eve?

      Shivering, she hurried down several blocks and then took shelter in the doorway of an office building. She placed a call to a taxi service on her cell phone and waited for her ride.

      And cried angry tears.

       Chapter Five

      “Patrick, if you want me to take that suit to the cleaners tomorrow, please don’t forget to empty out your pockets,” Lacey told her husband the next morning as she popped her head into the master bedroom.

      The bright morning sun was trying to push its way into the room despite the heavy drapes at the windows that barred its passage. It was one of the rare mornings that Patrick actually slept in.

      Sitting up now, Patrick ran his hand through his tousled reddish hair. Despite the odd hint of white, he still looked boyish, especially with sleep still hovering around his eyes.

      He reached for his glasses on the nightstand and put them on. The world came into focus, as did the digital clock next to the lamp.

      He always thought of himself as energetic—except when compared to his wife. “Lacey, it’s New Year’s Day. It’s a holiday. What are you doing up so early and why are we talking about dry cleaning?”

      She crossed to him and stood before the bed that she had vacated more than an hour before.

      “I’m up, dear husband, because, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re having some of the family over for a late lunch today, and I’m talking about dry cleaning because someone,” she looked at him pointedly, “spilled coffee on his jacket last night.” She ran her hand along his stubbled face affectionately. “And just because it’s a technical holiday doesn’t mean that the world suddenly stops spinning.”

      “Technical?” he echoed, just a little perplexed at her meaning.

      “Technical,” she repeated. “Do you have any idea how many sales are going on at this very moment as you are lounging around in your PJs?”

      Getting out of bed, Patrick groaned. “I could never understand that. Why would anyone want to get up that early just to go shopping? What