The Dare. Cara Summers

Hunter backed out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. He had to hand it to Rory Gibbs. She had a good plan. All she had to do was hang out in one of the dressing rooms until whoever was chasing her gave up.

      Except he’d never given up in his life—even before he’d become Jared Slade. Added to that, she’d had the bad luck of running into a shop where he knew the owner. When Rory had disappeared into one of the dressing rooms at the back of the shop, he moved closer to the window and considered his options. He wanted to talk to Rory Gibbs. He also wanted that camera, he reminded himself. The best way to fool her into thinking she’d taken a picture of the real Jared Slade would be to destroy the film.

      Then he would ask her how she’d known that Jared Slade was going to be checking into Les Printemps. Very few people in his organization had known that. Denise Martin, the chief administrative assistant in his Dallas office, and the two men he was traveling with—Michael Banks, his executive assistant, and Alex Santos, his accountant. Up until now, he’d trusted all three of them. But now, he was sure that one of them was a traitor. Even worse, one of them knew his past and wanted revenge.

      The problems at Slade Enterprises had started three months ago. There’d been an episode of stomach poisoning in his hotel in Atlanta and a fire that had caused some damage in a factory in upstate New York. He’d flown in to deal with each crisis personally. And both times he’d received notes with the same message: No matter what you do, soon the world will know who you are and what you did ten years ago.

      Hunter was sure that the person sending the notes had to be connected in some way to the scandal that had nearly destroyed not only his family’s business, but the town he’d grown up in. A scandal that he’d been blamed for. A scandal that had the power to destroy Slade Enterprises.

      Ms. Rory Gibbs might very well know who the writer of those notes was.

      Hunter took out his cell phone. Little did she know it, but Ms. Rory Gibbs had just walked into a trap.

      RORY LEANED BACK against the closed door of the dressing room and drew in a deep breath. She’d taken a risk when she’d chosen this store. Luckily, it had a place where she could hide. For the moment.

      Her last glimpse of the Terminator had been when she’d turned the corner. There’d been no sign of him when she’d ducked into the shop. When he couldn’t see her on the street, he’d have to give up.

      If her luck held. Crossing her fingers, she drew in another breath. The air was scented with lavender, and classical music poured out of a speaker that hung directly above her dressing room. In a minute, her heart rate would subside, she’d be able to breathe without panting, and her nerves would settle. And then she could figure out what to do next.

      “I don’t think you have the right sizes.”

      Rory jumped at the sound of the feminine, well-modulated voice behind her. “What?”

      She peered through the slats in the door and made out the red suit of the woman who’d welcomed her to the shop when she’d dashed in.

      “The sizes,” the voice said. “In your rush, you grabbed large, and I think you’ll find that petite will fit you better. I’ve brought you the same designs. Why don’t we switch?”

      As she opened the door, Rory glanced down at the bits of lace and satin she was clutching to her chest. She hadn’t paid any attention to what she’d scooped up when she’d dashed in. The Terminator had been on her tail.

      “Who recommended this shop to you?” the woman asked as they exchanged garments.

      “No one,” Rory replied. “I just came in—on impulse.”

      “Ah.” The woman smiled at her. “I get some of my best customers that way.”

      Rory took a moment to look at the items for the first time. Lingerie—tiny bras and what looked to be thongs—in various shades of the rainbow.

      “Wow,” she said as she spread petite sizes out on a nearby bench. “These don’t cover much.”

      “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

      “I’ve never been able to quite figure out the point.” Rory leaned down to finger the lace on one of the thongs. “I mean, no one sees this stuff.”

      The woman’s brows rose. “A lover would see it.”

      Rory shot her a look. “Not for long. Mostly, they’re just interested in getting me naked.”

      The woman’s laugh was low and infectious. “You need to look for a new lover. The first step would be to wear something like this.” She moved into the room, and lifted a cherry-red thong and matching bra from the bench, then handed them to Rory. “You’d be amazed at the difference something like this will make in a relationship. Wearing these next to your skin, you’ll feel sexier, more attractive, and much more confident about the way you appeal to men.”

      “Yeah, well, finding a new lover is pretty low on my to-do list right now.”

      “That could change if you met the right man.”

      The Terminator flashed into Rory’s mind and she felt her body go soft and hot as if something inside of her were melting.

      “Try these on,” the woman said. “What have you got to lose?”

      Rory fingered the silky lace. The truth was she had nothing to lose. And this seemed to be her day for taking risks.

      “Red is definitely your color.”

      Rory glanced up to find the woman smiling warmly at her. She smiled right back, and held out her hand. “I’m Rory Gibbs. And you’re a very good saleswoman.”

      The woman shook Rory’s hand. “Thanks. I’m Irene Malinowitz. Let me know if there’s anything else I can bring in.”

      As Rory closed the door of the dressing room, she gave the red scraps a speculative look. She’d never worn red underwear in her life. Black, yes, when she was in the mood to feel a little “sexy” or when all of her white underwear were in the dirty-laundry hamper.

      It wasn’t that she didn’t like to spend money on clothes. She did. Her maxed-out credit cards were a testimony to her weakness for fashion. But she preferred to part with her hard-earned plastic for what went on the outside—like the red boots or the jaunty little hat she was wearing.

      She fingered the red lace of the thong—what there was of it. What would it feel like to put on? Considering, Rory chewed on her gum and blew out a bubble. What the heck. It was kind of like taking a dare. And she had some time to kill. The one thing she knew about the Terminator was that he never gave up. She could picture him walking up and down the street, peering into shops.

      But first, she was going to find a place to hide the film so that he couldn’t just grab it from her. Pressing a button on the camera she was still clutching to her chest, she wound the roll to the end, took it out, and glanced around the tiny room for a hiding place. The only piece of furniture in the room was the bench. Wincing at the grossness of it, she removed the gum from her mouth, and then kneeling, she stuck the film container to the bottom of the bench.

      Cloak-and-dagger was not her specialty, but she could rise to the occasion—probably because she’d read so many Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries when she was a kid. And then there were all those late-night TV movies she’d watched that offered a thousand and one tips for foiling dastardly villains.

      And the Terminator had dastardly written all over him. Just thinking about him made her feel as if a little electric current were running along her nerve endings. She pressed a hand to her stomach. There it was again—that hot, fluttery feeling. He was still stalking her. She was sure of it.

      And she was going to be prepared. Fishing a new roll of film out of her purse, she reloaded her camera and took four quick shots of the lingerie. If he was waiting outside when she left the shop, and he wanted the film, at least she’d be ready. She’d run from him once. Not