Dangerous Passions Page 14

  “You don’t have to understand it, you only have to believe it. These people follow their own rules, not anyone else’s.”

  “Are you trying to scare me into staying?”

  “I want you to be aware of the facts. And the fact is, I’m not letting you go back to Chicago.”

  Mike regretted the choice of words as soon as he’d spoken.

  Sure enough, after a brief moment of stunned silence, Shannon’s eyes flashed—sparks of molten fury in the emerald depths.

  “You’re not letting me?” she enunciated carefully, her tone deliberately controlled.

  He almost smiled. But that, he knew, would be an even bigger mistake.

  “You have no identification and no credit card to buy a plane ticket,” he reminded her. “How do you expect to go anywhere?”

  “I’ll call my sister. She can wire me money for a bus ticket.”

  He should have expected she’d have a ready answer. And maybe it wasn’t such an unreasonable one, but he wasn’t willing to back down on this. “Or you could just stay in Miami a few more days.”

  “Do you really think I should just continue my vacation as if the past three days never happened?”

  “I’m not suggesting you go sightseeing,” he said patiently. “I’m just asking you to stay so that I don’t have to follow you halfway across the country on a bus.”

  “You don’t have to follow me anywhere.”

  “Until A.J. is locked up, I’m sticking to you like glue. It’s your choice whether that’s in Florida or somewhere else.”

  “Even if I wanted to stay,” she said, “as you’ve pointed out, I have no cash or ID for a hotel room.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I hate when you do that.”

  Her vehemence surprised him. “Do what?”

  “Tell me not to worry. Or tell me to trust you. Three days ago I didn’t even know you. Then you waltzed into my life and took right over.”

  He was silent for a long minute, considering her position. “I apologize if it seems that I’ve taken over your life,” he said. “But I’m not going to apologize for looking out for you. I’m trying to keep you safe, and it isn’t always convenient to answer a dozen questions in the process.”

  “Fine. I could see that, when we were on the island, trying to stay two steps ahead of Rico and Jazz and Peart. But right now, when the most immediate concern is sunburn, you’d think you could give me the courtesy of some answers.”

  She was right, of course. He was just accustomed to giving instructions and having them followed. And while Shannon may have let him call the shots while they were on the island, she had no intention of letting him continue to do so.

  “You’re right,” he agreed.

  Some of her anger faded, but she remained wary.

  “I should have discussed the plans with you.”

  “The plans being?” she prompted, when he failed to divulge any more information.

  “I told you my sister works at a hotel in Miami,” he reminded her.

  She nodded.

  “I contacted her to make her arrangements for us to stay there.”

  “Why couldn’t you just tell me that? Why is everything such a big secret with you?”

  “Maybe it’s a throwback from my military career—sharing information on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Well, I don’t appreciate you pulling rank on me.”

  He reached for her hand and was relieved that she didn’t tug it away. “Will you stay in Miami, anyway?”

  She smiled. “Only because I want to see your sister’s reaction when she finds out about her boat.”

  He was grateful for the smile, suspecting it might be the last one of hers he saw for a while. Because when they got back to Miami, his biggest secret would be blown out of the water. And he had no idea how she would react to it.

  Shannon sat in the back of Garcia’s car and watched the familiar sights of the city speed past her window. It had been hours since they’d arrived back in Miami—hours that had been spent first in the police station and then at the hospital. Nine stitches and a tetanus shot later, she wasn’t sure which she resented more—Michael’s insistence on remaining at her side throughout the ordeal in the E.R. or the burning pain of the injection that lingered in her arm.

  The injury to her foot would heal, but Michael’s vigilance wasn’t likely to change anytime in the near future.

  She sighed, accepting that she wasn’t annoyed with him so much as she was disappointed in herself. She’d actually enjoyed having him hover over her, appreciated his solicitous attention. For a woman who had been independent for so long, his concern and consideration were irresistible.

  In fact, there were too many things about him that were irresistible. The warmth of his eyes, the strength of his arms, the slow, sexy smile. The way he looked at her, touched her, kissed her.

  She gave herself a mental shake to banish these traitorous thoughts. Now that they were off the island, she needed to reassert her independence, to stand on her own two feet. Except that right now she didn’t even have shoes for those feet, no money to buy shoes, and the thought of lying down on an honest-to-goodness mattress with real sheets was too tempting to resist.

  “Here you are,” Detective Garcia said, interrupting her thoughts.

  Shannon frowned as he pulled up at the back entrance of an obviously exclusive hotel.

  She looked down at her bare feet, torn skirt, dirty T-shirt, then at Michael. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “I wish I was,” he said grimly, sliding toward the door.

  She didn’t move. “I can’t go in there looking like this.”

  He reached for her hand, tugging when she resisted his attempt to help her out of the vehicle. “As you’re aware,” he said, “our options are severely limited.”

  “And limited—at least in my mind—means we find a budget hotel on a dead-end street—not a five-star luxury resort.”

  There was no doubt in her mind that the pink stone building with its elaborate cornices and gleaming windows was a five-star resort. The ornately scrolled C etched in the brass plate beside the service door further confirmed this belief.

  In fact, that symbol was vaguely familiar to her, but before she had time to wonder where she might have seen it, Michael was ushering her toward the entrance.

  “My sister will be so glad you approve,” he said, leading her into the chaos of the hotel kitchen at the height of dinner hour.

  The scents registered first: grilled meats, spicy sauces, sweet cakes. Then the sounds: dishes clattering, pots clanging, voices murmuring. And the vision: at least a half-dozen chefs in white aprons bustling about from chopping blocks to stovetops in a meticulously choreographed production.

  The swinging door pushed open to admit a busboy with a heavy tray and, on his heels, an immaculately dressed woman.

  The manager, Shannon guessed. Her black skirt and tailored jacket were designer, her dark-blond hair secured in a neat French twist, her gray eyes sharp and assessing. But more than anything else, it was the air of authority she carried with her that told Shannon this was the woman in charge.

  She prepared herself to be turned back out onto the street and was stunned when the woman’s lips curved, only seconds before she threw her arms around Michael.

  “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Hey, Rach.”

  His sister, Shannon realized.

  She could see it now—the family resemblance. Despite Michael’s disheveled appearance and decidedly masculine features, there were definite similarities in the shape of the face, the color of the eyes, the curve of the lips.

  “Sorry to intrude at mealtime,” he said to his sister.

  “You know I’m always happy to see you. Not so happy to hear about my boat,” she continued. “But relieved to know that you didn’t blow up with it.”

  “You’re all heart,” he said dryly.

  Rachel grinned and turned to her
. “You must be Shannon.”

  She could only nod, feeling filthy and self-conscious in the presence of this together, professional woman. She usually was such a woman, but now—covered in dirt and sweat and bug bites—she felt completely out of her element.

  “I’m guessing you probably want a bath and a bed—not necessarily in that order.”

  “Definitely in that order,” Shannon said. As exhausted as she was, no way was she climbing between the sheets until she’d scrubbed the two days’ worth of dirt and grime from her skin.

  “And food,” Michael added.

  “Dominic is grilling red snapper with plantains and sweet potatoes tonight.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

  “Just call down to the kitchen when you decide,” she said, pressing two keycards into his hand.

  “Did you remember what I told you about the registration?”

  She nodded. “Harold Jessop is in Room 1027, Lillian Baines in 1029. And if anyone comes looking for you, I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen my brother in several days.”

  He grinned. “Thanks, Rach. I owe you.”

  “Big-time,” she agreed cheerfully. “But we’ll talk about that after you’ve had a chance to rest.”

  Then suddenly her eyes filled with tears, and she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him close.

  “You’re going to get your pretty clothes all dirty.”

  “I don’t care.” She held on a moment longer to prove it. “You really scared me this time, Michael.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well—” she pulled back, sniffled “—don’t ever do that again.”

  Then she turned to Shannon, the professional smile back in place. “I hope you enjoy your stay at the Courtland Resort Miami.”

  A.J. was furious.

  Not only had Peart failed to apprehend the woman and the P.I., he’d gone and gotten himself shot in the process. He was one of the organization’s top men and he’d embarked on the pursuit armed with plenty of firepower and two assistants. Yet somehow Courtland had bested all of them.

  A.J. didn’t tolerate second place.

  Ever.

  The crystal tumbler of whiskey smashed against the door frame, raining shards of glass and drops of Chivas.

  Obviously it had been a mistake to entrust such a crucial task to anyone else—a mistake that would soon be rectified.

  A.J. knew which hotel they were at and what rooms they were checked into. The information had been relayed by a well-paid informant on the Courtland staff almost as soon as the phony registrations were logged into the computer at the front desk.

  Courtland obviously thought he could keep the woman safe there, and with good reason. Security at the hotel was top-notch, with video cameras in the lobby, the halls and each of the stairwells and elevators.

  But A.J. knew that nothing was impenetrable, no one was ever truly safe. And though it was tempting to launch the next attack in that direction to make the point, it was what Courtland would expect.

  No, it was time for a subtle change of tactics. Shift the target, change the rules. Make Courtland play the game.

  But there was one other loose end to take care of first.

  Shannon knew now why that scrolled C had seemed familiar—it was the logo on more than a thousand Courtland resorts and hotels around the world. In fact, she’d stayed at a Courtland resort in San Francisco once—on her honeymoon with Doug.

  Michael slipped the keycard into the slot, pushed the door open when the signal blinked green and stepped back so Shannon could precede him into the room.

  She moved past him, her feet sinking into the soft rose-colored carpet. The floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with velvet curtains and the walls were papered in silk. And then there was the bed—wider than she was tall, covered in a silk brocade spread and piled high with fluffy pillows.

  Every detail was perfect. Of course, nothing less than perfection was tolerated at a Courtland resort.

  She wondered if it was that kind of pressure that had driven Michael away from the family business and into the army. She shook off the instinctive sympathy that stirred inside her.

  “You haven’t said two words to me since Garcia dropped us off,” he noted.

  She had plenty she wanted to say but no idea where to begin. She crossed over to the window, pulled back the heavy drapes. “I’m surprised you couldn’t swing us a couple of rooms overlooking the beach,” she said.

  “I figured you’d seen enough water for a while.”

  She turned away from the window to face him. She couldn’t believe that, even now, after everything they’d been through, he was continuing to be evasive.

  “Have you ever heard of Howard Vaughn?” she asked him.

  His brow furrowed. “The New York Times bestselling novelist?” he asked cautiously.

  She nodded.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Well, here’s a newsflash,” she said. “We share the same last name, but we’re not related in any way. In fact, we’ve never even met.”

  He sighed. “You’re ticked about the Courtland thing, huh?”

  “The Courtland thing”—as if it was merely an insignificant detail and not an integral part of who he was.

  “When I asked you about the accommodations you’d arranged, you told me your sister worked at a hotel in Miami.”

  “She does.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been more accurate to say she owns the hotel?”

  He selected a bottle of water from the top of the bar, twisted the cap. “Actually she only owns twenty-four and a half percent of it.”

  “How much do you own?”

  He took a long swallow before admitting, “The same. My dad holds the remaining fifty-one percent.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it wasn’t relevant,” he said simply.

  She stared at him. “Your family owns one of the largest hotel chains in the world—how is that ever not relevant?”

  “Because it’s theirs, not mine.”

  “You just admitted that you own almost a quarter of the company.”

  “Only on paper. I have less than zero involvement in the day-to-day operations of the business.”

  They’d had this conversation already, but when he’d first told her about his decision not to work for his father’s business, she hadn’t realized what that business was. “How does your family feel about that?”

  His smile was strained. “They’re still convinced I’m going through a rebellious phase—that I’ll come to my senses one day.”

  “Your parents must be pleased that your sister’s involved in the business, at least.”

  “You’d think so,” he agreed. “But that’s a whole other story.”

  She realized he wasn’t being deliberately evasive, he was just explaining the situation as he saw it. She also realized that if they’d had other options, he wouldn’t have chosen to come to this hotel, either. “So why are we here, Michael?”

  He recapped the empty water bottle and tossed it into the garbage. “Because we need to keep a low profile and I couldn’t think of another hotel that would accept our phony registrations without question. Because I know the security of the hotel and believe I can keep you safe here. But mostly because the next time I make love with you, I want it to be in a real bed.”

  Chapter 12

  Shannon snapped her jaw shut.

  Whatever other questions she’d intended fled at the naked desire in his eyes, the answering heat that pulsed through her own veins.

  “Oh.”

  He smiled wryly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at such a complete loss for words.”

  “I’m surprised,” she admitted. “I figured that what happened between us on the island happened because we were on the island, and the way it ended…” She trailed off, aware that she was rambling incoherently.

  “I promised to make it up to you,” he reminded her.


  She remained silent.

  “You didn’t think I actually meant it, did you?”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Michael.”

  He took a step closer, brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. “I want to be with you, Shannon. The question is, what do you want?”

  She swallowed, not willing to admit how much she wanted to be with him. Because wanting equaled vulnerability, and this time she was determined to protect her heart.

  “I don’t know,” she lied.

  He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

  The close scrutiny reminded her of her disheveled appearance—the dirty clothing, unwashed hair. On the island there had been no point in worrying about something she couldn’t fix. But since she’d stepped off the boat in Miami, she’d been increasingly aware of how ghastly she looked.

  “I want a bath,” she decided. “A long, hot bath.”

  He nodded. “There are bubbles, creams, lotions—everything you’ll need—in the bathroom. I’ll go next door to my room and give you some privacy.”

  “Your room?”

  “I know what I want,” he told her pointedly. “The rest is up to you.”

  Shannon watched Michael disappear through the connecting door, feeling oddly bereft by his easy retreat. And yet she knew it was for the best. There was no point in sustaining a relationship that had no future.

  She passed a mirror on the way to the bathroom and grimaced. She could see why he’d retreated. Obviously Michael thought she needed a bath as much as she did.

  She peeled her T-shirt over her head and unfastened her skirt, tempted to toss both items in the garbage except that she didn’t even have a change of clothes. At least there was a complimentary robe on the back of the bathroom door—that would suffice until she had a chance to send her clothes down to the laundry.

  That decision resolved one of her immediate problems, but what was she going to do about Michael?