But that didn't mean he was attracted to her.
Nor was he responsible for her mood.
"Please," he said, at his most government-grant formal. "Have a seat."
She narrowed her eyes. "You must be kidding."
Her tone was a slap in the face, but Dean didn't let it show. He was an expert at not letting emotions show, especially pain. "Suit yourself," he replied mildly.
She crossed her befringed arms over her chest. "You don't seem too surprised to see me."
"I...wouldn't say that."
Her eyebrows raised. "So you are surprised." She sounded oddly bitter about it. "You didn't think I'd have the nerve to come after you even — even after what you did."
After what he did? Dean calmed another guilty sinking in his gut. He couldn't have done anything to feel guilty about.
No, not even if the longer they stood together alone in his office the more he became...aware of her; of the way her lips curved up at the corners, of the silky look of her hair. A small, hot ball began to form deep inside him.
But he refused to believe he'd done anything irresponsible, anything reprehensible.
He was in no way like his father.
Meanwhile the woman's fingers visibly tightened on her upper arms. "And now I come here and — and, my God, Dean. This office. Your name on the — on the building. And that
suit — " She paused, as if overcome by this last item on the list. She lowered her arms and snorted. "Is there anything you told me that was the truth?"
Dean stopped breathing. She glared at him, as if she had no idea of what she'd just said. In, out. Dean made himself breathe again. "I do not lie," he said, very softly.
Her eyes widened.
He made his voice even softer. "I never lied to you."
"Huh." Her gaze turned derisive. "How about 'wait?'"
"Wait?"
"Oh, come on." She laughed. "You aren't going to pretend you forgot."
Dean stared at her.
"Well." She put her hands on her hips. "Are you?"
You forgot. The ball of heat inside Dean should have winked out then. She'd just given herself away. But it didn't wink out. In fact, it was no longer a discrete ball but an over-arching sphere. He was reacting to her, vigorously, but not because there was any history between them.
Oh no, it was all becoming crystal clear. Her presence here, his reaction to her — it was all beginning to make sense.
"You know too much," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"'I forgot.' You know too much. How to get my goat. What to say. It's too damn convenient."
Her eyes widened. "Ex-cuse me?"
Dean took a step back. A man who'd lost two days of his memory was in a vulnerable position. An unscrupulous individual could take advantage. Or merely a mischievous one, one without any sense of propriety or limits.
And Dean happened to know just such an individual. "Troy sent you."
"What?"
She seemed incredulous, too much so, and Dean felt all the pieces come together. Her arrival at his important annual meeting, the impression of sex kitten she exuded, his reaction to her.
"Troy, my beloved younger cousin." Dean wanted to make it clear the jig was up. "He was there during the hypnosis, he gave me the suggestion. Now he thinks to turn the screw even further. Send some blond sex goddess to my office during the vice presidents meeting. Very funny."
The woman stared at him. "Sex goddess?"
An incredible burden rolled off of Dean. He was so relieved he laughed. "You nearly had me there, for a minute."
"I — I beg your pardon?" She managed to sound both indignant and incredulous.
"You must be an actress." Dean smiled at her. "You've obviously been trained to express and elicit emotion."
She merely stared at him, open-mouthed.
Sighing, Dean turned for his massive office desk. "When I called in after being missing for two days, Troy claimed he'd been frantic, looking for me, that he regretted the hypnotic suggestion, his little joke, but I guess that didn't last. He sent you."
Behind his desk now, Dean paused and threw the woman a cutting glance. "And I have a good idea what he wanted me to think about you."
Finally, the woman closed her mouth. But she wasn't ready to give up the game. "Hypnotic suggestion?" she repeated, very slowly. "Are you saying...you don't remember meeting me?"
"No." Dean met the little actress's eyes. "I'm saying I have never met you at all."
She was looking at him as if he'd just grown another head. "You deny it?" she finally asked, whisper soft. "You deny we even met after my show on the Strip?"
She'd been in a show? On the Strip? Dean's heart plunged. But no, no — She was an actress, a plant of Troy's. Of course. That's how she knew it was in Las Vegas he'd finally 'woken up' from his trance. It's how she knew the type of woman his father brought home, the type who'd happily prance naked on a spotlit stage.
He cleared his throat, doing his best not to envision this particular woman prancing naked. "Surely Troy explained everything to you, but for the sake of argument, I'll say it again. For two days I was following a hypnotic suggestion. I don't remember anything that happened. Which makes it easy for someone like you to help my cousin play this little trick on me."
The fringes over her chest began to rise and fall with her alleged emotion. "I don't believe this," she muttered. "I finally go to the trouble of tracking down the lout, confronting him, and he claims he was 'hypnotized.' Doesn't even remember me. That's cute. Convenient. And original."
"I'm not 'claiming' I was hypnotized. It's true." Dean nearly bit his tongue. He didn't need to defend himself. She knew.
She took a step back. "I'll tell you what's true. You're a lying...Casanova!"
Dean's fingers clenched into fists. Was she saying — ? All right, he'd admit he was attracted, maybe even aroused, but that was just from...surprise, and her acting ability. She wasn't his type; not understated elegance, sophisticated or genteel. And besides, she was only Troy's friend. Dean had never laid eyes on her before that morning. "We did not sleep together," he told her, low.
She shot him a gaze replete with scorn. "Oh, right. You forgot."
Dean's jaw tightened. He could not have, would not have, slept with a Las Vegas dancer. No, not even if watching the fringes rise and fall on her jacket was raising the temperature beneath his suit to about four hundred degrees.
But the woman wasn't done. With one hand, she pointed to a finger on the other. "How do you intend to forget this?" she wanted to know.
Dean forced his gaze from her chest. "Excuse me?"
She began pulling on the indicated finger, then held up an object that was too small for Dean to see. She shook it at him. "Our wedding ring, Dean. So please tell me, did you intend to 'forget' we were married, too?"
Dean felt his heart stop right in its place. Married? Right before he passed out from lack of oxygen, he dragged in a breath and reminded himself this was just Troy. Really playing hardball, even for a joke. He wasn't married. Not to her.
And yet — and yet — he couldn't remember those two days. Amnesia hadn't been part of Troy's suggestion. Why the hell couldn't he remember?
Slowly, Dean shifted his gaze to meet hers.
Her eyes glittered with anger and insult. It was hard to believe even an actress could pull it off.
"Here," she said, and threw the ring hard. It made a small thud as it hit the carpet behind Dean's desk. "So much for your promises," she whispered hoarsely.
Dean watched, immobilized, as she whirled and threw open the door. He saw a flash image of Mrs. Barnes and a lot of swinging fake leather fringe before the automatic spring returned his abused office door to its frame.
It should have become quiet then, but Dean's ears were ringing. For a long time he could only stand there, eardrums vibrating. Then he turned. His gaze went down to the floor.
The gold band lay behind the back wheel of his cha
ir. Like a snake, waiting to strike.
Married, to a dancer on the Strip. Impetuously, foolishly tied to a woman with whom he had not a thing in common, who could only be charmed by his money, who made a living controlling the passions of others, and who could have no real feelings for him at all.
Married to the very kind of woman his father always married.
Dean stared at the ring and frowned. No. The ring was just a prop. Easily obtained. Interchangeable. Hardly proof of anything.
He bent and picked it up. The metal was still warm from her finger.
Dean felt a large area hollow out in his stomach. His fingers tightened on the ring. Prop?
Or evidence of what he'd actually done those two missing days?
The hollow in his stomach grew. No, Dean told himself. He was not his father.
But his eyes squeezed closed as he set the ring against his forehead. If only it all didn't make a horrible kind of sense.
CHAPTER TWO
Kelly was still burning as she braced for liftoff in the crowded jet out of Logan. Hypnotized! How — how outrageous could a man get? Claimed he didn't even remember her! Glaring out the plane window, Kelly thought of the hours they'd spent together, the outpourings of their souls, so fast, so deep.
She'd told him everything; from her strict, but loving, upbringing as a preacher's kid in a small town outside of St. Louis, to how she'd nearly flunked out of school but had won every dance contest around. He knew how lucky she'd felt to get the Las Vegas gig, but how frustrated she was in finding a man who was serious about a relationship, and not one who simply wanted an affair with a dancer.
He was going to forget all that? Her soul stripped bare?
And what about the other parts of her she'd stripped bare? What about the hours they'd spent in her bed, hot, entwined, pleasured? Was he going to 'forget' that!
Throughout the plane flight Kelly nursed her anger, although every so often a stray thought crept in. Why had Dean looked so strange? With that grim slash of a mouth and corporate demeanor, he'd seemed like a completely different person. And a whole building was named after him?
That was when, for one tiny, wing beat of an instant, Kelly would wonder if he'd been telling the truth in that big fat office of his, if he'd really been hypnotized and had done everything while in a trance.
But the instant of such credulity would pass quickly. Her anger would burn through again. She wasn't that stupid. Oh, she'd let men feed her some pretty incredible lines, but she wasn't about to eat this one. Hypnotized.
And to think she was married to him!
In her cramped airplane seat, Kelly grimaced. Unfortunately, she had to recall that she'd been the one to bring up marriage. After her last disastrous relationship, with a musician who'd strung her on for months without committing, she'd decided to go back to basics, back to the values with which she'd been raised. She'd decided she could no longer go to bed with a man unless he was her husband.
Last Saturday night in the back seat of her car and locked in a hot, wet kiss with Dean, the temptation had been strong to abandon this quaint little policy. He'd felt so good around her; his arms so strong, his hands so clever.
But Kelly had forced herself out of her sensual haze. Panting, she'd pushed back from Dean. The look in his eyes then — Oh, not disappointed, not angry, but stricken. Yes, he'd looked as if her pulling away hurt as much as a blow.
So Kelly had explained the problem. She'd been terrified he would laugh. She was a Las Vegas dancer, after all. She wasn't loose, but hardly a virgin. So — holding out for marriage? She'd expected an argument, persuasions.
Instead Dean had given her one long, intense look — and then asked her to marry him.
At the time, oh! — Kelly had thought it so romantic. Sure, she hadn't believed him at first. But Dean had talked fast. He'd talked hard. And he'd truly seemed to be absolutely, positively serious. He'd been so serious he'd made Kelly feel that way, too. As if they were meant to be together, not just for that night but for forever.
Serious! All he'd been serious about was getting her into bed.
Kelly's anger kept her going through the plane flight, the landing, and a cab ride home. By the time she got to her apartment, however, it all began to catch up to her. She hadn't slept the night before, or the night before that. She was worn to the bone.
At the front door, her key wobbled in the lock. "Come on, come on," Kelly muttered. "Don't get picky on me now." The tumblers caught and she pushed the door open.
She nearly tripped on the pale green sweatshirt trailed across the threshold.
"Oh, no," she whispered. She could feel the muscles of her face contort as she kicked the sweatshirt to one side. She remembered, too well, how it had gotten there. After the wedding, they'd both been laughing, giddy with the gamble they'd taken. Married, after a courtship of only two days. Dean had pressed her against the door. "Now," he'd crowed, nuzzling her. His hands had lifted the hem of Kelly's sweatshirt. "Now I'm allowed to take this off."
Kelly fell back against the same door. Her purse dropped and she threw her hands over her eyes. She'd promised herself she wasn't going to cry over him, not over some rock-bottom worm like that, but she could feel the hot moisture building anyway, could feel the spasms starting in her chest.
What had she been thinking to fly out to Boston? Had she expected to get the better of such a super-class bum?
Well, yes, she had imagined that. And something even worse.
She'd imagined — oh, she hated to admit it, even to herself — but she'd imagined, deep down in the most naïve part of herself, that he was going to be happy to see her. Yes! She'd dreamed he was going to have some magical explanation to take away the hurt of what he'd done. His betrayal was going to vanish into thin air.
In one, secret, wishful part of herself, she'd envisioned him flying home with her on the plane.
Stupid. Utterly delusional and stupid.
All Dean had wanted in Boston was to see the back of her — forever. And he hadn't cared how much more he had to hurt her to achieve that result.
Kelly hiccupped painfully. Lord, she'd been brought up better than this, better than to accept less than complete commitment and respect. Her minister father and his devoted wife, her mother, had given Kelly a glorious example of a truly loving relationship. It certainly wasn't their fault Kelly was failing completely in the romance department.
She was almost — almost — glad they were no longer alive to see what a mess she'd made of her own 'marriage.'
Kelly allowed herself one last sob, then gave her head a brisk shake. All right. Enough. She'd made her mistake in insisting on a ring, and then compounded it by flying out to Boston. It didn't accomplish anything now to feel sorry for herself. All she could do was...move on. Put Dean Singleton and her bad judgment behind her.
Next time she'd be smarter. Next time she'd find out for sure whether or not the guy really loved her.
Kelly sniffled, rubbed her nose, and bent to snag the green sweatshirt off the floor. The simple act made her feel better. A crumb cake, Kelly decided. She almost smiled as she mashed the sweatshirt into a ball.
Tomorrow she'd ask the girls for the crumb cake. With her boots pinching, Kelly limped toward her bedroom. A good crumb cake ought to clean Dean Singleton right out of her system.
###
Seated in a rental car parked in a lot behind one of the biggest hotels in Las Vegas, Dean lifted his wrist and checked his watch. According to the private detective's report, Kelly — yes, that was her name, Kelly — would be getting out of her required workout just about now.
Dean lowered his wrist. He'd been surprised to learn the number of hours Kelly put in at her job. It was clear she was in a show that demanded real dancing and not a simple display of physical attributes. In fact, according the detective's report it was family oriented, no nudity. That made Dean feel marginally better.
Not completely better, of course. He still cou
ldn't believe the cold facts of the matter, all he'd done his two lost days. The whole affair was so pathetically tawdry. But at least he was facing it now, dealing with the consequences. Part of that involved sitting here, waiting to speak to the woman who had not, after all, been hired by cousin Troy to interrupt his vice presidents meeting.
Dean looked out the car window and chewed the inside of his cheek. This was duty. The sooner he got to it, the better.
Suiting action to words, he clicked his car door open. Desert air hit him as he unfolded from the car. Cool for Vegas in May, but warm for a New Englander. He took a moment to adjust to the temperature, then shut the car door and straightened his tie. With a deep breath, he started through the parked cars toward the gym door.
His palms sweated and his neck felt stiff. Everything depended on his doing this right; his sense of honor, his self-respect — everything.
He slowed when he saw the crowd. About a dozen women, hair bands and sweat suits, gathered in the parking lot around the back of a car. They were laughing and excited. Among them Dean saw Kelly. That's when his feet stopped. Partially hidden behind a red Bronco, Dean stared his fill.
Kelly's hair was loosely bound in a ponytail high on top of her head and she was dressed just as sloppily as everybody else, in a sweat jacket with the sleeves pushed up, but Dean felt the wind knocked out of him all the same. There was something about her, the way she stood, an angle of head — it simply cried out: sex.
He hadn't expected that. For some reason, he hadn't thought the same reaction would assail him now that had hit him in his office on Monday. Dean drew in a deep, slow breath. He could handle this, get past it. He could still prove that he was not just like his father.
Meanwhile Kelly took control of the crowd. "Now, now," she called, raising her hands. "Calm yourselves, girls."
"But you said you were ready," complained a woman in a purple jogging suit.
"So blow him out," a redhead in shorts recommended.
Dean frowned, peering to see what they were talking about. A sheet cake was laid on the back of a car. Thanks to the angle of the car's trunk he could see the orange-frosted concoction was cut in the shape of a human figure. A single candle was stuck in just the right place to create an anatomically correct male figure.