“That's very generous of you, but I can provide for my wife's needs,” Daniel said with a hint of bruised pride. “If you'll make arrangements for her to charge her purchases to our suite, that will be sufficient.”
Drake eyed Daniel with a speculation B.J. couldn't quite analyze. “Consider it done. I'm sure you're both tired and hungry. Perhaps you would like to take advantage of some of my resort's amenities for the remainder of the day. We can
talk business tomorrow, Daniel.”
Daniel seemed to give the suggestion some thought, and then he inclined his head. “Thank you. For my wife's sake, I think that would be best.”
If he said “my wife” in that smugly possessive tone one more time, B.J. was going to kick him. Hard. And she didn't care who was watching.
“Let me escort you to your suite. Bernard will see that your bags are delivered to you, Daniel.”
Tucking her canvas tote bag beneath her arm—and thinking wistfully of the cell phone tucked inside it—B.J. allowed herself to be led to the main lodge of the resort. They passed other people, mostly wealthy-looking and highly maintained couples, but other than smiling genially, Drake did not allow himself to be detained.
He led them through an exquisitely decorated lobby, merely nodding to the young woman behind the reception desk. He kept up a congenial-host monologue during a brief elevator ride, listing some of the resort's many attractions.
Drake stood much closer to B.J. than she thought necessary; the elevator car was not so small that it required that proximity. When he escorted them into a luxurious suite, his hand rested casually at the small of her back, just above the very slight curve of her hip.
Drake was so vainly assured of his appeal to women that he seemed to expect her to fall at his feet—even with her “husband” standing right next to them. She wondered how he would react if she informed him that his touch made her want to scrub her skin with bleach.
Telling them he was leaving them to relax, he made a swift exit, pausing only long enough to remind Daniel that they would schedule a meeting for the next morning.
The moment the door closed behind him, B.J. whirled to face Daniel. “If that man touches me one more time, I'm going to punch his capped teeth in.”
Daniel gave her what could only be described as a wryly warning look before saying, “I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, darling. He's just the friendly sort.”
She watched in disbelief as he pulled a small electronic device from an inside pocket of his jacket and began to walk around the room with it. Having spent the past eighteen months working for her uncles, she figured out immediately what he was doing. Did he really think the rooms were bugged with listening devices?
Just what had she stumbled into here? What exactly had Daniel gotten involved with since he had left the Walker ranch foster home for at-risk teenage boys?
Chapter Two
Daniel motioned for B.J. to keep talking. She figured if Drake was eavesdropping on her, she was going to make it count. “He creeps me out. Obviously thinks he's God's gift to women—but the joke's on him. He's a slug.”
Daniel rolled his eyes. Still speaking in a soothing, placating tone, he said, “Now, sweetheart, you're just tired. It has been a stressful day for you.”
He could say that again. And then again, for emphasis.
She had told her uncles recently that she wanted more exciting and challenging assignments than the computer searches she had been doing for the past months. She had never imagined that this seemingly in nocuous assignment would go so wildly off course.
Speaking of her uncles… “I need to call home.”
Daniel returned from the bedroom, tucking his little spy gadget back into his pocket. Something about the way he walked told her all was clear even before he spoke. “We can talk freely now. At least, we can until we leave and return—at which point I'll sweep the rooms again, just to be on the safe side.”
“I need to call home,” she repeated. “But first… maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on?”
Grimacing in response to her renewed anger, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the prissy white brocade sofa that matched the rest of the delicately fancy furnishings in the overdone room. Overdone in B.J.'s opinion, anyway. She preferred simpler, less ornate surroundings. Her idea of resort decor would have involved wicker and cotton, thick cushions and inviting ottomans.
Without directly responding to her, Daniel moved to the white-painted-and-gilded wet bar built into one corner of the room. He opened a small refrigerator and scanned the contents. “Would you like something to drink? We have sodas, juice and bottled water. Unless you need something harder—and I wouldn't blame you if you did, considering everything.”
She started to curtly decline anything, but then she realized she really was thirsty. “I'll have a bottled water.”
He carried one around to her, motioning for her to sit down. She chose a chair that sacrificed comfort for style, perching on the edge of the seat with her water bottle clutched tightly in her hand.
She did not take her eyes away from Daniel's unrevealing face as he sat on the sofa opposite her, sipping soda and looking remarkably relaxed. How could he be so calm about this bizarre situation? And what exactly was the situation?
“I'm waiting,” she reminded him. “I'd like to know what I'm doing here. Why you let them believe I'm your wife. I want to know what you're involved in—and why you seem so sure I'll be in danger if I tell the truth. Mostly I want to know when I can leave.”
He took his time answering, and that only annoyed her more, as he seemed to be weighing his words. Deciding exactly what he could—or wanted—to tell her. “Two or three days,” he said finally. “That should be all it will take.”