The Rebel Tycoon's Outrageous Proposal. Abby Gaines
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fury, “scare me like that again.” Then he hauled her close and lowered his mouth to hers.
If this was a kiss, a small part of Holly’s brain registered, it wasn’t like any she’d had before. The rest of her brain struggled to deal with the instant response of every nerve ending to Jared’s touch. But when she realized she’d already parted her lips to the invasion of his tongue, that now her hands had wound around his neck and into his thick, dark hair, Holly dismissed her brain and instead surrendered to the incredible experience that was Jared’s kiss.
He devoured her with a hunger that should have horrified her. Instead she explored his mouth with a greed that equaled his, moved eagerly under his insistent hands, which pulled her against his hard length.
Then, as if sanity returned to both of them in the same instant, they sprang apart, Holly stumbling. Unable to meet Jared’s eyes, she busied her hands tucking in her shirt, which had made its way out of her jeans, embarrassed to find she was breathing heavily. The only consolation was that Jared looked equally discomfited, tugging at the collar of his shirt, running a hand through the hair she’d mussed.
Now Holly noticed the pallor of his face, which emphasized the darkness of his eyes. But she could see he was more than furious; he looked positively spooked. So instead of castigating him for kissing her—and in all fairness, how could she when her response had suggested she was desperate for his touch?—she said in the mildest of tones, “What do you mean, scare you?”
Jared shut his eyes. When he opened them, the anger was gone, his voice was calm. But she sensed the huge effort that it cost him. “When you didn’t answer the door I thought maybe you’d overreacted to this FBI thing and…done something stupid.”
It wasn’t like Jared to employ a euphemism when plain language was available. “You thought I’d killed myself.”
He flinched. “You were upset this morning.”
“You’re right, killing myself would be stupid.” Her acerbic tone seemed to reassure him, and he let out a breath. “I’m innocent and the investigation will prove it. So throwing myself out a penthouse window would achieve very little.”
“Only a sore head,” he agreed, sounding almost his normal self. “They don’t open and the glass is extra tough.”
She grinned at the release of tension. Jared smiled back. His relief added warmth to the smile, setting off a fluttering somewhere around Holly’s midriff.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded before his charm overcame her resistance. “I told you I didn’t want to see you before Sunday night.”
“I’m ordering Chinese takeout. Do you want some?”
“No, thanks. I’ll cook something here.” There was an awkward pause. Holly figured Jared really wanted to know how her work was going, but she’d told him she wouldn’t be ready to report back until Sunday, and she meant it.
“Why didn’t you answer the door earlier?” he asked suddenly.
“I was concentrating. It can take a while to get through to me when I’m engrossed in my work.”
Jared nodded.
“Why would you think I would kill myself? It seems…somewhat extreme.”
In an instant, his expression shuttered. “I’ll leave you to it.” He made the distance in his tone a physical reality by heading for the door he’d so recently threatened to break down. As if the sight of it had triggered his memory, he turned on his way out. “By the way,” he said carelessly, “that kiss—it won’t happen again.”
CHAPTER FIVE
WHO WOULD HAVE guessed that the mother of prosperous accountant Holly Stephens would reside in a second-rate trailer park?
Certainly not Special Agent Simon Crook, if he hadn’t known her record. But the local cops had been bitter about their past encounters with Mrs. Stephens, so Simon had a good idea whom hewas about to meet. And he was pretty sure he would find the answer to Holly Stephens’s guilt or innocence right here. Like mother, like daughter.
The Stephenses’ family home was no better and noworse than the other trailers surrounding it, with a couple of rooms tacked on the front. Venetian blinds obscured any viewof the interior, andwould have made the place look abandoned if not for the plants that flourished in the tiny front yard.
Special Agent Andy Slater dismissed the inhabitants of the trailer park an hour east of Portland in two words: white trash.
Simon frowned. Andy was a good agent, but he had trouble shaking off his Southern attitudes. “Some of these people work hard for a living,” he said.
“This one doesn’t.” Andy gestured toward Mrs. Stephens’s door. “Leastways, not so’s we know.”
He had a point. Crook knocked on the door, which shook in its flimsy frame, and waited. No answer. What a surprise. In his experience trailer-park dwellers were universally hard of hearing when the law came calling.
But they knew Margaret Stephens was at home. They’d stopped at the euphemistically titled Management Office on their way in, and the old guy there had confirmed it. “Don’t often go out, that one. No car.”
Crook knocked harder. “Mrs. Stephens,” he called. “FBI. Open up.” Silence.
“Break it down,” Andy said laconically.
Simon assumed—hoped—Andy was joking, given they didn’t have a warrant. Still, he was mentally judging where he would best apply his shoulder to the door if they did have one, when it opened.
“What do you want?”
For a second, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he was here. But Margaret Stephens’s truculent greeting and the startling contrast between the hostile words and her husky voice weren’t to blame for his momentary amnesia. No, it was Mrs. Stephens herself.
He’d expected a woman as scrawny as her daughter, but from poverty rather than fashion. Someone plain, like Holly, but made even mousier by her circumstances.
There was nothing scrawny and nothing plain about Holly’s mother. Wild waves of thick, chestnut hair framed a face dominated by eyes as green as envy and a wide, full mouth that was positively sinful. He knew her to be forty-nine years old, but she was the most stunning woman he’d seen since…
Okay, so the woman was…voluptuous. But she was also a druggie and goodness knew what else.
“Mrs. Margaret Stephens? Can we come in? It’s about your daughter.”
She regarded them with suspicion. “Summer’s working in Portland during her vacation.”
“I’m talking about Holly.”
“Holly?” Shock provoked her to take an instinctive step backward, and the two agents took advantage of it, stepping inside. “Is my baby hurt? Dead?”
“She’s okay,” Simon said quickly. “We just need to ask you a few questions.”
The inside of the trailer was at first glance no more promising than the outside. Shabby furnishings—a couch that looked as if ninety percent of its stuffing had disappeared years ago, a threadbare rug, a Formica dining table with matching chairs so old-fashioned they were trendy again—all spoke of a woman struggling to survive.
If Margaret Stephens had made any money out of drugs, she must have blown it all.
Crook shifted his scrutiny from the furnishings—and did a double take.
“What the hell—?” Andy was also looking at the walls.
Not that a lot of wall was visible. Paintings, all sizes, covered just about every square inch. Crook surmised they were intended as art, given they were executed on canvas. But there any resemblance to the impressionist and modern masters he’d studied in high-school art class