so then she looked for a limousine. After several more steps it dawned on her that there were no limos ahead either. She slowed, perplexed.
“Where are we going?”
“The walk’ll be good for you,” he said, and she glanced up at him, dismayed.
“But it’s six blocks. And it must be after midnight.”
“It’s a nice night.”
His naiveté was a shock. “We could be mugged.”
Now he smiled a little, blatant evidence that he was far too macho to give a thought to the perils of big city crime. And maybe he was right. McClain was a big man, and he looked rugged and harsh, the quintessential tough-guy, even in an elegant tuxedo. And there was a “don’t mess with me” aura about him that most muggers would choose to pass up. There were easier targets.
“But it’s six blocks,” she reminded him, then felt heat flash into her cheeks. She’d sounded whiney and a little put upon, and she had just enough sense left to be a little ashamed of that in front of a man like him.
It’s what she would have said to anyone else and not thought a thing about it, but she’d said it to Oren McClain. A man whose fit, work-hardened body would see a paltry six blocks as laughably light exercise.
“You outta walk off some of that wine,” he said gruffly. She heard the hint of disapproval and was embarrassed that she’d been drinking like a fish. He’d caught her at a bad time, and what pride had survived everything else was under sound assault.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said, then submitted as he again slid his arm around her waist. Her arm went hesitantly around his, and they started. Hopefully, the effects of the wine would numb a little of the ache of walking six blocks on concrete in her heels.
They’d only gone two blocks before her head cleared more and her feet began to hurt enough that she reconsidered her pride in favor of trying to hail a taxi. But because she wanted to behave well while McClain was still around to witness it, she refrained from complaining. Or begging.
By the time they reached her building, got past security and took the swift silent elevator to her apartment, Stacey was abysmally clearheaded, and was already vowing to never again use alcohol to escape her problems. All it had done was make them worse, though something told her that her notion of worse was about to be revised downward.
That little inkling seemed downright prophetic by the time they reached her door and she tried to tell Oren McClain good-night.
“I’d like to see you inside,” he said. “Make sure you’re all right.”
The genuineness in his tone told her he wasn’t angling for more than that, though she couldn’t actually be sure. He’d been completely trustworthy before, but people were rarely what they seemed on short acquaintance.
And, it was kinder to him to stop things before she gave him any false hopes. Not that she assumed that every man who came in range was instantly lovesick, but because she couldn’t overlook that he’d said he was here to see if she’d changed her mind about him. He’d have to be more than a little smitten to do that.
Besides, she didn’t want to give herself the opportunity to grab whatever rescue he could provide. It would be wrong to use him, and she wasn’t sure how long she could be noble if she spent even a few more minutes with him. And it was a disturbing fact that her body was still reacting to the masculine pull of his, and she still tingled everywhere they’d touched on the walk home.
She made herself say, “I’m all right. Really. I’m just tired now…and embarrassed that I made a fool of myself.”
One side of his stern mouth curved slightly. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself, Miss Stacey. You’re the same proper lady you always are. Just a little thirsty.”
Stacey so liked the gently scolding tone in his gravely voice—as if he thought she was too hard on herself—but his kind words hurt. He was so gallant.
Too gallant to string along or exploit.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Good night, Mr. McClain.” She turned toward the door.
“You might need this,” he said, and she glanced back. Seeing the tiny handbag, she took it, fumbled with the catch, then got out her key. Her hand was steady enough to unlock the door.
She felt her body tingle again as he reached past her to push open the door, so she stepped quickly inside and turned.
“I’d like to see you tomorrow,” he said. “Take you to lunch somewhere.”
Stacey knew he meant to try to court her again, and she couldn’t allow that. It took almost more will than she had to tell him so.
“I’m…sorry. I’m truly sorry, Oren. It wouldn’t be…right.” She almost bit her lip again for calling him Oren. Using his first name after she’d called him Mr. McClain seemed far too personal, and maybe even a little inviting.
As if he hadn’t noticed anything but her refusal, a stoniness came over him. Had she hurt his feelings or merely made him angry?
Though he couldn’t know she no longer had a house staff, she was very aware that they were the only two people here. If he was a threat to her at all, she might be in trouble more serious than losing her fortune.
She was afraid of him—he was so big and tough that he could hurt her with very little effort—and yet she wasn’t afraid of him at all. He might not pass muster with the etiquette police, or know which fork to use, or how to properly greet royalty and important guests in a receiving line, but he was a complete gentleman.
“All right then, Miss Stacey,” he said, and his rugged face seemed merely solemn. He lifted his hand to an inside pocket and withdrew a business card. He held it out to her.
“I wrote the name of my hotel there, and the room number. I’m stayin’ till Thursday. After Thursday, you can get hold of me at any of those numbers.”
Stacey made herself take the card because he didn’t deserve rudeness, and he was perceptive enough not to need a strong rebuff. Proof of that was when he turned and crossed the short distance to the elevator.
Stacey literally had to press her fingers over her lips to keep from calling him back. She managed to step farther into her apartment to let her door go shut before he could get into the elevator and turn so she could see his face. Stacey listened to the latch on her door catch securely, then heard the elevator doors close.
Had she just done Oren McClain a kindness, or had she just cut off her last chance for an easy rescue?
CHAPTER TWO
THERE was nothing noble about the ghostly pale face in the mirror late that next morning or the self-pitying thoughts she was wallowing in. Stacey forced herself through the motions of a hot shower and the numbing discipline of doing her makeup and hair before she wandered into one of her closets to decide what to wear for the day.
The almost military precision of the spacing between the hangers of clothes on one side of the huge closet mocked her. Angelique had taken meticulous care of her clothes, hanging them
