“I’ll pay two hundred dollars and the travel expenses,” she said, then nearly bit her tongue in her haste to call the words back. But it was too late.
He raised his eyebrows. “I was thinking more of a trade. One weekend of husbanding for one night of—”
She raised her hand. “Don’t say it.”
“Passionate lovemaking,” he finished.
She winced. “Four hundred, in cash. No touching.”
“Let’s spend the weekend negotiating. When do you want to leave?”
Was there really a choice? Despite all her talk, she would never have been able to call an escort service. Wasn’t bringing Nick along better than breaking an old woman’s heart? “In the morning. I want to be there on Saturday.”
“Where is there?”
“Northern California.”
He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
She wished she had another shot to give her courage. She wished she’d never mentioned it in the first place. She wished she’d never gotten in his car.
But wishing didn’t change anything and he was her best bet. That’s probably why she was here, having a drink with him. The power of the subconscious mind at work.
She slipped her hand in his and they shook. The contact was electric. She expected to see smoke and fire, but there was only Nick smiling at her. Enjoying her predicament and having power over her at last.
And he did have power. Comparing his power to the power of the subconscious mind was like comparing an eighteen-wheeler to a toy truck. She had a bad feeling she had just stepped in front of headlights and was about to be mowed down.
Hannah stared at the front door. She didn’t want to open it. Not only because her head hurt and the thought of sunlight was enough to bring tears to her eyes, but also because she didn’t want to face the man on the other side.
Insanity. There was no other explanation. Maybe it ran in her family. She’d been adopted, so there was no way to tell. Or maybe her blood sugar had dipped below the normal range and she’d had a brief blackout episode. Whatever the explanation, she didn’t have the guts to face him and accept what they’d agreed to do.
He knocked again. “Hannah? Are you awake?”
“Yes,” she whispered even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. She cleared her throat and spoke more loudly. “I’m right here. Hold on.”
She turned the key in the dead-bolt lock and pulled open the door. Nick stood on the front step of her town house. The sunlight made her blink, as did Nick. It wasn’t fair. Even in her weakened condition—with her head pounding and her stomach rolling—he looked good. Better than good. He looked tempting.
She was used to being impressed by his sheer male beauty. He was a California cliché with his blond hair, blue eyes and loose, easy stride. The well-made suits he wore only enhanced his assets. If he had any physical flaws, she’d never noticed. She’d gotten used to ignoring his good looks, his tailored clothing, his bright smile. They were meaningless trappings that merely concealed the flaws in his character. She was immune.
Well, unless she had a hangover. She stood in the doorway and reminded herself to breathe. In and out, in and out until the involuntary function kicked back in on its own. He wasn’t wearing a suit, or handmade shoes, or even a tie. Instead, he’d dressed in jeans and a plain white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His boots looked worn. But the smile was just as devastating as it always had been. Thank the Lord she could blame her weak knees on her hangover.
“You look awful,” he said cheerfully and pushed past her into the town house. “Hangover?”
“No,” she murmured between clenched teeth. The volume of his voice made her head ache. “I feel fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He moved in front of her, shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I can tell. Are you packed?”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t only the effects of the alcohol that were slowing her down. It was also lack of sleep. At four in the morning, her eyes had popped open. Despite how awful she felt, or perhaps because of it, she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. She’d stared at the ceiling alternately praying that her memories about their evening together had been a dream, then hoping they were real.
“Did you take anything?” he asked. “Aspirin?”
She nodded, then wished she hadn’t actually moved her head.
His smile was sympathetic. “You’re such a straitlaced person, I doubt I could talk you into trying the hair of the dog, right?”
She stared at his face, at the wide blue eyes, the straight nose that should have been broken countless times but obviously hadn’t been. At the strong mouth, stubborn chin, the freshly shaved, tanned skin. He was gorgeous. It wasn’t fair.
His being nice to her only made it worse, she thought miserably as her stomach churned again. She hated when people tried to take care of her. She knew what was going on. They wanted to lull her into trusting them, then they would leave. She wasn’t about to play that game again.
“I’m fine,” she snapped and took a step back. “And I’m ready to go.”
“Great.”
She sucked in a deep breath, grabbing hold of the front door when dizziness threatened. “Where’s my car?”
“In the carport.”
That’s what she’d been afraid of. Her recollections of the end of the evening were fuzzy at best. She did remember Nick telling her she was way too drunk to drive and her agreeing with him about that. So instead of taking her back to the police station to collect her car, he’d brought her home. She vaguely recalled he’d promised to have her car delivered to her town house carport. Simple enough…except for one small problem.
She reached up toward the keys hanging from the lock in the front door. She found her car key and tugged on it gently. “You didn’t have a car key,” she said.
His sympathetic smile broadened and she nearly lost her balance. “I know. I asked one of my associates to take care of it. You probably don’t want to ask too many questions.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Nick was right. Questions—or rather, answers—would only make her uncomfortable. She didn’t want to think about the ramifications of someone breaking into and then hot-wiring her car, all while it sat in a police department parking lot.
“Do I have to worry about this person joyriding in my car?” she asked, opening her eyes and looking at him. “It wasn’t used in a drive-by shooting or anything, was it?”
He touched his hand to his chest. “I’m wounded. You talk as if I’m a thug. Hannah, I’m in real estate. I’m willing to admit a few of my employees are a little…” He paused.
“Creative in their dealings with the law?” she offered.
“Exactly. But my record is clean. You’ve seen that for yourself.”
“Right.”
She’d also seen him in the station bailing his associates out of jail. Only a madwoman would take Nick Archer to meet her mother. A really desperate madwoman.
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” he asked.
“Oh, no.” That was true. She was up to fifth or sixth thoughts. She opened her mouth to tell him that and to let him know that this was never going to work, but instead, she