Chapter 3 #2
Carson opened his mouth to bid her good night, but the words vanished somewhere between his brain and his tongue. Possibly due to the way she looked at his mouth in anticipation of his reply or just maybe because his own gaze kept venturing to her mouth.
Those voluptuous lips slid into another smile. “Oh, I see. You’re here for that.”
Shit. Had she seen something in his eyes? Noted some flash of interest on his face? He really was slipping here.
Time for polite regrets and a prompt exit.
“As stimulating as this conversation is”—he snagged some cash from his pocket and tossed it on the counter—“I have to be going.” He didn’t do relationships or one-night stands. He did work.
“Your friend said it was your birthday or something?” she asked before he could make his escape. “Did your party run out of steam already?”
Now Carson was beginning to get the picture. Damn Keller Luttrell. “Birthday parties are vastly overrated.”
Her mouth puckered into a sexy pout. “You’ve never had a birthday party?”
He hesitated, silently chastised himself for continuing the conversation considering Luttrell had likely scripted the scene line by line.
“Not since I was sixteen.” He closed out the bittersweet memories that instantly took advantage of that line of questioning.
Just go. He needed work to forget about the past .
. . and birthdays. And sexy ladies in fuck-me red dresses.
“At least you had one.”
The unexpected vulnerability in her voice reeled him back in for more . . . shouldn’t have, but it did. “You never had a birthday party?” Now why the hell had he asked her that? He was supposed to wrap this up and walk.
She moved her head slowly side-to-side. “Not one.” The remembered pain in her eyes, the kind that was all too familiar to him, put another hell of a crack in his willpower.
“When you’re all alone at the end of the day it’s difficult to celebrate much of anything.”
She couldn’t have guessed that about him.
Had to be Luttrell. “Look.” He held her wistful gaze with a firm, let’s-get-this-straight one of his own.
“I think I know what’s going on here, and my friend can be overly ambitious in his machinations.
You shouldn’t trust anything he says.” Luttrell was going to be sorry he’d hatched up this outrageous hoax.
The lady weighed his assertions before opening her clutch once more. Rather than making the exit he had planned, Carson watched with more of that inexplicable interest. He was making this way too easy for his friend.
The lady withdrew a key card and placed it on the counter. “I’m in room three fifteen at the Tutwiler. If that is what you’re looking for, I’ll be there all night.”
She started to turn away but didn’t; instead she tilted her lips close to his ear, and whispered, “No one should be alone on a night like this.”
Then she walked away, her hips swaying in blatant invitation.
Had he just been propositioned?
Carson shook his head.
Luttrell would do anything to prove his point.
Carson wasn’t falling for it. He was going home with his briefcase. His mistress, as Luttrell would say.
Yet his gaze lingered on the last place he’d seen her before she’d disappeared in the crowd. Temptation nudged him.
The whole idea was absurd.
No one should be alone on a night like this.
He couldn’t do that. That was way out of bounds.
Carson didn’t operate on impulse. He went with the facts, with instinct.
Stick with the plan. Go home. Work.
But then . . . Carson would never know what his friend was actually up to. And she had left her key lying right here on the bar. Before reason could sink past the undeniable taste of lust still making his mouth water, Carson picked up the key card and walked out of the club.
He was definitely crazy.
The question was, just how crazy.
The Tutwiler stood directly across the street.
The 1914 building with its grand balconies and intricate architectural details loomed against the night.
A Birmingham landmark. In the event his friend had gone momentarily stupid and sprung for the real thing, Carson wondered how the city would feel about a high-class call girl using the historic property for a base of operation.
Or a county-paid employee arranging the rendezvous.
Carson entered the elegant hotel lobby, bypassed the bank of elevators, and went straight for the stairs. He would return the lady’s key and give her a succinct message to pass along to his dickhead of a friend.
On the third floor Carson located room 315 but hesitated before knocking. He listened. No television noise, no whispering voices. Maybe music; too low to distinguish.
One quick rap of his knuckles and movement stirred inside the room. The door opened and those unforgettable blue eyes tangled with his. More of that startlingly keen interest swirled low in his belly. Oh yeah, he’d neglected his needs far too long.
“I see you’ve made up your mind.” A half-empty short glass hung from the fingers of her right hand.
No one else appeared. No shouts of Surprise! Just the soft whisper of music floating on the air. This was not what he’d anticipated finding . . . this was apparently an actual proposition. Maybe. The jury was still out.
“I think”—Carson offered the key card—“there’s been a miscommunication.”
She accepted the card with her free hand. “That’s regrettable.”
His respiration quickened. “Well. Good night then.” He turned to go.
“You’re wondering . . .”
He shouldn’t have paused as she spoke, but he did.
“ . . . who paid me to try and seduce you.”
Carson turned his head, looked directly at her to examine her expression, her eyes, for some indication of precisely what the lady was up to. To spot the deception.
“Or”—she lifted her shoulders in the barest of shrugs—“you’re wondering just how much a night with a woman like me would cost. And if it would be worth the price.
” The challenge in her voice, in her eyes, coerced him into once more abandoning his plan to just walk away.
Experience told him he would regret that flaw in his personality. He never could resist a challenge.
“Prostitution is illegal in this state,” he reminded her, though he suspected this woman was no hooker. She had an objective. She wanted to play. With him. The only remaining issue was the source of her motivation.
“I’m aware that prostitution is illegal.” She inclined her head and studied his face a long moment before wetting those luxurious lips with the tip of her tongue. “Are you in law enforcement?”
“It so happens I am.” The urge to loosen his tie an inch was overwhelming. If she knew who he was, she was damned good at not letting it show.
Would Luttrell go that far?
“Well,” she offered, “perhaps you should investigate.” She turned her back to him and disappeared into the room, leaving the door open for him to follow.
Carson glanced right, then left: The corridor was deserted. There was no one to watch, to witness him crossing the line she had drawn in the sand. This is a mistake.
He had work.
He should go.
Now.
And still he followed her inside. He closed the door and, despite mounting evidence that this was indeed a setup, waited to see what she would do next.
She lounged against the French doors that opened to the balcony and looked directly at him, her gaze resolute. He braced for the battle of wills, for anything she could possibly conceive to throw his way.
“Take off your clothes,” she ordered.
Anything except that.