Chapter 17
Shana hesitated a moment at the stop sign, changing her mind three times before deciding she needed to go back to the house to change clothes, making Dane right once again.
She hated that more than anything. She hated being told by him what to do—maybe it was her, but she was more convinced it was him.
Other men could tell her what to do, suggest things and she’d do it and even admit they were right.
The governor, for one. She had a feeling he knew what he was talking about no matter how unusual it might be for a governor to be so involved in a law enforcement operation.
But then, she was on foreign turf here; it could be the way the crazy Americans always did things. And they thought Aussies were crazy.
Screeching to a halt in her driveway—or the Whittier’s driveway—she jumped from the car, mentally going through the list of options to wear on her hot date.
She should go with something elegant. And sexy.
She thought of the slinky turquoise sheath and decided on it, remembering the way Dane looked at her when she’d tried it on for him at the boutique. It would do perfectly.
As she drove into town her two-way chirped and she realized she’d have to stow it and go without communications. She picked it up for now, depressed the button and spoke, “Shana here.”
“Are you dressed?” Dane said.
“Of course. I’m on my way. Where are you?”
“I told you, I’m not going to be nearby—that is unless Ned decides to follow close. But I’ll be in communication with Chauncey, who will have eyes on you at all times. Make sure you have eyes on him.”
“What will he look like?”
“He’ll be the older, distinguished gentleman with a white jacket.”
“I don’t know, Dane, there may be too many men that fit that bill. Like—”
“Don’t say it.”
She laughed. It felt damn good. Her nerves loosened their grip on her stomach and she took a deep breath.
“You just keep Ned busy and away from me.”
“You know I will. Captain Nice won’t be far from you either. He’ll be in communication with both of us. Say the word if you’re in trouble.”
“What’s the word?”
“How about ‘girlie’?”
“That’s your word, not mine. How about ‘boy oh boy.’ It’s one I’ve used before.”
“You’ve used a boy or you’ve—”
“Not unless you consider grown men as boys—which sometimes they are.”
“Not this one.”
“I haven’t used you—”
“Don’t say it.” There was a grainy, growly texture to his voice, and no humor.
She laughed, but all her tension came back in spades. Only it settled lower in her gut this time. She felt too much like Dane’s plaything, like he was a predatory tiger and she was a stuffed rabbit.
“I’m shutting you down. Got to go. The place is up ahead.” She went to flick off the power but hesitated a moment and he came back on.
“Take care of yourself, Shana.” The words tilted her.
The softness of them. The way they were spoken as if there were layers and layers of meaning behind them.
The few simple words sounded like they were standing in for so much more.
She reached over with a shaking hand and shoved the two-way into the glove compartment.
She had to get a grip. There was nothing behind the words.
Except maybe sarcasm or a warning. It was Dane talking.
And she was pathetic because she wanted there to be more behind his words.
Gliding the borrowed BMW 740 up to the valet, she shoved it into park and stepped out before the door was opened for her.
Jean Luc stood out front wearing a white dinner jacket and a smile.
He looked out of place—like he should be somewhere in Monte Carlo or on the set of a James Bond movie.
She steeled herself to play the role and mentally reined herself in with a heaving breath.
She smiled her toothpaste commercial smile and sauntered forward into Jean Luc’s arms.
The warm humid breeze tickled the hairs that already stood out on her arms as Jean Luc escorted her inside the restaurant.
The rising moon, balmy evening, and soft strains of classical music clashed with the carnal scent of grilled meat, adding to the discordance between the glamorously romantic atmosphere and the quiver of danger in the air.
Or maybe the quivers lived only in her belly.
Once she stepped inside the doors and faced Jean Luc she felt her role take effect. The jitters fled and she remembered the mission and who she was and that she could do this. Jean Luc didn’t smile as he escorted her, following the host to their secluded table that presumed a flirtation.
Half of her figured he knew she was undercover and they were playing a ridiculous game of charades.
The other half of her hoped to God or the devil she was wrong.
Either way, she’d play the game. Maybe he was hoping the same thing and neither of them was willing to make the leap to blow up the charade.
All of which made her broaching the subject of playing ringer at the competition very tricky. So when the waiter came over, without hesitation she said, “I’ll have a martini. Straight up.”
Jean Luc chuckled and reached out to squeeze her hand. “Don’t worry, ma belle. I am not so dangerous.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” The question was genuine.
“You seem skittish. Maybe you have something on your mind.”
“Maybe I do.”
He chuckled again. There was no way she’d start the conversational fireball rolling until she’d at least had a sip of her drink. Her imagination needed some loosening.
“Did I mention how breathtakingly gorgeous you look this evening?”
“Can’t hear it enough.” She looked over his shoulder for the waiter. If Dane were here she’d be bordering on a D-minus for a grade right now. “You don’t look bad yourself.” She meant it.
He nodded his approval at her sincerity.
“I know you are used to younger men. Except maybe for Dane Blaise. I hope you can forget him for the evening.”
She waved a hand. The waiter arrived and as he placed the martini in front of her, she smiled and forced herself to wait a beat.
Jean Luc raised his glass of champagne—the man never seemed to drink anything stronger—at least not unless Dane forced him to—and he made a toast.
“To an evening of new beginnings.” He clinked her glass with a meaningful nod—meaningful for him—which meant hardly a nod at all.
“To me winning a million bucks,” she said.
He broadened his smile and took a small sip. With a raise of her brow and a gulp of her martini, she challenged him to disagree. It burned her throat. She held firm.
He narrowed his eyes, a departure from his normally bland response to everything. “You’re ambitious. Money motivated. Unusual for an heiress.” He let his accusation hang. She shrugged.
“I have pride. What can I say? Surfing isn’t rocket science, but it’s what I’ve got.”
“I would bet the million bucks you have a lot more talent than you let on.”
“You know of anyone who could beat me in the competition? I’ve seen at least some of the others, checked the list. I’m not overwhelmed.”
“No. The field is not a challenge for someone like yourself.”
The words iced her over, but she held back the shudder. He was fishing. Now they were in a fishing contest. She refused to bite at his line.
“Those are encouraging words coming from the man in charge himself.” She smiled and lowered her lids to a flirtatious look.
“One never knows in these things,” he said, “Many things can happen.” He twirled the champagne stem in his fingers.
She didn’t bother to respond. He was getting less subtle—almost heavy-handed.
She thought maybe she had the edge now. Ned wanted her to be the ringer and for whatever reason—and she had her guesses—Jean Luc was holding back.
One thing she was certain of—it wasn’t for sentimental reasons. Too bad.
“You know I’ve heard things. Rumors.”
“It’s beneath you to listen to gossip, Shana.” He used a tsk-tsk tone and looked like he meant it.
“You’re a judgmental son of a gun, aren’t you? But you don’t know what’s beneath me or not.”
“I know you have a true sense of self. A true moral compass could hardly be far behind.”
She took another bracing gulp of her martini at that. He had to be enjoying this toying around with her and maybe it was getting her blood going a little, but they could be here all night and then some if she didn’t call him out on the fixed competition.
“You’re so full of crap, Jean Luc. I can’t believe you’ve managed to recruit so many young women for your games.”
He gave her the prescribed mock-offended look and then smiled the first genuine smile, reaching all the way to his eyes, that she’d seen since she met the man.
“You’re running a scam and I want in.”
“You’re pretty loose with your accusations.”
“You’re pretty silly with your competition. It’s not real. I’ve been in real surfing competitions. This isn’t how they work.”
“So we’ve invented a new model.”
“You’re running a scam. No one is getting a million-dollar prize. It’s no coincidence that your brother is an entrant and favored to win the men’s side. I want to win the women’s prize.”
“We’ll see in the next few days—”
“I want to be your ringer. I’ll only take ten percent.”
“Why should a wealthy heiress want anything?”
“My parents cut me off. That’s why I’m staying at the Whittier’s place—supposed to be with my friend Susan.” She furrowed her brow for effect, hoping the mention of the missing woman would increase the pressure.
“I’m sorry to hear about your financial difficulties, but—”
“Cut the crap, Jean Luc. We both know Susan was supposed to be your ringer. She told me.” She was taking a gigantic chance, but it was time.
“That’s impossible. Because it’s not true.”
“Yes. It is. Stop bluffing. You’re pissing me off.”
Then he laughed a sincere real amused laugh. “You really are charming—more than you realize.”
“And I’m a damn good surfer so you’re not likely to get a better offer between now and when the competition starts.”