Jordan took a deep breath. “Okay, I might have been prepared to admit I was wrong about your involvement. And five minutes before I hit you in the car park…”
“Rammed me,” he injected drily.
“You hemmed me in,” she retorted. “I’d just been told of my father’s heart attack. But it was seeing you with the man in the hotel that really spooked me.”
“Back up. You went to the hotel on Friday?” He cast his mind back to Friday, a roaring of anticipation in his ears, fading with each passing minute, then an hour. The black rage of frustration that had him speeding over to her apartment building to have it out with her.
“Of course.” She sounded surprised he would even doubt that. “I wouldn’t let you down without calling.”
He shook his head, confused. “I wasn’t with anyone at the hotel.”
The arch of one perfectly sculpted brow confirmed her skepticism. “I’d just walked into the lobby when I saw you talking to a man. You were both standing at Reception.”
Nick started to deny it but her raised hand stopped him. “It was the same man, Nick. I got a great look at him in the coffee bar.”
“I just picked up the key card…” Nick began, and then a memory kicked his indignation into touch.
“You were talking to him,” Jordan insisted, “and then you walked to the elevators and he just stayed there, staring at you.”
Nick remembered an insignificant detail. “Someone asked me the time.” His mind had been so full of Jordan, he’d barely noticed the man who stood at the reception desk while he checked in. He hadn’t given it another thought but in hindsight, it was a strange request considering the hotel wall behind reception had about a dozen clocks, all displaying time zones from around the world. “That was it. I told him the time and walked away.”
Maybe this was something to be uneasy about after all. “Are you sure it was the same man, Jordan?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you should call the police,” he told her. “It’s probably nothing, just a photographer hoping for a story, but just to be on the safe side…” He didn’t want to spook her but she’d described quite a catalog of incidents. Some of it could be imagination, some less likely.
“The photo in Monday’s paper was the last straw,” she said gravely. “I thought you were playing some sick game.”
“So you stormed into my office.” No wonder she was rattled, and with her father’s heart attack coming on top…He leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table. “Jordan, do you believe I had nothing to do with any of that?”
Jordan gazed at him for a long moment. She wouldn’t describe herself as a great judge of character but she could see only concern and sincerity in his face—exactly what she wanted most to see. The past few days, she’d been miserable, hoping against hope there might be an alternative explanation.
His eyes reassured, soothed, seemed to see deeper into her than anyone had before. She nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. It was just a weird couple of days.”
The master of ceremonies announced that Strauss’s Wine, Women and Song was the last dance of the evening. Nick stood and extended his hand. She rose, looking around nervously, but when he enfolded her hand in his and gave a reassuring squeeze, her reservations about her father finding out seemed trite. The man had made an enormous boost to the fund-raising coffers tonight. It would be surly to refuse him a dance.
She wanted to trust him. She’d trusted him with her body for months, and now her fears seemed silly. That aside, he was still the son of her sick father’s oldest enemy. And she was afraid of risking her heart to someone who would tire of her soon enough.
They joined the other dancers on the floor and as the first notes rang out with military drama, the men bowed low to their partners. There was a lengthy introduction but at least this waltz was one of the shorter selections tonight. Jordan stood stiffly, waiting for the waltz steps to start and Nick moved close and put one big warm hand on her back.
And then she forgot everything, lost in the music she loved, the million double-quick turns and jaunty steps that he seemed to know as well as she. Jordan was a student of waltz for many years and liked to think she had inherited some of her mother’s grace and ability. Nick moved well, full of confidence and purpose. Like he did everything, she thought wryly. But of course, his mother had been an outstanding dancer and teacher, too.
The music swirled, lifting her spirits, and she followed his commanding lead in perfect synchronicity, thrilled to find such a capable partner. Nothing beat the rapture of a fast Viennese waltz when two capable participants clicked on the floor.
Well, almost nothing…Nick rarely took his eyes from hers and she could see he, too, enjoyed the self-imposed discipline of being this close and yet perfectly proper. The teasing brush of his thighs, the masculine pressure of his hand at her lower back, the flat of his palm upon which her fingers rested, it all merged into a dance of restraint. How she knew was a mystery but she sensed how much he wanted to pull her close, mold her body to his. His hand wanted to close around her fingers, his other, to stroke up her back. That he managed to convey all this without a word was testament to their undeniable physical connection.
She sighed and tore her eyes from his. If the last week had shown her anything, it was that she’d become too vulnerable where he was concerned. It seemed Nick could elicit all sorts of wants and needs that she had no idea she was missing.
“Whoops, did I miss a step?”
He’d misinterpreted her sigh. She shook her head. “You dance well,” she told him as the dance concluded and everyone ringed the floor and clapped the orchestra.
“My mother was determined that Adam and I could hold our own on the dance floor.” He put a hand under her elbow and led her back to the table, his eyes suddenly troubled. “I’m sorry. It can’t have been easy with your mother in a wheelchair.”
Jordan was touched that he’d remembered, that he cared enough, felt bad enough on his father’s behalf, to mention it. “She supervised. We often watched videos together of her and your mother, the competitions.”
“They were quite something,” Nick agreed, pulling out her chair. But Jordan remained standing, somehow feeling she had more power that way.
How charming he could be. How strange that in nearly half a year’s acquaintance, she was only just finding that out now. Not that he’d ever treated her with anything but respect, but what was his game now? What did he want from her?
The more she saw of this new Nick, the more she was being drawn in, but it couldn’t be. Not now, not ever. He would find her out, find her wanting if he dug beneath the surface. And by then, she would be hopelessly in love.
And her father was ill, seriously ill. She couldn’t add to that. She raised her chin. “Thank you, Nick.” Picking up the pen, she held it out to him.
Nick glanced at it and then back to her face. “Am I being dismissed?”
“I have things to see to.” She had to be strong, had to resist him.
He took the pen but made no attempt to use it. “You do believe that I had nothing to do with any of that last week?”
She held his gaze. “Yes. I believe you.” Silently, she implored him to sign the paper. Leave while she still had a hope of saying no.
Nick’s eyes bored into her, glinting with comprehension and disappointment. “This isn’t over, Jordan. I want more.”
Maintaining eye contact and a casual tone when every cell in her body clamored to know how much more wasn’t easy. “It was fun, but it’s over.”
He didn’t move one facial muscle but his flinty expression warned her it wasn’t over, not yet. “That’s it? One dance for three million dollars?”
It was like a slap with a cold fish. Charming when things were going his way, but ultimately, out for what he could get. She summoned an icy look of her own. “Why, no. You get this lovely property in a beautiful part of the country. It’s an excellent investment.”
The corner of his mouth lifted but his eyes were cool. “There is a condition of sale. I want you to show me the property.”
Her eyes widened. “An auction is unconditional…”
“You want it sold or not?”
Damn, damn, she’d made a huge tactical error, shot her bullets too soon. “Nick, you can’t go back on your word. This is for charity.”
He scowled. “Are you willing to risk a bird in the hand?” He turned his head, gesturing at the queue of people lining up for their coats, the catering staff clearing empty tables, the orchestra packing up. “The evening is over. I’m your only buyer—potential buyer.”
Her heart sank. How could she refuse with three million dollars at stake? How could she ever explain the collapse of the deal to Russ? They were counting on this money. “Why are you doing this?”
He picked up the contract and folded it. “I’m waiting.”
He had manipulated her with cold, calculating finesse. That was bad enough but how would she handle going off into the middle of nowhere alone with him?
Was it him or herself she didn’t trust?