Brenda Harlen - Some Kind of Hero

“Riane,” he said. “That’s a rather unusual name, isn’t it?”

“It’s a feminine form of Ryan, which is my father’s name.”

His preliminary investigation had revealed that fact, but he didn’t know if the similarity was by design or coincidence. That was what he needed to find out, and that was why he needed to talk to the senator.

“Isn’t your mother usually a supporter of the Quinlan Camp Charity Ball?”

So much for being discreet, he thought, as the question blurted out of his mouth. But he was more worried about self-preservation than discretion at this point.

If Riane was startled by the abrupt change of topic, she gave no indication of it. “Yes,” she admitted. “And I was a little worried that her absence this year would affect attendance, but thankfully it hasn’t been a problem.”

“She won’t be making an appearance tonight?”

“I doubt it.” She smiled at him once more, drawing his gaze back to that luscious mouth, tempting him all over again. “She’s in Thailand.”

“Thailand?”

Riane nodded. “She and my father went on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary.”

Joel expected to be annoyed, even angry, at this revelation. His sole purpose in being here this evening was to contact the senator. But it was difficult to be angry when there was a soft, fragrant woman in his arms. Impossible to be annoyed that his source of information had been wrong.

“How long will they be gone?”

“What is your interest in my mother, Mr. Logan?”

“Joel,” he said, and smiled.

But she’d homed in on the direction of his questions and wouldn’t be deterred. “What is your interest in my mother, Joel?”

“I was just hoping, since I was in town anyway, that I might have an opportunity to meet with the senator.”

“Are you a Republican supporter?”

He realized, with reluctant admiration, that she was trying to trip him up. And had he not done his homework thoroughly, she might have done so with that question. Her mother was a Democrat.

“I’m not a card-carrying member of any party,” he told her.

He wasn’t sure if his response convinced her, but she let it drop. Joel accepted the reprieve, recognizing that he’d have to be a little more subtle if he didn’t want to raise Riane’s suspicions any further.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, he failed to spot the photographer until the flash of the camera’s bulb blinded him. He instinctively stepped away, crushing Riane’s toes in his haste.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” He mumbled the apology automatically, concentrated on breathing to slow the rapid beating of his heart as different reminiscences assailed him. Flash after flash. The incessant glare blinding. Reporters shoving, shouting. Microphones thrust at him. Headline after headline. Day after day. Until he dreaded even leaving his home.

“Are you undercover?” Riane asked.

Joel scowled. “I’m not a cop.”

“Then why did you jump three feet when that flashbulb went off?”

“I don’t like having my picture taken.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not very photogenic,” he said dryly.

Riane laughed, and the soft, sexy sound was a welcome distraction from the recent direction of his thoughts.

“I doubt that,” she said.

“I didn’t know the press would be here,” Joel admitted. But he should have known, and he should have been prepared.

“I would have been disappointed if they weren’t,” Riane told him. “The more publicity we can generate for the Quinlan Camp, the better. High-level exposure equates to high-level contributions.”

He understood that. Just as he understood that Riane was accustomed to living in the spotlight—the last place Joel wanted to be. He’d had his life scrutinized by the media before, and he never wanted to live like that again.

He could only hope that some enterprising young reporter didn’t dig deep enough to discover the identity of Riane Quinlan’s dance partner. Then as soon as this case was closed, he’d be out of her life forever.

Still, as the song began to wind down, Joel found himself reluctant to let her go. He knew she was a distraction he could ill afford, a complication he wasn’t prepared for, but he couldn’t deny his attraction to her.

And when the final notes of the song merged into the first bars of the next, he didn’t figure it would hurt to hold her just a little while longer.

Then there was a firm tap on his shoulder and a smooth, masculine voice saying, “If you don’t mind, I’d like a dance with my fiancée.”

Riane felt the censure in Joel’s gaze as he relinquished her hand to Stuart without comment and walked off the dance floor. She wanted to follow him, to explain, but pride prevented her from doing so. He had no right to make judgments about her, and besides, a well-bred lady didn’t chase after any man.

Instead she concentrated her attention on her new dance partner, who had already swept her into his arms and was moving smoothly to the strains of the music. Stuart’s movements were effortless, each step and turn flawlessly executed. There wasn’t anything that he didn’t do well, and he was an incredible dancer. But his touch didn’t heat her blood the way Joel’s had done. Her body didn’t yearn to press close to his as it had when she’d been dancing with the mysterious Mr. Logan.

She pushed the traitorous thoughts impatiently aside. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman, not a hormonal adolescent. It wasn’t like her to react to a man on such a primal level. Human beings were supposed to be civilized, to have power over their more basic urges.

Still, she couldn’t deny that something about Joel Logan appealed to her on a most fundamental level. Unwillingly, her gaze strayed to the back of the room where he’d once again stationed himself.

The formality of his attire failed to disguise the raw power he exuded. He had to be well over six feet—as she’d had to tip her head to meet his gaze despite the three inches her heels added to her five-foot, ten-inch frame—with broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist and long, lean legs. Just the memory of those muscles, solid and unyielding, caused her breath to quicken, her pulse to race.

“You seem lost in thought,” Stuart commented lightly.

Riane started, felt her cheeks flush. “Just tired.”

“You’ve had a busy few weeks preparing for tonight.”

“Yes,” she agreed, grateful for his easy acceptance of her explanation. Still, she was embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that Stuart’s absence had gone unnoticed until he’d interrupted her dance with Joel. She’d been so preoccupied with the success of the charity ball she hadn’t spared him a single thought.

And then she’d met Joel Logan, and she hadn’t thought about anything else.

She felt a twinge of guilt at the realization, but only a slight twinge. After all, she wasn’t really engaged to Stuart Etherington III. Although they’d talked, in abstract terms, about marriage, she resented his reference to her as his “fiancée,” as if their engagement was a fact rather than a possibility. But she wasn’t in the mood to take issue with his vocabulary now. It had been a wonderfully successful evening and she wouldn’t ruin it by bickering with him.

So she ignored the multitude of recriminations running through her mind and only said, “You were late.”

“I’m sorry.” His apology was more automatic than sincere. “I got tied up in meetings.”

She wasn’t surprised. Stuart had a successful corporate law practice and was often required to work long into the evening and frequently on weekends. She knew his hours would grow longer still when he launched the political career he wanted so much.

“You missed dinner,” she told him. “Cream of artichoke soup, warm chicken salad with rosemary dressing, poached salmon with tarragon sauce, champagne sherbet and peppered strawberries.”

“That sounds much better than the Italian takeout I had delivered to the office.”

“I’m sure it was,” she agreed. “But as long as you paid for your ticket, I won’t complain about the squandered meal.”

“You’re a mercenary.” There was admiration mingled with amusement in his tone.

“This camp is important to me. And to the kids who visit every summer.”

“I know,” Stuart placated. “And, yes, I paid for my ticket.”

She smiled. “Then I thank you for your support.”

“Has it been a successful evening?”

“Very,” she told him. “Even more so than last year.”

“You have a knack for this sort of thing,” Stuart told her.

“Organizing, fund-raising, delegating. Valuable qualities in a politician’s wife.”

Riane’s smile was strained. She resented Stuart’s implication that tonight’s charity ball was an exercise in politics for her; she hated that he couldn’t understand how much the camp mattered.

And yet, despite this fundamental difference of opinion, Riane believed that they were well suited for one another. They had similar goals and interests. They’d both been raised in political families, and they both understood the expectations and responsibilities of living in the public eye.

She sometimes wondered if he was more attracted to her political connections than her person, but she could hardly judge him when her own motives were less than ideal. Ultimately she and Stuart wanted the same thing: the White House. He had the ideas and the connections to take him there, and when he did, Riane had no qualms about exploiting her position as his wife and first lady to focus attention on the plight of underprivileged children in this country and around the world.

Yes, her relationship with Stuart was exactly what she wanted. She just sometimes wished he made her feel…

The thought fizzled. She didn’t know what was missing; she only knew that she wanted to feel the way she’d felt when Joel had held her in his arms.

She glanced toward the back of the room, searching, seeking.

But he was already gone.

Joel awoke the morning after the charity ball with the mother of all hangovers. He winced against the bright sunlight flooding through the window and cursed himself for not remembering to close the curtains the night before. Slowly he eased his legs over the side of the bed and found the floor. Satisfied that the world was once again solid beneath his feet, he scrubbed a hand over his cheek. It had been a lot of years since he’d drunk himself into a stupor, but he’d done it often enough in the past that he should have known better.

Women, he thought disparagingly. They were all the same. From his mother, who’d abandoned him when he was six, to Jocelyn, who’d dumped him with no hint of remorse when the going got tough, they weren’t to be trusted. It was a lesson he should have learned long ago.

Unfortunately, he was a man, and there were times that basic urges couldn’t be denied. But sex and love were different things, and he’d managed to avoid emotional entanglements for the most part. Since Jocelyn, anyway. He was smart enough and discerning enough to seek companionship from women who wanted the same thing he did: simple, uncomplicated sex.

Riane Quinlan had almost made him forget that. There was nothing simple about the way she’d looked at him. Nothing simple about the feelings she’d roused inside him.

He shook his head, then winced at the explosion of pain that resulted from the movement. He’d obviously been too long without a woman if he could be taken in by a pair of dark eyes.

Cursing Shaun McIver for ever asking him to take on this case, everyone with any connection to the name Rutherford, and Riane Quinlan in particular, he stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face, then filled a glass and fished a couple of aspirin out of the bottle.