Gail Barrett - His 7-Day Fiancée

But she surprised him by shaking her head. “No, I…I don’t have any jewelry, not anymore.” She lifted one slender shoulder and lowered her eyes. “I sold everything a while back when I needed the money.”

So she was short on cash. Good motive to run a scam.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. No matter how attractive she was, he didn’t have time for this farce. He’d make sure the Rothchilds weren’t involved, keep this damned thing out of the news, then let the police handle the rest.

“So you’re saying a man held you up with a gun you didn’t see, and demanded jewelry that you don’t have.”

A small frown creased her brow. “You don’t believe me? You think I made this up?”

“We have cameras all over the casino. I saw the tapes.” He raised his brows. “You looked nervous even before the man showed up.”

Her smooth lips parted. The color drained from her face. “But that’s because I thought…I thought…” She pressed her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes.

“You thought what? That you’d pretend to be attacked and sue the casino?”

Her eyes flew open, and she gasped. “You think I’d pretend about something like that? Are you joking?” She let out a highpitched laugh. “Oh, God. This figures. I thought…” She shook her head, gathered her bulky purse and rose. “Forget it.”

“The hell I will.” He pushed himself away from the desk and blocked her path. “You thought what?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” She tried to step around him, but he reached out and grabbed her upper arm. She flinched, jerked back. “Let me go.”

He dropped her arm, stunned by the urgency in her voice, the flash of fear in her eyes. She quickly scuttled away.

He studied her, taken aback. She couldn’t be this good of an actress. She was actually afraid of him.

He eased apart his hands, made his expression neutral, his voice nonthreatening so she wouldn’t bolt. “Look, I’m not trying to hurt you. I just need to know what happened.”

“I…” She nodded, sucked in her breath, as if to pull herself together. “I didn’t really…It was just…my exhusband. Wayne Wheeler. I thought he was here.”

He eyed the distance she’d put between them, the wary way she watched him—defensive, alert, like a cornered animal ready to run. And anger stirred in his gut. He had no patience for abusive men. And unless he was wildly off base, this woman had been attacked.

He struggled to keep the emotion from his voice. “Your ex lives around here?”

She shook her head, sending her silky hair sliding over her arms. “He’s in Maryland, in jail. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t even his voice. But I thought, earlier…I was just nervous. I overreacted. I’m sorry.” She rubbed her forehead with a trembling hand, sank back into her chair.

He frowned. He didn’t doubt her story. Her fear looked real…And the facts would be easy to check.

So what should he do about it? Assuming she was telling the truth, this still didn’t eliminate the Rothchilds’involvement. Or her sister’s. It wouldn’t be the first time an unsuspecting family member had been an accomplice to a crime.

Which led him back to his original problem. He paced across the room, pivoted, then returned to lean against the desk. He had to contain this, keep it out of the news. He couldn’t let that consortium implode.

Which meant making sure Amanda Patterson didn’t talk.

But somehow the thought that anyone would hurt this gentle woman made it hard to stay detached.

“I need to go.” Her eyes pleaded with his. “My sister will be wondering where I am. I left her a voice mail that I’d meet her in the lobby.”

“You can leave as soon as you talk to the police.” A knock sounded on the door, and he rose. “That’s probably the detective now. I’ll walk you out to the lobby when you’re done.”

“All right.” Their gazes held. The vulnerable look in her eyes tugged at something inside him, urging him to shelter her, to keep her safe.

He shook it off. Her life, her problems were none of his concern. The only thing he needed to do was convince her not to talk. But she had been attacked in his casino. He could at least alleviate some of her fear. He turned, strode out the door.

Ramón Martinez from the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department was waiting for him in the hall. “Martinez.” Luke shook his hand, briefed him on the situation, and the need to keep it quiet for now. “Could you check on the ex and make sure he’s still in jail?” he added. “The name’s Wheeler. Wayne Wheeler.”

“No problem.” The detective flipped open his cell phone, called in the information. “It’ll take a few minutes to run him through the system. I’ll get a statement from the Patterson woman and get back to you on that.”

“Thanks.” Luke returned to the main office, had his security guard run the tapes again as he waited for the detective to finish up. Now that he’d heard Amanda’s version of events, the anxiety in her eyes made sense.

His gaze lingered on the seductive flare of her hips, those endless legs. It was too bad she wasn’t his type. She was a damned attractive woman. But he only dated celebrities, supermodels, women willing to hang on his arm for an evening in exchange for a fancy meal.

He didn’t have relationships, and he didn’t mix dating with business. And that’s all Amanda Patterson could ever be—a business concern. One he needed to wrap up now.

She emerged from the office a few minutes later. “I heard back about Wheeler,” Martinez said from behind her. “He’s still in jail.”

“Good.” He caught Amanda’s gaze, and that disturbing attraction rocked through him again. His eyes dipped from her face to those killer legs, and he had to struggle to remember his plan. “I’ll walk you out.”

He nodded to the detective, held the door open for Amanda, then accompanied her down the carpeted hall. He liked how her long strides kept pace with his, how her height made it easy to meet her eyes.

“Thanks for checking on Wayne for me,” she said, her voice subdued. “It helps to know he’s far away.” Her eyes held his, and the worry lurking in those vivid eyes bothered him more than he cared to admit.

“No problem. I have a favor to ask, though.” They reached the door to the lobby, and he paused. “I’d like to keep this incident out of the news—at least for a couple of weeks. I’m in the middle of some negotiations right now, and I don’t want the publicity. So if anyone calls you—any reporters, the tabloids—I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk.”

“Okay.”

“The paparazzi can be persistent,” he warned her. “I doubt they’ll get wind of this, but if they do they’ll call, show up at your door, follow you around.”

“But that’s ridiculous.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Why would they care what happened to me?”

“They won’t. But I’m big news these days.”

“I see.” She bit her lip, made that flexing motion with her wrist again.

He frowned. “Did you get hurt back there?”

“What?” She looked at her wrist. “Oh. No, it’s an old injury. It aches sometimes.”

He nodded, tugged his business card from his inside pocket and held it out, determined to make sure she complied. “Here’s my number. Call me if they show up. I’ll top whatever they’re willing to pay.”

She blinked, shot him a look of disbelief. “You’re offering to pay me not to talk?”

“I told you that I don’t want the publicity right now.”

“Well, neither do I.” Stunned outrage tinged her voice. “I have a daughter to protect. I don’t want to be in the news.”

But money had a way of changing minds. And the tabloids’ pockets were deep.“ Take the card, Amanda.” He pressed it into her hand. “Just call me if they contact you.”

She glanced at the card and shook her head. “There’s really no need. I told you that I won’t talk.”

He let out a cynical laugh. “Promises don’t mean much when money’s involved.”

“Well, mine does.”

Her eyes simmered with indignation.

He tilted his head, impressed. Despite her air of fragility, the woman had courage. He liked how she held her ground.

Hell, he liked a lot of things about her. His gaze lowered, traced the sultry swell of her lips, then flicked back to her brilliant blue eyes. And hunger pulsed inside him, the slow, drugging beat of desire.

But this woman had no place in his plans. He stepped away, crushing back the urge to touch her, giving them some much-needed space.

She cleared her throat. “I’d say goodnight, but it hasn’t really been good, has it?”

“No, not good.” Especially with this disturbing attraction between them.

“Farewell, then.” She turned, pushed open the door.

He followed her into the lobby, then stopped, inhaling deeply to clear his mind. His eyes tracked the alluring swivel of her hips as she continued across the marble floor. She joined her sister, and the two women walked to the door.

But suddenly she paused, glanced back. Her eyes met his, and another bolt of electricity zapped his nerves. Then she pivoted on her high heels and went out the door.

For a long moment, he just stood there, the image of those lush lips and long legs scorched in his brain. Then he slowly eased out his breath.

So that was done. She was gone. He had no reason to see her again. His security chief and the police could handle the investigation from here.

He hoped her exhusband left her alone, though. He hated to think of her afraid, cowering before some brute.

And he hoped that he could trust her. Amanda Patterson was a wild card, an unknown, someone beyond his control.

Someone, he had a feeling, it would take a very long time to forget.

The telephone was ringing again.

Amanda sat motionless on her sister’s patio, her muscles tensing, the teaching application she’d filled out forgotten in her hand.

“Phone, Mommy,” Claire announced from her turtleshaped sandbox in the yard.

“I know.” Amanda tried not to let fear seep into her voice. “But Aunt Kendall’s at rehearsal. We’ll let the answering machine pick it up.” And hope to God it wasn’t another hang-up call.

The answering machine kicked on, and her sister’s perky voice floated through the open sliding glass door. The machine beeped. The abrupt silence of the disconnected line made her stomach churn.

She set down her papers and rubbed her arms—chilled now, despite the heat. It was just another wrong number or a junk phone call. There was nothing sinister about people calling and hanging up. Annoying, yes. Dangerous, no.

Even if the hang-up calls had only begun three days ago, after the casino attack. Even if they now got a dozen such calls a day. Even if whenever she answered the phone, there was only heavy, ominous breathing—nothing more.

It couldn’t be reporters. They would talk to her, ask questions, not just breathe and hang up.

This was something Wayne would do—something he had done to unsettle her nerves. But Wayne was in jail. That detective had checked.

She set her pen on the table and rose, placed a rock over the job application so it wouldn’t flutter away. Regardless of who was calling, she wasn’t going to let this get to her. And she wasn’t going to let Claire sense her fear. She’d moved here to give her daughter a safer, more peaceful life, and she would succeed.

“It’s time to get the mail and have our snack.” She struggled to make her voice cheerful, but Claire still looked at her and frowned. “How about some apple juice and animal crackers today?”