Satisfaction Page 4

  Tossing the suitcase into the backseat of the Miata, she slammed the door, then slid into the front seat behind the wheel.

  A cool summer fog had rolled in, which worked to her advantage. Anyone following her would have to stay close enough that she’d notice them, allowing her to take evasive action.

  She checked the clock on the dash. It was a little before seven. By the time she reached San Jose in about an hour, it would be too dark for anyone to effectively tail her.

  She’d bought a bright red sports car for good reason—it was easy to spot. The vanity plates removed any doubt the Miata belonged to her, so wherever it was parked, anyone on the lookout would naturally assume she was nearby.

  So far, the ploy had worked like a charm, but she couldn’t help but worry a little about the Darling guy.

  He wasn’t her bodyguard, but the look in his eyes when he walked out of the restroom with Ozzie had said he didn’t accept defeat easily—if at all. He might hang around, follow her, just to spite her. That wouldn’t be good.

  And then there was Paul. Damn him. What did he want? Did he suspect something, or was he just trying to rattle her cage? If so, it had worked.

  The day she’d told him to get out, he’d grabbed her by the arm and shoved her against the wall, pinning her there with his body.

  “Nobody leaves me,” he’d growled. “Especially not you.”

  “Let go of me, Paul,” she’d bitten out. “Or I’ll knee you in the groin. Besides, I’ve already called the police. If anything happens to me, they’ll know it was you.”

  It was clear he didn’t believe her—until he heard the scream of a siren coming up the street.

  “Fuck,” he murmured. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he released her arm, giving her his most charming smile.

  “Ah, come on, baby,” he coaxed, his blue eyes glittering. “I’m not so bad. I made a little mistake, a lapse in judgment. It’ll never happen again, I swear. We’re good together, you said so yourself. Hey, I love you. We’ll get married like you wanted. Have a kid or two. That’d make you happy, right? Come on, Georgie, don’t do this.”

  Maneuvering around him, she grabbed her purse and keys from the half-circle cherry table against the wall in the foyer.

  As the police car pulled up in front, she said, “You are so bad, Paul. You’re adorable and even sweet sometimes, but what you did is unforgivable. You’re spoiled, immature, and criminal. The next time you ‘make a little mistake,’ go fuck yourself.”

  Before the two uniformed police officers reached the steps leading up to the first floor of her house, Paul lowered his voice. Through clenched teeth, he growled, “Okay, Georgie. Okay. If this is the way you want it, fine. Just remember, what ever happens, you brought this on yourself. When you least expect it, I’ll take something you love. My father has powerful connections—”

  “I’m getting a restraining order against you, Paul,” she said flatly. “Stay away from me, and tell your father to stay away from me, too, or you’ll be the ones who are sorry.”

  With that, she spun on her heel and hurried down the steps to meet the officers. They escorted her to her car, took her statement, and waited while she drove safely away.

  That was nearly two years ago, and she hadn’t heard from Paul Corcoran since.

  Not until she’d seen him standing in the window directly across from hers, staring at her, and smiling.

  Chapter Four

  Open yourself to change—the kind of man you think you want may not be the best man for you. Forget your old ideas about love (since they’re obviously not working for you anyway). Romance may enter your life just when you least expect it, and from a totally surprising place!

  Georgiana Mundy’s Feng Shui for Lovers

  From where Ethan stood watching from the shadows, the San Jose Cottage Inn was a far cry from the courtyard of cute, shingle-roofed, rose-adorned bungalows its name implied. Instead, it resembled a three-story white stucco cracker box with windows.

  What on earth was Georgiana Mundy, media star, doing on a Friday night at a seedy dump like this?

  He pursed his lips. There really was only one explanation. Sex. Illicit sex, at that, or she’d have stayed at home in San Francisco instead of driving for an hour to park her carcass at some out-of-the way no-tell motel.

  He’d followed her south on 101, until she’d pulled off the freeway and driven straight to this place—like she’d done it a thousand times before. When she parked in front of the office, he’d gotten out of his car to get a closer look, watch and see what she did.

  Something here just didn’t jibe. For all her loony New Age crap, the goody-goody affirmations, the healing colors, and all that, she was classy to the bone. Coming here for clandestine sex just didn’t add up.

  Maybe it was her boyfriend who was weird. Maybe he got off on tawdry.

  Ethan slid his hand into his pocket, wrapped his fingers around the silky bit of fabric once more. She’d offered it to him—a complete stranger—out of the goodness of her heart. Sure, it was utter bullshit, but she’d thought she was helping. He was still having trouble moving his mind past what a simple, selfless act that had been.

  The fact the wound in his side hadn’t hurt since then was just some kind of bizarre coincidence.

  The homing device he’d planted on her car had allowed him to stay far enough behind her so she wouldn’t spot him. In the last hour, she hadn’t made a phone call, or even hummed along with the radio. She did sneeze once, coughed a couple of times, and cussed out a guy in a truck who’d cut her off.

  He grinned at the memory. Pretty colorful language for such a touchy-feely gentle New Age devotee. Her fans would probably be shocked to discover the smiling Miss Mundy, when crossed, had a pissy streak a mile wide.

  From his vantage next to the tall hedge that defined the perimeter of the parking lot, he watched as the Miata’s brake lights went dark. Georgie opened her door, stepped out, and looked around casually but thoroughly, pointedly, it seemed to him.

  So she was checking for a tail. He eased back farther into the shadows.

  Apparently satisfied she hadn’t been followed, she went into the office. A few minutes later, she came out and drove around to the back of the inn. He followed on foot.

  She parked the Miata in the only vacant spot available, between a black Cadillac Escalade and a beat-to-hell silver Dodge pickup.

  Carrying that gigantic purse of hers and a maroon suitcase, she glanced around once more, then headed up the metal stairs that reached all three floors of the inn. At the second floor, she turned to the right and followed along the landing until she came to Room 227, where she unlocked the door, looked around again, then slipped inside. Instantly, the big square of window glowed yellow behind the closed drapes.

  So her boyfriend hadn’t arrived yet. Well, it was still early.

  Ethan’s stomach growled, and he hoped to hell the guy would show up soon so he could go grab a bite to eat.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. What did he care if Georgie met some guy at a motel just to have sex? No skin off his nose. Besides, she was his client, not his girlfriend. He was simply an observer; it wasn’t his place to judge what she did.

  He rubbed the back of his neck again. Even so…bottom line, he didn’t like it.

  Stakeouts were always tough—and boring as hell. Georgie was safely ensconced in her room; he could leave for a few minutes. But what if she left? Not really a problem with the tracking device on her car. So what if the boyfriend showed up and Ethan missed seeing what he looked like? And what if there was no boyfriend? What if she’d just driven for an hour to get out of town and get some rest? Right.

  His stomach growled again, and he tried to calculate how long it would take to hit the Quik Mart next to the motel for coffee and a sandwich and get back before something happened.

  As he hesitated, the door to the room next to Georgie’s opened and a blonde wearing tight jeans and a sweater stepped out
. She closed the door, testing the knob the way people do to make sure it was locked, then turned and walked toward the stairs.

  Damn. It was hard to take his eyes off her. Nice ass, he thought as she sauntered slowly down the metal steps.

  Though the stairs were well lit from overhead, they cast the woman’s face in shadow. He could see her body clearly enough, though. Very, very hot.

  He watched as she descended—small purse slung over her shoulder, black suitcase in hand—and climbed into the Escalade. A moment later, the expensive engine hummed to life, and she backed out of the parking space and disappeared around the side of the inn.

  A professional. Definitely a professional. Go figure. The San Jose Cottage Inn was apparently a very happening place.

  A few more minutes passed, and he decided to risk hitting the market for some eats, then drive his car around to this side of the inn. So far, nobody else had entered the lot, and Georgie hadn’t come out of her room. If he hurried, he could grab a sandwich, get the Mercedes, and be back here in ten.

  Nine minutes later, he sat parked in the shadows next to the chain-link fence that bordered the inn’s property and the gas station next door. In the time he’d been gone, no new cars had shown up, the Miata was still there, and the light in Georgie’s room was still on.

  As he tucked into the god-awful turkey, tomato, and bacon sandwich he’d purchased and gulped down half the lukewarm coffee, an elderly couple brought out their dog to pee on the small lawn next to the stairs, a woman on the third floor escorted two little kids who obviously needed to blow off some steam by playing tag in a remote part of the parking lot, and a man and a woman all wrapped around each other climbed the stairs and went into Room 332. The light in the window did not come on.

  An hour passed. He finished off his now-dead-cold coffee and concluded he was an idiot.

  Why hadn’t he assigned an agent to do this? Lucas Russell would have been perfect for this job. But no. Just because Georgie Mundy intrigued him, heated his blood a little—okay, maybe a lot—and she piqued his interest, he should have known better, considering his track record. The last time he’d let a woman get to him, he swore he’d never let it happen again.

  Glancing up at the closed door of Georgie’s room, for no reason at all he thought of Cathy.

  It had been six years, and he still thought of her every day, what he’d had with her, what he’d lost. How he’d lost it. After six years, it didn’t hurt any more, but it didn’t hurt any less, either.

  For Georgie’s own safety, he had to stop thinking of her as a woman, and focus on her as a client. Period.

  Watching the yellow square of light that was her motel room window, he realized something was nagging at him, had been nagging at him, punching at the back of his brain, for over an hour.

  That blonde…

  True, he hadn’t seen her face clearly, but the shape of her body, the way she moved…

  “Fuck,” he snarled, wanting to slap his forehead with the flat of his hand. Goddammit. He’d been had. Thoroughly had.

  Bolting from the car, he rushed up to the door of Room 227, taking three steps at a time. He doubled his fist and pounded on her door.

  “Georgie? It’s Ethan. Open the goddamned door. Georgie?”

  Nothing. Not a sound.

  Of course not. She was gone.

  He smacked the closed door with his palm and cursed again.

  Adjoining rooms, that had to be it. She’d gotten adjoining rooms, gone in one, come out the other. The Escalade had been ready and waiting for her. She’d changed clothes, donned a wig, and now she was halfway to God knew where, and he had no way to track her. Shit.

  “Very clever, Georgie,” he murmured to the night sky. “Very, very clever.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he shook his head, which led to a short snicker, which turned into a chuckle that turned into several more. Finally, he caved, and let it happen, laughing so hard his gut ached and he had to put his hand on the door to steady himself.

  When he caught his breath, he realized he should be furious, but she’d fooled him so thoroughly and so well, the only emotion he could drum up was admiration.

  Deep inside his chest, he felt his heart soften a little more, but this time he did nothing to stop it.

  “And…action!”

  At four o’clock on Monday afternoon, Georgie watched Gil Vincent, CaliforniYum’s director, adjust his microphone and headset, then move back behind the cameras and cross his arms over his chest.

  She prayed her makeup would hide the dark circles under her eyes. As if the long drive to Santa Barbara and back weren’t enough, she’d tried to cram a month’s worth of memories into a mere forty-eight hours. Lack of sleep, and the stress of taking extra precautions to avoid being followed, always wore her to a frazzle.

  Glancing down at her notes for a sec, she raised her face to Camera 1, thanking God for teleprompters. If she didn’t fall asleep face down in the soy burgers or slice off her pinkie along with the onions, she would be done with the taping, home by six, and in bed and asleep by six-oh five.

  The red light on Camera 1 blinked to life…showtime.

  “Hi, I’m Georgiana Mundy,” she said through a beaming smile. “And welcome to another edition of CaliforniYum. Today we’re going to discover the benefits of all things soy by whipping up a delicious smoothie you guys are just gonna love. I have a great new recipe for soy burgers, too, that’ll knock your socks off, plus we’ll discuss the benefits of incorporating feng shui into your kitchen design. Fabulous!”

  Another big grin. “First off, let’s take a moment to meet my guests for today…”

  With that, she indicated the five viewers Ozzie had selected from fan letters to come and watch the show being taped, sample the menu, and be on TV. Sitting at the cozy counter facing the cutting board and stovetop, each of the three women and two men waved and smiled at the camera as she introduced them.

  It usually took a couple of hours to film the segment that would be shown during prime time the next night. The boring, repetitious stuff and goofs were edited out in order to fit the program into its thirty-minute format.

  Despite the bright lights illuminating her and everything she did, Georgie could see past the cameras into the studio. Ethan Darling lurked behind Camera 2, his hands in his pockets, a scowl on his face as he watched her.

  Normally, she wasn’t nervous in front of cameras anymore. Today, however, her fingers shook, her heartbeat drummed in her ears, and her sexual awareness quotient kicked up a notch, and then some.

  Ethan Darling wasn’t her bodyguard, but she couldn’t shake the feeling he was in her life whether she wanted him there or not. And worse, he was determined to find things out about her, things she absolutely did not want him—or anyone—to discover. He’d issued the challenge on Friday, and she’d accepted it. If it began looking like he was going to be trouble, she’d have to find a way to keep him off balance.

  He was interested in her—she’d seen that on Friday when they’d collided in the elevator, and later, too, in Ozzie’s office. He’d called her beautiful. It still made her cheeks flush and her ego dance to think of it. It wouldn’t take much effort on her part to throw him a few curves, distract him. To protect her secrets, she’d do what ever she needed to do.

  Her stomach tightened as it did whenever she was about to do something her instincts warned her was a mistake. Confusion moved in, muddling what she had thought was clear thinking. What were her instincts warning her against? Trusting him, or not trusting him?

  There it was again, her one abiding dilemma. For on the drive back to San Francisco late last night, she’d considered confiding in him, telling him the truth, maybe even soliciting his help. There was something about his eyes, his manner that evoked a response in her she thought she’d lost over twenty years ago—the desire to trust someone other than herself.

  But trusting Ethan Darling could prove to be a huge mistake. She’d let her defenses down with
Paul—an error in judgment both she and Raine had lived to regret. No, Ethan was an unknown quantity, and even though he was working for Ozzie, he could easily transfer his loyalties to a client willing to pay more. And Vaughn Corcoran had more, much more. No, she couldn’t take the chance. The people she loved counted on her to protect them. She couldn’t let them down.

  “So let’s get to this soy smoothie,” she said, setting the forty-ounce blender jar in its base. “Today we’re making my favorite, chocolate—yuh-uum! You’ll need four cups of carob soy milk…” which she poured from a carton into the container. “Four scoops chocolate protein powder, four tablespoons honey, and two cups soft silken tofu.” Adding the ingredients to the blender, she picked up an empty bowl and sidestepped over to the refrigerator. Never turn your back on the camera was the mantra TV people lived by, and Georgie had learned long ago to keep moving, keep talking, and treat the camera like it was going to bite you in the butt if you turned around.

  Opening the freezer, she scooped two handfuls of ice cubes from the tray into the bowl.

  “You’re going to need several ice cubes to chill and thicken the mixture. Five or six cubes should do the trick nicely.”

  She returned to the blender and smiled at Camera 2.

  Keep that personality up; grin, be friendly, be real. Never let them see beyond your face, though. Never let them see the you who’s dog-tired at night, and worried, and even a little afraid. This is showbiz. Smile, dammit.

  “Drop a handful of cubes into the blender…” which she did. “Put the lid on, and let ’er rip.”

  She pressed the button and the high-speed blender roared to life, whipping the ingredients into a frothy concoction. After a couple of minutes, she removed the lid, tapped it on the rim of the container to remove the excess, then filled six glass tumblers with the chocolaty mixture. Handing the tumblers to her guests, she picked up the last one and saluted the camera.