Aphrodite's Passion (21 page)

Yet it didn’t matter. At the moment, he wasn’t thinking about the handprint at all—or his mission. He’d gotten a good look at the book she was clutching. It was his picture. Right there. On the cover. She was holding a book with his half-naked image on the cover. Soon, very soon, they’d be hot and heavy into their wild fling, and she’d be holding the real thing. Him. Her. Together.
Naked
.

He couldn’t wait.

Someone had been outside her window. Impossible, she knew, since she was on the second floor. But, reasonable or not, she couldn’t shake the spooky feeling.

Unnerved, she looked around for Mistress Bettina. Some watchdog. The little fluffball was probably curled up in front of the stove downstairs, blissfully asleep.

Feeling foolish, Tracy pressed her nose to the window-pane and looked around.
Nothing
.

For half a second, she considered calling Melissa’s cell phone, then decided she was acting like a girly-girl. She’d already scoped the area, and nothing was out there. It was probably just that her nerves were on edge, which made some sense considering she was about to go out on a date with Leon Palmer. Pouring herself a glass of wine had probably been a bad idea, but she’d hoped it would relax her. Instead it seemed to have her jumping at shadows.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to check out the noise. Taking a deep breath, she pulled up the window sash and leaned outside. Nothing.

Yep. Her imagination was playing tricks on her. Since her grandmother’s death, she’d been hearing more acutely this old house’s creaks and groans. That was one of the reasons she’d wanted a roomie. Well, that and the need for tax money.

So it had just been the wine. Or maybe she was hearing the house settling. Whatever the reason, right then, a male roommate sounded like a pretty good idea. Fortunately Hale would be here tomorrow. And he fit all her requirements for a live-in knight: strong, hunky, dripping with testosterone.

Sighing, she imagined the scene. She’d be in her room, minding her own business, and hear a noise. She’d scream, and he’d come running. No. Wait. Take two. He’d leap from the shower, wrap a towel loosely around his hips,
then
he’d come running.

“Much better.” She whispered the words, her eyes closed as she conjured the face of her sexy, strong, soon-to-be roommate.

Her book had fallen to the floor when she’d opened the window, and now she picked it up again, her fingers tracing Hale’s image on the cover. She still couldn’t believe he had been flirting with her, and the memory of their afternoon together was intoxicating.

She brought herself back to reality with a shake. At the moment, Hale wasn’t the man of the hour; Leon was. In fact, Leon was the man of the less-than-half-an-hour, and Tracy really needed to get her butt in gear if she was going to get dressed in time.

She might have suddenly become the Belle of the Ball, but that didn’t change the fact that she was as nervous as she could ever remember being. To soothe her nerves, she punched the play button on her CD player, and the room immediately filled with the sounds of the surf beating against a beach. For as long as she could remember, she’d loved the ocean—the expanse of it, its depth, its mysteries. Listening to recorded surf wasn’t the same, but it was better than nothing. And at the moment, she needed all the security blankets she could find.

Bolstered by the soothing sounds, she sat in front of her vanity and started to tackle making herself presentable. After doing her hair—a massive undertaking—she spent twenty minutes trying on every dress in her closet, with and without her grandmother’s belt. In the end, she decided for basic black. Cool, sophisticated, slightly elegant.

After much internal debate, she ruled out the belt. For one, it just didn’t do anything for the outfit. For another, she was a grown woman. She’d found her confidence now, hadn’t she? And listening to the CD had calmed her nerve. Surely, she could go out for the evening without a security blanket.

She took another sip of wine. Instead of the belt, she’d rely on liquid courage.

At last dressed, she sat on her grandmother’s pink chaise and focused again on her historical romance novel. Or at least the cover. She’d bought it for the story, but right now, she was more interested in the half-naked medieval lord on its front than the words that were on the pages.

Hale groaned as Tracy’s fingers played across the cover of the book. She wasn’t caressing him. Not really. But even so, he shivered from the thought of her fingers touching his flesh so intimately.

The look on her face was unmistakable. He’d seen it on dozens of women, all of whom had ended up in his bed.

Lust. Desire.
A sensual hunger
.

When he saw it, he wanted to leap for joy. Without question, Tracy wanted him, and the realization pleased him tremendously. Sure, the knowledge that she was attracted to him benefited his mission, but his joy stemmed from more than that. More than ego, too. Quite simply, he was attracted to the girl. He wanted her. And he’d hoped that she wanted him back.

To now know for certain that she did ... Well, his body swelled with relief—and anticipation.

Then the truth bonked him on the head: she didn’t actually want him. She wanted the sexy, buffed-up image he portrayed. And if her expression was any indication, this wasn’t the first time she’d looked at his picture that way.

He remembered her reaction when they’d met on the set. Pleasure, surprise, and definite familiarity. And later, in the coffee shop, when she’d asked about his life as a cover model.

He’d been wrong when he’d told Elmer Tracy didn’t know him. She
did
. And she’d had a crush on him just like so many of his fans did.

She desired him, and she had the belt.

Which meant he wasn’t falling head over heels for a mortal after all. It was the belt that was making him feel this way!

Closing his eyes with relief, he leaned against the trunk of a majestic oak tree.
Thank Hera
. All that touchy-feely angst, all his raging emotions. They were an illusion, nothing more. Tracy wanted him—she’d wanted him since before he saw her. And it was because Tracy had Aphrodite’s girdle that Hale wanted her right back.

The way she’d done to Leon, she’d put a spell on
him
, entrapped him in a web of ancient magic. Never in his whole life had he felt so relieved to be the victim of an enchantment. He wasn’t actually
feeling
something for a mortal; he was simply under her control.

His mouth curled into a grin as he considered his predicament. A man under an enchantment couldn’t be held responsible for his actions, could he? A man under an enchantment had guilt-free carte blanche to bend to the will of the woman who’d cast the spell. In this case, he’d heard the woman in question say she wanted a fling. A wild, hot, steamy fling.

And that’s exactly what Hale had planned. After all, his mission required a seduction, and Hale wasn’t the type to turn his back on a mission. For the good of the cause, he was more than happy to make a few sacrifices.

No strings. No guilt. No funky, inexplicable emotions tugging at his gut.

Just him, Tracy, a very good time, and some feelings that—thankfully—would disappear the moment he completed his mission and got Aphrodite’s girdle back.

Ding-ding-dong-dong! Dong-dong-ding-ding!

The annoying doorbell her grandmother had loved so much—an imitation of Big Ben—echoed through the house and Tracy sat bolt upright, guiltily throwing her paperback aside. Smoothing her skirt, she stood up, a little unstable after those two glasses of her favorite Chardonnay. Nibbling on her lower lip, she wondered how wrong it was to fantasize about one man while she waited to go out on a date with another.

Giving up on finding an answer, she rushed out of her room and down the stairs toward the entry hall. Mistress Bettina scampered out from the kitchen, her high-pitched bark echoing through the hall.

“Calm down, girl.” Tracy bent down and grabbed her collar. The little dog quivered with excitement; she pretty much lived for the door chime. Considering that Tracy’s first real date in months stood on the other side of that door, at the moment, Tracy knew exactly how Missy felt.

“Just a sec,” she shouted, then checked her reflection in the antique mirror that hung near the door. Not bad, all things considered. Thanks to the wonders of modern cosmetics and that cooperative salesgirl—not to mention her own American Express card—Tracy had managed a few minor improvements. She’d spruced up her basically boring face. As for her hair, there wasn’t much improvement in that department. Through liberal application of hair-spray, she’d forced a few curls in her cursedly straight locks, but the odds of her new ‘do surviving the night were slim.

Still, at the moment, she looked good. Not stunning. But good.

Hopefully, good was good enough.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door, and there was Leon, his eyes warm and dreamy. “Hi.” She swept her arm back, indicating the entrance hall. “Come on in.”

Without saying a word, he followed her lead, stepping into the open doorway and then onto the marble flooring. He had the celebrity thing down pat: not a hair was out of place, not one single wrinkle marred his clothes.

Even though he looked good enough to eat, Tracy couldn’t say she’d entirely enjoy the meal. Her fantasies about Hale had ruined her appetite. Hale might be less famous than Leon Palmer, but a thread of something purely and totally male added something to him that Leon just couldn’t hope to attain. And right now, Tracy wanted a taste of it.

Leon cleared his throat. Tracy frowned, trying to get her thoughts under control. She was being silly, of course. She might imagine that Hale was standing right next to her, so close she could feel the heat from his body, but in reality, he was probably in some hotel, having drinks with a supermodel.

No, it was Leon—her date—who was standing in front of her looking like a dream. Leon, not Hale. No matter how many fantasies she might be having about that other, absent, man. Talk about your etiquette faux pas. Any minute now, Miss Manners, Emily Post, and Tracy’s grandmother were going to yank Tracy’s membership in the polite young ladies club.

With a frown, Tracy realized Leon still hadn’t said anything. Looking up, she watched as the dreamy expression in his face faded, only to be replaced by something. What? Surprise? Revulsion?

She backed away, unsettled by the harshness in his face, and even more by the coldness in his eyes. The dreamy quality was gone, and he skimmed his gaze over her body. Hale had done the same thing, and the intense inspection had practically melted her on the spot. Under Leon’s torturous examination, all she wanted was to cover herself and run from the room.

When their gazes met, she kept her eyes wide open, fighting back the burning onslaught of tears.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” he said. Once again, his gaze darted down, scoping her from neck to feet. “I can’t go out with you tonight.”

Apparently, she hadn’t passed inspection. So much for a boost of belt-less confidence. “I see.” Screw Miss Manners; Tracy didn’t even try to fight back the note of fury that laced her voice. “Any particular reason why? My outfit not snazzy enough for you?”

She didn’t know what she expected to see on his face— shock? an apology?—but whatever it was, she certainly didn’t expect the befuddled expression that marred his usually perfect features.

“The outfit’s... okay.” He shrugged. “It’s not your clothes. It’s ...” He stood up straighter, almost as if realizing he’d lost the upper hand and was fighting to get it back. “Look, Tracy. You’re a nice girl, but there’s nothing between us. Nothing at all. I’m not sure why I asked you out. Obviously I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I’ll see you at work.”

He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway and actually had the gall to turn back one last time to say. “And have a nice weekend.”

Nice?
Nice
? He actually expected her to have a nice weekend after he’d snubbed her for the second time?

She sucked in a deep breath, readying herself to let loose and scream until Leon tumbled backward out the door and down the porch steps from the force of her fury, but someone else got there first. A deep, guttural growl came from behind her, then seemed to rush past in a gust of wind.

Tracy jumped back, at first scared and confused, then jubilant as Leon stumbled over his own feet, then crashed down the steps, facedown on the walk. A bubble of laughter rose in her chest, and she didn’t even try to stifle it. It was mean, maybe—but at the moment, she didn’t really care.

Leon pulled himself up, then turned around, and she saw the blood dripping from his nose. “You bitch!”

Her laughter stopped, replaced by anger. “Me? You’re the one who begged for a second chance, and now you go and dump me. You’re the one who tripped over your own feet. I’ve just been standing here.”

“Something
tripped
me. Where’s that damn mutt of yours?”

“Don’t blame Missy for your clumsiness.” Tracy glanced around, but she didn’t see a sign of the fluffball. The dog must have scampered away after Tracy had opened the door.

“Well, something tripped me.”

“You’re a clutz, Leon. A clutz and a putz.” With that, Tracy gave herself a couple of mental brownie points, stepped backward into her house, and slammed the door.

Jerk!

Leaning back against the door, she wondered what the heck was going on. Leon had been so eager earlier, but now he was a cold fish. Just to be sure, she tilted her nose toward her armpit, but didn’t smell anything offensive. Just soap, deodorant, and laundry detergent. She might not be beautiful, but her dress was flattering and she’d been reasonably happy with her appearance.

Leon doesn’t know what he’s missing, she thought. A tear trickled down her cheek, anyway, and she brushed it roughly away.

Okay, so Leon ran hot and cold. She didn’t like it—heck, she didn’t particularly like
him
—but she could deal with it. What was really odd was that something truly had seemed to trip him. She’d felt that rush of air, then seen him stumble over... well, nothing.