Her Convenient Millionaire (2 page)

Okay, so that was vague. But she knew what she meant. She wasn't going back home, wasn't going back under her father's thumb. She wasn't going to move in with a friend, either, and just float through life like so many of her old friends were doing. She wasn't going to be that person anymore, the one who twisted herself into pretzels trying to get someone to love her. If that meant nobody ever did love her, so be it.

Juliana loved her. Sherry knew that, even though they'd only lived as sisters since Sherry's mom died. A lot of people didn't have even one person who loved them. She'd get by. She had $53.72 in her purse, a college degree and a sister who loved her. She was rich. Now all she had to do was find a good place to sleep.

 

Should he have let her go like that? Mike almost snarled as he thrust the thought away yet again and tried to focus on his paperwork. He'd never get done if he couldn't concentrate more than five seconds at a time. But she worried him, the blonde at the bar.

He should have ignored her protests and called a cab. A
woman alone at this time of night—even in a place as wrapped up with security as Palm Beach—was vulnerable to all kinds of trouble. Especially a woman as out-of-it as that one had seemed. He shouldn't have taken his own hang-ups out on her.

So what if she was beautiful? So what if watching that tiny black purse bounce against her sweet backside as she walked out of the club made him break out in a sweat? That didn't make her a gold digger, did it? Either way, she didn't deserve whatever trouble might be out there waiting.

The fact that every woman he'd been attracted to in the past had always been more interested in his money than in him wasn't this woman's fault. He couldn't start thinking that noticing a woman automatically meant she was after his money, even if it was probably true. That was why he'd moved to Palm Beach. Plenty of guys here had more money than he did. Plenty of them had less, but that just made him middle-of-the-road. He could blend in. Be less noticeable. Avoid pursuit. Sort of.

Finally he finished matching numbers, made out the deposit slip and shoved everything into the bank bag. Not bad for a slow night. Mike went downstairs and double-checked the locks, made sure everything was turned off. He'd taken so long over his numbers that the building was completely empty. Usually he managed to leave with the last of the cleanup crew at the latest. It was all
her
fault.

He should have at least made sure she'd gotten to her car okay. Hell, he should have made sure she had a car outside to drive. She might have walked. Some of the younger set did, especially the tourists, which she could have been for all he knew. Palm Beach wasn't that big. People could walk places. Too late to worry about it now. He was doomed to his guilt.

Mike drove the few blocks to the drive-through at the bank and slid the bag into the heavily reinforced night-
deposit slot, then pulled on through to head home. He was beyond tired. Maybe he'd have a chance to sleep a little later than usual tomorrow. If the guilt would let him.

As he turned onto Ocean Boulevard to head down-island to the building where he lived, Mike glanced out across the beach to the sea, hunting the moon path, but the moon had already risen too high. It silvered the white surf horses, but there was no road to the sky for them. He had to laugh at himself, still thinking in terms of childhood stories his mom had told him.

Then he saw the woman walking along the beach, her long blond hair silver-kissed by the moon. Not many people came to the beach this time of morning. Not alone, anyway. He'd heard gossip about couples discovered by the police doing the horizontal rumba after particularly wild parties. So what was this woman doing here?

Residual guilt pushed him into thinking she might be the blonde from the club. Mike slowed down, peering past the shadows under the palms to the moonlit beach where she walked barefoot on the packed sand, her shoes dangling from one hand. It sure looked like the same woman.

Mike checked the street for cops, hoping he could hand the situation over to them and get away clean while still salving the oversize conscience his parents had built into him. No luck. They were probably all handling the spillover from the Peterman party tonight—that was the reason business had been slow. Taking advantage of the absence of police, Mike pulled across the street and parked along the curb facing the wrong way just close enough that he could intercept her easily.

He got out of the car and started across the beach. He was getting sand in his shoes. He really hated that. A conscience was a damn uncomfortable thing to live with. Though he still couldn't see her face clearly in the moonlight, Mike was certain this was the same woman who'd
spent the day in his club. He recognized the purse. And the backside it bounced against.

When he got close enough that he didn't have to shout, he spoke. “Excuse me, miss?”

She yelped. Her arms flew up as she whirled to face him, and the sandals she carried came sailing toward him—not as weapons, but as symbols of her surprise. Mike caught one of them and bent to pick the other up, dusting the sand off.

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded, one hand over her heart as if to calm it. “Is this how you entertain yourself? Sneaking up on people and scaring them out of a year's growth? That's twice you've done it to me just tonight.”

Mike had to grin. She'd definitely come out of her daze. He could tell he'd scared her, but she wasn't going to let it show, covering her fright with anger. He had to let her believe she'd fooled him. “Didn't you tell me you were all grown-up?”

Her scowl intensified. “Give me my shoes and go away.”

“Have you been walking since you left the club?”

“What business is it of yours? Give me my shoes.”

He clasped both shoes in one hand, instead. “I want to be sure you're safe. You should have let me call you a cab.”

“I wanted to walk.” She propped her hands on her hips, obviously exasperated with him. “Are you going to give me my shoes or not?”

Mike looked at her, then he looked at the shoes, then he looked at her again. “I haven't decided yet.” He put out his free hand for a handshake. “I'm Micah Scott. It's nice to meet you.”

She stared at his hand as if she thought it would bite her,
then gave the rest of him the same look. “Uh-huh. I want my shoes, Mike Scott.”

His smile twisting, he pulled his hand back. He didn't blame her for her suspicion, given the hour, the isolation and the fact that he was holding her shoes hostage. “Why don't you let me give you a ride home?”

“What happened to the offer of a cab?”

“I don't have a cell phone to call one.”

Her eyebrow lifted in skeptical surprise. “You work in Palm Beach and you don't have a cell phone? What kind of status-hungry yuppie are you?”

He laughed. He couldn't help it. “I
have
a cell phone. I just don't have it with me. I live in Palm Beach. I'm close enough to home, I don't bother to take the phone with me to work.” He tipped his head toward his car. “Come on. Let me drive you wherever you're going.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. Just give me my shoes and I'll be on my way.” She held her hand out, obviously expecting him to put her shoes in it.

He wasn't sure why he didn't. “Why won't you let me give you a ride?”

She gave him an “Are you crazy?” look. “Because I don't know you. For all I know, you could be a serial killer who hides his bodies at the bottom of the lake for the alligators to eat.”

“I told you. I'm Mike Scott. I run La Jolie. I'm there every night. Ask anybody. They'll tell you. I'm a good guy. Really.” Why was he pushing so hard? He didn't understand it.

“And just who am I supposed to ask?” She threw her arms out to either side, indicating the vast empty beach and silent streets.

Mike pulled out his wallet and opened it up to the pictures. “Look. This is my mom. And these are my nephews.” He flipped through the assembly, naming off his sis
ters' boys. “And this is my niece, Elizabeth. Betsy's the only girl in the bunch, poor thing.”

“Even serial killers have families,” she said. But he could tell she was softening.

He could also tell she didn't want to. Time to start negotiating. “What's it going to take? What do I have to do to get you to let me take you home?”

“There is absolutely nothing in this world that would persuade me to do that.” She held her hand out again, silently demanding her shoes.

“Why? I'm not a serial killer. Honest.” He tried on his most innocent expression, hoping it actually looked innocent.

She sighed. “No. I don't think you are. I think you're a very nice man with a very nice family, and I don't have a clue why you're out here bothering me, instead of at home with them.”

“I'm not crazy enough to actually live with any of them.” Mike shuddered theatrically, hoping to make her smile. Didn't work.

“Why?” she said. “Why are you doing this? Why won't you just give me my shoes and say goodbye?”

“Guilt.” That was the only answer he had and he didn't think it was a very good one. And he'd been trying to figure it out longer than she had. “If anything happened to you, while you were wandering around out here by yourself at this hour, I'd feel responsible.”

That “You're nuts” look came back again. “You're not responsible. The only person responsible for me is
me.
I can take care of myself.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “You're right. But everybody, no matter who they are, needs a little help now and then.” He knew that from personal experience. “What's it going to hurt to take help when it's offered?”

She stared at him another second, then shook her head. “I give up. Who needs shoes, anyway?”

She turned and started walking down the beach again, away from him. Was he that bad, that she'd rather give up her obviously expensive sandals than get in a car with him?

“Hey, wait.” He trotted after her, reaching for her arm, hoping to stop her.

He caught the skinny strap to her purse instead. She jerked away and left the purse dangling from Mike's hands.

“Give me that!” She lunged at him, grabbing for the purse.

Mike backed away, holding it over his head out of her reach. “What's in here that you don't want me to see?”

“Everything.” She fought him for it, but the contents spilled out.

“Keys.” He picked them up and dropped them into the purse.

“Lipstick.” Mike dropped that into the purse.

“Wallet.” He opened it and pulled her driver's license from its slot and surrendered the purse to its furious owner. “Miss Sherry Eloise Nyland,” he read and made a little bow as he quickly memorized her address. “It's a privilege to meet you.”

“The feeling is
not
mutual, you overbearing baboon.” Sherry Nyland stuffed the wallet back into her mangled purse, turned on her heel and walked away.

“Wait a minute.” Mike had to hurry after her again. “Don't you want your driver's license?”

“Don't need it.”

Great. Now she was making him feel really guilty, and as usual, that made him want to blame her. Not logical, but human. “What is wrong with you? I'm just trying to help you out here.”

“What is wrong with me?” Sherry spun to face him, anger in every line of her body. “What's wrong with
you?
I ask you very nicely to give me back my property and leave me alone, but you can't do that, can you? No. Not only do you steal my shoes and you confiscate my driver's license. You grab my purse. And you have the gall to think there's something wrong with
me?
Just go away, okay? Leave me alone.”

Put all together like that, his behavior sounded terrible. It was terrible. Awful. Unforgivable. His teenage nephews could behave better than he had. He'd only wanted to help, prodded by the guilt and worry he'd felt after she left the club, but that didn't excuse what he'd done. Nothing did.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean—” What could he say? His intentions didn't really matter. “Never mind. I'm sorry.”

Mike set her shoes carefully on the sand and laid the license on top of them. Then he backed away.

As Sherry Nyland watched him, he backed all the way to his car; but still she didn't move. It wasn't until he got inside the car and closed the door that she came to pick up her belongings. Then she turned to walk farther down the beach. Mike started his car and followed, driving slowly along the curb. When she looked over her shoulder at him, he let the engine idle a minute, allowing her to move ahead, but he wasn't going to let her out of his sight until she got to wherever she was going.

Sherry looked back at him another time or two, then changed direction abruptly, marching across the beach toward him. Mike stopped the car and rolled the window down as he waited for her.

“You're driving on the wrong side of the road,” she announced.

“I know.” He shrugged. “There's nobody else out here. I figure if somebody does come, I'll stop and pretend I'm parked.”

“Why are you doing this?” She held her purse clutched tight in one hand.

“I want to be sure you get safely to where you're going. Then I won't bother you anymore.”

“You just being here bothers me.” Sherry folded her arms, and glared at him.

Mike just looked back. “I'm sorry about that.” But even so, he wasn't going to do anything different.

Finally she sighed. “You're not going to go away, are you.” It wasn't a question.

“Nope. Not till I know you're safe somewhere.” Was she giving in? He felt a tiny niggle of hope.

With another, bigger sigh she walked around the front of the car and got in beside him. “Fine,” she said. “You win. Take me home. See what happens.”