Sleepless in Savannah (28 page)

Lance funneled coffee down his throat, willing himself to stay awake now that it was work time. He wanted to finish the trim in Sophie's kitchen before lunch, so he could spend the rest of the day with her. The date she'd pulled from the balloon had included an afternoon of antiquing. Normally shopping wasn't his idea of a fun way to spend a Saturday, but if the antique stores inspired as many new suggestions for plans as the tour the night before, it would be worth it.

Besides, he would be with Sophie. It didn't really matter to him what they did, as long as he could see her.

Reid was stirring creamer into his coffee, sloshing it all over the table with a scowl.

"What's up with you?" Lance asked.

"Nothing."

"Did you strike out with the ladies last night?"

Reid shrugged. "You could say that."

"At the clubs?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"That bad, huh?"

Reid simply grunted.

Lance polished off his food. "I gotta get to work on Sophie's house."

Reid caught his arm. "How's it going, man?"

Lance squinted, wondering at the concerned look on his brother's face. "Good." He remembered the way Sophie had come apart in his arms. "Actually, really good. Why?"

Reid shrugged. "No reason, just wondered."

Lance tossed some bills on the table and Reid stood. "Lance?"

"Yeah?"

"If you want Sophie so bad, don't let anything or anyone get in your way."

Lance froze. What would he do if Sophie decided to take the other job and move away? He had his business here, his family.... "Do you know something you're not telling me?"

Reid shook his head. "Just that you were right about Sophie's sister, Lucy. She's a nut. I intend to stay away from her from now on."

Then Reid turned and strode out the door. Lance remembered that Lucy had been crying when she'd come in the night before.

Exactly what had happened between his brother and Sophie's little sister?

* * *

Lucy tapped her heel up and down on the airport floor in front of the security camera, dodging suspicious looks from passengers and damning laughter from the burly security guard prowling through her carry-on bag—she definitely should have checked the Sleepover, Inc., kit.

"This could be considered a weapon." A skinny middle-aged woman pounded the cucumber vibrator in her hand. "We'll have to confiscate it."

"And this looks dangerous to me." The burly guard removed the banana-shaped one and waved it in the air, drawing numerous innuendoes and whispers from the crowd.

"You must be some lonely chick," a middle-aged woman behind her muttered.

"Man, she likes kinky stuff," a balding man with a birdlike nose yelled.

The mother of a four-year-old child whining for candy covered her daughter's eyes and coached her away as if Lucy were a pedophile.

Lucy sighed and gave the guards her best sweet dumb-blond look. "Those are a part of my home-shopping business; it cost me five hundred dollars, so could you please be a dear and let me through?"

The beefy man scowled. "I don't think so, lady."

"Pretty please?"

The hefty man lifted a candle from the kit, then a pack of matches. "You know these aren't allowed."

Lucy winced. "Sorry, I forgot those were in there. I just use them to light incense and those candles, of course. Did you know that burning incense can stimulate your sex drive?"

He cut his eyes upward as if she were a complete ditz.

The skinny man lifted a jar of sparkly massage oil. "This might be toxic. Better turn it over to the CDC." He dropped it into their collection of nail files, manicure scissors, and other dangerous confiscated paraphernalia.

"It is not toxic; it's lotion," Lucy snapped. "At least let me check the damn bag."

"Ma'am, we don't appreciate your tone." He gestured for her to step through the metal detector.

Lucy moved forward, but the light flashed and a buzzer sounded. "Oh, good gracious."

He pointed to the clunky gold necklace dangling from her neck to her waist. "Step back and remove all your jewelry. Make sure your cell phone's in your purse."

She did as they instructed and tried again, but once again the alarm sounded.

"Shoes, belt."

Sophie peeled off her heels and dropped them in the plastic bag they offered, placed her gold chain belt on the conveyor belt, and tried again.

A woman wearing bifocals gestured toward her blouse. "You wearing a push-up bra with wires?"

Lucy nodded, glaring at the woman. "I need the support."

Someone across the way snickered, while a teenage boy with purple and yellow hair offered a comment about her knockers.

"Brassiere's probably setting it off." The female security agent waved for another guard. "Got a check here!"

"You might as well bring your clothes in a paper bag and get dressed after you get strip-searched." Lucy reached inside her shirt, unfastened her bra, and tossed it on the counter. "There." She stepped through the security booth again, but it flashed and dinged.

"What now?"

The woman's eyes rose over the bifocals. "Guard!"

"Maybe it's my belly button ring," Lucy said. She twisted sideways, pulled up her shirt and unfastened the dangling chain, stuck it in the bin with the rest of her jewelry, then once again tried to pass through security. The light flashed again.

Heck, she might as well get naked. A few men surrounding her were actually salivating at her impromptu partial strip show. "Listen, could we please hurry? I'm going to miss my flight."

"Then you should pay more attention to how you pack and what you wear."

"Look at me." Lucy gathered her blond curls into a fist. "I'm not a terrorist."

"Did someone say there's a terrorist here?" an elderly lady squeaked.

Whispers and worried looks skittered across the crowd.

"I'm not a terrorist," Lucy said, raising her voice so the elderly woman could hear.

The woman cried out and ran toward the exit. Several passengers scurried away to the next line, while the beefy man stepped up, pulling at his pants. "Ma'am, I believe you'd better step over here."

He tugged her forward, and Lucy gave him an evil eye, promising retribution in a spell while he forced her to stand with her legs apart, her arms splayed, and ran the wand over her. A female guard frisked her and Lucy snarled. She was grateful for airport security and knew it was necessary, but last night had been the pits.

And things were going downhill today.

Five minutes later, her bra, jewelry, belt, belly ring, and shoes stuffed into her carry-on bag, along with the disheveled half-empty Sleepover, Inc., kit, Lucy jogged down the hallway to make her flight.

Nothing had better go wrong with the plane. She refused to stay in this hot, stuffy, humid city another night.

* * *

Sophie stopped by the station after she said goodbye to Lucy at the airport, still perplexed as to why her sister seemed so out of sorts. What had Reid said to upset her so badly? She didn't want to make waves with Lance, but she desperately wanted some answers. And if she didn't know better, she'd think Lucy didn't want her to be with Lance. But what could her sister possibly have against him?

Instead of questioning her, though, Sophie had held her tongue, determined not to pry into her sister's life. Lucy had accused her of behaving too motherly more than once in the past few years. Speaking of motherly, she phoned Deseree to inform her Lucy had caught a flight back to Vegas. Of course, Deseree didn't answer; she was most likely still in bed. It was, after all, only noon, and Deseree needed her beauty sleep.

Especially since she sometimes worked all night.

Sophie shuddered at the thought. Pushing the painful memories out of her mind, she gathered her notes on the upcoming week's shows. Rory and George had both called again, so she phoned them back and left messages, saying she was going to be busy for the next week, and she'd try them when she was finished with her project.

It was only a little white lie; they didn't have to know that her project was personal—five more dates with Lance. She'd also put off the L.A. producer who wanted to talk to her about hosting the reality show—she simply couldn't make a career decision right now.

The producer for
Sophie Knows
stuck his head into her office. She hadn't yet told him about her other offers. But she hadn't explored the details either. She wasn't that interested in hosting a reality show—she'd never really liked them. But a position as a newscaster held some appeal.

"Sophie, the show's ratings this past week were phenomenal. With the upcoming episodes leading into our June wedding series, the syndication is cinched."

"Great." She didn't want to move anyway. Did she? Not if things worked out with Lance.... They chatted for a few minutes about the game plan for the next few weeks; then she hurried toward her car, anxious for the afternoon. First she and Lance were going antiquing; then they planned to take one of the riverboat cruises.

She remembered the dreadful answers Lance had given in the "Dating Game" show and laughed. He had definitely redeemed himself by proving he had a romantic nature.

Guilt niggled at her. She needed to tell him about her past. Would he understand why she'd kept her secrets or would he look down on her, as the school kids had?

You're simply dating now, not engaged or involved in a serious relationship. You don't have to reveal your worst demons up front.

Maybe once they became closer,
if
that happened, then she could share more about her childhood and early career with him.

When she arrived at her house, Lance had finished painting the trim in the kitchen and had left a note that he'd gone home to shower. She hurried to refresh also, changing into a short denim skirt and tank top with a lightweight jacket. Layering would enable her to survive the spring heat while they shopped, but she'd definitely need the jacket tonight on the cruise. And the red top made her feel sexy, ready for romance.

The doorbell rang, and she rushed down the steps, surprised to find Lance and Peter waiting on her front porch. The two men postured as if they were enemies. A florist's truck pulled up next to the sidewalk. A young man wearing a paper hat jumped out and ran toward the door.

"Lance, hi." She offered him a beseeching smile, then let it fade when she faced Peter. "I thought you'd already left town."

Before he could reply, the delivery boy waved a hand. "Sophie Lane?"

"Yes?" Had Lance sent her flowers?

"Sign here." Sophie opened the screen, heat climbing her neck as Peter strode inside. She was definitely going to put a padlock on the door. People were coming in and out as though she had a revolving door.

Speaking of the door, Lance held it open for her, but when she handed the young man the signed slip and reached for a tip from her purse on the table in the foyer, he was frowning at the flowers.

Drat.
They weren't from him.

She skimmed the card attached to the roses. George.

Biting her tongue, she slid them onto the table in the foyer, stuffed a five-dollar tip in the delivery boy's hand, grabbed Lance's arm, and ushered him into the den. "Make yourself comfortable."

Peter loped in as though he owned the place. "Sophie?" Peter said. "We need to talk."

Sophie glared at him, stuck a finger in the air, and glanced at Lance. "Give us one minute, okay?"

His grunt was noncommittal, but at least he sat down and didn't barrel out the door.

Sophie dragged Peter to the kitchen. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk to you about Deseree before I left. And I had to thank you for the appointment with the talent scout. He's supposed to get back with me next week. I might get a few commercials."

"You're welcome, but I don't intend to discuss Deseree with you."

"You have to give her a chance." Peter countered. "Come to Vegas for Mother's Day; visit her; she's trying to change."

"I sent her a check, Peter. I talk to her on the phone—"

"It's not the same thing, Sophie. What are you, heartless?"

"Heartless?" A sharp pang settled in Sophie's chest. If only Peter had known how much Deseree had hurt her growing up, how many times she'd lain awake needing her mother, soothing Lucy's tears, wondering if they were safe or if one of her mother's boyfriends might be dangerous....

"I think you'd better leave."

"But we're not finished."

"The lady asked you to go."

Sophie was startled at the sound of Lance's cold tone, her heart pounding at the sight of him standing in the kitchen doorway looking all protective of her. His eyes glinted with anger, his jaw was so tight she heard his molars grinding, and he'd fisted his big hands by his side.

How much of their conversation had he overheard?

* * *

Lance had finally given in to temptation and tiptoed to the door, but he'd heard Sophie ask the black-jacketed milksop to leave; then the man had moved closer to her, looking pushy and too damn tough to be anywhere near a soft, sophisticated woman like Sophie Lane, and he'd had to step forward.

"This conversation is between me and Sophie." The milksop glared at him as if he'd intruded, but Lance refused to budge.

"The conversation is over," Lance stated baldly. He took a menacing step forward and the hothead did the same, but Sophie pushed Peter toward the back door.

"He's right, Peter. Now go back to Vegas."

White-hot jealousy snaked through Lance at the sight of Sophie's hand touching the man. Sophie was not his to be territorial over, yet he felt territorial over her, and if the man touched her, he might not be able to restrain himself from tearing his arms completely out of his sockets.

"This isn't over," Peter said; then he slammed the door.

Sophie turned, looking slightly shaken. "I'm sorry, Lance."

"What was that all about?"

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "Nothing."

He studied her posture, the slight nervous twitch of her hands as she fidgeted with her hair. She was lying. Somehow he had to get Sophie to trust him and open up.