Smoke and Mirrors (2 page)

Chet pulled her tighter against his sweaty body. "She your lady?"

"More mine than yours."

Everything inside of Cass went very still. The blatant, take-no-prisoner's tone reminded her of a cop, but she'd never heard this particular voice, nor had she ever felt the charge this voice sent racing through her. Anticipation warred with her better judgment, curiosity with sanity. She struggled against Chet's grip' wanting a glimpse of the voice's owner.

"You have five seconds."

Cass wasn't willing to give Chet that long. She slammed her foot down on top of Chet's and rammed her knee into his groin. He yowled in pain and doubled over, releasing her. Cass whirled toward the voice and froze.

A man stood there, eyes fierce and challenging, long coal-black hair against his hardened face. He tossed a switchblade from hand to hand, blatantly daring someone to take him on.

Cass barely managed to catch her breath, but she knew. Without a doubt, unequivocally she knew.

Derek Mansfield.

She'd never seen the man in the flesh, only heard the stories, read the reports,
seen
the grainy videos. But she had no doubt of his identity.

"Honey," the longtime desk clerk had quipped less than an hour before, "if Derek Mansfield were here, you wouldn't have to ask. You would know."

Seeing him up close and personal for the first time brought the thrill of adventure, an unexpected surge of inevitability. She'd been anticipating this moment for a long, long time.

But this was hardly the meeting she'd had in mind.

Silence filled the room. Cass inched away from Chet, toward Mansfield. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she thought wryly, but couldn't have stopped had a gun been pointed at her heart. Mansfield's presence drew her like a rookie to his first big crime scene.

She'd heard that about Mansfield, had just never believed what had seemed to be an exaggerated claim. Until now.

Mansfield took her by the wrist and pulled her toward him, putting himself between her and the rest of the room. Chet was still howling in pain, but Animal and the others stood frozen. Their eyes were wide and glassy, focused on the switchblade.

"The lady and I will be going now," Mansfield said in a low voice. He held Cass pressed to the hard muscles of his back and buttocks. "If you know what's good for you, you'll wait for security,
then
quietly let them escort you off the property."

"We're paying custom—"

"Your rights ceased the moment you laid hands on this woman." Mansfield backed her toward the door. "It's called assault, son, and if she's so inclined, she could throw the book at you."

He would know, Cass thought grimly. He would know. Mansfield's movements were slow and deliberate, the back of his powerful legs brushing the front of her hips. She followed his lead, finding the whole situation ironic as hell, but potentially useful.

Vincent Fettici, head of security rushed in. "Ms. LeBlanc, we got here—"

"Too late," Mansfield finished for him. "Now take care of these lowlifes before I have to do that for you, too."

Vincent stiffened. "Yes, sir."

Mansfield led Cass into the hallway. Adrenaline pumped through her. Anticipation. Here was her chance to lay that last layer of groundwork and begin building. "I'd like to thank—"

"Are you okay?" he demanded harshly.

She swallowed her surprise. "I'm fine."

His expression darkened. "Then you must be out of your mind. What the hell were you thinking, going in there alone?"

The harsh tone, more than the actual words, stung.
"You
pay me to do a job, sir. It's my responsibility to keep this hotel running smoothly."

Those killer eyes focused on her, so narrow and concentrated they made her long to look away. But she didn't. Couldn't.

Nothing had prepared her for the reality of this man. To say he had an arresting presence would be a gross understatement.
Commanding
came closer. The videotapes had not conveyed his blatant masculinity, his magnetism. They'd only shared his classic male physique, the broad shoulders and narrow hips, his long legs. And his face. The intensity of it, the savagery. Sharp and angular planes. High slashes of cheekbones. Deep-set, go-to-hell eyes.

A man who had seen too much, done too much.

"Ever heard of security?" he demanded.

"They were supposed to meet me here."

"Ever heard of waiting?"

She reached behind her head and began rebraiding her long, tangled hair. "Not my style."

"This isn't about style, honey. It's about good common sense."

Her hands abandoned her hair and clenched into tight, combative fists. "I resent your tone."

"And I resent having my first night home disrupted by your risk taking. Do you have any idea what those punks could have done to you?"

Like he really cared. "Mr. Mansfield, I'll have you know I'm trained—"

His eyes narrowed. "Ah, so you know who I am."

Again his tone, this time the suspicion in it, made the statement sound like an accusation.

"We've been expecting you for a long time," she said.

"Well, here I am," he said wickedly, "the prodigal son home at last." He leaned so close his whiskey breath feathered her cheekbone. "Tell me, doll. Was it worth it?"

Oh, yeah…

Cass blinked, the only way to combat those electric-blue eyes. "Was what worth what?"

A smile curved his lips, an uncivilized one that had the power to stop a woman's heart cold.

The reports hadn't warned her about that, either.

"The wait." A gold earring winked at her through his long hair. "Was it worth it?"

Not giving her time to answer, much less breathe, he chucked her chin and strode away. Cass was left standing there, alone, save for the wall of orphaned ancestors. They watched her from their gilded frames, and now they seemed to be laughing.

* * *

Derek threw open the door to his half brother's office. "You've got a strange idea of a welcoming committee, baby bro."

Kicked back in an oversize leather chair, Brent Ashford looked up from the magazine in his lap. He had his legs stretched out, his crossed ankles resting on his Louis XIV desk.

"Derek. I didn't realize you were here already."

Derek strode farther into the cushy room. "You mind explaining what I walked in on? Just what the hell's been going on here since I left? Have you ever heard the word lawsuit?"

"Well, hell, it's good to see you, too, Dare, but I'm afraid the fatted calf isn't quite ready yet."

Derek ignored the sarcasm and halted in front of Brent's desk. He leaned forward, splaying his hands across the highly polished surface. "Thanks all the same, but I'd rather know why we've got assistant managers risking personal safety to do security's job."

Brent's nonchalance slipped. "What are you talking about?" he asked, sitting up and lowering his feet to the floor.

"If I'd been five minutes later, that little lady would have been…" The sight of those animals pawing at the brunette, of the way that punk had held her against his sweaty body, still had Derek's blood boiling. He didn't want to imagine what could have happened to her. He may have turned his back on society, but that didn't mean he condoned taking advantage of a woman.

Nor did he need the extra attention. Cops. The media. You name it, they'd shine a spotlight on the Stirling Manor so bright he'd be forced into another delay.

He didn't have time to clean up another one of his brother's messes.

His grandfather said he made life too easy for Brent, always bailing him out, never letting his brother suffer the consequences of his actions, but Derek took his role as older sibling seriously, even if he did sometimes want to strangle his brother.

"There were five of them, drunk and out of their mind. What in the world was that brunette doing up there with them?" he wanted to know. "Where were
you?"

Brent stood, and his already fair skin went a few shades lighter. "Cass?"

"I didn't catch her name."

"What'd she look like?"

The image fired to life in his mind like a shot of fine whiskey. The woman's dark hair had been wild and tangled around her face, her cheeks flushed, her chest thrust out, but she'd still looked defiant. Courageous. Evocative as hell.

Derek banished the image before it could distract any further. "Long, dark hair, amber eyes, a body that could tempt a monk."

Brent swore under his breath. "Cass. My God, is she all right?"

Satisfied he had his brother's attention, Derek eased back off the desk. He walked over to a crystal vase containing darts and picked one up. Turning it over in his hand, he made a production of studying the finely sharpened instrument.

"Damn it, Derek! Is she all right?"

"She is now," he growled. "No thanks to you."

Brent crossed to Derek's side. "What happened?" The question was strained, almost personal.

"Who wants to know?" Derek asked. He knew his brother well enough to know when he was holding something back. "Her
manager,
or someone else?"

"I don't see how that's any of your concern," Brent answered a little too quickly.

Derek studied the shiny dart clenched between his thumb and forefinger, then hurled it toward the waiting target. It sailed across the room, slammed into the bull's-eye.

"It's a simple question, baby brother. Are you involved with the daredevil who damn near got herself mauled by a bunch of drunken idiots, or not?"

Derek didn't know why the question mattered so much, but it burned through him, demanding an answer.

Outrage blasted into Brent's eyes. "Mauled? Is she still here?" he asked, heading for the door. "I want to make sure she's okay."

"It's after
midnight
. Her shift is over."

Brent stopped dead in his tracks.

"And since she didn't come running to you, I'm assuming the answer to my question is no." Derek zinged another dart; this one landed a fraction of a millimeter from the first.

Brent stormed across the room and grabbed a daft of his own. "We have an understanding," he snarled, then hurled his daft toward the board.

It bounced off Derek's and crashed to the floor. Derek resisted the urge to laugh. "What kind of understanding?"

Brent shrugged. With his golden hair, golden tan and golden eyes, he looked as if he belonged on a
California
beach, not in a
Chicago
hotel penthouse. His pressed trousers and starched button-down were the only hints of his UCLA in B.A.

"You know how it goes," he muttered. "Don't want to move too fast. Things are better when you draw them out."

Now Derek did laugh. "In other words, you struck out."

Humiliation shuttered Brent's gaze. "Not exactly."

"Exactly." Derek fired another dart straight into the bull's-eye. He could still picture the fire sparking in the woman's eyes, her long dark hair,
the
set of those proud shoulders. She reminded him of a woman about to be burned at the stake but refusing to back down and recant the accusation of witchcraft.

Witchcraft.
Maybe that was the reason he could still smell her soft musky scent, hear her honeyed voice. A man would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to respond to the woman his brother called Cass.

Derek was neither deaf nor dumb nor blind.

But there was no room in his life for the distraction a woman like her inspired. They'd all be better off if he forgot the jolt of awareness he'd felt upon seeing her.

"I know that look in your eyes," Brent said. "I know how your mind works. You think you can waltz in here and sweep Cass off her feet, then toss her aside when you're done playing with her, don't you?"

The protective clip to Brent's voice fascinated Derek. His brother didn't typically put his neck on the line for others.

He had never had to.

"Relax, baby brother. I don't plan to be here long, and I've got far more important things to do than wine and dine our assistant manager."

"Wining and dining has never been your style."

"It's never had to be."

Brent's scowl deepened. He crossed to the minibar, fixed himself a stiff drink, tossed it back. "So how was
Edinburgh
?" he asked, blatantly changing the subject. "I'm surprised the old man let you come back."

"It wasn't his choice." And he hadn't been happy about it, either. The old codger wanted Derek to stay in
Scotland
, where he could keep an eye on his grandson, make sure he didn't stir up the hornet's nest once again.

Derek had hated leaving him, hated even more the worry on his grandfather's face, the awareness they might never see each other again. But he hadn't had a choice. Brent had seen to that.