Truth or Dare (3 page)

“Correction, I was your first major business client.” She glowered. “I'm crushed that you could forget a thing like that.”

“You were my first
private
client. Big difference.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure. And believe me, I have not forgotten anything about your case.”

“Probably hard to forget a case when you end up marrying the client,” she said.

“This is true.”

She did not know where to go with that. It occurred to her that this was the second time within the hour that she had found a way to slip a reference to their marital status into the conversation. The first had occurred out in the other room, when she had made it clear that she felt it was her duty as his wife to give
him her opinion, and now this unsubtle comment about marrying his first client.

Ethan got a reflective expression. “This feels weird.”

She froze. “The curry?”

“Not the curry. The curry is great. I meant that it feels weird to talk about a case after it's all over the way I'm doing this evening.”

She tensed, vaguely defensive. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“No, it's okay. I'm just not used to it, that's all.”

She relaxed slightly. “Ethan, it's what married people do.”

“Yeah?” He gave her a wry smile. “I never did it with any of my former wives.”

“Why not?”

“Probably because none of them was interested. Let's face it, most of the stuff a PI does sounds pretty boring when you try to explain it to someone else. Ninety percent of my job is handled on the phone and the computer.”

“But it's not boring to you, right?” she asked.

“No. But then, it's what I do.”

“If it doesn't bore you,” she said patiently, “it doesn't bore me.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, so much for my day.” Ethan forked up a bite of curry. “How was yours?”

“Not nearly so exciting. I spent the morning in my library at the Designers' Dream Home. I think it's finally coming together.”

The invitation to participate in the annual Designers' Dream Home project had been a coup for her and her one-person interior design firm, Enhanced Interiors. A committee had selected a newly completed, high-end Whispering Springs residence to be the model home. The same committee had chosen a handful of local designers to finish the project. She had been one of the lucky few.

Each designer had been assigned a room and asked to create a dream space. She had gotten the library.

The project had chewed up far more of her time than she had anticipated, but she told herself it would be worth it. In addition to being a profitable fund-raiser for Whispering Springs charities, the Designers' Dream Home focused invaluable attention on those designers selected to work on it. When it was completed there would be media coverage and public tours. The various rooms and their creators were slated to be photographed for a major southwestern lifestyle magazine.

“Lindsey Voyle give you any more trouble?” Ethan asked.

Lindsey Voyle, an interior designer who had recently opened a business in town, was the only fly in the show house project ointment, in Zoe's opinion. Their professional styles were one hundred and eighty degrees apart, but that was not the real problem. The chief issue was that, from the moment they had been introduced, Lindsey Voyle had exuded an inexplicable, thinly veiled hostility toward her.

She wrinkled her nose, aware that Ethan found the rivalry between Lindsey and her amusing.

“Lindsey was at the show house when I went there today.” She reached for the bowl of mango chutney. “She had the nerve
to give me advice on my feng shui technique. She said that I had created a bad energy flow by my use of too much intense color.”

“Bad energy flow, huh? Sounds scary.”

She reminded herself that Ethan also found the concept of designing proper energy flows in a room or a workspace extremely humorous.

“Lindsey claims that she took a workshop from a feng shui master in LA and knows all of the basic principles,” Zoe said.

“What did you tell her?”

“Not what I felt like telling her, that's for sure. I just said that my design style wasn't pure feng shui. I explained that I use elements of several different design philosophies—some ancient, some new—to create positive energy flow in a space.” Zoe spooned more chutney on her curry. “I made it clear that I rely on my own sense of a space for ideas and inspiration, not the rules of a particular school of design.”

Ethan raised his brows. “You told her that you believe you're psychic when it comes to getting a feel for a room?”

“Of course not. She already thinks that I'm a half-baked professional with no real sense of color or style. I didn't want her to spread the word that I'm a complete flake.”

He nodded. “Probably be bad for business.”

“There's a fine line between being known as a fashionable designer who uses the principles of feng shui and getting a reputation as a phony who is into the woo-woo thing.”

“I can see that.”

“Forget Lindsey Voyle. The less said about her the better. The sort of good news today is that I got a phone call from Tabitha Pine.”

“Speaking of complete flakes,” Ethan said around a mouthful of salad.

She frowned. “There is nothing flaky about teaching meditation techniques. A lot of people find them very useful for stress reduction. There's scientific evidence that meditation can lower blood pressure and anxiety levels.”

“I'll stick with my own tried-and-true method of stress reduction.”

“What's that?”

“Sex.”

“Regardless of your opinion of meditation as a stress-reducing therapy, it so happens that teaching the techniques can be quite profitable. Tabitha Pine recently bought a very large, very high-end estate just outside of town. She wants the interior completely redone with the goal of maximizing the flow of positive energy.”

“Right up your alley. Congratulations. I can see it now, Zoe Truax, the designer of choice for gurus everywhere. Pine sounds like an ideal client.”

“Not quite.” Zoe sighed. “Not yet, at any rate. Turns out she wants to see proposals from me and someone else before she chooses her designer.”

“I'm getting a bad feeling about this.”

“Guess who else was asked to draw up a proposal?”

“Lindsey Voyle?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, man, this could get ugly,” Ethan said. “We could be looking at dueling designers meeting at high noon in the
middle of Fountain Square for a showdown. What will it be? Measuring tapes at twenty paces? Fabric swatches at ten?”

“I'm glad you find this entertaining.”

He chuckled. “Honey, my money is on you. When it comes to designing positive energy flow, nobody does it better.”

“I do not want any wisecracks from you, Truax. Just because you don't buy into the concept of enlightened interior design, that doesn't mean that the people who do buy into it are complete wack jobs.”

Ethan managed to look deeply offended. “I would never call the folks who pay you actual money to rebalance the psychic energy in their homes wack jobs.”

“What would you call them?”

“Clients,” he said smoothly.

She gave him an approving nod. “Right answer.”

“I learn fast.” He turned serious. “But are you sure you really want to do Tabitha Pine's house? Given this guru gig of hers, she probably has some strong opinions about energy flows. Could be frustrating to work with her.”

“I enjoy clients who have definite notions about what they like and dislike. Their ideas sometimes make me see things in a different light. It's always challenging to design for strong-minded people, and I learn something when I do it.”

“I have plenty of strong opinions about what you've got planned for Nightwinds, but you never call my ideas challenging. Mostly we argue about them.”

She thought about their latest discussion regarding Nightwinds. The old mansion was an over-the-top, flaming-pink,
Hollywoodesque version of a Mediterranean-style villa. Ethan had more or less inherited it from his uncle because no realtor in Whispering Springs had been able to sell it.

“Not true.” She gave him her most polished, professional smile, the one she reserved for difficult clients who needed extreme guidance. “As a client, you are always a challenge.”

“But?”

“But if I let you have your way you'd have nothing but plain white walls and recliners in every room at Nightwinds.”

“That is a gross exaggeration.” A gotcha gleam lit his eyes. “I don't need recliners in the bathrooms.”

“Are you sure?”

He hesitated, dark brows tightening a little as he contemplated the question. “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

She held up a hand, palm out. “Don't go there, Truax.”

He shrugged. “Probably wouldn't fit, anyway.”

“Probably not.”

She watched him work his way through the curry and salad and decided that some of the tension in him had eased. But she could still sense the dark currents shifting under the surface. Whatever was going on with Ethan, she was pretty sure that it involved something deeper and more disturbing than the less-than-happy ending of the Dexter Morrow case.

 

She heard the muted hum of Ethan's electric shaver when she went past the bathroom door. Earlier she had heard the shower running. She stopped in the middle of the hall and stood thinking for a long moment.

Then she made up her mind. Tightening the sash of her robe, she opened the door. Warm, steamy air enveloped her. Ethan stood in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped negligently around his waist. She had a sudden urge to run her palms along the sleekly muscled contours of his back.

He looked at her through the fog that cloaked the mirror. She caught her breath when she saw that the brooding, enigmatic shadows had returned to his tiger eyes.

“You don't have to shave before you come to bed anymore,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “We're married now, remember?”

Okay, was that the third or fourth time she'd managed to use the
M
word this evening? She had lost count.

He switched off the razor and set it very deliberately on the counter. “I remember.”

She could have sworn that the temperature in the small, intimate room rose several degrees. She was suddenly transported into the tropics. A sultry, sensual awareness tingled through her.

Given his odd mood, she thought, maybe opening the bathroom door had not been such a good idea.

But it was too late to change her mind. Ethan was moving through the steamy mist, closing in on her with that supple, controlled energy that was so much a part of him.

When he reached her, he caught her face between his hands, fingers sinking into her hair. His mouth closed over hers. The fierce, hot urgency emanating from him made her tremble in response.

His kiss was compelling and demanding. It transformed the tingles of awareness into snapping, arcing, sizzling electrical
impulses. Every nerve in her body lit up. She hoped she was not actually glowing.

Ethan worked the kiss, tasting her, wooing her, summoning the response he wanted—no,
needed
—from her. His powerful hands moved down to her waist. He unknotted the sash that bound her robe and slipped the garment off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, pooling at her feet. Her nightgown was next.

When she was naked, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, holding her so tightly she could scarcely move. Excitement flooded through her veins.

With a soft little murmur of pleasure and anticipation, she clung to him, her fingers biting into his sleekly muscled shoulders. Her breasts were crushed into the curling hair of his chest.

The towel that had encircled his waist disappeared. She felt his erection, heavy and hard, pushing against her bare thigh. In spite of the gathering storm of passion, a flutter of unease drifted, ghost-like, through her.

There was something a little off here.

Although Ethan's mood had lightened for a time during dinner and afterward, the bleak, edgy quality was back. He was channeling that dark energy, either consciously or unconsciously, into raw, sexual hunger.

This was not the first time he had made love to her while in the grip of this dangerous mood during the past several days. What had he said at dinner? Something about sex being his stress-reduction technique of choice.

Perhaps “dangerous” was not quite the right word to
describe the blaze she sensed burning in him. She certainly did not fear for her own personal safety. Ethan would never hurt her. But she knew that he was using sex as a temporary antidote for some poison that was attacking his spirit.