Body Heat (Vintage Category Romance) (15 page)

He had cared.
He had become involved. And like it or not, he had fallen in love. She would never know that though. It was hard enough admitting it to himself, he would never admit it.

It couldn
’t happen. It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t
let
it happen. The love he felt for her would not be allowed to grow. He could handle it like this. He could remember the one night they shared and it would be enough to carry him forward. Yes, that would be all they’d share. It couldn’t go any further than that. Their love would not grow.

Tomo
rrow, come hell or high water—and with her anything was possible—she was heading back to Vermont. Even if he had to drag her there himself.

****

At first, Blaire wasn’t quite sure what had happened.

When she first woke, she rolled over fully expecting to find the brooding Darian flipping eggs or busily scribbling in his jo
urnal, intent on ignoring her—but it wasn’t to be. She woke to an ice-cold cabin, no familiar smell of cooking breakfast, no aroma of wood smoke, and no Darian. Panicking, Blaire bolted upright in the bed and glanced about. Her gear was still stashed by the door, but—

Darian was gone.

Gone?
Dammit!

Jumping out of bed, she frantically scanned the cabin.
Some of his dresser drawers were cocked open. Rushing across the room, she jerked on one, it fell open. Empty. Whipping her head around behind her, she rushed to the cabinet at the back of the room and jerked on the stuck door once more so that it fell open with ease and she again landed on her backside on the cold plank floor. This time, however, no boot box full of memorabilia sailed out at her. Rising, she cautiously further pushed both doors open to peer inside. It was gone. The pictures, the pacifier, the cards. Gone. And that could only mean one thing.

Darian was running again.

Damn!
Blaire spun around so quickly after slamming the cabinet doors closed that she fell hard against the floor. Tears streamed down her face as she pounded the planks with her fist, cursing the day she met Darian MacGlenary—and the day she let him love her. The day she let herself love him back.

T
ears spent, she picked herself up off the floor, changed into warm clothing for hiking, rolled up the T-shirt she’d been sleeping in and stuffed it into her duffel bag. Without a backward glance, she picked up her gear and left the cozy little cabin tucked in the “holler” and hiked the two miles back to her car. Without another thought, she pointed herself toward Vermont and realized that nothing had really changed in her life. Once more she was coming home a failure. Mastin would remind her of that often enough, she was sure. But this time things were slightly different. She’d not only screwed up her career, but her entire life as well.

Cha
pter Eight

Blaire sat at her desk and picked up the phone for perhaps the eleventh time that afternoon.
She peered out the window at the snow piling up on the deep Victorian windowsills of her second-floor office. That the phone rang at all was in itself something to take note of, she’d had barely a phone call in the three weeks she’d been back, in total. The past three hours it had rung off the wall.

But the disturbing part were the
hang-ups—no one on the other end of the line. Every. Time.

Blaire shook her head,
replaced the receiver, and returned to look at the snow. When she’d arrived back home, the hills were as snow-barren as she’d ever seen them, but now the huge fluffy flakes lazily drifted to the ground striking up a remembrance she’d just as soon not recall. The mountains overlooking the village reminded her too much of the place she’d just as soon forget.

Back to work, Blaire.

She glanced at her desktop and frowned at the photos scattered across it. This case was going nowhere. Just like her, evidently. The sparse four walls of her office were evidence of that. She’d had no time to settle in, and no money to decorate. And she refused to ask her father for a loan.

She really was going to have to move out of Trenton to get anywhere with this business, she decided, her pencil tapping out a rhythm on the Formica
desktop. Too many people knew her here, knew her father. Too small a town. Nothing really ever happens here, not a big enough city to support a private investigator business….

Suddenly then, she made her decision.
She had to start over somewhere else.

Are
you
running, Blaire?

No! I
’m not running, I’m trying to build a business.
And I can’t do it finding lost pets and running after Miles Morgan’s wife all day trying to get compromising pictures of her and the paperboy to prove what everyone in this two-bit town has known for years: she’s a patsy for young boys. Well, everyone but Miles. He’s simply the kind you’ve got to draw a picture for—or take one, at least.

Raking the photos into an open drawer, Blaire jumped as the door to her office flew open bouncing off the wall behind it.
Then in walked the man she really had no desire to see at the moment. Particularly when she was feeling so melancholy.

Her father.

“Mastin. What are you doing here?” She shut her desk drawer.

Mastin Kincaid swept his burly body across the room
and then stopped square in front of her desk. His hands were buried in the pockets of his expensive overcoat, cheeks ruddy from the brisk temperatures outside, small crystals of snow frosting his precision-cut coal black, silver streaked hair. His ice blue eyes penetrating as only they could.

“
How long have you been back?” he barked.

Blaire swallowed.
“Three weeks.”

An incisive grin broke across his face and he leaned over the desk, bracing his upper body with his hands.
“Then why haven’t you called me, punkin? I would have taken you to dinner.” He reached out and affectionately squeezed Blaire’s cheek.

She grimaced and pulled away.
Dinner was Mastin’s way of making up for lost time. She’d had enough dinners to last her a lifetime. Blaire stood and walked to the window, and stared at the street below. “I’ve been busy.” Then she turned back. “Besides, you’ve been in D.C., haven’t you?”

H
er father ignored the question. He’d traveled around the desk, his eyes riveted to one of the photos sticking out of the drawer. Then he reached for it. Blaire stiffened and sucked in a quick breath.

“
How’s the new career? Busy?” he sarcastically queried of her, holding up the photo of Karen Morgan sucking face with the pubescent bag boy from the grocery store, the likes of which would rival Electrolux, Blaire thought.

Quickly, she cut the distance between them and snatched the picture out of his hand.
“Quite,” she said and then stuffed the picture back in the drawer as Mastin watched.

“
No need to be embarrassed, dear.”

“
Embarrassed?” Blaire choked on her nervous laughter. “What do I have to be embarrassed about?” Then she realized she was biting her fingernails. He always made her bite her fingernails. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her blue jeans.

Mastin turned
, the disapproving-father look on his face that she so despised. “Embarrassed that you haven’t made a go at this attempt at a career either.” He glanced around the room. “You know, I thought after that attempt at the catering business you would have learned your lesson, particularly when the Raspberries Flambé caught Carolyn Van der Meter’s draperies on fire. And remember that disaster of a pet sitting service you had in college? The one in which I had to pay off the Humane Society so they wouldn’t file suit against us? Then of course there was the incident with the vending machines—I’m not sure we’ll ever quite live that one down. Not to mention that stint on the police force…”

Blaire
’s cheeks were on fire. “That’s enough, Father,” she returned coldly.

Mastin cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Father? You usually only reserve that tone of voice and that
particular
endearment when you’re extremely agitated with me Blaire. What is it? Is it me, or this
particular
career move that has you so out of sorts?”

Blaire hated his repeated use of the word
“particular.” It drove her up the wall. Closing her eyes momentarily, she gathered a bit of strength and then opened them as she exhaled. “I’m twenty-nine years old, Mastin. Let me make my own way in the world. Let me fall on my face.”

“
You’ve certainly done that enough,” he interrupted.

Blaire grimaced and continued.
“And let me pick myself back up by the bootstraps. This is the career I’m sticking with. I loved the work I did on the police force—that’s why I majored in law enforcement in the first place. I know it wasn’t good enough for you, but this is me. Let me make my own mistakes. I know I’m not going to make a go of it chasing Karen Morgan around for the rest of her days…that’s why I’ve recently made some career decisions.”

Mastin
’s right eyebrow arched. “Oh?”

Blaire really didn
’t want to get into this with him, but she did anyway. “I’m relocating the business. I’m not sure where, but I’m going to take my time to find the right place. Until then, I’ll stay here and finish up the few jobs I have.”

“
Did you finish that MacGlenary thing?”

Blaire froze.
He knew about that? “Yes,” she lied. “It’s finished.”

“
Not according to Reva MacGlenary.”

“
What?” Blaire met her gaze and held. She’d settled everything with Reva MacGlenary right down to the penny. She’d given back all of the money minus her expenses. “What are you talking about?”

“
I keep close contact with my constituents, Blaire. Especially the important ones. You know that. Reva is a very powerful and very opinionated constituent. She’s totally unsatisfied with your work, you know. Not very good for advertising.”

The nerve of that woman!
Blaire turned her back to her father. “I’ll handle it,” she grumbled.

“
See that you do, dear. That woman is worth a lot of votes. I shouldn’t like to miss out on them come election time.” Blaire bit her lower lip to keep her tongue from flapping out words she had no business saying to her father. Actually, she wasn’t sure who she was madder at, him or at Reva. She certainly didn’t need a bad reputation starting out in this business.

Another reason to relocate, Blaire.

She turned to her father. “Like I said. I’ll handle it.”

She hated the patronizing grin that spread across his face.
He reached out and patted her elbow. “Now, that’s what I like to hear out of my baby. You have your fun, dear. But always remember, when you’re through playing at a career you come on home and I’ll keep you in diamonds and furs like I always promised. Like the daughter of a wealthy senator ought to be kept.”

Ugh! Last thing wanted in life was to be a Reva MacGlenary knock-off.

Blaire smiled sweetly on the outside and snarled on the inside.

Mastin turned to leave
and then abruptly turned back. “Oh, and dinner is at eight. I’ve brought home that nice young junior senator from Oregon for the weekend. Might get a bit of skiing in with the snow. You know the one, don’t you? Single. A nice small fortune—invested in salsa, don’t you know? Who would have thought? Those Oregon types are so free-spirited…” He rubbed his chin. “But nevertheless, potential husband material, Blaire.”

He scrutinized her as he s
poke, his gaze drifting. “And spruce yourself up a bit before you come. You do remember that we dress for dinner, don’t you? It’s been so long.” And with that, he swept out of the room as quickly as he arrived.

Staring at the
closing door, Blaire let her hands drop to her sides.
Dinner.
Not likely. She had other things to tend to. Namely one Reva MacGlenary. She’d deal with her father later.

Potential husband material, my foot.

****

But dinner it was.
Several hours later Blaire found herself at her father’s home, dressed in wide-legged black silk pants and a matching jacket, a white body-hugging camisole top underneath. She hadn’t planned it; in fact, she’d had no choice.

S
he’d been sitting in her apartment trying to figure out what her father had meant about Darian’s aunt, and then letting her thoughts drift to Darian. Her heart ached a bit and her mood turned a bit melancholy. She’d promised herself that Darian MacGlenary was past history, just one more big, bad mistake she’d made in her life; but it was more difficult day after day, and night after night, for her to shove her emotions away.

R
eady to dig into a sub sandwich from the shop down the street, she started when someone rapped on her door. A peek out the window and she saw her father’s limousine pulled up outside. Dammit. He was not going to take no for an answer. Soon it was apparent that he had bribed his limo driver, whose instructions quite clear: Fetch the daughter of the Senator or don’t come back to a paying job. Once Blaire had learned that, she couldn’t refuse. She couldn’t cost the man his job. Once again Mastin Kincaid got his way.