Under the Tycoon's Protection (8 page)

Her lips tightened reflexively.

Their relationship—however short-lived—had been a mistake. Of that, she was now certain. There was no way they could have a real relationship—one based on mutual trust and respect—when he'd made it clear he saw her as nothing more than a sheltered and pampered princess.

She'd been insane to have been planning to welcome him home with a romantic dinner. Ironically, thanks to their argument, she now agreed with him about going out for ingredients for dessert.

She should have nuked some macaroni and cheese, slid a bowl at him, and told him that he was dining in style. Or, better yet, handed him a spoon and invited him to enjoy the stuff directly from a can.

Men were such animals.

Speaking of which…her face burned as she re
called the frenzied interlude on the kitchen counter that had followed their argument.

She should have kneed him and walked away. Instead, a combustible combination of relief at having escaped unharmed and anger at him had led to sizzling sex—as if Connor needed any further evidence that, if nothing else, they were great lovers.

She wondered at the reference he'd made to the attraction that had always been between them. Could he have known about her teenaged infatuation with him? Did he know she'd been in the bar that night in the hope of seeing him?

At least she hadn't admitted her teenaged infatuation to him. That would have made her humiliation complete.

Her phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts. Picking up the receiver, she said, “Hello?”

“Allison!”

“Hello, Quentin.” She made her voice cool. Her brother was still on her less-than-wonderful persons list.

“Thank God you're okay!”

Someone had obviously spilled the beans to Quentin about Saturday's incident—the details of which had miraculously stayed out of the newspapers— and she had a good idea who that someone was. She sighed. “Yes, I'm fine. No need to worry.”

“No need to worry?” Quentin said, sounding un
characteristically agitated. “Are you crazy? You could have been killed and that's all you have to say?”

“Well, as you can tell, I wasn't. So, sorry to say, your younger sister is still here to torment you.”

“Quit it with the glibness, Ally,” her brother said impatiently. “You're just lucky Mom and Dad are in Europe on vacation at the moment and Noah and Matt are on business trips. Otherwise, they'd all be descending on you.”

“Don't I know it,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Heck, I'd have been there myself if I didn't have some VIPs coming into the office this morning,” Quentin said. “Anyway, Connor assured me that he has everything under control.”

Her hand tightened on the receiver. “Oh, he did, did he?”

She heard Quentin sigh. “Allison, for the love of God, would you just try listening to Connor for a change? I know you two can barely stand each other—”

She wondered what Quentin's reaction would have been if he'd known she and Connor had recently found one area where they
could
deal with each other.

“—but he's there to protect you,” Quentin continued, “and he's one of the best in the business. So
would you quit trying to make the guy's job harder than it has to be?”

“And I still have a job to do, Quentin,” she said, her tone clipped, “and that's putting the baddies behind bars. Unfortunately, that may involve some risks.”

“Right and that's another thing.” Quentin paused and cleared his throat, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Have you thought about what you're going to do after the DA's Office? You've been there, what? Four or five years?”

“Close to five. But who's counting when you're having fun?”

“I don't think the family can take much more of this, Allison. This latest episode with your getting shot at may be the nail in the coffin for Mom and Dad.”

She closed her eyes. “You've told them?”

“Not yet, but
someone
has to because the papers may link your name to the shooting sooner or later,” he said significantly.

She opened her eyes again. “Fine, I know.” She could already picture the newspaper headlines. Years of hard work trying to stake an identity for herself apart from her well-known family would evaporate before her eyes.

“All I'm saying is you may want to start thinking about when this stint at the DA's Office is going to end. It's just too dangerous. Connor said the usual stint is three years or so.”

Connor had said that, had he? She'd be interested in knowing what else Connor had said. “Maybe it isn't just a stint. Have you thought about that? Maybe I want to climb the ladder at the DA's Office.”

Quentin didn't say anything but a distinct sigh came over the line.

“Besides,” she persisted, “I'm not the only one taking risks, Quentin. Everyone in the office has a tough job. If it weren't me, it'd be someone else.”

“All right, that's all praiseworthy and good, but the fact of the matter is that it
is
you,” Quentin argued. “
You've
been the one getting threats.
You've
been the one getting shot at. And, you can't tell me that your name and your family's wealth and high profile don't put you at special risk.”

She thought about the phone threat she'd gotten: kidnapped and held “for a pretty penny.” Quentin had inadvertently hit the mark. Aloud, she said, “I'm not going to be boxed in by a whole set of rules just because of my last name.”

Quentin started to interrupt, but she went on, “And you can tell your friend Connor not to worry. I won't be trying to cook dinner for him again anytime soon.”

If it were possible, she was even more annoyed with Connor by the time she got off the phone.

Ratted her out to her family again, had he? He
hadn't even waited for her to tell them in her own way. Instead, he'd lost no time in spilling the entire story to Quentin as if she were still a recalcitrant teen whose family he had to enlist to keep her in line.

Had he also had the gall to suggest to Quentin that she should be looking to move on from the DA's Office because the prosecutor's job had become too dangerous for her? Is that how the thought had occurred to Quentin?

She wouldn't put it past Connor.

She narrowed her eyes. If Connor thought things were icy between them now, she fumed, he'd better get ready for a deep freeze.

C
onnor faced the mirror and attempted once again to work his tuxedo tie into a knot.

For the past week, he and Allison had avoided each other as much as it was possible to while still living under the same roof. That had not been as hard to accomplish as it might otherwise have been, since she'd been working late all week. As a result, he'd been able to catch up on things at the office and schedule some evening meetings.

Yet, the tension between them continued to mount, despite—or maybe because of—the fact he was back to sleeping in the bedroom down the hall from hers. He was still furious with her, but he
was also suffering from a serious bout of sexual frustration.

They were like two tigers circling each other in the cage. And, unfortunately, their days of circling were about to come to an end.

Tonight was the Cortland Ball, and even he knew it was the biggest and oldest charity ball of the Boston social season.

Usually he avoided such events like the plague. His company was well-known enough that he didn't have to hobnob with the rich and snooty. Business came to him.

But the Whittaker Foundation was one of the major sponsors of the Cortland Ball this year, so Allison had to attend. And if Allison had to attend,
he
had to attend.

Even if they were barely on speaking terms. Even if his damned bow tie was choking him, he thought irritably, running his finger around inside the collar of his shirt now that he had worked his tie into a perfect if slightly too-tight knot. He left his bedroom and headed downstairs.

The one perk to attending this shindig was that Hugh Kendall, the indicted business executive Allison was prosecuting, would be there. It would be a first-class opportunity to study one of the prime suspects in the threats against Allison.

When Connor got downstairs to the front hall, he
checked his cell-phone messages again and resigned himself to waiting for Allison to come down the stairs.

Ten minutes later, a small sound alerted him to her presence moments before he glanced up. When he did, the sight of her stole his breath away.

She was wrapped in a strapless, sky-blue sheath that hugged all the right curves. The style of her hair, piled high on her head—thanks to the work of the stylist who had come to the door earlier—further accentuated her elegant décolletage.

As she came down the stairs, the deep slit in her gown parted like a curtain to reveal shapely legs and feet shod in silver, high-heeled pumps. She clutched a small silver purse in one hand and jewels glittered at her ears and wrist.

Diamonds, he noted with the modicum of his brain not given over to carnal lust. Yet her neck was bare.

If they'd been married, he thought, and preparing for tonight, he'd have given her diamonds to adorn her neck, too. He'd have trailed kisses along her neck, across her collarbone, and down to the cleavage revealed by the heart-shaped neckline of her gown. Eexactly, he realized, as her ensemble was designed to encourage him—or more precisely, any red-blooded male—to do.

She looked every inch the princess that he often taunted her as being. Except, instead of conjuring the
mockery he often made a pretense of exhibiting, he felt every fiber within him tense with elemental attraction.

As she neared the last step, he mentally shook himself and held out his hand to her.

Her eyes flashed fire, but she let him assist her the rest of the way. And while the expression on her face said she was still displeased with him, her heightened color also said she was not immune to the physical attraction between them either.

He'd been pleased when she'd told him that she didn't have an escort for tonight. If she'd had one, he had a hunch he'd have wanted to rip the guy apart.

She arched a brow. “Looked your fill?” she asked tartly, her chin coming up.

“For that I'd have to peel you out of that gown,” he parried, knowing his words would rile her.

“Then you'll be looking for a very long time,” she said frostily, opening the door to the hall closet and retrieving a wrap. “And if your eyelids are liable to be glued open all night, I hope you're bringing along some eye drops.”

“Why don't you carry a bottle of the stuff for me?” he asked lazily. “Then when I'm afflicted—as I inevitably will be because I
intend
to watch you all evening, princess—you can come minister to me.”

She closed the closet door with a thud, wrap in hand. “The only way I'll be ministering to you is with a swift kick in the—”

“Tut-tut,” he interrupted, now thoroughly enjoying himself. “This is a charity ball, remember? And isn't charity supposed to begin at home?”

“Here's a news flash for you, Rafferty, in case the message hasn't gotten through to that iron-plated ego of yours,” she said, yanking open the front door and then stopping abruptly without going out. “I haven't exactly been feeling charitable toward you lately.”

 

When they arrived at the Riverton Ballroom, where the gala was being held, Connor noted Allison lost no time in breaking away from him in order to mingle with the other guests during the predinner cocktail hour. She seemed to know most of the people there and socialized easily.

And why not? he thought. She'd grown up in this world.

Seeing her in her natural milieu underscored the differences in their backgrounds. He'd been furious when she'd thrown those differences back at him in the heat of their argument, but, if ever he was tempted to agree with her that those differences doomed a relationship between them, now would be the time.

He sipped from his wineglass and watched as Allison smiled and nodded at one of the male guests. The bland-as-a-vanilla-wafer jerk was looking at her as if she were an ornament he was planning to hang on his illustrious family tree.

Sloan, his name was, if Connor remembered the face correctly. A member of the Makepeace family, listed in the Social Register and tracing its lineage back to the
Mayflower
—as any good Boston Brahmin family would.

Connor's lips twisted as he watched Sloan Makepeace lean toward Allison.

Then he caught himself. He had a job tonight and it wasn't ogling Allison. Oh, he intended to keep his eyes on her, all right, just as he'd said, but that was only to make sure she stayed safe and stayed
put.

Connor took another sip of his wine and scanned the room—just in time to catch sight of Hugh Kendall making an appearance at one of the doorways to the ballroom.

The businessman looked shorter and stockier than he had in the pictures Connor had seen of him in the papers. He was definitely balding, though, around fifty, and no more than medium height.

Connor watched as Kendall and his date—a grand dame of the Boston social scene—moved among the guests. If the news reports were right, Kendall's decade-long marriage had ended several years ago and he had since become a popular man-about-town, squiring socialites to high-profile events.

A sycophantic prig, he thought. Allison was right. Kendall's social standing was clearly essential to him. If the allegations of embezzlement
stuck, he would be ruined. Not only would he be heading to prison, but he'd be an outcast from the upper crust.

For all his posturing, Kendall had little more than his money to gain him entry to events such as the Cortland Ball.

Connor had done some digging and he knew Kendall neither came from an old-line family nor shared old prep-school ties with the people here tonight.

According to his investigation, Kendall had grown up in an upper-middle-class family in New Hampshire and had attended public schools before graduating from college with a business degree and moving to Boston to start his ascent in the business world.

Connor glanced over at Allison and noted she'd also marked Kendall's arrival. He knew without asking, however, that she would avoid Kendall. It would be improper for a prosecutor to be talking to a defendant in one of her cases.

On the other hand, Connor reflected, Kendall looked at ease despite the fact that nearly everyone there tonight must know he'd had the audacity to show up even though Allison, who was prosecuting his case, would be present.

Connor narrowed his eyes. If Kendall was their man, then Allison's harasser was a cool cucumber. Exactly the type who would be hard to catch. And exactly the type he intended to watch like a hawk.

 

Allison glanced around the ballroom. She'd managed to shake Connor for the time being. Unfortunately, though, her parents were bearing down on her. She braced herself as they approached. “Hello, Mom.”

“Ally.” Her mother leaned in for a kiss before drawing back and looking searchingly at her face, concern etched on hers. “How are you feeling? Are you having any trouble sleeping? Because if you are—”

“Mom, I'm fine.” She'd spoken with her parents earlier in the week about the shooting incident, but she'd spared them the details, which would just have worried them needlessly.

Her parents exchanged looks. Her father was an older version of Quentin, but his dark hair was peppered with gray, giving him a distinguished look.

“You should have told us you'd received another death threat in the mail just days before the shooting,” her father said gravely.

Allison suppressed her irritation. Connor, it seemed, had been talking again. “I didn't want to worry you and Mom unnecessarily,” she said, hoping the explanation was one they'd be satisfied with. “You were on a business trip hundreds of miles away last week. There was nothing you could do except worry even more than you'd already been doing.”

“Of course we would have worried!” her mother exclaimed.

Allison took a deep breath. “Thanks to Quentin, I have a bodyguard, remember? I'm taking precautions.”

“Connor said that you'd gone out without him when you were attacked,” her father countered.

Snitch. What else had he told her parents? All she needed in order to make her humiliation complete was for Connor to have divulged the reason she'd left the house. Aloud, she said, “Connor has been saying a lot these days.” She turned as Quentin parted from Liz, who was speaking to another woman, and strolled up to join them. “What else has Connor been saying, Quent?”

Quentin held up his hands. “Hey, he's only trying to help.”

“I thought I was just getting a bodyguard,” she said indignantly, “but, apparently, Connor is doing double duty as a spy.”

“Now, Allison—”

“You should have warned me, Quent. If I'd known Connor was reporting everything to you and the rest of the family, I'd at least have given him something interesting to relay. You know, wild parties, dancing on tables, men swinging from the chandelier…male strippers…”

“Actually,” Quentin said dryly, “getting information out of Connor is like prying open a clam with your bare hands.”

“Oh, come on.” She cocked her head. “Are you
going to deny he lost no time telling you about the shooting incident last week? Even before I had the chance to pick up the phone?”

Quentin frowned. “Only because I phoned him and demanded to know what the heck had happened the night before. I had gotten a call from the police to let me know that they were going to do everything possible to try to keep the tabloid journalists at bay about the shooting. One of the nice things about being a major donor to police charities is that the police brass remembers you when, say, your sister is involved in a shooting.” Quentin paused and gave her a meaningful look. “Naturally, I had to ask
what
shooting.”

“I was going to call you,” she said, knowing she sounded a bit defensive. The truth was she hadn't been relishing that conversation with her brother—or any other member of her family for that matter. She knew her family well enough to know their reactions would have fallen somewhere between alarm and panic, and she hadn't been wrong.

“After I got a call from the police,” Quentin added, “I phoned Connor.”

“Don't you mean interrogated?” she asked, her annoyance coming through in her tone. “And why didn't you bother to call me first?”

“Because,” Quentin said patiently, “given a choice between the two of you, I knew I'd have a better shot with hin at getting the straight story.”

She crossed her arms. “Are you saying I would have lied?”

Her brother gave her a knowing look. “Artful omission is more like it.”

Allison dropped her arms in exasperation. “Whatever.”

“And, yes, believe it or not, I did have to threaten and cajole Connor,” Quentin went on. “He initially told me to call
you.
I think the only reason he eventually said anything at all was that I'd already found out more or less what happened from the police.”

So maybe Connor hadn't gone racing to her brother with the news.

“I must say, I agree with Quentin,” her mother put in. “Connor seemed very reluctant to go into much detail about the shooting when your father and I asked him about it. Frankly, I think he wanted to spare us unnecessary worry.”

“And, by the way,” her father added, “Connor is not the one who told us about the threat you'd received in the mail. That was something that the police mentioned to Quentin when they called him.”

She looked across the ballroom and her eyes met Connor's. The look on his face said he was debating whether to walk over. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. She didn't need his help handling her family.

She did owe him an apology though—at least for
jumping to the conclusion that he'd raced to her family to blab about the shooting.

 

Sitting next to Connor at dinner was torture, Allison thought. Her family, fortunately, was sitting among guests at other tables. Otherwise, it would have been much harder to pretend interest in the mundane chitchat being carried on at her table.

She took another bite of her dessert. Mercifully, the guest on her left had just excused himself to say hello to people he knew at another table.