After a three hour drive to Indiana, Chelsea’s nerves were beyond rattled. She’d come all this way with no real clue how to handle the situation, but she was determined to tackle it regardless.

She and Kim hauled their luggage from the back seat of Chelsea’s sapphire-blue Miata and trudged into the hotel. Families and groups of friends roamed around, and a giant water fountain bubbled in the lobby, making Chelsea’s problem worse. Kim headed toward the registration desk.

“Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee,” Chelsea chanted, making a beeline to the ladies room.

Kim chuckled. “I’ll get in line and meet you at check-in.”

Chelsea nodded and waved, then shoved open the bathroom door. A few minutes later she emerged, a new woman, and spotted Kim. The undeniable scrutiny of passersby had a ribbon of unease curling in her stomach. Then she saw it and froze: a life-size poster of Tracey Bradshaw staring at her with a charismatic smile. The resemblance was uncanny. Almost scary.

Kim’s frantic wave from the registration desk caught her eye and she walked over. “You won’t believe this,” Kim said. “You know how I booked this at the last minute because of a cancellation? Well, there was a mix up and they gave away our adjoining rooms.”

This trip was off to a rip-roaring start. Chelsea slapped on her serious face. She’d learned to be as cutthroat as the men she confronted in business. She pinned the clerk with a man-eating glare. “That’s ridiculous. How could—?”

“Ms. Bradshaw,” the clerk sputtered. His round brown eyes begged for mercy. “I had no idea you were expecting a guest or needed another room.”

“What?” Chelsea said. This guy thought…“Wait a minute. I’m n—”

“I didn’t know you were checking in again.” He stressed the last word and started typing on his computer at warp speed. “But I think I can make this work.”

Chelsea opened her mouth and closed it. She had to make this trip work as well, and she’d had such little luck this past year that if this guy wanted to help her, she wouldn’t argue. A long forgotten tingle of success rippled down her spine.

“Here we go,” he said. “Unfortunately your adjoining rooms are gone, but I’ve got something else.” He found two card keys, scribbled some room numbers on two different small key-card folders and handed them to the women. “Naturally we keep several suites open in case these little mishaps occur. Although you ladies won’t be on the same floor, you both have deluxe suites.”

“At the same price as the other rooms, correct?” Kim asked. The accountant in her never stopped working. Thank God.

“Of course,” the man said. “I apologize for the inconvenience.” He looked down at the names on the computer. “Have a nice day, Ms. Jacobs…Ms. Harding.” He winked at her.

A brilliant idea blossomed in her brain. “Could you do me a favor and give me Tracey Bradshaw’s room number?” She winked back at him as if they shared the secret to life. How easy would it be to knock on the lady’s door? Chelsea hadn’t expected to find her this quickly, much less land in the same hotel.

The clerk’s beaming smile told her she’d won and he leaned closer. “You can’t fool me,” he said. “I would never give out that information, Ms. Harding.” He looked immensely pleased with himself. “Did I pass the test?” he asked with pride.

Chelsea wanted to strangle the guy. “Look I know you’re not supposed to give out certain information and you’re just trying to do your—”

Kim grabbed her and pulled her back. “Let it go,” she ordered softly in her ear. “They screwed up our reservation and they’re booked up completely. If we don’t take the suites, we don’t have rooms. The whole city is packed because of the race so don’t fight it. It’s an omen, my friend. Go with it. If he thinks you’re not her, the rooms are history.”

That was the reason they were business partners. Kim saw the final destination, and she was just plain devious. It was those traits that were going to land her best friend a very wealthy husband. Chelsea let her lead the way to the elevators.

“You realize we won’t be next to each other. The suites are on different floors.”

“Nice,” Kim said. Coming from a family of eight girls, she loved her privacy and didn’t care how she got it. That and she was known for bringing home the occasional possible future husband. Kim constantly assured her it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. Her goal in life was to be some lucky SOB’s trophy wife.

“Well, at least now I won’t have to listen to the headboard bang against the wall if you find Mr. Right.”

Kim’s eyes widened as if she’d been grievously hurt. “Hey, did you just dish me?”

Chelsea could’ve cried, but instead she leaned her head forward and sighed. Kim’s play on words reminded her of the current slogan sweeping the country. Six months ago, she’d scrambled to come up with a campaign for a new satellite dish company. The rap singer hired to pitch the product had taken control of everything. Including publicly trashing every idea she’d come up with. In a flash of frustration, in front of the execs, the agents, managers and various entourage of said rap star, and thinking she’d lost the account anyway, she’d faced the poor excuse for a singer head-on. “Did you just dish me?” she’d asked. She’d cringed inwardly at the slip of her tongue and prayed no one noticed. “Dish” kind of sounded like “diss.” The silence that followed had nearly been the death of her. And then a roar of celebration as the whole place went wild at the clear, but unintentional, discovery of the slogan. However, Master Funky J., or Mister Stinky Guy, as she referred to him, had walked out in a snit and taken the account with him.

Three months later her slogan was everywhere and she had a lawsuit draining what was left of her funds. The rapper was going to do for the satellite dish what Jordan did for sneakers, Foreman for grills and Levi for jeans. He was going to be huge. So was the satellite dish.

She’d lost a fortune.

Chelsea shook her head, still angry at the whole futile situation. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“I know, but I couldn’t resist the opening,” Kim replied. “Besides, it’s yours and you’ll get the credit for it eventually.”

“Before or after I’m living on the streets?”

“That’s not going to happen, remember? If you—”

“No. I already told you no.” The express elevator arrived and they both got in.

“Yes, but sometimes ‘no’ means ‘yes.’” The doors closed.

“Oh my God,” Chelsea said, her eyes wide. “I cannot believe you said that too. You’re starting to sound like the last guy you dated.” In the quest for a rich husband, Kim had dated some very questionable characters.

Kim looked offended. “Hey, Simon would have been fine if he hadn’t been married.”

Chelsea’s eyes grew even wider. “Kim, I’m beginning to think you need some serious therapy.” The doors opened and Kim rolled her bag out on the seventeenth floor. Chelsea still had two more floors to go. “I’m going to make some calls and see if I can get a lead on Tracey, but I’ll pick you up for dinner at six o’clock,” Chelsea said, holding back the elevator door. Maybe by then the knot in her stomach would hurt less.

“Wear something special,” Kim told her. “Let’s make the most of the trip. You need to get laid. Posthaste. You need to loosen up. I promise if you do that, you’ll have a new outlook on life and you’ll see that I’m right about this whole business proposal.”

“That is the one of the lamest bits of reasoning you’ve ever had,” Chelsea said. She moved back and the doors closed. On the other hand…she’d worked hard to get her company off the ground, and even harder to keep it above water the last year. Maybe Kim’s plan had merit. The time had come to break the rules in battle.

 

The shrill telephone ring brought Matthew Rivers out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. After working on the car all day it felt good to shower off the grease. It was also a relief to be away from the unnatural stress in the garage.

The clock said five-fifty and he still had plenty of time before meeting some of the guys downstairs for dinner. He fought a tickle in his nose but as he picked up the phone he let out an enormous sneeze.

“Wow,” a female said. “That was a whopper. God bless you.” Then she charged ahead before he got a word out. “I know I said I’d pick you up at six but I’m having a clothes dilemma. I’ve got my little black dress and my even littler red one. You told me we were dressing up tonight but which one do you think I should wear?”

Matthew coughed. That was a hell of a question to ask a practically naked guy. And it made him think. “If your dresses are on the bed, what are you wearing now?”

Silence on the other end told him he’d caught her attention. “Uh…you’re not Kim.”

Something about her voice seemed strangely familiar, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. “No, no,” he said. “I’m definitely not Kim.”

“I dialed room 1728. Who’s this?” she asked.

“Ah…” he said, looking down at the numbers on his phone. “Therein lies your problem. You dialed 1725. You missed it by a row. I’m Matthew. Not Kim.”

“Oh, my bad,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Hey wait, wait a second.” Now why the hell had he said that?

She returned, her voice strong on the line. “Yes?”

A reckless streak hit like lightning. “The black dress,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your dilemma. Black or red. Wear the black dress.” He loved women in black. He all but felt her smile over the phone. Women loved black too. It was dangerous. Sexy.

“You don’t even know what the black dress looks like,” she countered.

“I know it’s little so I already like it.” He loved the sound of her voice. Wanted to hear more of it. “What color is your hair?” he asked.

“That’s really none of your bus—”

“I’m not a pervert. I’m just trying to picture which dress might be better on you. What’s your hair color?”

She paused as if she could think of a reason not to answer him. “Black. Very black,” she finally said.

“Hmmm.” He heard her waiting for him and reeled her in. “Yeah. I’ll stick with my gut. Wear the black.”

“Tha—” she cleared her throat, “—thanks, Valentino. I’ll be sure to give you credit as my stylist for the evening.”

“It’s Matthew,” he said again. Man, she had a sexy voice. Low and husky. She sounded dangerous. “What’s your name?”

“Nice try, but it’s time to hang up, Matthew. Thanks for the advice. Have—”

“Wait, wait. If you’re not going to tell me your name, at least tell me what floor you’re on.” Maybe he could find her somehow, but—

“Why? So you can loiter at the elevators and accost every woman you see in a black dress?”

He smiled at her suggestion. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but now that you mention it…Although the word ‘accost’ might be a little harsh.” All he’d have to do is hear her voice.

She paused. Was she really going to make him stand around the elevators looking for a woman in black? “Do you have a pen and paper? Are you ready?” she asked.

Matthew scrambled for both and his towel slid to the floor. “Ready,” he said.

“It’s a combination of the first three numbers of your room. Good night, Matthew. Thanks for your help.” She hung up the phone and left him standing there naked and perplexed. The first three numbers of his room? One, seven and two. Ten? She was on the tenth floor? What if she meant multiply? Maybe the fourteenth floor? He could call Kim in room 1728, but that would defeat the purpose. Matthew grinned. He loved a challenge.

 

Tracey stared up at the ceiling before forcing her eyes closed. Normally, she’d pass out after four hours of signing autographs, but after this afternoon she was too wired to sleep. She took a deep breath and relaxed her tense muscles.

Pounding on the door jarred her senses with lightning speed and she sat up, her muscles screaming in protest.

“Room service,” a man called. It had only been fifteen minutes since she’d ordered and doubt climbed on her back like a monkey hanging on for dear life. Tracey opened the door a fraction and saw a young man pushing a cart. Heat crept up her cheeks as she pulled back the maid’s lock and let the waiter in. He set the food on her desk and left with a hefty tip.

Ten minutes later, Tracey covered the remains of dinner with her napkin. She stood and stretched sore muscles, the result of her “fan attack” hours earlier. She still couldn’t believe the guy had shown his face after all this time. Couldn’t believe he’d attacked her in public. And to think she’d been worried about John Wallace…

Although the night was still young, an odd uneasiness weighed her down. The quicker this day ended, the happier she’d be. She threw on her pajamas, brushed her teeth and hair, and tossed the covers back. Someone knocked on the door. She jumped at the sound, cursing her newfound jitters.

She wasn’t expecting anyone and she really did hate surprises. “Who is it?”

“Me. Uh, Mac.”

As if she didn’t know who “me” was from the sound of his distinctive low voice. A voice that hummed through her whenever he spoke. If only they could communicate by mental telepathy. Tracey laughed at that idea. They were so far apart mentally, they couldn’t see eye to eye if they were nose to nose. Although she’d felt a definite change this afternoon. He hadn’t argued with her about the ambulance. He’d held her hand and looked at her in an odd way. He’d seemed genuinely worried about her. Something she really wasn’t used to from anyone other than Joe or Ed. Had it been because of the kiss they’d shared earlier? Hmm…interesting thought.

Tracey opened the door a crack. “What’s up?”

“We need to talk to you.”

Tracey looked around the empty hallway. “We? Have you been drinking, Mac? You’re all alone,” she said, stating the obvious.

Mac glanced down the hallway as the sound of an elevator bell rang. “Not for long.”

Detective Hahn rounded the corner and strode toward them. Her stomach took an odd twist and she tried to quell her apprehension.

“Hi, Trace. Sorry to bother you,” he said, clearly noticing her pajamas and big fluffy slippers.

“Not a problem.” Realizing this conversation was going to take place whether she wanted it to or not, she opened the door wider and ushered in both men. “What’s up?”

“Why don’t you have a seat.” The detective indicated to a chair.

The knot in her stomach doubled. She hated the pussy-footing around. “Because I want to stand.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Someone tell me what’s going on.”

Mac’s jaw ticked. “He’s not our guy.” He said the words and watched her reaction.

How was she supposed to react to the stupidest thing she’d ever heard? They were talking about the man who jumped her earlier. “Of course he’s our guy,” she blurted. “Who else could it be?”

The detective shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s got an alibi, Trace. I’m sor—”

She put her finger out to stop him. “He attacked me. In front of witnesses. It’s him! How can you think for one min—”

“Tracey,” Mac said, his voice low and calm as if she were some idiot who wouldn’t understand him otherwise. “It’s not him.”

She stopped breathing. Air refused to go in or out. Why should she expect any support from Mac? Because he’d kissed her? Because he’d treated her with kid gloves since the guy had tackled her? Because he’d been sweet and seemed to care about her earlier? Yeah, right. She took a measured breath. “What do you mean it’s not him? You saw him attack me, Mac. What—”

“He says you provoked him,” Mac interrupted, just as softly, as calmly as you please.

Tracey’s jaw dropped open, then she slammed it shut. Anger flowed through her: red, hot and painful. “Right. He tells me I should suck dick for a living and I provoked him! How can you tell me—”

Mac flinched at the words as he moved toward her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “He has an airtight alibi for four years ago and ditto for the day Joe died. He wasn’t in town on either occasion. He’s not our guy. He’s a chauvinistic asshole who was drunk out of his mind and he lost it.”

Tracey blinked away the blur of Mac’s face. She refused to cry, especially with an audience. Besides, hadn’t she sensed this anyway? Hadn’t she known deep inside that this man wasn’t the man? The man who’d irrevocably changed her life. She pulled away from Mac’s warm hands, didn’t want him touching her. She didn’t want anyone touching her. Nor did she want the pity lurking in his eyes.

“So this isn’t the guy. Did you let him go?” she asked the detective.

“Not yet. He’s still in custody. I assume you’re going to press charges,” Hahn replied.

Tracey shrugged. “Why bother? He’s not the guy we’re after.”

Mac’s eyes rounded. “Why bother? Why bother!” He got in her face. “He leapt over a table and tackled you, Tracey. That’s why you bother.”

Tracey shoved him away, afraid she’d fall into his arms for comfort. Afraid that the few minutes of understanding they’d shared earlier on the track was a fluke and might never happen again. “Apparently all that was my fault,” she almost roared. “You were there, Mac. You can be a witness for the guy. I provoked him. It’s all my fault.” Tracey fisted her shaking hands and took a deep breath. “Let him go. It was probably the liquor talking. I won’t press charges.” She looked away from Mac’s outraged face and headed for the door. “Thanks for delivering the news personally, Detective. I appreciate it.” She opened the door. “You guys have a nice night. I’m sure I’ll be talking to you soon.” She waited for the men to leave. So she could hit something. Destroy something. Rage and helplessness roared through her in fierce waves.

The guys shared a testosterone-filled glance and headed for the exit.

Mac stopped in front of her but Tracey didn’t give him the chance to say anything. Didn’t want to feel the heat of his body next to hers, or look into those deep smoky eyes that spoke to her on a level she didn’t understand.

“G’night, Mac.”

His lips pressed together and color rose on his tanned cheeks. He pivoted and followed the detective down the hall.

Tracey closed the door with a definite slam. She paced the room for a few seconds before picking up the closest thing at hand, an empty ice bucket. She heaved it across the room. Though she wasn’t aiming for anything, she knocked over the lamp on the desk. The ensuing crash brought a loud pounding on her door.

“Tracey? Tracey!”

She couldn’t decide if Mac sounded angry or worried. Then she realized she didn’t care. “Go away.”

“Damn it, Tracey, open the door before I…” What? Did he plan on breaking it down? “Just open up.”

Taking a deep breath, she stalked across the room and opened the door. “What?”

Mac pushed his way past her. Well, say goodbye to an early bedtime. Tracey clenched her jaw and readied herself for battle number one hundred and seven. So much for the cease-fire from earlier in the day.

Mac got deep into the room before he turned around. “I’m trying really hard to understand you, but you’re impossible to read.”

“No one said you had to understand me, Mac.” Tracey closed the door and faced him. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and quit trying?” Clearly that was the exact wrong thing to say because his jaw clenched and his back straightened.

“I didn’t come all this way to quit anything.” He proved that point as he spent the next twenty minutes lecturing her about everything from safety to trashing hotel rooms.

A crappy ending to an equally crappy afternoon.

 

The next day, Matthew checked his watch as he jogged to his room. He had at least an hour, probably more, depending on the cold drizzle outside. The crew had broken for lunch since it would still take time to dry the track with blowers once the rain stopped. He’d zipped back to the hotel, itching to find his mystery woman. He couldn’t call from work or an outside line because the hotel required the guest’s name to be connected. Since he didn’t have a name, he had to call from his room.

He couldn’t begin to count the number of rooms he’d contacted since yesterday, but with the gauntlet thrown down, he was hell-bent on rising to the occasion. Luckily, a couple of floors had been blocked off for a convention, and he doubted she was with the seminary group, so his search had been narrowed down. He punched in the next extension on his list. The phone rang and clicked as someone picked up.

“You’re too late. I already took my bikini off and slid between the sheets. This better be good, because I’m ready for dreamland. What’s up?”

Matthew choked, recognized her voice immediately. Good God Almighty. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find you, but I’m glad I did. Do you ever let anyone say anything on the phone before you start talking?”

He didn’t have to see her face to know she was surprised. “No offense,” she said, “but you weren’t supposed to find me.” But did it make her mad or glad?

He should’ve taken the hint, but something about her threw him off base…in a dangerous sort of way. She seemed to know he was the stranger she’d talked to yesterday. Still, finding her relieved an itch he hadn’t recognized needed scratching. “I realized that when I was almost through the entire tenth floor,” he admitted, listening to her shift and imagining a lush, naked woman in bed.

Her hoot of laughter made him smile. “You did not. You’re lying.”

“Ask anyone on the tenth floor. That’s where I started by the way. It took me a while to figure out the way you managed to combine one, seven and two. Anyway, they’ll tell you, along with most of the people on the nineteenth floor, that a guy called looking for a beautiful lady with black hair wearing a black dress.”

“Uh oh,” she said. “Strike one. Never compliment a woman you’ve never met. It makes her feel like you have no idea what you’re talking about, therefore making the compliment useless and hurtful.”

“That’s not fair,” he murmured, circling her room number on his list. “I met you last night over the phone. That has to count for something. By the way, how did the black work out? Did you get lucky?” He didn’t have to see her to know her jaw had dropped open. “Close your mouth,” he chuckled. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you you’d catch flies that way?” He heard her lips clamp together.

“How did you know…? You know, it’s none of your business if I got lucky or not.”

“You’re right,” he admitted solemnly. “That was rude. I had no business asking that and I apologize. Did you at least have a good time with Kim?” This time he pictured her eyes bugged out wide.

“How did you know—?”

“When you called last night, you thought I was Kim, remember? I debated calling her and asking for your number but I didn’t want her to ruin the fun of finding you on my own.”

She paused. “How long did it take you to find me?”

Got her! “Ah, so I finally have your interest.”

“I didn’t say I was interested. I asked how long it took you to find me. There’s a difference.”

“Not in my book.”

“Strike two,” she said. “Never argue with a woman you want to keep talking to. If you’re not going to answer the question I can always hang up the phone.”

Playing hard to get. He liked the chase and the confidence in her tone. “Okay. Let’s see…we spoke last night before six and it’s almost three now…” He tried to figure the hours. “I got to work early…that’s twenty-two minus…wait, then I was sleeping, that’s…”

“Anytime in the near future would be good,” she prodded, and he was positive she was enjoying his calculations.

“A few hours, give or take a few minutes,” he hedged.

“You’ve been calling rooms looking for me for hours?” Her husky voice climbed an octave.

He also liked surprising her. “Well, between last night and today…” No reason to be too honest. “You know, I take that back and I’ll plead the fifth. I’m not going to tell you.”

“Too late, my friend, you already spilled it.”

My friend? That was definite progress. He smiled. “Damn. I’ll have to work on playing coy better.”

Pause. “Well…”

No way was she getting away a second time. “I guess since last night was the little black dress, tonight’s the littler red dress?” Silence. Either he’d surprised her again or she’d hung up on him.

“How do you do that?” she finally asked. “You know, most men never listen, much less remember anything I’ve said.”

Inspiration struck from out of the blue. “Those men are stupid.” He patted himself on the back. The blatant bashing of his own gender had to be an out-of-the-park home run.

“You’ve got five minutes,” she told him.

Five minutes…five minutes…What could he do in five minutes?

Convince her to meet him later!

Go.