Heated Rush

Heated Rush
Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Copyright

A two-time RWA RITA^® Award nominee, nine-time Romantic Times BOOKreviews Award nominee and 2006 Romantic Times BOOKreviews Award winner, LESLIE KELLY has become known for her delightful characters, sparkling dialogue and outrageous humour. Since the publication of her first book in 1999, Leslie has gone on to pen more than two dozen sassy, sexy romances.

Keep up with Leslie’s releases by visiting her website, www.lesliekelly.com, or her blog site www.plotmonkeys.com.

To Caitlin.

One of the greatest accomplishments of

my life is having given the world a soul as kind

and beautiful as yours.

1

GIVEN THE CHOICE between sticking flaming skewers up her nose and attending her own parents’ thirty-fifth anniversary party without a date, Annie Davis would, without hesitation, reach for the lighter fluid and a match. Instead, she was reaching for her checkbook. Wondering just how far she could go—how much she could spend—to ensure she avoided a fate worse than burned nostrils.

“Twenty-five hundred, that’s all I can swing,” she murmured, reminding both herself, and her friend Tara, who sat beside her at an empty table near the back of the hotel ballroom. Twenty-five hundred was about as much as she could stretch it and still make her bills, as well as eat next month.

Tara, who occasionally helped out at Baby Daze, Annie’s successful day care center, had come only to this charity bachelor auction for moral support. Her aspiring actress’s checkbook wouldn’t allow room for a guy auctioned off in a Salvation Army parking lot, much less one at Chicago’s glamorous Inter-Continental Hotel.

If she were honest, Annie’s couldn’t bear the strain, either, and her savings account was strictly for emergencies only. Sheer desperation had driven her here tonight. Desperation caused by the thought of a weekend back home—sans a guy—being pitied and clucked over by all the women in her family, teased by all the men, especially her brothers, and set up by everyone else in her small hometown. Not to mention answering the inevitable questions about why she was alone when her entire family knew she’d been dating a nice, handsome man for the past several weeks.

Looking into her parents faces and admitting that nice, handsome man she’d been seeing had been a married jerk? She’d sooner add raw meat to those flaming skewers and call herself shish kebab. Wiping out her checking account seemed a small price to pay to avoid the agony. Maybe the savings, too.

No. Not a chance. Not unless Johnny Depp and Josh Duhamel both appeared on that stage, offering a weekend of pure carnal exploitation to the high bidder.

“Nobody has gone for less than three thousand so far,” Tara reminded her. The petite brunette, usually bubbly and sassy, sounded uncharacteristically pessimistic. “Not even the wimpy-looking blond dude who made a complete dork of himself doing that pretend striptease.”

Annie cringed, wishing she had a bar of soap to wash away the mental image of the pale twenty-something doing a white-men-can’t-dance bump-and-grind that had women near the front pretending to swoon. Ick. Bringing someone like that home to meet her family? She’d probably do better picking up a homeless person who wanted to make a few bucks for a weekend holiday in small-town U.S.A.

Now there’s an idea….

It would definitely be cheaper than this ritzy charity auction. “Maybe I should just check out the park benches near the El. There’s bound to be some guy who will do it for a whole lot less than twenty-five hundred.”

“You’re desperate,” Tara reminded her. “Not suicidal.”

“Is that any riskier than what I’m doing now? These guys are all strangers, too.”

The only difference was they were being paraded and hawked in front of a crowd of rich, half-past-tipsy-and-well-on-their-way-to-being-drunk women in a hotel ballroom. Yes, they were offering legitimate dates—romantic dinners, beach walks, afternoon cruises and picnics—to the highest bidder. But these men were still complete strangers to her.

Besides, she wasn’t even certain she’d be able to talk any bachelor she won into going along with her visit-the-folks date rather than whatever he’d offered.

So why was she doing this again?

Tara seemed to read her mind. “Desperate times call for…”

“An escort service?”

Tara snorted. “Sure, show up at your folks’ with a male hooker. That’ll go over real well.”

“He wouldn’t necessarily be skeevy. He could be nice, normal, handsome.”

“Stop channeling that movie The Wedding Date.” Tara smacked Annie on the arm with her rolled-up auction brochure. “Professionals like that one don’t really exist.”

“But I need a Plan B,” she mumbled, knowing time was running out. Maybe some decent-looking young man coming out of the unemployment office? As long as he had all his teeth and four limbs, how would her family know he wasn’t the one she’d been dating?

Or even three limbs…he could be a noble accident survivor.

Noble was good. Very good. Which was why she’d immediately scanned tonight’s program looking for firefighter, rescue worker or policeman types. Her dad would totally be into that.

Her family didn’t know what her ex-boyfriend, Blake, did for a living. They knew almost nothing about her relationship with him at all. Just that she’d been swept off her feet by someone tall, dark and handsome. They didn’t know specifically what he looked like. So she could introduce practically anybody and say he was the wonderful guy she’d been telling her family about.

Well, anybody except the real wonderful guy, who’d turned out to be nothing more than a wonderful liar.

“Stop thinking about Blake the Snake.”

“Are you a mind reader?”

“No, you’re just incredibly easy to figure out, Miss wholesome, blond, always-smiling girl-next-door. Whenever you think about him, your face scrunches up, your lips disappear into your mouth and you look like you want to hit somebody.” Shrugging and sipping from her beer, Tara added, “Of course, you look that way when you fight with one of the über-mamas, too, but none of them are here.”

Über-mamas. That was the name she and Tara had come up with to describe some of Annie’s more difficult clients. There weren’t many, but a few ultraorganized, ambitious, arrogant mothers of the children cared for at Baby Daze seemed to view day care providers as overpaid dog walkers. As if there was no more to watching a toddler than changing his diaper.

“You weren’t in love with him, you’ve admitted that much. And you hadn’t even slept with him.”

“Thank God.” Something had held her back, some intuition. She’d blessed that intuition when she’d found out her Divorced Mr. Wonderful was, despite his claims to the contrary, Married Mr. Cheating Pig.

“So forget him.”

“I have. Almost. I just have to get through this weekend and then I can pretend I never knew the man.”

“Tell me again why you can’t just tell your family what happened? It’s not like any of it was your fault.”

“You met my folks when they came to visit me last spring. Do you really need to ask that question?”

Tara pursed her lips and slowly shook her head. She’d had a firsthand glimpse at Annie’s life as the only daughter in an overprotective, small-town family who wanted her back home, married, and pushing out babies—now, if not six months ago. If they found out their “little girl” had had a bad affair with a married man, they’d harass her endlessly to give up her dreams of big-city success and come home where she could meet a decent local boy and settle down.

“Forget I asked.”

“I’ll get someone to play boyfriend, let them all see I’m blissfully happy and fine, then gradually stage a breakup over a series of weekly phone calls.”

Satisfied with at least that much of the plan, she reached for her drink, still musing over a possible Plan B. The man she showed up with didn’t have to be really handsome just because she’d told her family he was. Somebody much more plain and normal-looking than any of these sexy bachelors being auctioned off to support a kid’s Christmas charity would do.

Beauty was, as she knew, in the eye of the beholder, and her family understood that. Just last year her brother, Jed, had convinced them all he’d met a future Miss America. His fiancée, however—a sweetheart whom the family adored—more resembled a Miss Pillsbury Dough Girl.

So maybe they’d think she’d simply exaggerated about how handsome her new guy was. Or that she was wildly in love, just as her brother had been. She didn’t have to bring home a guy who looked like…like…

Oh, my God, like him.

Once again, as it had been doing all night, her gaze drifted toward the table, and the auction program lying open upon it. About two minutes had elapsed since her previous covetous glance, which was the longest she’d gone all evening without at least a peek at Bachelor Number Twenty, described as a good-natured rescue worker. An all-out hero. Absolutely perfect.

In addition, the man was an all-out hunk-a-holic.

As she stared at those midnight blue eyes, Annie’s heart again played a quick game of hopscotch in her chest. Just as it had the moment she’d spotted him, this complete stranger, whose name she didn’t know but whose face and body were as familiar as her last erotic dream.

Those cheekbones were high and prominent, the nose strong, the jaw carved from granite. Visible on one earlobe was a tiny stud of gold. His lips were slightly pursed in a sexy, come-hither smile that no real man could pull off and still look so damned masculine. The sleekness of his thick, nearly jet black hair—long, silky and tied back in a sexy ponytail—and the violet glint in those fathomless blue eyes simply had to be the product of a photographer with the latest Photoshop software.

Who cares? You’re not going to win him. Not a chance. Not with what that last guy went for.

And suddenly, she couldn’t stand to see who did win him. Nor did she really want to see the man in the flesh, because, honestly, the picture had to have been majorly touched up. No man was really that good-looking in person.

Before she could move, however, Tara pointed at the stage, where the announcer was milking the audience, building things up to the final moment of the night. The big finish. Bachelor Number Twenty.

“This auction was your best chance, and this next guy is your last chance. So don’t blow it.”

“We should just go.” Annie put her hands flat on the table to push her chair back. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Come on, what’s money for if not to blow? We both know this last guy’s the one you’ve had your eye on all night.”

Had she really been that obvious? Maybe only to Tara, who had been the first friend she’d made when she’d moved to Chicago five years ago. Then again, her family had always told her that she should never play poker because she wore her emotions the way rich women wore their jewelry: blatantly.

“Have you noticed how much emptier the room is?” Tara leaned close, trying to convince her as much with her calm tone as with her words. “Half the women in the place got up and left after that last guy went, the international businessman.”

Annie had noticed, though she didn’t understand it. “Still can’t quite figure out why though,” she mumbled.

Ten minutes ago, when Bachelor Number Nineteen had gone for an unbelievable sum—twenty-five thousand dollars—the crowd had begun to rapidly disperse. As if some of the bejeweled, fur-wearing women had come only for that one man. Entire groups of women had flounced out, thinning the room considerably and emptying a dozen tables near the front.

The brown-eyed bachelor had been good-looking. But, in Annie’s opinion, he couldn’t hold a candle to the last man of the night. “I bet the high price scared everyone away because it means this next guy’s going to go for fifty thousand.”

“I don’t think so.” Tara leaned even closer. “The Junior League set is gone. Look who’s left…Just rowdy blue-collar chicks like us.”

Annie cast a quick look around, noting the laughter and easy, laid-back atmosphere in the room. And she began to wonder if Tara was right. These looked more like two-for-one happy hour girls instead of the Dom Perignon types who’d been involved in the bidding frenzy for Bachelor Number Nineteen.

Tara tapped the tip of a red-painted nail on the face of the sexy bachelor. “You can win him, Annie. And you deserve to.”

Maybe….

“Look at his picture,” Tara snapped. “Talk about saving the best for last. Go for it or I’ll never speak to you again!”

On some days, that would probably be a blessing, but Annie was too caught up in the moment to think about it.

As the auctioneer began reading the last bachelor’s bio, the remaining women quieted. Annie’s pulse, which had accelerated throughout the evening as she pretended interest in some of the other men—even halfheartedly bidding on a few of them—picked up its pace. Her blood began a steady gallop through her veins, her quick, shallow breaths leaving her a little light-headed.

“You can go higher than twenty-five hundred. You know you can squeeze out a few more bucks,” Tara whispered.

“You’re pretty quick to empty my bank account,” she muttered. How much do I have in savings?

“Raid the penny jar in the playroom. The kids won’t miss one more alphabet puzzle. They hate those stupid educational toys, anyway.”

“Shh!”

Willing the announcer to hurry up, she watched for a movement behind the black curtain, half wanting to flee to avoid disappointment, but wanting even more to catch a firsthand glimpse of that man in the flesh. Just to find out if he could possibly be real.

“I’ll share my PB and J’s every day next month if you end up on the verge of starvation.” Grinning impishly, Tara added, “But hopefully you’ll be so satisfied by your purchase that you won’t be hungry at all.”

Annie shook her head, denying that possibility to both of them. “This is a business arrangement. A weekend to get my family off my back, without them ever finding out about…”

“Blake the Snake.”

Exactly.

“There’s nothing personal about it. I’ve learned my lesson about hooking up with handsome, sweet-talking men. You’re looking at a woman in complete control of her libido.”

She meant it. Every word. She was confident, strong, secure, and certain she could handle just about anything.

But then the curtain opened and a black-haired god stepped out. Even from here, Annie could see the glint of something wicked and suggestive in his expression. The photo hadn’t conveyed the broadness of his shoulders, the leanness of that tall male body. He was wrapped in a black tux that looked as if it had been sewn around him, it fit so perfectly.

She told herself to be calm. Rational. To proceed cautiously. A low initial bid, don’t tip your hand.

Then he flashed the audience a sexy, knowing smile, making those blue eyes glimmer under the spotlights. The sultry curve of his eminently kissable lips promised throaty whispers and complete seduction to every woman in the room. Especially Annie.

And suddenly her libido took control of her entire body and she sprang to her feet, an exuberant stranger’s voice emerging from her vocal cords.

“Five thousand dollars!”

ONE BID. He’d been “purchased” after only a single shouted bid that had emerged from the mouth of a blonde standing at the back of the ballroom.

Sean Murphy hadn’t been the most expensive man of the evening—the bloke before him, a rescue worker named Jake, he believed, had claimed that distinction. But he felt fairly certain nobody else had earned a five thousand dollar offer before the auctioneer had even opened the floor for bidding.

That had been the only silver lining of this ridiculous night. That and the fact that he’d at least not “sold” for less than a few of the wankers who had gone earlier in the evening.

“Thank you again, Mr. Murphy, for agreeing to help us out tonight. We’ve raised a very large sum of money. There are a lot of kids in shelters throughout Chicago who will have a much merrier Christmas this winter.”

Sean nodded at the woman who ran the charity benefiting from tonight’s event. She was a frazzled-looking, but pretty, dark-haired woman called Noelle something or other. She’d been trying to keep things professional, courteous and polite, mostly preventing the melee he’d envisioned, given the activities scheduled for this evening. “It was my pleasure.”

Sold before a crowd of women. The realization that he’d gone through with it—and his name and photograph had probably been circulated because of it—was enough to make him sigh, knowing the response he was bound to get from his father. The old man always surfed the major newspaper Web sites, watching the financial markets from his home in Ireland. So if this showed up in the social pages, Sean was in for another round of “You’re a disgrace, come home, bow down, be forgiven and do exactly what I want you to do,” messages and e-mails.

“Who is it I have to thank for getting you to agree to participate?” Noelle asked.

Hmm. He wondered what the woman would say if she knew he’d been asked to participate by one of the rich, bored Chicago wives he occasionally visited when he was stateside. Now just a friend, she’d been his very first “client,” who Sean had met six years ago in Singapore. Her husband had hired Sean to escort her around and keep her safe and…occupied.

He hadn’t quite understood what that meant until the woman had seduced him.

In the end, they’d all been very happy with the arrangement. The businessman got his wife off his back so he could spin his financial webs. The wife got the sexual services of a rather inexperienced—but very interested in learning—twenty-two-year-old who fell madly in love with her. Sean gained invaluable experience, both sexually and emotionally, given the gentle way she’d let him down at the end.

And he’d walked away with money. A lot of it.

“Mr. Murphy?” The busy auction worker was still waiting for his answer.

Would she, as many women did, immediately understand—or think she did? Would she sneer at him? Proposition him? Grope him? Or freeze him out? He’d dealt with all of the above.

In the years he’d spent traveling out and about in the world, meeting people—meeting women—he’d met with all kinds of responses to his lifestyle. Not that many people really knew the truth about his lifestyle. Or about him. But he couldn’t deny there was a certain prejudice, a preconception about what he did.

Sometimes he corrected it. Sometimes not.

In general, he didn’t bother explaining. Least of all to a complete stranger. So he kept things simple. “I just heard about it from a friend and wanted to help if I could.”

She smiled, readily accepting the explanation. “That’s great. Some of our bachelors got their arms twisted by their sisters, coworkers, that sort of thing.”

He sensed the fellow who’d sold before him, the rescue worker, had been one of them. He’d looked as uncomfortable in his tux as Sean would have in a pair of coveralls and a straw hat. Or, worse, in a classroom surrounded by squalling children.

Tuxedos? Well, those he could handle just fine. Given his family, he suspected he’d had one of them put on over his nappies before he’d learned to crawl.

“We’re hosting a small reception down the hall for the winning bidders and their bachelors to meet and exchange information.”

Uh-huh. Schedules. Phone numbers.

Birth control preferences.

Hell, maybe he was just jaded. There was no maybe about it, he was definitely jaded. Still, he supposed some of the women who’d come here tonight really did expect nothing more than a nice evening out in exchange for their support of a worthy charity.

But not all of them. Not a chance.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work,” the organizer said, her attention drawn to a confusedlooking volunteer counting piles of cash into a lockbox. Before her, tapping her fingers impatiently, was the petite—but curvy—brunette who’d paid such an exorbitant sum for the bachelor who’d sold before him.

She was attractive. Very. And young, too. Which gave him hope for his own prospects. Not much, unfortunately, given the glimpses he’d caught of the audience from backstage, made up mainly of women who’d appeared much older…and much harder.

“Have a good evening,” Noelle said as she stepped away.

Sean murmured his thanks and headed in the direction she’d indicated. Might as well get this over with. He wanted a real look at the woman he’d be spending an evening with this weekend, rather than merely the shadowy glimpse he’d had of her blond head from up on that brightly lit stage.

Figuring out what kind of evening she expected him to provide shouldn’t be too difficult. If he had to guess, he’d say it would take no more than thirty seconds to determine whether she’d known who she was bidding on, or not.

Given the way she’d called out such a large sum without any prodding from the auctioneer, he suspected he knew the answer. He got the feeling that was why nobody else had bid after her. Considering what had happened with the preceding bachelor, she’d simply scared off the competition, who had probably recognized the same note of determination in her voice that Sean had.

So the woman probably had heard some rumors about him. Who he really was, where he really came from and what he really did.

He doubted, however, that those rumors in any way resembled the truth. So he hoped that the woman hadn’t given away a small fortune because she thought it would guarantee her a spot on his pillow tomorrow morning.

Nothing guaranteed that. Not unless Sean was well and truly aroused. It didn’t matter who the woman was or what kind of balance she carried in her checking account. If he wasn’t attracted to her, his services only went as far as being arm candy, tour guide, interpreter, or even, on occasion, bodyguard. Despite what anybody thought. The spoiled women. Their wealthy, older husbands who wanted them kept “occupied.”

Or even Sean’s own father.

Deliberately putting up his defenses, he entered the smaller room, where couples chatted quietly in shadowy corners and near the portable bar. A few of the women were laughing too brightly, a few of the guys were squirming under the attention. A quarter of the “winners” were probably two decades older than their dates but had had enough surgery to look merely one.

Only a handful of couples actually appeared to be having a normal conversation—i.e. one that didn’t involve the rich auction winner trying to get her date, who’d offered a picnic in the park, to take her upstairs to one of the lush suites in the hotel instead.

He let his gaze travel the room, knowing he’d recognize the shade of his winner’s hair, even if it had been lent a more golden glow under the overhead lights in the ballroom.

Then he saw her. One woman, standing alone.

She was blond. She was young. Truly young, not just faking it. And, as he approached her, he realized she was pretty. Very pretty, in a fresh-faced, wide-eyed, all-American girl way, right down to the freckles he suspected were dribbled across her pert nose beneath her makeup.

She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, and didn’t have that predatory look of a rich piranha, which meant she might actually have a personality.

This could work. Unless she opened her mouth and sounded like one of those brainless twits whose idea of fashion and taste came right from the tabloid princesses currently littering Hollywood.

But he doubted that would happen. Judging by her soft, silky yellow dress, the simple hairstyle—short, pulled back and held with a glittery headband at her nape—and her minimal jewelry, he suspected she was much more natural than that.

Then she spotted him. Those pink lips parted on a gasp, and her soft blue eyes—the shade of the cornflowers that grew wild back home in Wicklow—locked with his, and he knew he was right.

Because she was nervous. And absolutely not the predator he’d half expected to meet.

And he found her very—very—attractive.

Which suddenly had him suspecting this whole crazy auction scheme might not have been such a bad idea after all.