Bride Of The Bad Boy

Angie eyed him back warily, but she wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to see what he had to offer. Gingerly, as she would a ticking bomb, she picked up his wallet and inspected his driver’s license through the little plastic window that housed it. Pennsylvania. His address was a Philadelphia one that told her absolutely nothing, seeing as how she’d never been to Philadelphia before. But she memorized it quickly, knowing she could run a check on it tomorrow morning.

A number of credit cards—all of them gold—were tucked casually into each of the slots provided for such, and she inspected them one by one, noting that they were all stamped with the same name: Ethan Zorn. Feeling bolder, she started to peek into the money compartment, then lost her nerve and glanced up at him to silently ask permission first.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I told you. Knock yourself out.”

Oh, sure, she thought. That way, he wouldn’t have to do it himself.

She tucked her thumb into the money section, fingering each of the neatly lined-up bills as she added them, noting vaguely that they were all in order of descending amount, and that each of the presidents was right side up and facing forward.

An anal-retentive mobster, she thought mildly. Now, that was a good one.

Three hundred seventy-eight dollars, she tallied, and, presumably, change. Now, what kind of person walked around with that kind of money in cash? Immediately, she answered herself: mobsters, that’s what kind. She glanced up at him again and saw that he was smiling.

“I don’t like to use traveler’s checks,” he said, clearly understanding her unasked question.

“Why not? Because they can be traced?”

“Credit cards can be traced, too,” he stated, nodding toward his collection.

“Yeah, if you use them,” she said. “Who says these aren’t just for show?”

He shook his head, clearly thinking she was an idiot. Angie frowned.

“Let’s just say I don’t like having my name bandied about,” he told her.

“A private person, are you?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“I suppose I could, but I bet you don’t use traveler’s checks—or credit cards—for another reason entirely.”

He sighed. “And that reason would be?”

“Because you’re connected.”

He laughed, a dry, eerie sound that was in no way convincing. “And what would a mobster like me be doing in a place like this?”

She met his gaze with what she hoped was steely-eyed determination. “To get your dirty hands on my father’s pharmaceutical company.”

His smile was smug and indulgent, the kind a resigned mother might offer a two-year-old who was turning blue from holding his breath for the hundredth time. “I see. And why would I want my hands on your father’s pharmaceutical company?”

“So you—and the mob—can use it to further your filthy drug trade.”

This time his laughter was an out-and-out bark of disbelief. “You have got to be kidding.”

“Don’t bother to deny it,” Angie told him, irritated at his light mood. “I know that’s why you’re here.”

“Angel, I’m here trying to expand Cokely’s business, that’s all. This town is perfectly situated for me to hit a lot of small communities in three states in one trip.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “You say your father owns a pharmaceutical company? Could you give him my card?”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, I’m serious. I need all the help I can get here. And for all you know, Cokely could give him a much better deal than his current chemical supplier.”

“Thanks anyway, but my father doesn’t deal with criminals.”

Ethan Zorn shook his head and pointed toward the pile of information scattered on his bed. “Will you just have a look at all that? I’m exactly who I say I am. Trust me.”

Oh, sure, Angie thought. The last guy who had asked her to trust him had had her flat on her back in the front seat of his car in about thirty seconds. Fortunately for her, that self-defense course had paid off, and she’d planted her knee in his groin with fairly little effort. Something told her, however, that Ethan Zorn was more than prepared for such a maneuver, should she try it on him.

Nevertheless, she gazed down at the multicolored, variously sized scraps of paper and plastic that dotted the bedspread. A corporate ID from Cokely that looked to be authentic, various work orders, maps of Endicott and its surrounding communities, invitations to call on local businesses and representatives from the chamber of commerce, even a letter from the mayor oozing with compliments and boasts of how business friendly the little town of Endicott, Indiana, could be.

Okay, so a lot of this stuff made Ethan Zorn seem that he was nothing more than a sales rep for the Cokely Chemical Corporation. Angie was still suspicious. As she’d told him a moment ago, she had her sources. And she’d done some sleuthing of her own. And she had good reason to believe he was, in reality, exactly who she’d accused him of being.

“Satisfied?” he asked when she looked up at him again.

She began to slide all his credentials back into the envelope from which they had spilled, and avoided meeting his eyes. “No,” she told him simply. “It’s not difficult to forge these things.”

“You think I’d forge a letter from your mayor?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Then why don’t you give her a call and ask her if she’s been in contact with me about local business?”

“Maybe I will.”

“Ms. Ellison—” he began.

When he stopped abruptly and said nothing else, Angie halted her own activities and looked up at him. His expression changed drastically then, and this time he was the one to smack his forehead soundly with his palm. She hoped her own earlier effort had been a bit more convincing than his was.

“Wait a minute,” he said with a laugh. “Sure. Now I know. You say your last name is Ellison?”

She nodded tightly.

“Ellison Pharmaceuticals,” he stated knowledgeably. “I’m calling on them Friday.”

“You’ve been in Endicott for more than two weeks, and you’re just now getting around to calling on my father?” she asked, reiterating her earlier doubt.

Her question seemed to stump him for a moment, but he covered admirably. “I’ve had a lot of preliminary legwork to do. Plus, I had to go back to Philadelphia briefly. Just got back tonight, in fact.”

“Uh-huh.”

Instead of responding to her murmur of doubt, he extended a hand harmlessly toward her, as if he were doing nothing more than reaching forward to help her out of a car. And Angie took a good look at him for the first time since being discovered in his room—a good look.

His shirt hung open over a broad chest, liberally dusted with dark hair that disappeared below the waistband of his trousers. His legs were long, and despite the baggy trousers, she knew somehow that they’d be spectacularly formed. The forearms visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt were truly works of art, ridges of muscle corded with strong veins. And his hands… Angie bit back a sigh. Who would have suspected a killer could have such incredibly sexy hands?

An odd heat wound through her as she processed the information she’d collected about his physique, and she suddenly became aware of him as a man instead of a threat. Since he’d come to Endicott, she’d viewed him only from a distance. Now, up close and personal at last, she realized that she was out of her league in more ways than one.

He had the face of an angel, she decided as her gaze lingered there. A fallen angel, granted, but an angel nonetheless. His wasn’t the kind of face she associated with the mob. His eyes were dark and dreamy and beautiful, his nose straight and narrow and obviously never broken in a fistfight—something she might have expected of a man like him. His mouth was full and utterly masculine, bracketed by deep slashes she normally only associated with movie stars. His lashes were thick and even blacker than his hair somehow, his jaw lean and cleanly defined.