Valentine Fantasy

“Jen, it’s really not important. What’s important is—”

“Cait, how much?”

Cait sighed. She adored Jen, but sometimes her friend was just a little too pushy. She thought about evading the question, but the other woman wasn’t a reporter for nothing. “Two thousand dollars,” Cait admitted quietly.

“Two thousand! Are you crazy? Cait, what if the story doesn’t fly? Then you’re out that money.”

“Shh, lower your voice.” She looked around and was relieved to find no one paying them any attention. “It’s okay. I’ll get it back.”

“Look, kiddo, I know where you work, okay? We’re not at the Herald because the pay is stellar. The Chronicle or Examiner we’re not.”

“Stop worrying, okay? I’m house-sitting for my brother for another few months, so I don’t have to worry about rent or utilities. I don’t have a car payment. Even if the story doesn’t work out and I don’t get reimbursed, I’ll have the money back in my savings by the time Brian returns from Europe. I’ll be fine.”

“What are you hoping to gain by this?”

“You know what I want, Jen,” Cait said, her voice filled with steely determination. “This story is going to prove to Edmund that I can write real news. If I have to attend one more charity function, I’ll scream.”

“I just think there’s a way for you to do this that doesn’t include cleaning out your savings account. When do you plan on telling Edmund what you’re up to?”

“I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Cait knew her friend was merely concerned for her welfare, but she had to go through with this, on her terms. She couldn’t lose this story. “If I tell Edmund, he’s either going to take the story away from me and give it to one of the ‘boys’ or shelve the idea. I can do this, Jen. I can expose Fantasy for Hire. When I handed McBride that money, he jumped on it, so I know there’s a story there. By the time I’m finished, this is going to be the biggest scandal to hit the Bay in months.”

“I just don’t think you’ve thought this out completely. What makes you think McBride is going to attempt to seduce you out of the fortune you don’t have?”

Cait grinned, her enthusiasm mounting. “I have it all worked out. I’m living in Brian’s house in Pacific Heights. The party is at the Palace Hotel. He’s going to think I’ve got money.”

“There’s still a problem. You said that this Avery character claims that this agency was paid for sex. How exactly do you plan on proving that?”

“Easy,” Cait said, tapping her lengthy acrylic nail on the rim of her cup. “I’m going to seduce Jordan McBride.”

2

JORDAN CHECKED his watch, then set aside the designs he’d been studying for most of the afternoon before rubbing at the tension building in his neck. Going into business for himself hadn’t turned into the profitable venture he’d imagined, but he had a decent beginning, and that was just fine with him. The desire to work for no one other than himself had been too strong to ignore, and he couldn’t complain about the progress he’d made since returning to San Francisco, even if he wasn’t yet blazing any trails. He’d done the architectural-firm route in Los Angeles and had been burned, which convinced him he was ready to fly solo. If he’d learned anything during his eight years with Lawrence and Brooks, it was that he wanted his successes, or his failures, to be his own in the future.

Lifting the drawing toward the light, he carefully compared the sketches to the preliminary model for the chain of strip malls planned along the central and northern coast. His presentation for the developer wasn’t for a couple of days. He needed to wrap this up as soon as possible so he could start on the actual plans for the Wyndhaven Town House restoration project he’d just been awarded. He’d be buried in meetings with the developer and contractor in another couple of weeks, and he still wanted to bid on a new high-rise complex for downtown. He had some ideas he felt fairly confident about, and the added commissions would give him the capital he needed to hire an assistant and locate reasonably priced office space.

Office space wasn’t his only real-estate concern. He and Austin owned the house, but with Austin married, the last thing the newlyweds needed was him around cramping their style. Selling the prime real estate was out of the question. The house had been in the family for three generations, and neither he nor Austin were willing to sell. They could have done so years ago when things had been tough, but they’d made a pact never to jeopardize the house. There’d been times they’d had to survive on canned soup and peanut butter and jelly for weeks, but in the end, the sacrifices more than made up for the cash the house could have brought them. Moving out of the Victorian for Austin and his new bride was Jordan’s only logical choice. What he needed to do was find his own place, but he was going to be around until the escrow on his Santa Monica condo closed in a couple of weeks, unless he wanted to throw money away on a rental.

The thought of money brought him back to what he’d been trying to avoid thinking about all afternoon.

Cait Sullivan.

He had a few ideas on how to fulfill her Valentine fantasy, but he still couldn’t understand why a woman as attractive as Cait felt she had to pay for the services of a total stranger. She’d mentioned not wanting any entanglements, so perhaps she was recovering from a bad relationship. Anything was possible, he decided, adding another Canary Island pine to the model.

His mind refused to remain focused on his work. Cait and her black-seamed stockings continued to intrude. With a disgusted sigh, he tossed the small pine tree back onto the table. He’d never get any work done at this rate.

He flipped off the light over his desk, and left the upstairs room he’d commandeered as his temporary office space. His real-estate concerns would have to wait until at least next week. His calendar had been filled by a sexy redhead with a fantasy. And for the price he’d been paid, he’d better deliver.

CAIT SNEEZED, dropped the fingernail file, then sneezed again from the dust cloud caused by her vicious filing. She nearly had the length of her new nails down to something she could live with, but her arm ached from the constant, repetitive motion.

Time for a break, she decided, tossing the nail file on the glass end table. She reached for the cardboard container of shrimp fried rice from Mr. Wong’s she’d picked up on her way home from the paper. The shrimp was cold, and she blamed it on her nails. They were a serious impediment to her life-style. Not only did she have trouble typing, which was a problem since she wanted to add a few more notes to her story, but attempting to fasten the button fly on her favorite pair of faded Levi’s had been impossible. After a ten-minute struggle, she’d given up and slipped into a pair of sweats instead, deciding that if she was going to function and perform the everyday tasks necessary to basic survival, she’d better shave a few millimeters from her fingers first.

She bit into another cold piece of shrimp and thought about the story she was convinced would change the course of her career onto the path she’d craved since she was a little girl. When she’d told Jen her plan, her friend had called her a certifiable idiot, then continued with a list of reasons why she might fail, not to mention a lecture on the danger she was placing herself in by attempting to seduce a total stranger. At the time, she’d waved Jen’s concerns aside, but as she dug through the container in search of more shrimp, she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps she was letting her ambitions cloud her judgment.

Her plan wasn’t exactly foolproof, and she knew it. Like, how did she get around actually having sex with her fantasy date? She’d worry about that later. A good investigative reporter took risks. Woodward and Bernstein had taken a monumental risk in exposing the Watergate scandal, and for a time, their lives had been in danger. Would the savings-and-loan scandal have been exposed if a reporter hadn’t ignored the risks involved? Or what about the reporters who put their lives on the line every day to bring news from Kosovo or other war-torn areas? Did those reporters worry about the risks?

No. The story came first. The story always came first, and her philosophy was no different from the greats’ before her. She knew she’d have to be alone with Jordan, especially since she planned to make it perfectly clear to him that she was on the prowl for seduction. She couldn’t very well convince the man that she was ripe for the picking in a roomful of people, especially with her family hovering around her. She’d have to find a way to be alone with him, and although she’d need to brush up on her seductress skills to pull this off, she knew she could do it. In the name of investigative journalism, in honor of the great reporters of years past, she could and would expose Fantasy for Hire.

Setting her shrimp fried rice aside, she picked up the industrial-strength emery board and continued to work on shortening her nails while listening to the evening newscast. More rain was predicted for the Bay area later that week, but the meteorologist promised clear skies by the weekend for Valentine’s Day in the most romantic city in North America. She smiled. Not even Mother Nature would dare spoil her parents’ anniversary party.

After finishing her nails and waiting for the coat of clear polish to dry, she snapped off the television and flipped on Brian’s elaborate stereo system. She found a rock station she liked, then sat down at her laptop computer and popped in the disk containing her notes on Fantasy for Hire.

She carefully read what she’d written during her meeting with Louden Avery. So far, he appeared to be correct in his allegations. The fact that Jordan McBride had taken the huge sum of money she’d offered him led her to believe there was some truth to the claim of money in exchange for sex. Of course, it was up to her to prove the claim, but she wasn’t too worried about that, even though she had no experience with seducing a man. Flirting, yes. She could handle flirting, but actual seduction? Maybe she’d better rent a few videos on the art of seduction. Like The Graduate, she thought with a grimace.

She clicked the icon for a blank page and centered Jordan McBride’s name at the top, then started typing what she knew about him, which wasn’t much. Other than the fact that he was gorgeous and more than willing to be her Valentine for a fee, she knew nothing about the man. She didn’t know if he owned the agency, or if someone else pulled the strings behind the scenes. All she had was Louden’s claim that an employee of Fantasy for Hire took money in exchange for sex. It was up to her to prove this was a common practice for the agency.

She pulled up another blank page and made a list of things she needed to learn about the agency. She needed to find out who owned the agency, but a huge help would be a list of previous clients. If she could find one more person to verify the claim made by Louden. That, coupled with whatever her own experience with Jordan might produce, would add up to the necessary verification. Obtaining a client list would be impossible, unless she crossed the legal line and resorted to breaking and entering.

She underlined the entry to think about later.

An hour later, she took a short break and headed for the kitchen for a cup of tea. She was pleased with her progress. The beginning was already shaping up, and she had a solid line on which direction she planned to take the article. As her investigation deepened, so would the depth of her story.

She set the teakettle on the stove, then pulled a mug from the cabinet as the chimes for the front door rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but that never stopped her nosy sisters from dropping by unannounced. Sometimes having four older siblings could be a royal pain, but she loved them anyway, even if they did think her business was their business.

She strolled to the front door and peered out the side panel to find a Toyota four-wheel drive she didn’t recognize parked in the driveway.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It’s your valentine,” a deep, velvety voice answered from the other side of the door.

Her heart stopped, then resumed at a maddening pace.

Her valentine?

She wasn’t supposed to see him until Saturday night. What was he doing here? Unless, she thought, narrowing her eyes, he’d decided she required further investigation as a potential target. She’d struggled hard not to flinch when she’d handed over most of the contents of her savings account. Obviously her plan had worked, and that pleased her. She’d hate to think she’d spent the money for nothing.

“Just a minute,” she called, then frantically swiped at the fingernail dust still clinging to her navy sweatshirt. She stifled a sneeze, ran her fingers through her hair in hopes of restoring a sense of order and pinched her cheeks for color. A quick glance down at her clothes caused a groan to escape her lips. What on earth would he think seeing her dressed in baggy sweats, her hair a mess and not an ounce of makeup on her face? So much for playing the socialite. She looked more like the hired help.

Pasting a welcoming smile on her face, she straightened her shoulders and opened the door. Her stomach flipped at the sight of him. Lordy, he was even more drop-dead gorgeous than she remembered. He wore the same navy polo shirt and tan trousers he’d had on earlier, but the worn, leather bomber jacket that matched the color of his wind-tossed, sable hair gave him a slightly dangerous appeal that put her feminine senses on alert.

“Hi,” he said, that rumbling voice jarring her back into reality—the reality that Jordan was really standing on her porch.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she said, taking another swipe at the dust on her shirt. She wanted him to think of her as someone who was polished and sophisticated, not as someone who lounged around the house in dust-covered sweats.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” He looked at her closely, his gaze sliding along her body as if searching for the curves beneath her baggy clothes.