When Megan Smiles

She pushed it back in the envelope, rolled down her window and heard the faint sounds of music and voices drifting on the evening air. She looked at the security pad and spotted a phone by the keys. She was reaching for it when a deep male voice startled her.

“Good evening.” She turned to see a security guard on the other side of the gates, a tall man in the shadows, moving toward the left pillar. “I’ll be right there,” he said, then disappeared, only to reappear out of a gate set into the fence on the other side of the pillar.

He came toward her, backlit by the lanterns that framed the entry. “Am I glad to see you,” she said as he got within a few feet of the car. She could see now that he was carrying a clipboard in one hand, and there were a gun and two-way radio at his waist.

“Sorry for the wait.”

She had to crook her neck a bit to look up at him. He was probably over six feet, lean, in a tailored uniform, but between the night shadows and his uniform cap, his face was almost indistinguishable. “I just need to get in to the ball.”

He came close enough to touch the frame of her window with one hand, and leaned nearer. “Okay, no problem,” he said as she noticed how strong his hand looked, tanned, with square, short nails and a simple gold wedding band on the ring finger. “What’s the name?”

“Megan Gallagher.”

He pulled back and scanned the clipboard. “Sorry, ma’am, but you’re not on my list.”

“Look again. It’s Gallagher,” she said, then spelled it out for him very slowly.

“There are two Gallaghers on here and you’re not one of them. In fact, they’ve already left.”

She knew the two Gallaghers—her brother, Quint, who’d been doing work for LynTech for a while, and Amy. Megan had thought they were in New York, but they must have come back for the ball. “Look again,” she said, feeling a bit irritated that someone had forgotten to put her name on the list, and that she was now at the mercy of this guard. It was almost nine and she was going to be late.

She wasn’t aware she’d said anything else out loud, but he stated, “If you’re not on the list, you’re not,” as he hunkered down by the door. “Sorry.”

The dim glow from the inside lights of the car touched his face, and she saw she was being assessed by dark, dark eyes under a slash of equally dark eyebrows. His clean-shaven face looked almost ethnic, with high cheekbones, deeply tanned skin and a strong jaw. And it fell just short of being handsome. No, it was more disturbing than handsome, and she didn’t know why. “I need to get inside,” she said with more bluntness than she’d intended.

“Not without your name being on this list.”

“Oh, just let me in,” she said.

“Sorry, I have strict orders not to let anyone in without being on the list.”

He was like a broken record. Then she had an idea. She grabbed the invitation off the seat by her purse and turned to where he still crouched by her door. She thrust the printed card at him. “Here, this proves I’m supposed to be in there.”

He took it from her and read it, while she frantically looked at the clock again and realized she was now officially late for her meeting. Then he held it back out to her. “Your name’s not on this,” he said. “You could have picked it up out of the trash.”

That was it; she’d had enough. She opened the door, not caring if she hit him in the process, and climbed out. Her first realization when she faced him was that he was big. The security guard was over six feet tall, with broad shoulders well defined by the tight, tailored uniform. And he was annoyed. It was obvious by his stance and by the way his right hand clenched at his side. He let the invitation fall to the ground between them, then he crossed his arms on his chest, a power pose if ever she saw one. At least he didn’t pull his gun.

“What’s your name?” she asked, lifting her chin slightly and fighting the urge to cross her arms the way he had.

“Rafe Diaz,” he said, then slowly spelled it out, letter by letter, as she had done with her name earlier. Then he asked, “Is this a standoff?”

“No, it’s a problem,” she said.

“I agree,” he murmured without any sign of hesitation. “It’s your problem.”

“No, it’s yours. You’re being paid to let in guests, to be polite and make life simpler for the people going through these gates tonight, and because of you, I’m late for my date.”

“Late for your date,” he echoed, then quite deliberately let his gaze slide over her.

Her stomach clenched at the action, but she stood very still until he was finished and looked her in the eye again. “Yes, late, and it’s your fault.”

“I don’t think laying blame is the best idea, so why don’t we get past that and you tell me what you think I should do to be polite and make life simpler for you…without losing my job in the process?”

He was so composed that it only made her more annoyed. She frowned at him. “Call someone,” she said. “That won’t jeopardize your job, will it?”

“I don’t know until you tell me who to call.”

Damn him. She crossed her arms on her breasts and kept her gaze level with his. “Your boss.”

He shook his head. “Not on a Saturday night. Not a good idea. That would jeopardize my job. Give me another person to call.”

She was tall, probably five feet ten inches without the flimsy silver heels she was wearing, and she kept her gaze locked with his as she nibbled on her full bottom lip. Damn, she was gorgeous in that shimmery dress, which did nothing to minimize her high breasts and the flare of her hips. Or legs that looked as if they could go on forever. Drop-dead gorgeous, and a royal pain. Whoever had given her the huge diamond flashing on her finger would have his hands full.

“Wayne Lawrence,” she said suddenly. “Call him. He’s the one I’m meeting inside.” She cocked her head to one side, and even in the dim light, he could see the way she arched one finely defined eyebrow. “And don’t tell me he’s not on your list.”

Rafe had never liked women like this, women who felt as if they were entitled to have everyone bow and scrape before them. And he’d had enough of being ordered around by her. He’d make the call and get her out of here, one way or the other. “Okay,” he said, and moved to the call box on the security pad. As he picked up the house phone, he thought he heard her sigh. A soft sound, not one of anger or exasperation, but one that meant she was tired or worried. It touched something in him, and he didn’t want that at all.

He didn’t turn, but grasped the phone and pushed in the number they’d given him for contact with security in the house. He identified himself and said, “Find Wayne Lawrence and ask him to confirm a Megan Gallagher as his guest.”

“Where is he?” the voice on the other end asked.

“How would I know where he is?” Rafe practically snapped.

He felt a touch on his arm at the same time he heard Megan say, “He’s waiting on the lower terrace by the ballroom.”

He looked down at her, at her hand on his sleeve— the hand with the huge diamond on it—then at her. She drew back, breaking the contact quickly. “That’s where he is?”

He saw her put her hand behind her back. “That’s where he said we should meet,” she murmured.

He gave the information to the man on the other end, then waited while he found Wayne Lawrence. Rafe was more than aware that Megan was still close to him, her delicate flowery scent touching the evening air. He knew it was her scent without even checking, but it didn’t match her. The aroma was soft and very feminine, and she was definitely not soft. Feminine? Hell, yes, she was that in spades.

“Yeah, she’s confirmed as his guest,” the other guard said as he came back on the line. “He wants her let in and escorted to the lower terrace right away. So bring her on up.”

“But I’m on the gate.”

“Brad’s coming down. He’ll be there any minute. You come on back here with Miss Gallagher as soon as Brad gets there.” Brad, another guard, had accepted Rafe as a co-worker with no idea who he really was. Only Zane knew Rafe’s true identity and that he was using a fake last name.

Rafe put the phone back in its nook, then turned to Megan and finally put two and two together. Wayne Lawrence and Megan Gallagher? He didn’t like the way that added up at all. He’d seen the photos of Mr. Lawrence. The man was sixty, maybe five-eight or so, almost bald, with a rumpled look about him. But he was high up in LynTech, a mover and a shaker. And you never knew about women. Maybe the power or the money or both were an aphrodisiac. But the idea of Megan Gallagher with this man brought a bitter taste to Rafe’s mouth.

He turned to Megan, who had backed up a few paces while he’d been talking, a slender figure in the darkness. He tried not to notice any more about her, especially not the way the ring sparkled on the hand that held the forgotten invitation, which she’d picked up. “Well?” she asked.

“Wayne Lawrence is waiting,” he murmured.

“So, you’re going to open the gate for me?”

“Sure,” he said. “And that’s not all.”

She hesitated before asking, “What does that mean?”