THIS PERFECT KISS Read online

  Jilly squeaked too, and Rory was close enough to see the goose bumps that rushed from her throat toward her low neckline. Before he could start envying those as well, he set his teeth. "Come out with your paws up, Kiss, or it's chinchilla stew for dinner and chinchilla slippers for Christmas."

  But instead of surrendering, the sneaky thing wiggled deeper, causing Jilly to gasp. A gasp which in turn caused one—no, make that two other spectacular things to happen.

  But after a single incredible eyeful, Rory pretended he hadn't seen the sight of her miraculous breasts rising over the top of her dress, or experienced his natural masculine reaction.

  Painfully aware that he wasn't going to talk the damn animal out, he sidled closer to the woman, then suddenly thrust his hand behind her, into the curly froth of her hair. Finding the wiggly body of his adversary, he hung on, ignoring Kiss's squeaky complaints and tricky avoidance maneuvers as well as Jilly Skye's big eyes and the way that nervous tic moved her sweet, soft-looking mouth again.

  But the warm sensation of Jilly's hair wrapping around his wrist was unignorable. And unacceptable. So when Kiss made a last desperate bid to hang onto his new fascination, Rory set his teeth again and firmly pulled the animal free. With one final squeal, the chinchilla emerged from the new tangle of Jilly's hair, a disgruntled loser.

  "There," Rory said triumphantly, stepping back to gauge the woman's reaction.

  But instead of being grateful, she was stunned. He couldn't blame her, because now there was even less of her dressed. Apparently the struggle between man and beast had resulted in the barely there gown being barely on. She clutched the bodice with one hand and the end of a broken shoulder strap with the other. Rory knew enough about the law of gravity to realize that her hands were the only thing saving them from transgressing the laws of decency.

  Those tabloid headlines suddenly sprang to vivid, career-damaging life in Rory's mind.

  "I need to get you inside," he said urgently. It was bad enough when she was wearing the outrageous dress. But now that she was half wearing it! Reporters and photographers, eager to cash in on his rumored political aspirations, had been sniffing around for weeks, and telephoto lenses could be powerful, evil things. Forget about getting her back in her car. Until he had her paper-clipped or rubber-banded back together, no way could she be seen leaving Caidwater.

  Holding Kiss against his chest with one hand, he grabbed Jilly's elbow and started towing her toward the house. "This way."

  She came along willingly enough until they reached the bottom of the steps leading to the front door. Then she stopped, tilting her head to scan up, up, up the three stories of pinkish stucco walls. "It's a Moorish castle, for goodness sake."

  Rory urged her forward, uninterested in admiring the place. To him it looked just like it was, a self-indulgent, overly luxurious dream palace. "Thirty-six thousand square feet," he said matter-of-factly. "Forty-four rooms including an indoor swimming pool, not to mention the eight separate gardens and acres of undeveloped land. A one-hundred-foot waterfall drops to the canyon below, where there's a canoe pond, a tennis court, and a nine-hole golf course."

  Crowning the highest ridge of hills ringing Hollywood, shielded by mature palms and eucalyptus trees from the eyes of the ordinary people who lived in the valley below, Caidwater was a rich man's playground tied with a hangman's noose around Rory's neck.

  No wonder he felt like he was suffocating.

  His hand on the front doorknob, Rory paused before ushering her through the main entrance. On second thought, it was probably better to avoid the household help, too.

  Without explanation, he detoured from the front door and strode quickly through a gate leading to a side terrace, Jilly's elbow still cupped in the palm of his hand. She trotted in his wake, doing okay despite those wacky high heels and the struggle to keep her dress up. He didn't risk letting her go until they reached a side door. When he turned the knob, cool air and the smell of lemon oil and expensive booze oozed over the threshold.

  Still grasping the pieces of her dress, Jilly preceded him through the open door, her gaze mildly curious. "Gee, swimming pools, canoe ponds, forty-four rooms," she said. "Sounds like just about everything a despot could want."

  Rory stripped off his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes. What it sounded like was that she'd known his grandfather. But he dismissed the thought and followed her into the library he'd taken over as his office. Built-in shelves hugged the walls, filled with miles of never-touched leather-bound books that had come with the house when Roderick bought the place in 1939.

  "Wait right here," Rory said, gesturing toward a chair. "I'll be just a minute putting the animal back."

  With Kiss safely locked in his cage, Rory could find a way to glue the woman together, thank her for her time, and then get on with finding another way to get rid of the clothes. A hundred bucks should make her happy enough to leave empty-handed.

  "Would you mind if I come along?"

  Rory paused, halfway out the door that led to the rest of the house. He looked over his shoulder.

  And almost choked on his frustration. There'd been no need for such a panic. No need to bring her inside. She had the dress together already.

  She apparently noticed the direction of his gaze and half smiled. "An old friend of the family is an ex-Navy man." In no time flat, she'd threaded the broken strap through something inside the top of the dress, then fashioned a knot. "I think he called this one a bowline." She worried her lower lip. "Um, so may I come along?"

  Rory dragged his gaze away from her knot, then away from her mouth, and checked the ornate-faced grandfather clock standing against the wall behind her. "Auntie's napping," he said. "I don't want to disturb her." He suppressed a shudder at the very idea. She was cantankerous enough without his interrupting her sleep.

  "I'd adore seeing more of the house," Jilly said quickly.

  Rory's eyebrows rose. She hadn't seemed all that favorably impressed when he'd described it a moment ago. Still, he wanted to get rid of her with as little fuss as he could, even though he'd made the mistake of bringing her inside. Maybe if he gave her the dime tour, her curiosity would be satisfied—or disappointed.

  Caidwater no longer lived up to its reputation. Unlike earlier times, decadent and half-drunk Hollywood brokers no longer lounged around the billiard tables or soaked their overpaid flesh in the steaming whirlpool. And the only deceitful and ambitious wannabe starlets wandering the halls were the bitter ghosts in Rory's own mind.

  "Come on, then," he said.

  He led the way into the hall and gestured across the tiled expanse toward a massive sunken room. "The cozy living area," he said ironically. There was a gold-leaf coffered ceiling, intricately carved paneling on the walls, and a stone fireplace that could house a small orchestra. If memory served, for one particularly overpacked party, it had.

  He didn't stop to assess her response, but instead kept moving forward, pointing out the formal dining room and then the entrance to the hundred-seat private movie theater. "Elevator," he said, indicating another set of elaborately carved doors, but he bypassed it for the curving oak staircase.

  Holding the skirt of her dress in one hand, she mounted it beside him, step for step, keeping up with him until he stopped outside a closed door on the second floor. "Auntie's," he whispered. "I'll just slip in and put Kiss in his cage."

  She was worrying her lower lip again, but she nodded.

  Holding his breath, Rory eased inside. His aunt had a two-room suite, this room and the bedroom beyond the closed connecting door. Picking his way through some of Auntie's things left on the floor—a crocheted throw, two books, and a couple of musical instruments she liked to amuse herself with—he quietly crossed to Kiss's cage. With careful, near-silent movements he inserted the now-squirming creature back inside and firmly latched the door. Damned if he knew how the chinchilla kept getting out. Auntie denied all knowledge.

  Sending a furtive glance in the direction of her bedro
om—God, he hoped he hadn't woken her—he spun back toward the hall door and walked quickly, silently, toward it.

  Silently, until his hasty foot kicked a discarded tambourine. Though Rory froze, it rattled ominously forward, sliding across the Oriental carpet only to slam into the plaster wall with enough momentum and enough shivery, shattering noise to wake the dead.

  Shit!

  His shoulders tense, he waited for the expected repercussion. And on cue, it came. "Hey," said a voice, querulous at first, then getting stronger. "Hey!"

  When there was no response, the voice became even louder, even more plaintive. "Who's there?"

  Rory grimaced, trying to ignore the light sweat that broke out on his skin. He pasted a conciliatory smile on his face and, gulping a breath, crossed toward his aunt's bedroom. It didn't surprise him to suddenly find Jilly Skye standing at his shoulder. As he very well knew, that voice was impossible to ignore.

  Taking another deep breath, he gently opened the bedroom door to confront his aunt. She was sitting up on a lacy confection of a canopied bed. A pillow mark creased her cheek and a cross expression turned down her mouth. He swallowed. "Iris…"

  Her cross expression mutated into something monsterish. "I said to call me—"

  "Auntie," he supplied hastily, one hand lifting to ward off her displeasure. "I'm sorry I forgot."

  Her small chin jutted imperiously and he saw her gaze move to the woman by his side. She pointed her finger. "Who?" she asked, like a queen contemplating beheadings.

  With a resigned half smile, Rory shifted slightly. Jilly Skye's expression was curious, surprised, and something else he couldn't read. "Ms. Skye, may I introduce you to my aunt, Iris Kincaid. Iris, this is Ms. Jilly Skye."

  And as if it were every day that she greeted four-year-old little girls who were the crotchety and commanding aunts of thirty-two-year-old men, Jilly crossed the thick white carpet and shook Iris's hand.

  He could hardly believe his eyes. When he'd first met the child a month ago, he'd suspected she might bite him, and that suspicion had yet to disappear. But Jilly didn't seem wary of Iris at all. As a matter of fact, she retrieved and presented an asked-for glass of water without incident.

  Rory hovered in the relative safety of the playroom doorway, his surprise turning to bemusement as Jilly settled the sleepy-again Iris back in her nest of light quilts. With a little wave of her hand that Iris drowsily returned, Jilly then led the way back into the hall.

  Not taking any chances, Rory shut the playroom door with the lightest of clicks.

  Jilly's eyes were bright. "She's adorable."

  Yeah, that was what he'd thought at first. Iris was all long golden hair and the famous Kincaid blue eyes. But her personality—at least when it came to him—was more barracuda than baby beauty.

  "We're just getting acquainted," he said noncommittally, turning in the direction of the stairs. "I never met her before her father—my grandfather—passed away. I'm her guardian now."

  "Her guardian?" Curiosity filled Jilly's voice.

  "My grandfather left her in my custody," Rory answered. "She's my responsibility now, and believe me, I'm still trying to get used to the idea myself." But a kid needed stability and Rory knew he was the best—and only—Kincaid to provide it.

  Of course, his mentor, Senator Fitzpatrick, had rubbed his palms together at the news. He'd crowed that raising a "daughter" would only boost Rory's family-friendly image in the minds of the voters.

  Which brought him back to all that needed to be done before the massive fund-raising party next month, including clearing the house of the damn costumes and clothes. That dark sense of shipwreck-in-the-offing resurged.

  He slid his gaze to Jilly as he escorted her back to the library. Just one look at her glittery evening gown and the generous upper half that it barely concealed reminded him she was at best a flake and at worst a bad influence on Auntie.

  He'd experienced enough of both types to last him a lifetime.

  Knowing what he had to do, once in the library he shut the door and then hitched one hip on the corner of the desk. He gestured toward a facing chair and she perched there, her sequined skirt flowing like water over her pressed-together knees. She wore an expectant expression along with that porn-star dress and he shrugged off the feeling he was about to trod on a kitten.

  "Listen—" He hesitated, unsure how to begin. "I don't think the arrangement we discussed on the phone will work out after all."

  Her green eyes narrowed, a kitten sensing trouble. "Is there a problem?"

  "Not a problem, exactly."

  She slid closer to the edge of the leather seat. "Didn't my references check out?"

  "Your references were fine. Glowing, actually." She'd given him a list. Professors at local universities, curators at two nearby museums, the president of a collectors' organization.

  Rory ran a hand over his short hair. "Next month we move out. But before we leave I'm hosting an important party here at the estate. I think it might be too much trouble and take too much time to sort, catalog, and clear everything away before then. One call and some local thrift store will send a few trucks and get it all out in a couple of days."

  "You can't do that!" Jilly's voice rose, and then she swallowed and started again, more quietly this time. "I'm sure it's hard to understand the value of what you have, but believe me, it's considerable. Some of your grandfather's things—the costumes—he promised to a museum. As I mentioned on the phone, I'll give you a bargain on my appraisal and cataloging services if you'll let me purchase some of the other pieces from you."

  He closed his eyes, rubbing at the headache building between his brows. "Still—"

  "It's personal, isn't it?"

  His eyes popped open guiltily. "Personal?" he echoed. She looked at him, those pretty green eyes wide, her voluptuous breasts rising above the dress, her hair curling uncontrollably against her shoulders. "No," he lied.

  "Then I want to do this," she said firmly.

  Damn. Couldn't she just let it go? "It'll take too much time—"

  "I have the time. You told me over the phone the extent of the collection, but still I'm confident I can get it done by your deadline."

  Rory felt like straws were sifting through his fingers. "Your own shop," he said, grasping at the last one he could think of. "How can you leave it unattended—"

  "I have a partner. Assistants. And anyway, a lot of our business is off the Web these days."

  Before he could come up with another protest, she jumped out of her chair. "Let me show you what I'm talking about."

  In a flash of winking sequins, she whipped around his desk and seated herself in the chair in front of his laptop computer. Her small hand cupped his mouse. "May I?"

  What could he do but dumbly agree? He walked around the desk to stand behind her, nobly training his gaze on the computer instead of down her dress. She tilted the screen so he could see better, and then expertly point-and-clicked to log on to his Web browser. From there she almost instantly took him to a Web site titled "Things Past," which listed its proprietor as Jilly Skye.

  In his ten years in the Silicon Valley, Rory had seen thousands of Web sites and this one wasn't bad, not bad at all. Colorful, but not cluttered, it presented the customer with clear choices such as "Women's Wear pre-1920" and "Victorian Undergarments."

  His eyebrows rose. Victorian undergarments? His curiosity piqued, he was disappointed when she clicked on a different button that displayed a page of well-photographed dresses from the 1940s. Below each photo, a caption listed the size and price.

  "How many user sessions do you get a month?" he asked, referring to the number of cyberspace visitors who stopped by her site.

  She named an impressive figure, then impressed him even more by confiding the dollar amount of Web business they'd collected in the last quarter of the previous year. Smiling somewhat smugly, she did a little more maneuvering with his mouse, and suddenly the screen presented the interior image of a clothi
ng store.

  His eyebrows rose again. "A Web cam?" he asked.

  She nodded, her small smile reminding him of kittens again, and cream. "A little bit of fluff, really, and, uh, my Webmistress is still working on it, but we thought it might attract more customers."

  As he watched, the camera slowly panned the store, and he saw a few people browsing, a young woman behind a cash register, and attractive displays of clothing. "Not bad," he admitted. "And if someone's fancy is taken by an item—"

  She pointed a finger toward a box on the screen. "Our toll-free number, or they can e-mail us."

  He was still watching the monitor when Jilly Skye suddenly swung the chair around, its rotating seat whining in light protest. "So?" she said, her gaze suddenly intent on his. "Do I get the job or not?"

  Hell. Rory had been so caught up in the Web site he hadn't been inventing new reasons to refuse. "I… Let me think a minute." He rubbed his band over his hair, rubbed the back of his neck, rubbed his chin, all the while trying to look away from Jilly Skye's admirable assets and pretty little face with its serious green eyes and kissable pink mouth.

  She lifted one hand to smooth the tangles from her hair, then glanced down to check the knot on her strap. Oh, sure, remind him that he and Auntie's beast had mauled her less than thirty minutes ago. Then she used the mouse to swim the cursor around the Web cam's image of her shop. Fine, so maybe her business practices weren't as flaky as the rest of her. Finally, her fingertips drifted across the desk to idly touch the edges of the calendar he had opened there.

  God, and then there was that. Who else was he going to get to do the job in a timely manner? Her references had assured him she was the best.

  Jilly looked back up. "Well?"

  "I … yes," he found himself saying. Damn.

  Instantly aware he'd just screwed up, he wanted to thump his forehead against the wall. But he couldn't take it back because, as if she'd guessed he wanted to, she was already out of the chair and smiling and pumping his hand.