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“I'm glad you agree. Thinking about that penalty will help me get through this ordeal.”
He grimaced slightly, as though well aware of the punishments her imagination could conjure up. “Try on some clothes,” he said. “You have less than an hour before Heather will be back.”
Turning on one heel, she stamped into the bedroom, which wasn't easy when she could barely see over the pile of clothing she carried. Daniel didn't offer to assist her. He probably knew she would have snarled at him had he tried.
Daniel turned out to be surprisingly difficult to please. While B.J. would have just grabbed the first things that fit, he seemed to have a shrewd eye for what suited her best, rejecting the outfits that hung too loosely on her slender frame or were less than flattering to her skin tone. She was beginning to feel like a mannequin by the time he finally approved a couple of sun-dresses—including the fuchsia one—several summery capri-pants-and-top sets and one classic black sheath.
“This is too much,” she protested. “We aren't going to be here that long.”
“You never know,” he replied with a shrug. “Besides, the clothes look good on you. You should keep them.”
“And who's paying for them?” she asked tartly.
“That needn't concern you.”
“And yet it does.”
“Just try on the bathing suits, B.J.”
“No way am I modeling bathing suits for you.”
He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Then pick a couple for yourself. You can't stay at an oceanside resort without a bathing suit or two. And be sure you keep enough nightclothes and lingerie for several days.”
She started to snap at him that she was perfectly capable of providing herself with lingerie, but she bit the words back. She just couldn't discuss underwear with Daniel, even if it was in defiance. Besides which, she did need some clean undergarments if she was going to stay here even for just two or three days.
Turning silently, she closed herself in the bedroom to complete her shopping without any further input from Daniel.
Heather had just left with the garment rack later when someone else knocked on the sitting room door. Since the dishes from their meal had already been cleared away, B.J. looked curiously at Daniel. “Now what?”
He shrugged and crossed the room to answer. She found herself thinking that he moved like a man braced for trouble, as if he half expected danger to lurk on the other side of the door.
She couldn't help wondering again just what he had been up to for the past thirteen years. She'd been able to find out very little about him through the usual sources.
He glanced through the peephole, relaxed visibly and opened the door. A moment later he closed the door again and turned back to face her. His arms were filled with a gigantic gift basket covered in cellophane and topped with a glittering golden bow. “It's for you.”
“For me?” Frowning, she moved toward him as he set the basket on a table.
Through the clear covering she could see that the basket was filled with beauty products. Body lotions, cleansers, moisturizers, sunscreens. An assortment of cosmetics. Dainty little soaps. Hair products, including a brush and a hand mirror.
She spotted a clear plastic case fitted with a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, a razor and a pink can of shaving gel. Everything a woman on vacation could possibly need. She had never cared much about brand names, but she suspected that the products in this basket were top-of-the-line.
“Did you order this, too?” she asked Daniel.
He shook his head and pulled a tiny card from a fold in the cellophane. The card bore the gold-embossed name of a resort gift shop. He held it so both could see the words as he read aloud, “'Not that you need any enhancement, but perhaps these things will be of use to you during your stay. Please ask for anything else you need. Judson Drake.'”
B.J. wrinkled her nose. “Eew.”
Daniel shook his head. “You're going to have to get past that tendency to shudder every time you hear his name. He's our host, and I'm trying to very hard to take him for a large amount of money. A little kissing up would definitely be in order.”
B.J. shuddered again. “If either of us is expected to kiss Creepy Guy, it had better be you.”
Reaching out to run a fingertip across her pouting lower lip, he murmured, “He's not my type.”
Her mind flooded suddenly with memories of the kiss with which he had greeted her at the farmhouse—had that really been less than eight hours ago?; it seemed longer—and yet she could still almost feel the warmth of his lips against hers.
Dropping his hand, he glanced at the wrinkled clothes she had donned again after trying on the new outfits. “Why don't you put on one of those new dresses and we'll go out for a drink and to listen to some music. We should let ourselves be seen.”
She gave it a moment's thought. She had a choice of going out for a drink or sitting in this suite with him—just the two of them—for the remainder of the evening. “A drink sounds good,” she said—perhaps just a bit too hastily.
