“For what? A confession?” she asked sweetly.
He was up off the floor and leaning over her before the last word was out of her mouth. “Dammit, I’m getting weary of your sly, glib answers. I want the truth from you and I want it now. Do you understand me?” He had placed his hands on either side of her hips, imprisoning her beneath him. She felt his breath, hot and insistent, on her face. His eyes were incredibly blue and struck her with sparks of anger.
“Yes,” she ground out through clenched teeth.
Gradually he straightened up and backed away from her. Was he disappointed with himself for momentarily losing control? It seemed to take an effort to restore himself to the cool, impersonal government agent.
“What kind of business are you in?”
“I’ve already told…” She broke off immediately when she saw his beginning scowl. She swallowed her proud anger and answered. “The name of my company is Spotlight. We organize fashion shows for department stores, organizations, individuals, whoever needs our services. We do everything from hiring models and selecting the featured clothes to ordering the flowers and refreshments.”
“Forgive me, Miss O’Shea, but no average working girl rents a Mercedes, carries five hundred and sixty dollars in cash in her purse, and wears Oscar de la Renta suits.”
How had he been able to count those bills he had casually thumbed through? How had he known whose
label was in her suit? She glanced down at the jacket lying beside her on the sofa and saw that the label was readily apparent for someone who had the eyes of an eagle and the cunning of a fox.
He saw her puzzling this out and said, “I may be an ‘uncouth’ G-man, but I have heard of Oscar de la Renta, and I know that suit you’re wearing must have set you back what I make in a week. Where do you get money like that, Miss O’Shea?”
“I earn it,” she shouted. “I’m not an ‘average working girl,’ Mr. Barrett. I own my company and have an office staff of twelve talented people. My business is an extremely successful one.”
“Congratulations,” he sneered. “How did you get the capital to start a business like that?”
“From my husband.”
Her answer seemed to take him by surprise and his eyes narrowed on her menacingly. “You told me earlier that you weren’t married.”
“I’m not,” she said. When she saw him take a step toward her, she held up both hands, palms out. “I’m a widow.”
His reaction to that statement was totally unexpected. He threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. “Oh boy. You don’t miss a trick, do you? I can’t wait to hear this tale,” he said with a chuckle.
“It’s true!” she cried.
“Please continue. I’m breathless with anticipation.” He gave her a mocking bow.
“As soon as I graduated from college, I went to New York. I worked there for two years as a model. I wasn’t very successful as a glamour model, so I went to work in one of the apparel manufacturing firms as a house model.”
She could tell by his skeptical expression that she wasn’t explaining too well. “You see, each line, each fashion house, has a model by which to gauge their sizes. I had the measurements of a perfect size eight. They made all their patterns by adjusting them to my figure—as long as I maintained the correct measurements.”
She licked her lips nervously, for he was assessing her figure as if trying to decide if she had perfect measurements or not. “It—it was a good job because when I wasn’t needed by the designers or seamstresses, I learned about the business—design, color, fabric, accessories, even shipping and billing.”
“I thought all models were tall, skinny, and flat-chested. You, Miss O’Shea,” he grinned slyly, “are tall, slender, but definitely not flat-chested.”
Erin’s cheeks were suffused with hot color and her only response was a mumbled, “I told you I wasn’t a successful glamour model.”
After a long, uncomfortable silence, he asked, “What happened to this fairy tale job?”
“I got married.”
“Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten the husband.”
Erin bit back an angry retort and said levelly, “The owner of the company married me. We had been married only a few months when the doctors diagnosed terminal cancer. He died. He left me some money. I moved back to Houston and established Spotlight.”
“He was older than you?”
“Considerably.”
“So you live off this inheritance and rent a Mercedes with it?”