A/N
Ok so this story douse not belong to me I was reading a book and thought it would be funny if it was a story about the h2o characters but throughout the story there is obviously no mention of mermaids like I said the story douse not belong to me and the characters don't either I decided to use Rikki and Zane for this story whenever you see leslie Kelly or slow hands and a number that's just the name of the author and page number
1
"OUR STEPMOMMY DEAREST is about to buy herself a gigolo."
Rikki Chadwick, who'd been signing a foot-tall stack of
documents at her desk, dropped her pen, leaving a blot of black
ink on the second quarter Profit and Loss Statement from a
major local firm. Looking up, she could muster no surprise when
she realized her sharp-toned visitor was her older half sister,
Tabitha, looking as enraged as she sounded.
Enraged…but beautiful, as always. The stunning fashion plate
had inherited all her mother's tall and slender genes, blond hair and
elegance, which suited her lifestyle to a T. Rikki, meanwhile,
had been gifted with their father's more short and round frame, plus
her late mother's nearly black hair; dark, laughing eyes and dimples.
Which did not suit her lifestyle as a nose-to-the-grindstone
bank manager to an R or a squiggly S, much less to a T.
Tabitha tossed her designer handbag onto an empty chair and
kicked the door shut with the heel of one pointy-toed, fivehundred-
dollar shoe. "Rikki, did you hear me?"
"I think the construction workers twenty floors down heard
you," Rikki mumbled, wondering why Tabitha always had
to be so damned melodramatic. Something else she'd inherited
from her jet-setting mother.
"The money-grubbing witch is going to cheat on our father."
Considering Tabitha had cheated on one of her husbands and
one of her fiancés, Rikki figured her sister had better jump off
12 Slow Hands
that moral high ground upon which she was perched before it
crumbled out from underneath her. Still she frowned, not happy
with the news that their father's newest wife—his fourth—was
already looking around for more adventure than her older
husband could provide.
Tabby might loathe Deborah, but Rikki had never had
anything against her. The woman wasn't exactly warmth personified,
especially not to her adult stepdaughters, but she was a lot
better than some of the alternatives. Their father could have
married a twenty-five-year old…someone younger than Rikki
or her sister. At least Deborah, aside from being in her forties,
was well-spoken, graceful and successful. She had once run her
own successful ballroom dancing studio—that's where she'd
met Rikki's father—and seemed to make him happy, first as a
dance partner, now as a wife.
So she really hoped Tabby was wrong. "How do you know
this?"
"I got it straight from Bitsy Wellington."
Their stepmother's best gal pal. "Why would she tell you?"
"Well, you know Bitsy. She can never resist causing trouble."
True. The woman was completely toxic.
"Besides, she wants the man for herself. He's some European
gigolo being auctioned off at that Give A Kid A Christmas
charity gig at the InterContinental tomorrow night."
A gigolo being sold to benefit a children's charity. There was
some serious irony in that. Leave it to the Ladies Who Lunch of
Chicago to come up with the idea of buying a stud to raise
money for a worthy cause. And then, to compete over him.
Tabitha lowered herself to one of the chairs across from
Rikki's broad desk, sniffing slightly at the messy files strewn
across it. Her big sister liked the money that came from the bank
their great-grandfather had founded several decades ago. She just
didn't particularly like the stench of work that came along with it.
Leslie Kelly 13
Sometimes Rikki wondered if one of them had been
adopted. Or found on a doorstep. They had so little in common
with each other, physically as well as everything else.
In personality, she was told she was a lot like her mother,
Jason Chadwick's second wife, who'd died when Rikki was four.
Supposedly, though he never spoke of her, Jason had mourned
her greatly. Which could explain why her sister always harassed
Rikki about being their father's favorite.
Maybe it was just that they had more in common. Aside from
looking more like Jason than Tabby did, Rikki was also blessed
with his quick mind, one fascinated by banking and finance. She
also had the work ethic to run the business that had been in the
family for generations.
That didn't mean Tabitha hadn't gotten something from their
father, too—his fickleness. Rikki seemed to be the only Chadwick
who didn't fall in and out of love as frequently as the networks
changed their Friday night lineup.
"We have to do something."
"About what?"
"About the little cheater, that's what!"
Rikki sighed, lowered her pen, and leaned back in her chair.
"But she hasn't cheated yet, has she?"
"No…and we're going to make damn sure she doesn't."
Frankly, her sister's attitude came as a surprise. Considering
how strongly Tabitha disliked their father's new wife,
Rikki would have figured Tabitha would want Deborah to
cheat, and get caught. Her father would tolerate a lot when it
came to his wives—spending money, demanding attention and
throwing tantrums. But he would never tolerate being cheated
on. As a few of his former loves could certainly attest. Tabitha's
mother included.
"I'm surprised you haven't hired a detective to follow her and
get the goods yourself."
Tabitha frowned, shifting her pretty blue eyes away to study
her perfectly manicured nails.
"You have? Jesus, Tabby…"
"Look, it was stupid, and I changed my mind almost right
away. I don't want to catch the bitch cheating."
"You don't?"
Her sister finally lifted her eyes, and in them was a hint of
genuineness, an emotion Tabitha didn't often let the world see,
but which Rikki knew lurked beneath her sister's polished,
shiny, brittle surface. "He loves her, Mad. Really loves her and
she makes him so happy. It's like he's twenty years younger."
She swallowed, murmuring, "I don't want him hurt. Again."
Wow. That stunned her. So much that she couldn't reply for
a minute. Because while she completely understood the sentiment—
and felt the same way—she wouldn't have expected it
of Tabitha.
Then she remembered the one area where she and her sister were
absolutely, one hundred percent alike: in their love for their father.
She lowered her pen to her desk, finally giving her sister her
undivided attention. "Okay. What do you propose we do?"
Tabitha dissembled for a moment, glancing around the room,
at the few framed photos on Rikki's bookshelf—all family—
at the plants in the corner and the view of the Chicago skyline
out the window.
She wasn't going to like this, Rikki knew. Tabitha had the
same look she'd had when they were nine and twelve and her
big sister had suggested they "borrow" their new stepmother's—
wife three's—Dior gowns to play house. And Rikki had the
same reaction—the similar twitch in her temple and the sweatiness
in her palms she'd experienced on that day.
One thing was sure…sweat wouldn't wash any better out of
her Chanel suit now than it had out of Dior then.
"Tabby?"
Her sister finally met her stare, appearing almost defiant.
"It's simple, really."
The twitching intensified. The moisture on her palms could
water the office plants for a week. "Oh?"
"Yes. She can't cheat on our father with the guy if somebody
outbids her." With a smile that showed off the twenty-thousanddollar
smile their father had bestowed upon his oldest daughter,
Tabitha continued.
"You buy the gigolo."
PARAMEDIC ZANE WALLACE had faced death dozens of times
since he'd started working with Chicago FD's 4th Battalion five
years ago. He'd responded to fires and shootings, to brawls and
domestic abuse calls. To riots and hostage standoffs. He'd treated
heart attacks, drowning victims and people two steps past death
who'd miraculously taken three steps back into existence.
He'd once talked a whacked-out druggie into letting him take
his injured girlfriend—whom said druggie had stabbed—out of
their house for emergency treatment. And he'd then gotten
chewed out by his lieutenant for not following protocol by
waiting for the Chicago P.D. to handle it. Right—as if he was
going to let her die.
None of those situations had intimidated him.
But this? This scared the hell out of him.
"Why did I ever agree to get involved with this?" he muttered.
One reason. Because he owed his lieutenant big and his lieutenant
owed the chief big and the chief's wife loved this particular
pet charity. End of story. Which was why two of his buddies
from the battalion had already taken their turns under the spotlight.
"I've been asking myself the same thing," a stranger's voice
replied.
Zane tugged helplessly at the bow tie that was choking him
and glanced at Bachelor Number Eighteen, the one right before
him. The other man looked just about as happy to be here as Zane,
which was saying a lot. Because Zane would just as soon give
CPR to a toothless octogenarian with halitosis than stand up on
stage and be bid on by a bunch of rich, horny women with way
too much time on their hands and too little self-respect. Or selfcontrol.
"I should feel better about it," he said, trying to convince
himself more than the other final few "bachelors" waiting for
their turn on the block. "It is for a good cause, right? So I suffer
a few minutes' embarrassment and a bad date. It's worth it."
Number Twenty offered a jaded smile as he leaned indolently
against a column in the backstage area that had been set up for
this evening's event. The guy looked almost bored, and Zane
envied him his calm. "What, you don't enjoy having women
'paying' for your services?" The voice held amusement, and a
hint of a foreign accent, possibly Irish.
Maybe European dudes were more at ease playing meat-onparade.
But this all-American rescue worker most definitely was
not. "You do?"
Number twenty smiled as he checked his sleeves, the gold
sheen of expensive cuff links flashing beneath the obviously
pricey, tailored tux. Zane would lay money it was not rented.
"It can be…entertaining." This guy's suit and demeanor said
he had money enough to donate to worthy causes on his own.
But the longish hair scooped back into a black ponytail said he
also liked to live dangerously.
So did Zane. But he got quite enough thrills out of putting his
ass on the line at emergency scenes, thank you very much. He
didn't particularlywant to put it out there to be appraised, pinched,
ogled or catcalled over by a bunch of strange women.
The other man continued. "Besides, as you said, it's for a good
cause."
Right. Good cause. Kids. I like kids. Don't have any, don't
really want any for a few more years, but they're cute in a longdistance
way. As long as they're not sticking raisins up their
noses or falling down into sewer drains or following the family
cat up a tree.
Okay, so maybe he didn't like kids so much. Not enough to
go through this humiliation.
Then he thought about his own baby niece and twin nephews.
There was nothing he wouldn't do to make sure they remained
the safe, healthy munchkins they were.
Damn. He was going to have to go through with it.
Tugging again at the too-tight collar of his own rent-a-tux,
Zane peered through a crease in the black cloth curtains, eyeing
the audience. The elegant ballroom was packed with round,
white-draped tables, around which sat dozens of women in
gowns and shimmery cocktail dresses. Laughter and gossip
reigned supreme as they tossed back fruity Cosmos or sparkling
champagne. They all watched hungrily, calling out bawdy suggestions
as the raucous bidding continued for Bachelor Seventeen,
who was currently center stage.
Well, all except one. A brunette who stood about ten feet away
from the curtain he was peeking through. She drew his eye as
he scanned the crowd…then drew it again. And this time, he let
his gaze linger.
She was almost shadowed by one of the giant standing spotlights,
which cast gaudy, unforgiving pools of light on the spectacle
occurring on the stage. But what he saw of her was
definitely enough to pique his interest.
First because she had some wicked curves. She wasn't a tall
stick figure in a little black dress like half the women here.
Instead she was petite, very rounded with the kind of full
curves—generous hips and lush breasts revealed in a low-cut,
silky blue dress—that weren't currently fashionable but made his
heart pick up its pace and his recently dormant cock come awake
in his pants.
Nor did she have bottled blond hair swept up in a complicated
hairdo like the other half of the audience. No, hers was dark and
thick, with long curls that fell in disarray past her shoulders. The
look was wildly seductive, as if she'd just left her bed rather than
an exclusive Michigan Avenue beauty salon.
Earthy, sultry, not at all restrained. The woman was sexy in a
way that women didn't seem to allow themselves to be sexy
anymore.
Her looks, however, merely started the fire in his gut. Her untouchable,
out-of-place demeanor stoked it until it almost
engulfed him.
The brunette wasn't laughing it up with her rich gal pals, or
tossing back Manhattans while turning her hand to make sure
her diamond rings showed to their greatest flashy advantage. In
fact, if he had to guess, he'd say she looked almost disapproving,
even tense. He couldn't see her face very well, though he
got a glimpse of a stiff little jaw, lifted up in visible determination.
And her back was military straight.
He sensed she was keeping it that way intentionally, as if she
didn't dare let her guard down lest she be distracted from
whatever mission she'd set for herself.
As if realizing she was being watched, the woman glanced
around, turning her head enough to cast her face in a bit of light
spilling off the stage. Enough to highlight the creamy skin, the
curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips and the dark flash of her
eyes.
Beautiful.
Zane's hands clenched into fists at his sides. Though she
couldn't possibly see him and was in no way mirroring his
reaction, hers did the same.
She clenched out of visible concentration that seemed to swirl
around her, creating a no-fly zone between her and everyone else
in the room.
He clenched out of pure lust.
He hadn't had sex in a while—not since breaking up with a
woman he'd been dating last winter. And nobody had as much
as given him a quickened pulse rate since. Not the women he met
at the station. Not the ones he helped. Not the nurses at the
hospital. Not the hot girl who'd moved in upstairs from him, the
one who'd already locked herself out three times just so she'd
have an excuse to ask for his help.
This stranger? She'd given him a hard-on from ten feet away.
She looked around the room again, watchful, her gaze
passing without hesitation over the crease in the drapes behind
which he stood.
Buy me.
She couldn't possibly have heard the mental order, yet she
narrowed her eyes, focusing again on the drapes concealing him.
He couldn't help repeating the silent appeal, trying to
remember all the stuff one of his sisters had said about that
dumb book she'd been obsessed with lately. About how the
universe would grant you what you want if you just visualized
it hard enough.
Oh, it was easy to come up with some fast-and-hot visualizations
right now.
"You want to know my biggest fear?" said Number Eighteen,
a blond-haired surfer-looking guy who said he worked as a
stockbroker. "What if whoever wins me pays like fifty bucks? I
mean, how humiliating would that be when the richest women
in Chicago are all drooling like a pack of stray dogs eyeing a
butcher shop window out there?"
Mr. Polished European guy laughed softly at the very thought
of that even being a possibility for him. Zane, however, immediately
understood the stockbroker's worries.
Geez. He'd thought being bid on would be a humiliation. But
not being bid on? "Get me out of here."
"Too late," said a perky voice belonging to the young woman
who was stage-managing tonight's events. She glanced at the
blond pretty boy. "You're on. They're reading the introduction
right now." Then she pointed the tip of her pencil at Zane. "And
you're right behind him, Nineteen."
Nineteen. That's how they'd addressed him from the moment
he'd checked in at the event desk and had been whisked to a
private dressing room with all the other saps whose bosses,
friends, siblings, mothers or coworkers had talked them into
doing this.
Zane glanced through the slit in the drapes again, whispering,
"Nineteen."
He could easily envision nineteen things he'd say to the
brunette when they met. Nineteen ways to bring about that
meeting. The nineteen minutes it would take to run out from
behind the curtain, grab her hand and drag her to his place. The
number of times he wanted to make love to her and the number
of positions he wanted to do it.
"Nineteen? Hello?"
Zane jerked his attention back toward the stage manager who
was watching him with an expectant—yet slightly exasperated—
look. He'd obviously been visualizing for several minutes. "The
guy before you is done."
"What'd he go for?" Zane couldn't help asking.
"Thirty-five."
Thirty-five. Oh, God, thirty-five bucks? He'd whip out his
checkbook and pay ten times that if he could get out of this. Then
he'd go straight out and introduce himself to the brunette in
blue.
"Thirty-five hundred," the woman added, obviously reading
his expression.
"Holy shit."
He could barely scrape up one times that amount, and if he had
ten times it in his checking account, he sure as hell wouldn't be
living in a one-bedroom apartment over a flower shop in Hyde Park.
"They're reading your bio right now, so we need to move
quickly," Miss Pencil Tapper said, actually reaching out to grasp
his arm. She must know he wanted to bolt. He doubted he was
the first to feel that way tonight.
"Fine, fine," he muttered, not even listening to the announcer,
whose voice was droning through the hotel sound system. He let
go of the black drape curtain, regret making his fingers glide
against it for a moment longer than necessary. Then he was
being pushed onto the stage, blinded by a spotlight, deafened by
the roar of a hundred tipsy women.
This must be what those Chippendales dudes felt like. The
thought of doing this dressed in leather cowboy chaps and
nothing else was enough to make his stomach heave.
"Who's going to start the bidding?"
"Five hundred!" someone yelled.
Okay. It was a start. Five hundred…that was a worthy
donation. That'd buy a lot of Christmas presents for needy kids.
Like, you know, a hundred games of Go Fish or whatever that
crap sold for now. But, man, it sounded pathetic considering the
pretty boy stockbroker went for seven times that much.
"Six."
"Seven!"
The numbers started flying at a dizzying speed, and Zane
couldn't keep up with them for a while. Not until a loud, determined
female voice cut through the catcalls to shout, "Five
thousand dollars!"
Everyone fell silent for an infinitesimal moment. Zane
included. He didn't know what the highest bachelor had sold for,
but at least he wasn't going to be rock bottom.
22 Slow Hands
"We have a bid of five thousand dollars for this excellent
cause," the auctioneer preened. "And I imagine our handsome
bachelor will be worth every penny of it."
Ahh, the joy of being pimped by a fat guy with sweaty jowls
and a smarmy smile.
The searing heat of the spotlight suddenly left his face. Zane
watched as the large, golden circle washed over the crowd,
turning to illuminate the woman who'd ignored auction protocol
by upping the ante so dramatically.
Zane held his breath, something in his brain telling him it had
been her. The brunette. The one he couldn't stop thinking about
had heard his mental 911 call.
The spotlight finally came to rest on the top of a very blond
head.
Shit.
The middle-aged woman trying to look ten years younger sat
at one of the exclusive, reserved tables up front, with a few other
equally jaded-looking upper crusters. She smiled, well pleased
with herself for having silenced the entire room.
But the complacent silence didn't last for long. Because
suddenly, as if they all had one voice, her three companions
jumped into the fray.
"Fifty-one hundred."
"Fifty-two."
"Fifty-five."
It went on for at least a minute, until Zane's head was spinning.
These crazy rich females were willing to lay out what amounted
to a down payment on a house to go to dinner and a ball game
with him? Insane.
It's for a good cause. True, but damned if he wasn't getting
tired of hearing that refrain in his head.
The figure had hit eight thousand, the blonde and her three
friends laughing as they tossed it higher and higher like a volleyLeslie
Kelly 23
ball being lobbed over a net. Zane had hated volleyball ever since
he'd been an oversize, clumsy fourth grader who always got picked
last for the team in gym. And he especially hated being the ball.
Though the bidding women were laughing, their amusement
held a hint of malice and their smiles were tight. They might have
started this as a game, but nowtheir competitive spirits were rising.
He didn't know how long it might have gone on, if he'd continued
to be nibbled at in one-hundred dollar bites. Suddenly the
whole room froze again. Because another voice—from the other
side of the ballroom—shouted, silencing the three bidding crows.
"Twenty-five thousand dollars."
Zane visualized it, asked the Fates to be kind, then followed
the spotlight.
And for once, he realized, his loopy kid sister was right. He'd
asked, and the universe had answered. Because the winning
bidder was his beautiful brunette.