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kicked off his boots and lay down, facing the wall.
    “Aren’t you going to get under the covers?” Ginger asked.
    He reached behind his back and tugged the blankets off the other side of the bed, exposing the sheets for her to climb between. “Shut off the light.”
    * * *
    Ginger contemplated his words while pulling her dress over her head and draping it across the back of the chair. The silk cami knickers still felt luscious against her skin, and she recalled why she’d purchased them. Brock may attempt to act colder than a stiff, but she knew differently. She’d watched enough men and women to understand certain things. The way Brock had looked at her while they were dancing, the way he wouldn’t let anyone else dance with her, gave her all the encouragement she needed.
    She clicked off the light, and then leaped on the bed like a cat. Wrapping her arms around Brock, she nuzzled her nose where his neck met his shoulder. “I told you they’d love you.”
    He stiffened, but she wasn’t going to let him off that easy. This was what she wanted. Him. In a place where no one could say she couldn’t have him.
    He grasped her hand as it slid over his chest. “Go to sleep, doll. It’s been a long day.”
    “I know. The best day of my life.” Digging her fingers in, she tickled him. “Yours, too.”
    “Ginger,” he said, trying to stop her.
    Tickling him harder, she teased, “Come on. Admit it. It was the best day of your life, too.”
    She kept tickling him until, eventually, he flipped onto his back.
    The smile on his face set off fireworks inside her.
    “All right,” he said, holding both of her hands against his chest. “I admit it.”
    The impulse was too great. She had to press her lips to his. He didn’t pull back. Instead he kissed her until she was gasping for air, and then cradled her against his side. “Sweet dreams, doll.”
    On edge because she wanted more, but content for now, she whispered, “Good night.”

Chapter Seven
    Brock slept, but soon found himself staring at the ceiling, not quite sure if it was the dream that had awakened him or Ginger snuggled to his side.
    He’d dreamed of her for years, but her bank was closed. One step out of line with any of Nightingale’s daughters was a sure trip to the bottom of the river with more chain than a man could swim with. So why now, after The Night had put Ginger’s protection in his hands, did Brock want to rob that bank more than ever?
    Muscles tense, Brock burned with resistance, but the sound of her breathing beside him echoed in his ears.
    Unable to overcome his desire, Brock scooted to the edge of the bed. Grabbing the key from the dresser, he carried his boots out the door and slipped them on while waiting for the elevator to carry him to the ground floor of the hotel.
    A wooden phone booth stood prominently in the hotel foyer. Brock made a brief stop at the front desk to exchange several bills for coins. Leave it to him to go goofy over a woman with a hard-boiled father. Any other dame and he’d just lay down the law, claim her for his own and get on with living.
    There was more at stake here than just his life. He had his family to consider, but more importantly, Ginger.
    He dropped a coin in the phone box and once the operator answered, he waited for her to calculate the cost of calling the resort before depositing more coins.
    Roger Nightingale’s voice came on the other end and Brock immediately started to explain, “Sorry for calling so early, but—”
    “Brock, is that you?” Roger asked. “Has something happened?”
    “No, yes,” Brock answered. He clarified, “Yes, it’s me, and no, nothing’s happened. Ginger’s fine. I’m calling to see if you’ve figured out how to get her home.”
    “Not yet. We’ve got a lot going on here right now. Not to mention Palooka George’s birthday party next weekend.”
    Brock flinched. Palooka George lived in Chicago. He might easily learn that he and Ginger were masquerading