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“Flirting?” Her voice turned mild. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Definitely. And it’s starting to sound like an invitation.”
“Then I’d better quit. IBI might fire us.”
His eyes lingered on her mouth a second too long, and in that second, he knew he’d happily take his pink slip if it meant heading for a bedroom with her. “If you need anything, let me know,” she suddenly said. “And you really should read the employee manual. It’s in the top, right-hand drawer of the desk. Our rules differ from other departments’.”
“A man can’t break rules unless he knows them,” he conceded.
“I wouldn’t know,” she assured him. “I never break rules.”
Raw lust made him want to believe it. He’d never fall for a traitor, which was what she’d be if her diary really was written in code. While she busied herself with work, he leaned down, drew the black-bound diary from his briefcase and surreptitiously inserted it between the open pages of the employee manual. Even if she noticed the book, she wouldn’t recognize it as her own diary. Lifting both books to desk level, he tipped the cover of the manual in her direction. “The employee manual. Thanks for recommending it. It looks interesting.”
She merely rolled eyes that glinted with amusement and began working again. Relaxing, Edison glanced down and realized the diary had a title: Night Pleasures. Not exactly what he’d expected. Frowning, he drew a sharp breath as his eye caught a sentence fragment in midparagraph: “…she panted softly, breathlessly, as she ran through the near dark.” His body tensed. What was going on here? His heartbeat quickened as he scanned the rest of the page.
…her body ached, swelling with awareness and burning with fire as her eyes flitted over the floor-to-ceiling mirrored walls. Long-handled torches lined the smoky, scented passageway, and sensuous tongues of flame licked the mirrors. That same fire stroked inside her, but she knew the burning heat was nothing compared to what she’d experience when she felt the warm, sometimes gentle, hands of the man she sought, the Marquis de Lancroix.
Where was he?
She’d been in this otherworldly place for so long, suppressing shudders of anticipation, struggling for a glimpse of his long, wild raven mane and sleek, muscled body. Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she prayed her heart would stop racing, but it only beat faster, because she was about to be seduced in this pleasure palace. Only the wealthiest man in France could afford such a sensual private playhouse, with its maze of mirrored halls and air scented with incense….
She gasped. There he was! Pressing a hand to her heart, she whirled and stared into a room. But he’d vanished! What was happening? she wondered in confusion, her mind reeling. Was the marquis playing tricks on her? Had he drugged her with a potion at the masked ball? Was that why she felt so lost? So aroused? So disoriented?
And hadn’t she just seen him? She could swear he’d been reflected in the mirrors in one of the rooms, reclining on a bed, everything about him bespeaking excess: his bold, unapologetic nakedness, the thrust of his sex, the fiery flames prancing on a body that looked like sculpted bronze. She spun around again. And again. She spun until she swore she saw him everywhere. Then she moved forward, inhaling sharply as she skated her fingertips along the mirrors.
“There!” Her voice suddenly hitched as she passed another room. “I’ve found you!” But when she reached out, her palm hit a mirror, and she found herself peering into yet another sensuous room, staring at where crystal-blue waters tumbled into a pool, gushing around the mural painted on the bottom. Her eyes became riveted on nude sea nymphs and mermaids pleasuring proudly aroused men, and she suddenly admitted she shouldn’t have sneaked away from the ball to meet Lancroix. She’d allowed the marquis to love her body before now, of course, but never in his private playhouse made for sin. Tonight she’d lied to her mama and attendants, and now she’d be wise to find her way out of this place. A footstep sounded! Had Lancroix followed her, after all?
“Lancroix?”
She gasped, suddenly startled by her own reflection. Tugging the glittering silver mask from her dark eyes, she threw it to the stone floor. There. Let him find her clothes scattered in the hallway. It would serve him right for not meeting her as he’d promised. Yes, she should leave. He’d find scraps of costume—the chain around her waist, her mask. He’d be so frustrated, filled with want for a naked woman—for her—but she’d be gone.
And yet it was a shame. She had dressed for him tonight—in sensual, near-transparent silver silk scarves that draped over her breasts and lower body, but left her belly bare. She’d already felt his hands…already knew that a flick of his practiced wrist could send the fabric flying. “Marquis de Lancroix?” she called abruptly. “Is that you, sir?”
She never knew, because the man came too quickly, grabbing her from behind, his strong arms seizing her waist without warning. The hard, heated impact of his naked body took her breath away, just as a wind gusted down the passageway, extinguishing the torches.
His breath came then, warm on her cheeks, his low, seductive growl eliciting shivers from the deepest recesses of her being. “Lover,” he whispered.
The word she’d hoped to hear from Lancroix warmed her, but did the rough stubble teasing her neck really belong to the marquis? Were these his bare thighs, braced against the backs of hers? In the darkness, an eye mask grazed her cheek, which meant that whoever he was, he’d come from the ball.
“Who are you?” she croaked. “The man who’s been lusting for you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“But I do, Mademoiselle Duclaire.”
He knew her name! Before she could decide whether or not to struggle, he was dragging her backward, the strength of his embrace so sensually possessive that her knees buckled. “Sir, I demand you identify yourself!” she managed to exclaim as bold hands slid upward—tracing her bare ribs, then suddenly, swiftly, curling over her breasts in a first touch that left her reeling and took her breath. Her heart beat out of control. The man definitely knew what he was doing.
His voice was as dangerously silky as the hands that cupped and squeezed. “I’ll make the demands.”
“Lancroix?” she murmured faintly. “Is that you?” Or was her body aching for a stranger?
“Do you really care?”
No, she admitted to herself, not when his mouth descended with the verve of a savage. His tongue plunged, driving silkenly inside her mouth as surely as a warrior’s lance, while magic fingers began stroking her peaking nipples. She knew it was Lancroix—it had to be—and with his every touch, she realized she loved him. As fiery hands melted away her costume, making every erogenous inch of her burn, she knew she’d give this man anything.
“Ah…” he murmured, dropping scalding kisses along her neck as he dispensed with her skirt and slid a finger between her buttocks, gently lifting the strap of the thong. “Nice, Mademoiselle Duclaire. Very nice.”
A cry was torn from her as he continued tugging the leather, slowly working the strap, making it pull in front until she squirmed, about to burst. Vaguely, sucking a breath between her teeth, she wondered how he’d undressed her so quickly. “Yes,” she whispered simply, nonsensically, her heart hammering as she felt his hard length graze her flesh. “Yes.” There was simply no other word she could offer him….
“It’s good you don’t intend to fight me,” he stated, the urgency in his words as seductive as his body. “It’s no use.”
And he was right, she realized as he toyed with the waist chain she wore, suddenly tightening it, making her skin quiver and her nerves dance. “Nice,” he murmured throatily. “So very nice.” Silken chest hairs flattened against her back as he embraced her more tightly from behind, holding her to the hard, muscled wall of his chest, his palms thrusting upward once more, lifting her breasts, holding them high as if he were making an offering to a goddess.
“Bring the salts,” she whispered, feeling the lights in her mind extinguishing as she arched against him, pleasure arrowing to the juncture of her thighs. “I’m going to faint.”
“You will,” he promised, cupping where she felt so swollen. “From the pleasure.”
And then he turned her head, kissing her until everything inside her became as darkly sensuous as the mirrored passageway, as liquid and hot as the summer night. Thumbs and fingers teased her taut nipples, roughening and pinching, making her whimper from the torment. “Good,” he praised softly as she writhed.
“Please,” she whispered back, her jagged breaths bringing in scents of his skin that made her head swim. Groaning, he twisted his hips, swiftly lowering her to the floor. She shivered as he lay on top of her, his naked body covering hers—toe to toe, chest to chest. Nipples brushed. Lips brushed. Palms brushed. It was all too good to be true, she thought, feeling his muscles tense. His soft, panting breath stirred her hair as he claimed her with a piercing thrust. She gasped. It was deep, so deep it would have hurt—maybe even killed her—if not for the unbelievable pleasure….
Edison started. What the hell? he thought, his mind reeling back to the present. Suddenly he was staring, slack-jawed, into eyes that looked less like topazes now and more like fire-warmed whiskey. With a rush of awareness, he registered that his whole body was hot, his mind still full of pure, unadulterated sex. Was this some sort of practical joke? Had Eleanor roped him into this, knowing Selena’s diary wasn’t in secret code?
“Did you say something?” he managed to ask.
Selena was frowning as if she were an entomologist and he were a new species of insect. “You’re really devouring that employee manual,” she said curiously.
He wanted—no, needed—to devour her. He was fit to be tied—literally. Preferably with the silver scarves that had barely covered Mademoiselle Duclaire. Drawing a deep breath, he licked his dry lips.
“If you’re thirsty,” she said, watching him, “the water fountain’s right next to the elevator.”
He could hardly leave the desk at the moment, given how her diary had affected him. “Thanks, but I’ll keep reading.”
She squinted. “That interesting, huh?”
“Employee manuals. Nothing like them,” he forced himself to say. “Racy,” he couldn’t help but add. “Satisfying.”
Her tone was dry. “You must lead a truly exciting life.”
It had gotten a lot more exciting as he’d read Night Pleasures. But none of this made sense. Had someone wanted to distract him from researching the classified ads? This diary had to be just that: a diary. If it was in code, it would have been predictable, written only for show. But this was full of heart, full of longing….
Selena was still frowning at the cover of the employee manual. “Are you really going to read that again?”
Edison glanced down, his eyes catching the words pure velvet magic slid inside her. “A real page turner,” he assured.
“I’m beginning to think you’re a little strange.”
He eyed her. “Do you want to find out the truth?”
“You sound so mysterious. Are you sure you’re not a spy?”
“No. But maybe you are. Is Selena even your real name?”
“Yes. But my parents almost named me Silence.”
Surely she wouldn’t banter like this if she really was stealing IBI secrets. “Silence?”
She nodded. “I was a seventies baby. Hippie parents.”
“Funny,” he said. “You look normal enough.”
“I rebelled.”
Judging from her diary, she was quite the free spirit. Edison took another deep breath, reminding himself that even if she wasn’t spying, indulging fantasies while on IBI’s payroll wasn’t exactly kosher. When he was at work, he did what they paid him for: work. “Rebelled?” he couldn’t help but say. “Does this mean you’ve got something against free love?”
She considered. “Love never comes without a price.”
“What price are you willing to pay for it, Selena?”
The words had simply slipped out, and now her whiskey-colored eyes darkened as if the conversation had turned too heavy. He was aware once more of the effect her fantasies had on his body. “I’d rather be alone,” she finally said, “than pay a price for love.”
“My feeling exactly,” he admitted. But that hardly barred him from playing the Marquis de Lancroix to her Mademoiselle Duclaire. “So, you like to be alone? Does that mean forever, or just tonight?”
Faint color had risen in her cheeks, and he could see her throat work as she swallowed. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Mind if I ask one more?”
Crossing her arms over her ample chest, she glanced away, drolly rolling her eyes. “Could I stop you?”
“No. What about dinner?”
Her eyes darted to his again, and she smiled. “What about it?”
He sent her a long, sideways glance. “Do you want to eat it?”
“I usually do.”
“With me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ah. Let me guess. You know a quaint little Italian place with small, round, candlelit tables and a cellarful of dusty wine bottles.”
She’d hit the nail on the head. The place was called Antonio’s. But because he’d just read her diary, Edison couldn’t help but say, “Actually, for you, Selena, I was thinking about something French. Passer la Nuit.”
“Given how diligently you were reading the employee manual, I figured you were the conscientious type,” she countered. “Doesn’t it bother you that we work together?”
He shrugged. “I’m only a temporary.”
She considered so long that he almost withdrew the offer, but then she simply said, “Okay.”
He tried to hide his surprise. “What about seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.”
“Seven-thirty,” she countered. “I’ll drive my own car and meet you at the restaurant.”
Given her fantasies, he could see why she’d want some control of the situation. No telling what might happen if she let herself go. Now that he’d read part of her diary, he was well aware that she was a lust machine, and yet she’d seemed so oddly vulnerable and straight-laced. Was she really inexperienced? Were these fantasies merely her way of trying on the role of seductress? “Seven-thirty,” he found himself murmuring. “At Passer la Nuit.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Lowering his head, he pretended to read. Did she have a lot of experience with men, or just an imagination as vivid as Technicolor? he wondered once more. And was she stealing from IBI? Was this diary actually in code?
Flipping through the pages, he bit back a soft groan as he read, “Every inch of him went taut. He was ready to explode, but he wanted to hold back—had to hold back. He was waiting for his soft, untutored butterfly, whose wings were about to unfold.”
If he didn’t stop reading, Selena Silverwood would be lucky to make it through an appetizer tonight—Italian, French or otherwise. But then, a job was a job. And because he was a patriot, he was duty-bound to continue mulling over every steamy word she’d written. For God and country, he thought dryly, bracing himself against the soft, feminine scent of her that drifted over the glass partition.
And then, lowering his head, he immersed himself in Night Pleasures.
2
“I’M GOING TO BE LATE,” Selena muttered, her belly fluttering in anticipation. No doubt Edison Lone was already waiting for her at a secluded, candlelit table at the restaurant.
“Passer la Nuit,” she huffed, shaking her head. Spend the Night. She should have known he’d suggest the most romantic, airy French restaurant in town, not to mention the most expensive. His reputation had preceded him. God only knew how many women he’d seduced over Passer la Nuit’s best Dijon filet and a few heady goblets of burgundy.
“You can’t say you weren’t warned,” she whispered. But she hated playing the role of ugly duckling. She simply couldn’t bring herself to continue doing so tonight. She’d hated the way he’d sized her up today, those liquid blue eyes softening in what she took to be sympathy, as if she were still fat, friendless and ugly, the daughter of overly educated, back-to-the-earth liberals who were determined to make a life where they didn’t belong, in the country. Not about to dwell on the devastation of her high school years, or how hard she’d worked to change herself, she sighed. Forget it. She’d long ago proved she could be every bit as dangerous as the kids who’d hurt her.
In the closet, her hand skated over the loose, ankle-length dresses she usually wore to IBI, then settled where it shouldn’t have—on a shimmering silver dress procured for her parents’ last wedding anniversary. It was right out of her fantasies. Sumptuous, barely-there crepe was sexily torn in tatters around the shoulders and draped into a sheath with a jagged hem. The matching three-inch heels would bring her eye level with Edison.
“And you’ll need every extra inch of leverage,” she told herself, imagining his tall, lanky body and the thick, touchable, raven hair that brushed his shoulders. Slipping the dress from its black velvet hanger, she sighed as the fabric teased her fingertips.
“If I wear this,” she murmured, “it’ll be proof I’ve lost my mind.” She couldn’t afford to attract a man at the moment, least of all Edison Lone. Besides, the best men were those she conjured in her imagination. Real men meant trouble.
“Why didn’t I just say no to dinner?” she admonished herself in a rush of panic. Should she back out? Stand him up? But how could she, when she had to find out what he was doing working in Sensitive Data Entry?
Shimmying, she let the towel wrapped around her naked body drop to the floor. Soft scents left by perfumed bathwater rose from her skin. She wondered if Edison would notice the sweet fragrance.
Heat seeped into her cheeks. She was being a fool. Reflected in a full-length mirror on the closet door, she took in the beige carpet behind her, the muted earth-tone bedspread and bare white walls. The apartment had all the charm of a low-budget motel. The black-framed glasses on the nightstand had plastic, nonprescription lenses. Most of the clothes in the closet weren’t to her taste. Only the open diary on the desk hinted at her real personality. Ever since an editor had contacted her about publishing the fantasies, the diary had become a good luck charm. It was her ticket out of Washington. One more way to generate the money she needed to escape…
Otherwise, the room looked exactly like what it was: a place she didn’t intend to live in long. Within weeks, she’d be gone, she figured. And there’d be no trace of Selena Silverwood.
Silverwood wasn’t her real name, anyway.
“So don’t get confused about what you’re doing at IBI,” she lectured herself softly. “Or with Edison Lone.” He might be the most appealing man she’d ever laid eyes on, but this was a job, and she needed to know why he’d suddenly shown up, seated at a desk across from her.
“A floating temp,” she muttered, shaking her head. Even if she hadn’t read his dossier, she’d know better. Not that his name, rank and serial number had prepared her for the reality. When he’d stood next to her, his shoulders had seemed broader than she’d anticipated, the scent and warmth coming from his body infinitely more bothersome. She’d expected something else from the orphan who’d made good. A cold, calloused man, she supposed. With a chip on his shoulder. Instead, despite his self-contained watchfulness, he looked like he had a heart. Not to mention royal-blue eyes so searching that gazing into them had aroused guilt feelings she hadn’t guessed she had.
Had he been sent to spy on her? Was she about to get caught? Or had he come to Sensitive Data Entry for reasons having nothing to do with her? She thought of how the flourescent lights had made his jet hair shine where it curled around his ears, and about how those shocking blue eyes glowed like lasers in a face tanned the color of toasted nuts. And then her eyes settled once more on her diary. If the Marquis de Lancroix could leap from the pages, he’d look more or less like Edison.
Slowly, she unzipped and stepped into the silver dress, trying not to imagine the look on Edison’s face when she’d glide into Passer la Nuit, trailing perfume. Instead of truffles and tortes for dessert, she hoped he’d be eating out of the palm of her hand.
After that, who knew? The truth was, she’d run from men all her life—with just cause. She always tried to tell herself she didn’t care, that sex was overrated and that, when it came to excitement, no man could compete with her work.
