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But she was thirty now, and defenses she’d erected against love were crumbling. Once red and raw, past scars were losing themselves to memory, their traces barely visible anymore, not to herself or others. She’d worked damn hard at making those old wounds heal, and exploring her innermost dreams of sensual pleasure had been a big part of that. But was she ready to make fantasies a reality?
Maybe. What used to feel like career excitement had started seeming more like plain, old, everyday danger. Earlier this year, Bruce Levinson had gotten killed, doing exactly what she was at IBI. Not that she could back out now. She’d have to play the game, try not to get caught, and figure out where Edison Lone fit into the picture.
“A floating temp,” she murmured again. “Yeah, right.”
She’d been so sure she’d played the unattractive secretary to perfection. The role, she thought with a rush of anger, came easily enough. But now it seemed as if someone was onto her. Were they? Had Edison been sent to scrutinize her files? Rifle through her desk drawers? Was she in danger?
“Definitely,” she decided aloud, thinking of how he’d tied her insides into knots. She’d never flirted with a man so easily as she’d flirted with him today. Reaching behind her, she zipped up the dress, then slid stockinged feet into shimmering silver shoes. Studying herself dispassionately, she found wistful emotion twisting unexpectedly inside her. Why couldn’t she be a million miles from here? Somewhere without secrets, lies and hidden agendas? Someplace where a man like Edison Lone really could become her lover? Under the circumstances, using him to test out her fantasies seemed seriously unadvisable….
“Too bad,” she whispered. Regardless of his unsuitability as her first lover, she wasn’t about to let him think she was a geek. Nervously arranging a scrap of silver fabric against her collarbone, she took a deep breath. Dammit, why did she have to be so desperately attracted to the man most likely to interfere with her subterfuge at IBI?
THERE WAS SOMETHING dreamy in the air, something almost magical, and when Selena breezed into Passer la Nuit dressed almost like the woman in her diary, Edison was lost. Seeing a body she never should have kept hidden, draped with what looked to be silver scarves, he no longer cared if she was stealing from IBI. He was taking Selena Silverwood to bed. Tonight.
Every time he looked at her, he found himself thinking of her diary, of love scenes in shallow pools and between masked partners in dark, scented, mirrored passageways. He half wished he hadn’t tortured himself by reading until he’d left his house to meet her, since the diary had filled him with expectations for the evening. Now they’d finished eating, and he nodded toward the lace-veiled French doors. “Ready to go?”
Offering the slightest lift of a bare shoulder, she drew a sip of burgundy through wine-reddened lips. The flame from a candle at the cozy table made her eyes look like pools of aged whiskey, and made him think that the black-framed glasses she usually wore were a definite mistake. Without them, and in this dress, she was stunning. “I’m enjoying it here,” she murmured.
And he was enjoying watching the thin, scarcely noticeable silver glitter play on her eyelids whenever she glanced at him. As she did so now, something—warmth from her amber gaze or from his own brandy-laced coffee—slid through his bones, turning his voice husky. “I thought you’d like this place, Selena.”
“I do,” she said simply. “I’m glad we came.”
“Me, too.”
Catching her fingers lazily between his, Edison marveled at the spark of electricity that jumped between them. Like her seductively tilted eyes, it reminded him that dinner was only one of the reasons he’d brought her here. Espionage was another. So was sex. He was practiced with women, but he hadn’t expected the shock he’d experienced seeing her in a cocktail dress. He glided his fingers along her hand, then rubbed the hollow of her wrist with the pad of his thumbs. “Your pulse is racing.”
She eyed him. “Really?”
“Really,” he assured her, feeling as drugged as the woman in her diary, as if he’d taken a potion. She ran her gaze over him, letting it settle on his deep blue, Vnecked sweater. A gift from an ex-girlfriend, the sweater matched his eyes, complemented his finely woven gray slacks and revealed a hint of swirling dark chest hair that itched for her caress.
Her voice matched his for throatiness, as if she, too, had been sated by the heavy French meal. “You have excellent taste in restaurants, Edison Lone.”
“Women, too.”
Chuckling softly at the compliment, she glanced away, her face a study in contrasts: pleasure, embarrassment, confusion. “So,” she began abruptly, “you work at IBI part-time, and otherwise, you teach?”
His gaze hadn’t left her face. “You won’t get away with it.”
Only the slight widening of her eyes gave away a startled response. “Get away with what?”
Gently pulling on her wrist, he drew her closer, wondering if she really did have something to hide. “With ignoring my flirtation. I am going to take you to bed, Selena.”
“You’re very direct,” she said in a near whisper.
“Looking at you makes me feel I don’t have time to lose.” He shrugged. “Besides, I know what I want.”
“And you take the quickest route to get it?” she asked breathlessly.
He wasn’t the least bit offended. “Especially when I want it badly.” Pausing, he added, “And I want you badly.”
Recovering, she offered a slight smile. “Don’t you believe in getting to know a person first?”
He laughed. “That’s good.”
She frowned. “What?”
“You’re speaking of firsts. It implies I’ll get seconds.”
“Really,” she chided. “Don’t you get to know your dates?”
“You, yes,” Edison said honestly. “But not every woman I take to bed.”
Her glance was droll. “I never said we were going to bed.”
The denial shouldn’t have challenged him, but it did. He tried not to let it show. “You don’t have to say it,” he replied, his leisurely gaze studying her. “It’s in your eyes…in the way you carry yourself.” Pausing, he shook his head. Didn’t she realize she was leaning seductively toward him, offering a tantalizing view of her ripe breasts? His eyes flickered possessively down, hot as the candle flame, and he savored a fantasy about how he’d circle a taut nipple with his tongue until she writhed from the pleasure. Oh, there were many things he had in mind for Selena. He was every bit as imaginative as the marquis. For now, he settled on lifting a finger and lightly tracing a bare shoulder. His voice was silky. “No woman trying to stay out of a man’s bed wears a dress like this.”
“You’re very sure of your ability to get a woman into bed.”
“It’s what happens after she’s in bed that interests me.” Letting her mull over the comment, he sipped coffee that had come just the way he liked it—strong and black, splashed with top-shelf brandy. After a moment, he offered another careless smile. “Of course, if you need to talk first, we certainly can. Some women consider it foreplay.”
Now her lips twitched with a smile. “How obliging.”
He smiled back. “I can be much more obliging than that.”
She took a sip of wine, then shrugged, the feigned nonchalance not reaching her eyes. “Tell me more about yourself.”
“Like I said, I’m a teacher.” The lie had rolled impulsively from his tongue, and tomorrow he’d have to cover his tracks, since she could expose him with one phone call. For now, the fib enabled him to share more of himself, something he’d discovered he wanted to do with Selena. “I only work for IBI when I’m not teaching,” he added. “During spring breaks, like now, and in the summer. A friend told me I could sign up, get a security clearance.”
“Data entry’s odd work for an English teacher.”
“Keeps me busy,” he offered, shrugging easily, his eyes lowering appreciatively. Everything about her was making him ache: the candlelight shimmering on her bare shoulders, the intoxicating scent of wine coming in tandem with her breath. Reaching out, he adjusted a scrap of material on her shoulder again. “As delicate as a spider’s web.”
She smiled. “Afraid I’ll snare you?”
“Afraid you won’t,” he corrected, flashing her another smile. He shrugged. “The money from IBI funds my hobby.”
“Which is?”
“Cracking codes,” he answered, thinking Selena was the puzzle he’d most like to crack. What had possessed her to write down such sensual fantasies? While he was sure they weren’t in code, he figured it would be interesting to test the waters, to see if she reacted to knowing how he spent his time. “I often try to crack the codes to old manuscripts.”
“You mean like the Rosetta stone?”
He nodded. “Right now, I’m working on what’s called the Voynich manuscript. I’m interested in old cave drawings, too. On vacations, I go hunting for them.”
“Like Indiana Jones?”
“More or less.” His blood quickened at thoughts of his work, and at the answering excitement in her eyes. “Secretive communications of any kind draw me like a magnet. I’ve always been more interested in what people don’t say than in what they do.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “I get lost in word puzzles.”
“When you want to crack a code, what do you do first?”
Her interest seemed genuine, and he figured she’d probably be defensive if she had something to hide. CIIC had to be wrong. She was on the level. “Check for substitution words and anagrams. Or for known codes people might use. Sometimes I look for pinpricks over words and letters, to see if a message can be pieced together by connecting the dots.” His eyes settled once more on her bare shoulder. “And there are heat-sensitive codes.”
Not missing the innuendo, she murmured, “Heat sensitive?”
He nodded again. “Not to mention secret inks.”
At that, she looked genuinely delighted, and since countless women had had their eyes glaze over when he talked about work, or worse, been jealous of his passion for it, he felt encouraged, maybe more than he should have. “During the Second World War,” he continued, leaning back and rifling a hand through his hair, “soldiers used invisible, heat-sensitive inks on eggshells. Later, the recipient would hard-boil the eggs and peel the shell.”
“And the secret message would be written on the egg,” she guessed with a soft laugh.
“Exactly.”
“Tasty.”
Not nearly as tasty as she looked. “A woman in Germany kept special inks stored in the dyes of her scarves.”
Selena considered, then said, “So, why do you like cave drawings? What’s the connection?”
“They tell stories.”
Her eyes—rimmed by kohl pencil, the lashes darkened—drifted around the room, and her breasts rose with a deep breath as she took in the wall paintings—tasteful nudes in heavy gilt frames. “I suppose most pieces of art do tell stories.”
“In that dress, you’re a piece of art,” he couldn’t help but say, images from her diary playing once more in his head. “What story are you waiting to tell, Selena?”
When she shrugged, the dress slipped a fraction, revealing another inch of creamy skin, just the hint of a sloping breast. “I hardly think I’m like a cave drawing.”
“I’m convinced you have the same innocence,” he murmured. No way in hell was she guilty of wrongdoing. She was sexy, yes. But involved in espionage? Never. Given a few more days, he’d prove it, too.
She was squinting. “How can cave drawings be innocent?”
“Easy. They look untutored. Primitive. And they possess a raw passion characteristic of the ancients.”
Another smile tilted her mouth. “Just the ancients, huh?”
“Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of passion to be had in the present,” he assured her with a laugh. “But not if we stay here all night.”
He could see her throat work. “I should get home.”
“You will,” he promised, capturing her hand as he rose. “Eventually.”
She gazed up at him. “I meant sooner than eventually.”
As she stood, he draped her shawl around her shoulders. Loosely woven silver threads brushed his fingertips, leaving him to imagine how soft her naked skin would feel gliding beneath his palms. Placing a hand under her elbow, he guided her to the street, and when her body grazed his, he tried not to notice they were a perfect fit. She was eye level, too. He liked that.
They’d walked a half block when she nodded. “My car.”
“Sure you won’t come to my place? Meet M?”
The dog’s name was so foolish that mention of it broke the dreamy mood. Her laughter was like bubbles, and she was clearly thinking of a point earlier in the evening when he’d amused her with stories about the dog’s exploits. “I’m afraid of what M would do to me.”
Edison smiled. “You should be. I’m running ads in three more newspapers now.”
“Still no takers?”
“No one’s that masochistic.”
She merely laughed. “You’re going to wind up keeping him.”
She was right, of course. And standing with her on the crowded sidewalk, in the moonlight, on a perfect spring night, Edison felt better than he had in a long time. There was something else he hadn’t anticipated: that, quite simply, he’d be so smitten with Selena Silverwood. As she leaned against the door of her car, his eyes captured hers again. Surely she wasn’t planning to deny the energy coursing between them and go home? “So, you really think I’ll wind up with M?”
“I’ve got a sixth sense about these things.”
“Sure you didn’t read my dossier?”
“You keep asking me that.”
And maybe with cause. For the briefest second, Edison could swear fear and guilt flashed in her eyes. But under the streetlamps, it was too dark to read something as complex as emotions in a woman’s eyes. Still, what if she was stealing secrets? What if what was between them was wiping out his common sense?
He glanced at her car. Nothing flashy, just a black compact. If she was ripping off IBI, she wasn’t spending the money. When he’d checked to see if her bank balance was in line with her salary, he’d found it was.
Taking a step, he glided his hands under the shawl and up her arms until he was cupping bare shoulders. Slowly, he rubbed deep circles with his thumbs, heat from the touch jolting him. Leaning forward, so she’d feel his breath on her cheek, he huskily whispered, “Going home’s a mistake.”
She eased back a fraction. “Why?”
Maybe she was looking for reassurances about how much he’d enjoyed dinner and her company. Instead of giving them, he ran a finger under the shoulder strap of her dress and said, “Because you came here in a dress that looks like I’ve already torn it off you.” And because, despite his niggling doubts, the CIIC and Eleanor had gotten her all wrong. Selena Silverwood was innocent.
She was also fascinating. Outwardly shy, she was inwardly on fire with fantasies, and he wanted her.
She was smiling. “A man has his limits, huh?”
“You’re definitely pushing my envelope.” He’d prove her innocent, too. As soon as he could, he’d break into her apartment and get the original diary. As he’d told Eleanor, handwriting was very revealing, and Selena’s would tell him everything he needed to know.
As he brought their bodies flush, unseen bands tightened around his chest. He registered the tension in her thighs, a quiver of muscle and female heat, and when she shivered, he knew damn well it had nothing to do with the spring chill. Brushing a tendril of autumnal hair from her cheek, he realized that it, just like the shawl and her skin, was silken beyond belief. “You look undecided, Selena.”
“I didn’t know there was a decision to be made.”
“Sure is.”
She arched an eyebrow. “About?”
“About how you want this night to end.” At the sudden slight stiffening of her body, he felt more sure than ever that the guys at CIIC had gone crazy. Selena was vibrating with a need she was desperately trying to hold back. “Are you concerned because we’re coworkers?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure what I feel,” she said honestly.
Tilting his chin, he lowered his head and angled his lips so they hovered over hers. “Why don’t I decide for you?” he murmured. And then he simply covered her mouth with his. The pressure was slow and sweet, his tongue warm and probing. He’d meant it to be a gentleman’s first brief kiss, but need hit him hard, slamming into him with a swift punch as her soft breasts pressed against the wall of his chest. He felt the tips tighten, the sudden flutter of her heart.
