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“Don’t worry,” he retorted dryly, his gaze flicking over the low-cut white dress she’d exposed. “I won’t burn you.”
“I doubt that,” she grumbled. Fighting embarrassment, she drew together the sides of the coat, knowing the lace of her bra had been visible through the dress’s tight fabric. No doubt, he’d noticed the effects of the chill air, too. She considered telling him that the dress didn’t even belong to her, but that would only call attention to the outfit and make matters worse.
“You doubt that? What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
But no TV image could have prepared her for how Oliver Vargo would affect her in real life. She’d already noted that his eyes seemed darker, as liquid as the November night, and yet they were full of glinting fire. Feeling completely unsettled, she tried to ignore how those eyes were roving over her face, as if memorizing each contour. “Why don’t you take off the mask?”
“Why?”
“I want to see your eyes.”
At the thought of Oliver Vargo scrutinizing her further, a shiver went down her spine, and she was glad for the mask. “I’d take it off, but everybody here’s in costume if you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed.”
“Then where’s your mask?”
“Must have left it at home.”
It would be a pity to cover those eyes. No, interviews hadn’t prepared Peggy for how the drizzle would look in his hair; glistening droplets caught in the thick, black waves, refracting light. How he towered over her was a surprise, too, since she was nearly six feet tall, herself, and men never did. The power coiling in his body wasn’t anticipated, either. Heat seeped from beneath his clothes, and as it warmed her, she wanted nothing more than to cup her hands over his broad shoulders and let him carry her away….
She came to her senses. “C’mon,” she repeated. “Let me go.”
His hand curled more tightly around her arm. “Go where?”
She said the first thing that came to mind. It was what she most wanted, after all. To be back in Ohio, watching her mother knit while Aunt Jill made one of the apple pies she was so well known for. “Home.”
“And where exactly is that?”
She should have known he wasn’t the kind of guy who liked one-word answers. Still startled by his sudden appearance, she said the next thing that popped into her head. “How did you get over here, anyway? You were across the street.”
“So, you’re definitely following me.”
“I thought you knew that.”
“I’m still waiting to hear why.”
“I’m not really following you,” she protested. “I mean, I…uh…”
His hand flexed in warning, and her mind hazed. Something black seemed to seep in at the edges of her consciousness. What was she about to say? With Oliver so close, she really couldn’t remember. She tried to focus, but only found herself concentrating on the warm hand curled around the sleeve of her coat. His fingers were long, slender and tapered. That was something else she hadn’t anticipated. Oliver Vargo had the hands of an artist.
“How did you get over here?” She managed to begin speaking again even though her throat was tight. “Sixth Avenue was blocked off on both sides.” The instant she said it, she realized he’d probably flashed his badge, but he surprised her again.
“I bought a token and went underground.”
He’d crossed beneath the street, using the subway concourse. “Smart move.”
“I’m full of them.”
“And modest.”
“So they say.”
“What’s your name?” she retorted. Maybe that would throw him off the track. Maybe it was best if she pretended not to know anything about him.
“I think you already know,” he said calmly. “But it’s Oliver. Oliver Vargo.”
The way he said it reminded her of how James Bond always introduced himself. The name’s Bond, James Bond. His fleeting smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, although it did show off rows of straight, white, gleaming teeth. Days ago, she’d decided he was more interesting-looking than handsome, but now that he was inches away, she was changing her mind. He was mouthwatering. Too bad he wasn’t acting nearly as charming as when he was on television, chatting with Kate Olsen.
“And since we’re exchanging names…” he said.
Despite his annoyance, his voice rippled through her, sending heat into her bloodstream, shooting quill after quivering quill into her belly.
“You were outside Grand Central,” he continued. “And outside the apartment where I’m staying, watching me from a club across the street, Nite-Lite.”
Yes, indeed, Oliver was more observant than she’d realized. He had a very commanding presence, too, and she was beginning to understand that denying all the accusations might not be in her best interest. Still, days ago, she’d been ready to turn to him for help, but now, after spying on him from Grand Central, she needed to be more certain she could trust him. “I can explain everything,” she said cautiously.
“I’m waiting.” When she didn’t respond immediately, he added dryly, “No rush. We’ve got all night.”
“We won’t have to spend all night,” she said quickly.
“We won’t be spending the night,” he murmured in soft echo, seemingly liking how the innuendo made her eyes widen.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
Now that she was getting over her shock, Peggy noticed Oliver was looking at her with an oddly curious expression, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. “I don’t know where to start,” she said.
“You said you could explain everything,” he retorted, his gaze still assessing. “So, why don’t you start with that?” he suggested. “Everything.”
Surely she was misinterpreting the strange look in his eyes, but he clearly recognized her. There was no mistaking it now. Had Miles McLaughlin told him about her? And why had Kevin Hall chased her? she wondered again, panic making her insides tighten. “Before I do,” she said, “I need to know why you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Like you know me. And like you want to kiss me. The thought came unbidden, but she could see it in the way his eyes kept drifting to her mouth. In fact, his eyes seemed to devour her, as if he’d long had fantasies about her. That was crazy, of course, and she tried to tell herself it was only wishful thinking, since she’d dreamed of him. What woman wouldn’t? Peggy was healthy. And sexually active before she’d sworn off love.
“Have we met before?” he asked.
“Have we?” she managed.
“I’ve seen you,” he murmured. “The same dark eyes. The same blond hair…”
Something in his voice—a thread of steel weaving through softness—made her heart pound again. As it beat a tattoo against her ribs, she wished with all her strength that he’d let her go. If anything convinced her she’d made a huge mistake by following him, it was the weakness hitting the backs of her knees. Yes, with his hard, aroused body pressed against hers, she suddenly felt sorry, truly sorry, they’d met. As things stood, she’d been in enough trouble.
“Let me go,” she said again, with more conviction.
“I don’t think so,” he answered in an easy tone that belied his commanding words. “You’re coming with me, Cameron.”
Things were getting stranger by the minute. She swallowed nervously. “Cameron?”
“Yeah…” Lightly licking his lips, he repeated the name as if he liked the taste of it in his mouth. “Cameron.”
“What are you talking a—”
He interrupted, saying the strangest thing yet. “Whoever you are—” He squeezed his hand around her arm again as if to test the truth of it. “You’re every bit as real as me.”
“Of course I am.” She squinted at him.
“Why are you following me?” he asked again.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t mean you any harm—”
“You,” he emphasized with a chuckle. “Harm me?”
Of course the idea was ludicrous. Oliver Vargo was tall, broad-shouldered and packed with solid muscle that made her shudder. “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t defend yourself.” The question was, could he defend her?
The longer she looked at him, she wasn’t even sure she wanted him to. The second their bodies connected, she’d realized this man could be dangerous, if only to her heart. How many times could a woman trust, after all? How many times could she heal and then open herself up to let in feelings of love—only to find out she’d been used again?
She bit down hard on her lower lip. Everything around her seemed to tilt off-kilter. Admit it, she thought. She was already half in love with him. She was a crime-story junkie, which was what had gotten her into all this trouble in the first place, and when she’d read Oliver’s books she’d been smitten…
Her eyes darted from left to right, seeking escape.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned quietly.
She wanted to look anywhere but into his eyes, and yet she forced herself to stare him down, not about to be intimidated. “Why did you call me Cameron?”
“What is your name?”
“I see you’re going to answer questions with questions.”
“Until you start talking.”
She considered a long moment. Feeling sure nothing good was going to come of all this, she said, “I guess Cameron will do. For now.” Maybe this way, she could buy time, find out what was happening at the FBI office. Whatever was going through Oliver Vargo’s mind at the moment, he wasn’t saying he was going to take her in for questioning, the way Kevin Hall had….
“Who are you, really?”
She had a thousand answers for that, beginning with Peggy Fox, a woman in trouble. But he was getting impatient. He said, “Are you a fan?”
“Uh…yeah.” That, too.
His gaze flicked down, making her realize her coat had fallen open again. He was slowly perusing the tight white dress beneath, his gaze lingering on the scoop neckline, as if he was thoroughly intrigued by the space where fabric ended and skin began.
The crowd surged, pushing him into her arms, and she gasped. Her hands dropped the coat collar and grabbed the sawhorse behind her. Trapped against the barricade, she felt completely helpless when their hips locked. When his chest brushed hers, there was no help for the way her nipples beaded. Heat flooded her cheeks, staining them a crimson red that even the night’s darkness couldn’t hide. He seemed to be aware of every nuance. She was sure of it when she registered his quickening breath.
“Look,” she managed to say. “We can’t talk here.” In this cold rain, her white dress might as well be made of cellophane.
His intrigued expression didn’t bring much comfort. “You have a better idea?”
The seconds seemed to drag on—as if this whole exchange had lasted an eternity, not a scant few minutes. Apparently, Oliver Vargo thought she was a crazed fan.
Dammit, she was a fan.
But not the one he assumed. Had he had some difficulty with a woman named Cameron? Whatever the case, he didn’t know her real name, which meant Miles McLaughlin hadn’t mentioned her to him. Regarding his and Miles’s relationship, there was only one way to find out the truth—question him. “I…I have a hotel.”
He stared at her. “Did you say hotel?”
She nodded toward McDougal Street. “I’m in the Washington Square Hotel.” It was only two blocks away. She’d been so intent on gauging the distance that she’d barely noticed the genuine smile claiming Oliver’s lips. When she saw it, she felt thoroughly unsettled. All at once, the man’s countenance had cleared. He offered a slight nod, as if a knotty misunderstanding had been resolved and everything now made perfect sense to him.
Good for you, Peggy thought dryly, since she still didn’t have a clue what was going on.
His hand slid slowly downward, gliding from her upper arm to her elbow, creating a wake of electrical current. A brass band began to play, and over the music, Oliver softly repeated the word hotel. And then, under his breath, he added, “Cameron, this is a dream come true.”
4
CAMERON WAS SEDUCING him, Oliver thought moments later, loosening his grasp on her elbow as they went through a brass revolving door that spit them into a hotel lobby. At first, he’d thought the woman might be a fan, but that didn’t explain how her picture had wound up on his PC screen. Which meant she must be a friend of his sister’s. Anna had been doing everything she could to fix him up with one of her friends, and this was obviously part of a scheme cooked up by the two women. Anna must have fed the picture of her friend into his computer, convincing him that the woman was America’s Sexiest Woman, all so that he’d be excited when the woman actually appeared.
“Home sweet home,” she said.
The idea that she was trying to get him into bed had calmed Oliver considerably. He glanced around. Long past its glory days, the red-carpeted lobby was decorated with marble-top tables and chandeliers. Outside, the streets surrounding the parade had sounded like Bourbon Street in New Orleans on a Saturday night, so only when Oliver squeezed into a rickety, dimly lit elevator with Cameron did he fully register the comparative deafening silence. “Quiet in here,” he offered.
As she pushed the seventh-floor button, he noted her nails were painted opal, not love-me red as they had been in both her picture and his fantasies. He tried not to feel too disappointed, but it was difficult when she’d appeared so often in his dreams, raking those fingertips over his body. At nothing more than the thought, his breath turned shallow with anticipation.
“Dark, too,” she supplied.
He heard the faintest quiver in her voice, and the answering flutter of his heart took him by surprise. Whoever this woman was, she probably didn’t make a habit of seducing men, judging by her nervousness. And yet she’d chosen him.
He sent her an encouraging smile. “The elevator could use a new lightbulb,” he conceded.
She didn’t answer.
But he wasn’t put off by her lack of response. In fact, he was feeling uncharacteristically anxious himself. Who wouldn’t? He was about to have sex with a stranger, after all. Why else would the woman ask him to her hotel room? And she wasn’t quite a stranger, he mentally corrected. She was a friend of Anna’s.
Suppressing a shudder, he remembered how she’d felt pressed against him in the street—how the curves of her backside had risen, cushioning his groin, and how the harder ridges of her hips had collided with his when she’d whirled around. Their lower bodies had clicked, and now the memory sent heat prancing across his skin.
Yeah, while they’d been on Sixth Avenue, he’d realized she had to be a friend of his sister’s—there was simply no other reasonable explanation—and now, with her standing so close, and her scent driving him wild in the cramped elevator, he wished he’d been nicer. Could he help it if he’d been worried, though? She’d been tailing him…
Oliver broadened his smile as he tucked down the collar of his coat, allowing the rainwater to roll off. “And wet,” he added. Another uncomfortable moment passed before the smile twitched his lips and he continued. “The elevator’s slow, too.”
His comical efforts to make conversation solicited a low, barely audible laugh from her. “At this rate,” she murmured, lifting a hand to reposition the eye mask, a fashion accessory that had been heightening his excitement immeasurably, “we won’t reach the seventh floor until tomorrow.”
“Midnight,” he countered. His eyes said he could think of countless things he and his masked date might do to amuse themselves during the wait.
“Midnight,” she echoed.
He flicked his gaze down her body. “I’m an optimist,” he assured.
