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“Whenever you need me, I’ll be around.”
She couldn’t believe that promise. He might have the best intentions, but he also had a life. “Baby-sitting me would cut into your social action.”
He shrugged.
“I’ve heard all about your infamous bachelor pad,” she said. “A chamber of seduction?”
“You can see for yourself. Come to dinner on Friday night.”
“I don’t think so,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to leave Charlie with a baby-sitter so soon.”
“Bring him,” Roman said.
Dubious, she toyed with her merlot, swirling the rose-colored liquid in her glass. “I’m not going to have to explain to him about mirrors over the bed or anything, am I?”
“It’s not the Playboy mansion,” he assured her.
Part of her wished that his place really was a splendid, sensual pleasure palace. What would it be like to have this very good-looking man sweep her off her feet and into his bedroom?
This time, her sip of wine was a huge, sloshing gulp. She needed liquid to douse these inappropriate flickers of desire. Once again, her gaze came to rest upon his lips, moistened with sweet merlot.
Why on earth would she think that a notorious bachelor like Roman Alexander would be interested in her? Here she sat in her ancient flannel robe and fuzzy slippers. No makeup. Her hair hung uncombed around her cheeks. She certainly wasn’t the picture of desirability.
Yet he communicated a sexual energy. She felt it in the way he looked at her, the arch of his eyebrow, the way he lifted his wineglass to his lips. When he spoke, his rich baritone struck a trembling chord within her. Likewise, his silences were full of portent and promise.
She blurted, “Do you think I’ll ever get married again?”
He reached across the table and placed his large hand atop hers. His flesh was warm. His touch? Pure sensuality. “Yes, Anya. You’ll find love again.”
It was the answer she wanted to hear. Earlier, she dared not even ask herself that question, but that was exactly what had been bothering her. Not the armed guard outside the door. Not a lack of fun. She wanted to know if love was an option in her future.
“Friday night,” she said. “We’ll be there. Me and Charlie.”
“It’s a date.”
Maybe not a date in the single woman’s sense of the word, but it was enough for right now.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Roman arrived at Legate early. He needed some heavy-duty exercise before his eight-o’clock breakfast meeting. He hadn’t slept well. After he spent a full night of tossing and turning, his bedsheets were as tangled as his emotional response to Anya Bouchard Parrish.
Leaving his Mercedes in the parking lot, he strode to the asphalt path and did a quick warm-up. The weather was relatively clear, and the dawn mist was colored a soft pink—the color of Anya’s lips. There was a nip in the air, but he’d chosen to wear only nylon shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He wanted the reality of a cold wind against his bare legs.
He started at a jog on the path that circled the mansion. Yesterday, Fredrick Slater had asked him to make Anya happy. Anything Slater suggested was likely to come with a multilevel ulterior motive. But Roman was only too glad to comply with this request. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, imagining what it would be like to taste that lovely mouth and tangle his fingers in her silky blond hair.
At the same time, he felt guilty. In his mind, she was still Jeremy’s wife. She still wore the wedding band Jeremy had placed on her finger for better or much, much worse. His death wounded her deeply…which meant she was vulnerable. Roman didn’t want to take advantage of her.
He picked up the pace, aware that he was nearing Anya’s cottage. Through the shrubbery, he could see a second floor window that might be her bedroom. He stared at the white window frame outlined against the slate-blue house. The curtains were drawn. Was she sleeping? He envisioned her delicate body beneath the sheets. She’d roll to her side, and the sheet would slip lower on her breasts. His fingers itched to touch her, to caress the soft white skin on her inner thigh. When he kissed her, she would smell of honeysuckle.
Running harder, he proceeded to the winding stairs that led down to the beachfront. After eighty-seven steps down the cliffside, his custom-made running shoes hit the hard-packed sand on the narrow beach. This portion of his morning run was his favorite. At the edge of the bayside surf, he paused. He bobbed his head and shoulders, loosening up. After a few stretches, he shook out the muscles in his legs, then dropped into a crouch. Ready, set, go.
His toes dug into the sand as he went into a full-out sprint—a dash at the water’s edge. He ran hard. Ice-cold droplets splashed onto his calves. The morning mist parted before him. Gulls and a flock of sandpipers took wing. His pulse accelerated. A rush of adrenaline shot through his veins.
At the rugged black rocks that marked the edge of this private beach, he stopped. Breathing hard, he bent double.
When he lifted his head, he saw a tall man in a three-piece gray suit coming toward him. Dr. Lowell Neville, head of Legate’s psychiatric division. Damn it, Roman didn’t want to talk to him.
“I expected to find you here,” Neville called out.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my run.”
“I mind,” Neville said crisply. “You ignored my messages from yesterday.”
“I was busy,” Roman said.
“Yet you found time to contact the charming Mrs. Parrish. Even to visit her cottage last night.”
“That was Slater’s order. He asked me to make sure Anya was comfortable.” Roman paced in a tight circle. “Sorry, Doc. I need to keep moving or I’ll stiffen up. We’ll have to talk later.”
“This is about your former assistant.”
“Peter Bunch.” An overqualified young man with a bright future, he’d quit two weeks ago. “What about him?”
Neville planted himself in Roman’s path, forcing his attention. “Peter Bunch is missing.”
The wind left Roman’s lungs. “Missing?”
“As in ‘missing person,’” Neville said. “The police were here, asking questions.”
Roman caught a gulp of air. Damn it! Did Peter’s disappearance have something to do with his employment at Legate? Purposely, Roman dropped his gaze to the sand beneath his feet, not wanting to betray his suspicions to a trained psychiatric observer. Especially not to Neville. The company shrink was Slater’s toady. “I’m sorry to hear about Peter.”
“How was your relationship with him? When he quit, did he express hostility toward Legate?”
“He left because he was invited to join an archaeological expedition in South America. He had a master’s degree in archaeology. Working in the field was more to his liking than running errands for me.”
“Did you have any reason to believe Peter would betray you?”
“Our personal relationship was fine.”
Roman lifted his gaze and focused on Neville. The psychiatrist’s thick black eyebrows contrasted his short-trimmed white hair and mustache. He was a fastidious man, always dressed in a suit with a conservative silk necktie and matching pocket handkerchief. His lips barely moved as he said, “You can be a hard person to work for.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means?” Neville arched his left eyebrow.
“I’ve got no clue,” Roman said.
“It occurs to me that your assistant would have access to confidential information. If he held a grudge against you, he might have attempted to sell this data. Would you have any knowledge of—”
“No.” Roman spoke with a cold finality. He didn’t want Neville trotting down this path.
“Well, I certainly hope Peter’s greed hasn’t led to unfortunate circumstances.”
“Like what?” Roman said. “Do you think he was hurt? Murdered?”
“And why would you draw that conclusion?”
“Because I’m one hell of a fatalist.” Roman started across the sand to the stairs, then turned and jogged backward. “Why did it occur to you that Peter might be selling Legate secrets?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Neville sneered. “We have a leak.”
Roman turned away and jogged toward the stairway that climbed the steep cliff. He hoped with all his heart that nothing bad had happened to Peter Bunch. Had he been selling secrets? Doubtful. And he couldn’t possibly be the leak. That honor belonged to Roman alone. He inhaled a deep breath and took the stairs two at a time.
ON HER FOURTH DAY at Legate, Anya had a bad case of the fidgets. While doing her translating work in a library cubicle on the first floor of the mansion, she checked her wristwatch dozens of times, marking the passage of each separate minute.
Today was Friday. Tonight was her dinner with Roman. At two in the afternoon, her part-time work was over, and she strolled back to the cottage with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Not tired enough for a nap. Not energetic enough to start a project. As she sorted through the clothing in her closet, deciding what to wear, she felt a rising sense of anticipation. “I haven’t gone anywhere in four days.” As soon as the words left her lips, she frowned. Talking to herself? Not a good sign.
At four-thirty, Charlie burst through the front door. “Mommy, do you know what a polymer is? A whole bunch of molecules. That’s chemistry.”
“Right,” she said.
“We made a really stinky polymer today. Next week, we’re going to build rockets and send stink bombs to Mars.”
She leaned back in the rocking chair in the front room and listened to her son talk. His bubbling conversation gladdened her heart. She was pleased that Charlie wanted to share everything with her. Tomorrow was Saturday, and she’d have him all to herself. “Hey, sweetpea,” she interrupted.
“Jeez, Mom. Don’t call me that.”
“We’re going to Roman’s house for dinner. He’ll be picking us up in about half an hour. You ought to wash up before we go.”
“Okay.”
No sooner had he hiked up the staircase than there was a knock at the door. Roman was early. Already here.
When she opened the door, she stared for a moment. Roman really was gorgeous, much too sexy for his own good. His black hair was slightly mussed. His tawny-brown eyes shone with a warm luster, and his grin hinted at seduction. He wore a pin-striped charcoal suit with no necktie. The collar of his white shirt was open. In his hand he held a simple bouquet of white daisies. “For you.”
“But we’re going to your house,” she said. “I should be the one bringing a gift.”
“Having you there is gift enough,” he said.
She recognized his tone. “That’s your flirting voice. I remember when we were walking with Charlie’s pony and you showed me how you knocked women off their feet.”
“And?”
“Stop it,” she ordered.
“Force of habit,” he said. “When I saw you standing there in that little black dress, looking so beautiful, I forgot this wasn’t a date.”
“I don’t have much of a selection on clothes. Most of my stuff is back in Denver.” Since she hadn’t wanted to leave Charlie here alone, her mother had returned to Denver to arrange for the move. Anya shrugged. “It was either the black dress or jeans.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You look perfect.”
“Thank you.” She enjoyed his compliments. Being around Roman reminded her that she was still a woman. She took the daisies and held the door wider so he could come inside. “And thank you for the flowers.”
Charlie clattered down the stairs and leaped at Roman. “Helicopter,” he demanded.
“Not indoors.” But Roman lifted him up high. “Touch the ceiling, Charlie.”
“Got it. We’re going to your house.”
“That’s right.” Roman set him down on the floor. “I’ve got something for you.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a rectangular, red lacquered box. “This is a Chinese puzzle box. You have to figure out the puzzle to get it open.”
Anya returned to the front room after putting the daisies in a vase.
“Look, Mom!” Charlie held up the box. “It’s from China.”
“Chinatown,” Roman corrected. “Just across the bay.”
“We’ll have to go there,” Anya said. “As soon as my car gets here from Denver, we can take all kinds of trips.”
“To the moon?” Charlie asked.
“Why not?” She laughed. “The moon and beyond.”
They slipped into coats and went out the door, heading along the path to the parking lot. Anya felt like singing. She wasn’t accustomed to being so sequestered. “It feels like I’m escaping the monastery.”
“Legate has that effect,” Roman said. “That’s why I don’t choose to live here.”
“I can’t imagine you as a monk. You’re not exactly the sackcloth-and-ashes type.”
“Plus I hate the haircut.”
He opened the car door for her, and she slipped inside. A buttery leather interior wrapped around her. There were more dials on the dashboard than in a small aircraft. Nice car! But what else would she expect from Roman? He demanded the best of everything. Tailored clothes. Fine wine. Even his sneakers were custom-made. She could hardly imagine what his bay-front house looked like.
Anya turned to check on Charlie in the back seat. “Buckle up, young man.”
“I’m going to solve this puzzle now,” he informed her.
“Don’t be so sure,” Roman said as he closed his car door and plugged his key into the ignition. “Some people take days to solve a puzzle box.”
“Not me,” Charlie said.
“You think you’re that smart?” Roman teased.
“For sure. Neville says I’m a genius.”
“Neville?” Anya craned her neck to look at her son. “When did you talk to him?”
