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Lea took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. During the hour-long interview, the charm of Mrs. Cavenaugh’s southern accent had begun to wear thin. And the glowing report she would have to write up on the woman’s latest philanthropic project was the kind of article that Lea detested writing. But she managed a smile. “You’ll remember to e-mail me the recipe for those scones?”
“I’ll have Delia write one up for me this afternoon. But she got it from her mother. Don’t be surprised if it reads a pinch of this and two dashes of that.”
Lea brightened her smile. “I’ll give it to my cook. That kind of recipe is right up her alley. And thank you again for the interview. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed one more.”
As the door closed behind her, Lea pulled out her cell phone and barely kept herself from running to the elevator. One glance told her that Rory hadn’t called yet.
Damn. She glanced at her watch. Noon. Not time to panic yet, she told herself. After punching the button for the lobby, she leaned against the wall and tapped her foot. The interview had been a dead bore. The piece on Elizabeth Cavenaugh’s work in battling adult illiteracy would be typical of the kind of reporting she’d been doing for Celebs magazine for the past five years. She could write it in her sleep. It was the kind of article that made her want to scream.
No matter, she told herself. Her ticket to what she’d always dreamed of having was within reach. By this evening, Rory Gibbs was going to bring her the means to a story that would free her from ever having to write another boring article on politicians or their spouses.
Lea stepped out of the elevator and strode across the marble-floored lobby. When the doorman pushed open the glass door, a blast of moist heat struck her with enough force to have her almost wishing for the coolness of Elizabeth Cavenaugh’s penthouse apartment. Almost, but not quite. Instead, she hurried to the curb and raised her arm to hail a taxi.
Two passed her by before a third pulled up.
“Kennedy Airport,” she said as she climbed in. “And could you turn the air-conditioning up to high?”
With a nod, the cabdriver pulled into the busy traffic. Leaning her head back against the seat, she closed her eyes. But she couldn’t relax, not until she heard from Rory Gibbs.
The air in the taxi had gone from hot to tepid when her cell phone rang.
“Rory?” she asked.
“No. It’s me.”
Lea’s hands tightened on her phone as she recognized the voice of her anonymous informant. This was only the second call she’d received, but she still couldn’t pin down whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. The two things she was sure of were that she’d never heard it before and it was cold. Bone-chilling cold. “Yes?”
“Do you have the pictures?”
“Not yet. It’s only noon.”
“He’s checked in to his suite.”
Lea’s heart stilled. If that was true, she should have heard something from Rory. “The photographer I sent hasn’t reported back yet.”
“I trusted you to get those pictures. I won’t be happy if you failed.”
Lea couldn’t repress a shudder even though her temper flared. “Look. I told you I had another commitment. Besides, he might have recognized me. So I sent someone who’s as hungry to get those pictures as we are. I can guarantee I’ll have them for you by the end of the day.”
“You’d better.”
“Look, I don’t like to be…” She knew that her caller had clicked off, but she said the word anyway. “Threatened. I don’t like to be threatened.” But even in the still-hot taxicab, she shivered. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that whoever was feeding her information on Jared Slade was dangerous.
Pushing the feeling away, she reminded herself there might be one hell of a story here. Besides, she’d dealt with all kinds of anonymous tipsters before. It was ridiculous to let this one frighten her.
And if Jared Slade turned out to be Hunter Marks as the anonymous caller had promised, she’d break the story of the year. Lea managed a smile. Who better to write it than the reporter who’d broken the original story that had caused Hunter Marks to disappear off the face of the earth?
3
HUNTER STEPPED THROUGH THE DOOR of Silken Fantasies. A little bell jangled over his head, and the woman behind the counter glanced up with a smile.
“Welcome to Silken Fantasies.”
“Irene Malinowitz?” he asked, taking out a card as he moved toward the counter. The shop was small, but elegant. He noted with approval the plush carpeting, the accents of glass and chrome, and the merchandise displayed gracefully on mannequins and arranged artfully on tables. He’d seen photos, but this was his first trip to the store itself. There was a scent in the air and the muted tones of Chopin floated out of the speakers. He also knew that Irene Malinowitz had built her clientele mostly by word of mouth, and that since she’d launched her catalog, her net profits had risen to just over five million dollars a year.
“Yes?”
Hunter handed her the card. “I’m Mark Hunter, one of Jared Slade’s executive assistants.” Mark Hunter was the name he used when he traveled and when he dealt personally with clients.
Irene glanced at the card and then met his eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No.” Hunter seldom spoke with clients directly. Voice prints were as individual as fingerprints. The more successful Slade Enterprises had become, the more effort he’d put into protecting his anonymity.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Hunter?”
“Mr. Slade has just checked in to Les Printemps, and he would like to have you sign the contracts now in his suite, if that’s convenient. He’ll want to review them personally and there’s something else that demands his attention this afternoon.”
A flicker of a frown passed over Irene’s face. “I’m sorry, but I have a customer in the dressing room right now, and my assistant is at lunch. Perhaps in a half hour or so?”
Hunter smiled at her. “That’s why Mr. Slade sent me in person. I’ll be happy to cover for you.”
A phone rang on the counter behind Irene.
“That will be Mr. Banks now. He’ll verify who I am.”
Irene picked up the phone. “Hello?”
Hunter counted five beats until the smile appeared on her face.
“Yes, Mr. Banks.”
His executive assistant, Michael Banks, had handled all of the negotiations with Silken Fantasies, so Irene would be familiar with his voice. Michael was bright, and he was good with clients, especially the female ones. Being a man’s man, Alex Santos was better with males, and he was a whiz at crunching figures.
Irene was still smiling when she hung up the phone. “My customer is in the dressing room. I should—”
“She’ll be fine,” Hunter said. “I’ll take good care of her.”
THE FIRST THOUGHT THAT CROSSED Rory’s mind as she studied herself in the three-way mirror was that she had to get to the gym more often and do some of those exercises that promised to lift her rear end. Then she shifted her position and backed away two steps so that she could study herself from the front only.
The image staring back at her from the mirror nearly had her laughing out loud. She’d left only her boots on, and now she wore nothing else but the lacy red thong and the merest excuse for a bra. It seemed that this was her day for really being daring.
And it felt good.
She picked up her jean jacket from the floor and slipped it on over the red bra. Then she walked back and forth in front of the mirror. No one looking at her would know what she was wearing beneath the jacket. But she would know. And the secret knowledge made her feel sexy. Really sexy. As if she could have any man she wanted.
She took off her jacket and then traced her finger along the waistband of the thong. She sighed. There was no way that she could afford this pricey little number, but she really had to add it to her fantasy life. An image of the Terminator tumbled into her mind. What if he saw her in this? Closing her eyes, she let herself imagine just how he might look at her—those dark eyes filling with hunger. And those hands. Oh, he definitely had her fantasy man’s hands. The one that had reached out to take her film had a wide palm and strong-looking fingers. They wouldn’t be gentle when they touched her. No, they would be hard, calloused, demanding, as they moved over her breasts. Her insides clenched as she imagined those hands trailing down her skin to the thin strap of lace at her hips and then lower—
When she heard the bell on the shop door ring, she jumped. Then with a hand pressed to her heart, she made herself breathe. It was a customer. This was, after all, a store.
Her heartbeat had just returned to normal when above the piano music drifting out of the overhead speaker, she heard a deep voice. A man’s voice. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Rory whirled away from the mirror and dropped to her knees. Then she jiggled the slats in the door to get a look. Black boots, black jeans and the bottom of a black leather jacket. The Terminator.
He’d come for her.
Her mind racing as fast as her heart, she rose and pressed her back against the door. A plan. That’s what she needed. Maybe there was a back way out of the shop. She opened the door and took a quick look. He was facing Irene across a glass-and-chrome counter, and she was talking on the phone.
Just looking at him in profile had that strange little zing of awareness shooting along her nerve endings again. Escape, she reminded herself. You’re looking for a way out.
A quick look in the other direction dashed any hope she had of getting away. The back of the shop was a solid wall. Ducking back into her dressing room, she leaned against the door.
And then it struck her. She was thinking of running away, and that wasn’t what she wanted to do. This was her chance to negotiate that interview.
To calm her nerves, she focused once more on her image in the mirror. To her surprise she looked even sexier. Her skin was flushed. Somehow, she looked taller, her legs appeared to be longer, her breasts fuller.
In short, she looked like a woman who could get what she wanted.
And she wanted more than the interview. She wanted the Terminator. The awareness that she’d felt the moment she’d looked into his eyes was back—and it was growing. Her insides had begun to melt the moment she’d seen him again. And there was a growing ache right in her center. Rory pressed her hand against her stomach.
Get a grip, she told herself. This was no time to let some pricey undergarments turn her into a nymphomaniac. Nor was it time to become muddled about her objective. The interview. She had to talk to the Terminator and convince him to set up the interview with Jared Slade.
She grabbed her jeans—but first she had to get dressed.
The bell over the shop rang.
Dropping the jeans, Rory tensed, holding her breath.
He was leaving. She had to stop him. She moved to the door, opened it and stepped out.
But it wasn’t Irene Malinowitz’s back that she saw at the door to the shop. It was the Terminator’s.
“I’ll take care of everything, Irene,” he said.
She heard the door close, the lock click. Then he turned to face her.
For the second time in one morning—perhaps in her life—Rory felt her mind go perfectly blank. She couldn’t identify one thought—there were too many sensations cart-wheeling through her. Heat. Cold. Nerves. And an electric spark of lust. He was walking toward the dressing room with the same purposefulness in his stride he’d had when he’d moved across the lobby.
He was coming after her.
This time she wasn’t going to run.
THE MOMENT HE TURNED AWAY from locking the door to Silken Fantasies, Hunter Marks felt his body go absolutely still. She was standing right outside the dressing-room door, and as his gaze raked over that creamy, porcelain-smooth skin, those wispy bits of red lace, and the incredibly long legs, he felt his head begin to spin. He moved then, almost as if he were being drawn by a magnet.
There was something about her. He’d thought of her as an elf or a pixie. But standing there right now, she looked like an exotic dancer in a high-priced strip club. Was it the elf or the sex goddess who was drawing him?
Or was it something else? She wasn’t trying to escape; she hadn’t even made a move to cover herself. And there’d been that moment in the lobby of Les Printemps—just before she’d bolted—when her gaze had met his and he hadn’t seen a trace of fear in her eyes.
Courage was a rare commodity, and Hunter had always admired it when he saw it. Was that why she pulled at him? As he drew closer, he ran his eyes over her again. Or was his attraction to her merely an incredible trick of chemistry? Whatever caused it, he couldn’t look at her without wondering what it would be like to touch her—to taste her and touch her until she was slick and wet and hot for him.
His body heated, hardened, as he imagined what it might be like to slip inside of her and feel her close around him like a moist, tight fist.
Hunter stopped short when he was still a few feet away from her. For one chilling moment, he realized that if he allowed himself to get any closer, he would touch her. Kiss her. Pull her to the floor of the shop and—
Ruthlessly, he shoved the pImages** out of his mind and tried to replace them with some semblance of rational thought. Even as a voice at the back of his mind whispered, Take her, he struggled to recall why he’d followed her in here. What did he want from Rory Gibbs?
“I’ll give you the film on one condition,” she said.
The film. Hunter’s eyes narrowed. His brain was starving for blood while hers was clicking along at full speed. He watched her chew on her bottom lip.
Nerves. It gave him some satisfaction to realize that the sex goddess wasn’t quite as cool and pulled together as she appeared to be. This close, he could see that her eyes were a deep, golden amber, the color of well-aged whiskey. He could see the flicker of nerves there, too. And he could smell the faint scent of cherry-flavored bubble gum. He managed to keep his gaze from returning to her lips.
“Don’t you want to know what the condition is?” she asked.
The condition. Once more, Hunter found himself admiring her for keeping her mind on business. She didn’t even seem to be conscious of the fact that she was conducting negotiations while wearing next to nothing. But she wasn’t indifferent to him. Through the sheer red fabric covering her breasts, he could see that her nipples were hard little berries. And a pulse was beating at her throat. Thoroughly intrigued, he let himself wonder for a moment—what might it take to taste her right there?
But that wasn’t what he’d followed her into Silken Fantasies to do. Annoyance flared—not with her but with himself. He’d dealt with a lot of women in his life—family members, business acquaintances, lovers, and even some enemies—but he’d never met one who could cloud his mind the way this particular one could.
“What’s your condition?” he asked.
She briefly chewed her bottom lip again, then said, “I work for Celebs magazine, and I want an exclusive interview with Jared Slade.”
Not going to happen. And nothing she could have said would have more quickly catapulted him out of the fantasies he was building. She was a reporter, Hunter reminded himself, and he felt his body and his mind finally begin to cool.
He extended his hand, palm upward. “I’ll take the camera.”
She hesitated. “He hasn’t agreed to the interview yet.”
“First, I’ll develop the film and see what you’ve got to negotiate with,” he said.
She frowned at him. “If you take the film, I won’t have anything to negotiate with. You’ll have the pictures.”
He shot a dry smile at her and saw her eyes widen suddenly in surprise…or fear? “What is it?”
She licked her lips. “You have a dimple.”
“Yeah.” No, it wasn’t fear that was in her eyes. “Now that we’ve settled that, give me the film. We both know that all I have to do is walk over to the bench, dump your purse and take the camera. You won’t be able to stop me.”
The pulse fluttered at her throat again, and it took all of his concentration to keep himself from reaching for her. To his surprise, he found himself saying, “I’ll give you my word that I’ll talk to Mr. Slade and put in a good word for you. Under one condition.”
When she licked her lips, Hunter dropped his hand, fisted it at his side, and reminded himself that he was dealing with a reporter.
“What’s the condition?” she asked.
“Who told you that Jared Slade would be checking in to Les Printemps this morning? And don’t give me any crap about protecting your sources. I want a name.”
There was a trace of a frown in her eyes when they met his. “I don’t have a name. My boss received a tip and she sent me to take it because she had an interview she had to do in Manhattan today. I told her I could get it. That’s all I know.”
“Your job was just to snap a picture?”
“Yes.”
