by Julie Leto
“One in particular or will any do?”
Sean wiggled his eyebrows and rolled off the desk, suddenly interested in the technology around him rather than answering the question Dante had posed. Dante didn’t need Sean to point out that his life had been missing much more than time for relaxation and a good woman. He’d been missing Macy, who probably wouldn’t fall into anyone’s definition of “good” except his own. She was cunning, cool and aloof. If ordered to, she could lie without conscience and kill without regret.
She also loved her family, considered loyalty the most important virtue and would gladly take a bullet to keep an innocent alive.
So much like him. How could he resist her?
Unfortunately, he’d needed a gunshot wound and a brush with cold death to bring the depth of his feelings for her back to the surface. Ever since Sean had orchestrated Dante’s rescue from a drug lord’s den, Dante hadn’t been content with the status-quo. When Macy had first left, he’d accepted that his betrayal could not be forgiven, even if his motives had been pure.
After dying twice on the operating table, he decided anything was possible.
Including winning Macy back.
That’s why he’d sought her out when the first report of the terrorists in Russia hit his desk. That’s why he’d made sure the Arm bought the Garden District house before T-45 could get their hands on it.
He’d known they’d send Macy.
And once he had her, he could prove to her that the love they’d once shared shouldn’t have been thrown away—even if he’d royally screwed up.
But he certainly didn’t need Sean to remind him of what was at stake.
“Why are you really here, Sean?”
Sean stopped fiddling with a prototype night scope and turned to Dante. His expression was benign, his stance relaxed, but his eyes flamed with ominous gravity.
“Word on the street is that you’re in collusion with T-45.”
Dante chuckled. He’d thought he’d been so careful about keeping this operation under wraps, but he couldn’t control the other side. And Sean had contacts everywhere, even though he insisted he was out of the spy business for good.
“T-45 and the Arm are working on a cooperative mission, yes.”
“You can’t trust those guys, Dante. They’re mercenaries.”
He thought about Macy, imagined how she’d probably slipped into her shower right about now to wash the rich, black soil she’d dug into off her skin. She’d grab a quick protein bar from her backpack, then indulge in a powernap until she searched the next room on her agenda—the master suite.
“So you came here to warn me,” Dante concluded, pushing the erotic possibilities of tonight’s activities from his mind. He’d primed Macy’s senses last night with the delicious food and exquisite wines, then slow, sensual dancing that forced their bodies close. But in her eyes, he’d seen the spark of curiosity, interest, even desire. He had successfully whet her appetite for another, more intimate interlude.
Tonight, he’d test the true limits of her resistance.
“I only came to check out that club,” Sean said, “but thought a friendly warning about our counterparts at T-45 might go a long way. Abercrombie Marshall is a good man, but he can’t control all his agents all the time. They have their own agendas.”
Dante leaned across the desk and retrieved a cigar for himself. He could only hope Sean was right. If he could break past Macy’s mistrust and force her to confront her deepest, most secret desires, he might have a chance at winning her back.
* * *
Macy returned to her bedroom around eight-thirty, her vision blurry after her search of the master suite. She’d finally thought she was on to something when she’d found an odd mathematical pattern embroidered into the fabric of Bogdanov’s custom-designed duvet cover. Unfortunately, once she had the numbers identified and sequenced, she recognized the pattern as the combination to the man’s safe—the same safe that the Arm had already unlocked and rifled through. Nothing had proved useful then or today.
What had surprised her about the search was the way the luxurious master suite had grabbed her personal attention. Usually, when she worked a space, she completely disassociated herself with the things inside. She loved fine art and furnishings, but when she was on the job, she inserted her in the minds of the people who owned them and left her personal opinions out of the mix. But in Bogdanov’s master bedroom, she’d had a hell of a lot of trouble ignoring the fact that in just a few hours, Dante would have her at his mercy on that huge, fluffy bed.
Macy locked her bedroom door, knowing Dante could pick his way through with something as common as a kitchen knife, then stripped down to her lingerie. She didn’t know when he’d call for her, but he had been nice enough to send up a meal of cold cheese, fruits and wine to sustain her until he invited her to their next interlude.
She still couldn’t believe he’d done nothing more in the parlor last night than dance her around the room. They’d shared slow, sensuous dances, yes, with amazingly provocative music, but except for smoothing his warm palm down her back or across her shoulder, he’d barely touched her. His chest had been pressed intimately against hers. More than once, the thud of his heartbeat vibrated against her breasts. His subtle, spicy cologne had played havoc with her senses until the natural heat sizzling off his body made her feel like she might melt.
By the end of the hour, the sound of his voice sparked a purely Pavlovian—and intimately exquisite sensual response.
Her nipples had tightened. Her labia throbbed. A teardrop of hot moisture creamed between her legs.
When he’d kissed the top of her and informed her that the night was over, she’d almost thought he was teasing. Which he was—in the most powerful way she’d ever experienced.
Just what did he have in store for her tonight?
A soft knock sounded on her door and just like last night, her nipples peaked. A warm thrill simmered through her bloodstream and she had to inhale and exhale several times to restore her normal temperature.
She had no idea what she’d experience tonight or what, if anything, he would demand of her. But unlike last night, she was actually eager to find out.
She opened the door, but no one was there. On the threshold, he’d tacked a lavender hothouse rose tied with a filmy, iridescent ribbon that curled all the way down to the floor. She detached his invitation to the arboretum and drew the petals to her nose. The sweet, earthy scent nearly weakened her knees.
After shrugging into her robe, she retraced her steps to the indoor garden. She shut the French doors behind her and then cleared her throat.
He turned around slowly, an inscrutable grin toying with his lips.
“How was your dinner?” he asked.
“Filling,” she answered simply.
Through the overflowing ferns and nearly ceiling high crotons in an array of wild color from gold to green to pink and burgundy, Macy watched Dante grab a towel and innocently dry off his hands. With the doors and windows closed, she had no choice but breathe in the fertile smell of the earth. It was warm and piquant and rich.
He held out his hand. “Last night, I attempted to appeal to your sense of taste and hearing. The delicious food, fine wine, incredible music. Tonight, I’d like to concentrate on your other senses.”
A thrill tripped through her bloodstream. So far as Macy was concerned, Dante had hit every sense last night with full force.
But if he wanted to work hard at this seduction, who was she to argue?
“Like?”
He inhaled deeply. “Scent, obviously.”
Then, they’d head for the bedroom. “And then?”
His smile revealed nothing. “You’ll have to wait and see. Anticipation is a powerful aphrodisiac, don’t you agree?”
She took his hand. He tugged her forward, then stopped—forcing her to walk through a curtain of foliage on her own. Clever man. For his seduction to have maximum impact, she had to walk in willingly.
Little by little, he was altering the atmosphere and changing the rules without really changing a thing. Intrigued, she couldn’t stop her curiosity, not even after she spotted the large, claw-foot porcelain tub sitting just to the left of the impressive marble fountain.
Steam slithered off the top of the water. The dim lights, enhanced by two or three strategically placed candles, added a romantic ambience than even the coolest woman on earth couldn’t ignore. Two days ago, Macy might have considered herself in the running for that designation, but not anymore. Like it or not, Dante had melted through her icy exterior, exposing the woman within.
And judging from the way he filled the tub with a fragrant powder that turned the bath water a milky, opaque pink, he intended for her to expose quite a bit more. And soon.
Six
“What’s this?” she asked.
“An indulgence.”
He exchanged the bottle of bath salts for a silver wicker basket overflowing with pink and lavender rose petals, which he scattered over the surface of the water. Macy couldn’t help but watch the incongruous scene with boundless curiosity. Even with the light muted and the scents of a hundred flowers buzzing in her head like the bees, she couldn’t put together the image of Dante drawing a bath for her and the man she’d once known. Once loved.
He knew she never took baths. She hadn’t even liked the whirlpool he’d installed on the balcony outside the Georgetown condominium they’d shared. She’d never been one for a long soak, much preferring a scalding hot blast of a shower that practically burned the sweat and dirt of a day’s work off her skin. Growing up in a household with four brothers—two on either side of the age scale—and parents who thought one bathroom was sufficient for their progeny, she imagined she hadn’t had a bath since she’d been a baby. And Dante wanted her in one now?
“What do you really want from me?” she asked, suspicious and suddenly angry. She’d worked damned hard all day and while she couldn’t deny that she’d slept soundly after indulging Dante’s requests last night, sated with amazing food and lulled into relaxation while dancing, she suddenly felt wired and antsy, likely because in order to take a bath, she’d have to get naked.
And yet, she suspected he still didn’t want to have sex. His game was both transparent and unfortunately, effective. He wanted her to drop her guard. With her senses and libido primed and needful, she’d forget how he betrayed her and would remember only how much he pleasured her. How much they’d once meant to each other.
Then, he’d have her right where he wanted her.
“I want you to relax.”
“I don’t want to relax,” she insisted, wondering what compelled her to argue when the inevitable was as clear as the water had been before he’d tossed in the bath salts. She’d have to give in. But now that she understood his plan, she’d find a defense. Hopefully, sooner rather than later—because little by little, her nine-year-old grudge was no longer enough.
Dante turned the basket over the tub so that the last of the rose petals floated into the water. “You’d probably enjoy relaxing, if you had any idea how to do it.”
She ran her hands through her hair. “Let’s not play games, Dante. We’ve been apart for a long time. You have no idea how I spend my free time.”
Dante grinned indulgently. “Do you really need me to send for your dossier?”
She cursed. No, she didn’t. The truth was, except for sharing an occasional glass of wine with a fellow agent in the bistro two blocks away from T-45’s headquarters in Paris, she rarely allowed her mind to shut down long enough to evoke the true benefits of relaxation. Not in the shower. Not when she swam laps in the pool or when she worked out on the technically advanced elliptical trainer she committed to for an hour every day.
Even in her dreams, she conducted intense but methodical searches for objects that were both unnamed and undefined, never allowing her complete rest from either her psyche or her conscious life.
And now, he wanted her to chuck all that and step into a steamy, fragrant tub of water and soak while he watched?
She untied her robe. “Turn around,” she instructed.
Surprisingly, he did as he was told. She stripped and stepped into the milky water.
Only after she caught the glimmer of his smile in the reflective glass of two antique mirrors—one hung just a few feet away from her and one behind—did she realize her gullibility.
“You have become quite the voyeur in my absence,” she challenged, refusing to drop instantly down into the water just to avoid his gaze. He’d seen her naked before. She’d seen him. Despite the flush simmering through her skin, she wouldn’t surrender to her discomfort, not when such a move would mean more than she wanted to admit to him about his affect on her.
“How can a man resist when the view is so compelling?”
He didn’t turn around, but continued to watch her through the cross reflection of the two mirrors. Slowly, the rush of warmth from her blush dissipated. Standing in the hot water, the air above suddenly chilled. When her nipples started to peak, she eased into the hot water.
He clucked his tongue in disappointment.
Immersed to just below her shoulders, Macy couldn’t help but feel completely exposed when Dante neared. He lingered just a foot or so away, his foot perched on the edge of the fountain, which she realized was tinkling with a soft, natural music that invited her to close her eyes and breathe deeply. In the steaming hot water, the sweet rose scents weakened her resolve. Her head swam, so she braced her hands on the sides of the tub.
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Nothing, yet.”
“I feel light-headed,” she admitted. If she’d been dealing with a T-45 operative instead of the head of the Arm, she’d suspect he’d drugged the water or perhaps even the perfume. But the Arm generally didn’t operate with such chemical slyness. They tended to barge in, take what they wanted and then clean up the mess afterward—much like the man who ran their organization.
Though he didn’t seem to be working in bulldozer mode tonight, did he? Even his voice contained a soft, lazy drawl unlike any she’d ever heard from him, even while undercover.
He picked up a large seashell from the edge of the fountain beside her. “Light-headed? That’s called relaxation, Macy. I told you last night I wouldn’t get you drunk. I also won’t drug you. When you return to me, you’ll do so of your own volition.”
She snorted, but without half the derision she’d intended. With the seashell, he scooped and poured the hot, scented water over her shoulders and across the back of her neck. The sensation was smooth and milky, as if he’d doused her in a melted emollient.
She released her hands from the side of the tub.
“I won’t return to you,” she said, her voice soft with drowsiness.
“Hmm,” he replied, pouring another shell full of water across her shoulders.
Arguing further would make no difference. She was in no position to convince him of anything. At this moment, she couldn’t convince herself that the sky was blue in the daytime. Slowly but surely, her mind grew too befuddled to form a single coherent thought. When she forced herself to think, her focus fell to the bed in the master suite—their next destination. She found herself anticipating the moment when she crawled into those cool, high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
“What are you thinking about?”
She shook her head. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Very much.”
“Sorry,” she said with a sigh, leaning back against the porcelain. “My body is yours to command, not my mind.”
This time, he poured the water across her neck, so that the flow teased the tips of her breasts.
“Does that mean if I tell you to touch yourself, you’ll comply?”
Her eyes flashed open. She’d walked right into this one, hadn’t she?
“Is that what it’ll take to get you off?” she asked.
He chuckled. “I’m not interested in my ow
n pleasure tonight, Macy. Though I’ll admit that watching anything you do excites me.” He poured another stream of warm across her collarbone. “How does the water feel? Hot enough for you?”
At least he’d gotten that part right. The temperature would likely scald anyone else, but the heat felt both familiar and new to her at the same time. “Perfect.”
“And the scent? I added an essential oil to the bath, which will account for the perfume and slick feel of the water as it sluices over your skin.”
She moved ever so slightly, so that the flow of water fulfilled his sensual promise, but she focused on the truth to keep her antagonism going. She couldn’t give in to him—not mentally. Not emotionally.
Well, she could, but would she hate herself in the morning?
“I’ve never been one for roses,” she said.
“Really? I could have sworn the scent would evoke some sweet memories for you. Perhaps I miscalculated.”
Hell. Dante never miscalculated, and the moment he mentioned sweet memories, her mind spun back to the past, long before they’d met, to a summer she’d spent with her grandmother at her home in Savannah, to the rose garden she tended with constant and loving care. Macy had been no more than ten years old, allowed for the first time to visit her father’s parents without her four raucous brothers to muck up the landscape. For two solid months, she’d helped her grandmother tend her prized flowers, listened to her stories, spent hours wandering the fields beside the creek that ran through the property her father’s family had owned for over a century.
She didn’t remember telling Dante about that summer, but she must have. And he’d evoked that innocent, faraway time with a not-so-innocent bath in a luscious arboretum.
Damn him.
She shifted in the tub, prepared to fight her Benedict Arnold muscles and get out, but he placed his hand on her shoulder and gently eased her back into the water. He leaned forward so that his words teased the tendrils that formed at the nape of her neck.
“Relax, Macy. Let the silkiness of the water awaken you. I’d forfeit my entire holdings to be in the water right now, surrounding you, penetrating you, experiencing every sweet curve and crevice of your body.”