by Leslie Kelly
“I had a lovely time,” she murmured as he walked her to her front door Tuesday night. Though nearly 11:00 p.m., it was still quite hot, and Emily had kept her shawl draped over her arm. Just because it was hot, she told herself. Not because she’d taken Allie’s advice and worn the bright pink dress.
Not that it seemed to have done any good. Mr. Ward had barely looked at her face all evening, and he most certainly had not looked below her chin. All her life she’d been hearing that men liked cleavage such as hers, but now, the first time she’d put it to a test, that had proven wrong.
She supposed she should have tried a bit sooner. Like a few decades ago when she’d been in her forties.
“Yes, quite enjoyable,” Roderick said. He cleared his throat. “Though the meal couldn’t compare with something out of my own kitchen, it was, indeed, palatable.”
Allie had mentioned that he was a good cook. Before she could stop her foolish tongue, Emily replied, “Maybe you could cook for me sometime.”
He didn’t say anything, merely maintaining that stiff posture and tight smile.
“Well…here we are.” In the movies the woman often asked the man in for a drink. But Emily didn’t drink, not much anyway, and all she had in the house was a bottle of wine a neighbor had given her last Christmas. Not what one would offer a worldly gentleman, she supposed.
“Thank you again, Emily, for agreeing to accompany me this evening. Much more pleasant to attend these informative programs with someone else, with whom you can discuss them.” He tsked. “Mortimer can’t be bothered to sit still for so long. Nor does he much care if the average water temperature has risen in the past century. In his opinion, the earth will shrug us off like fleas when it’s done with us and move on to something else.”
Mr. Potts did have a point, in Emily’s opinion, but she didn’t say that.
Roderick had talked about his friend a few times this evening, his tone holding only respect and fondness. A very admirable trait, one she liked about him. In fact, she liked many things about Roderick…which would make him nice to have as a friend, herself, if only she weren’t so curious about what it would be like to kiss him.
“Thank you,” she said as she removed her key from her bag and unlocked the front door.
“You are most welcome,” he replied as he watched her step inside, bowing slightly.
He reached out his hand. Wondering if he was about to kiss hers in a courtly manner, Emily extended hers, as well, her breath catching in her lungs. But Roderick merely shook it. Cordial. Proper.
Impersonal.
“Good night,” he said, then he turned and walked to his car, driving off into the night.
Which meant that for the seventy-fourth year, sixth month and eleventh day, she would be going to her bed never having been held passionately in a man’s arms.
WHEN THE LONG RUN OF BAD weather departed New York City, it departed with a vengeance. By Wednesday afternoon, the temperature had risen to a pleasant eighty-five and it stopped right there. The sky had turned a shade of blue usually reserved only for summertime portraits drawn by kindergartners. It was complemented by brilliant yellow sunshine and a few cotton-ball puffy clouds. The crystal-clear day was such a stark change from the unrelenting storm clouds of recent weeks that the entire city seemed to suddenly come alive and start dancing for joy.
Throughout most of the day, Jen had watched it from above, in a luxury penthouse like the kind she’d only seen in movies.
“Mr. Potts, you obviously do have the Midas touch,” she mused late Wednesday afternoon as she finished toweling her hair dry. Slipping a thick, white terry robe over her naked shoulders, she glanced at her reflection before tying the sash.
“The bruises aren’t so bad,” she murmured with relief. Hopefully Mike would soon have the chance to see that for himself.
When they had returned to her place last night and found it had been broken into, she honestly hadn’t thought about where she’d be spending the night. Knowing it was not going to be in her bed with Mike had been enough for her to zone out. But later, when the responding officers—who’d both known Mike—had left, she’d looked around and the reality had begun to set in.
They were finally alone. But she couldn’t stand to stay.
Her desire for him could not overcome the ugliness of what had happened. Enraged helplessness had washed over her, making her body clench and her eyes sting with hot, unshed tears.
Someone had entered her home. Had gone through her things. Had touched this table and that chair, had opened desk drawers and put filthy hands on her kitchen towels. He’d rifled through her clothing, left his aura in her bedroom. He’d torn every piece of paper out of her filing cabinet and strewn them all over the apartment. And when he’d gone, he’d taken with him every ounce of security she’d ever felt in her own home.
Mike had seemed to know exactly how she felt and had made a suggestion. Come home with me. That was all he’d said. That was all he’d had to say. Because without thinking, she’d picked her purse back up, grabbed her laptop—which the thief hadn’t bothered to steal—and gone with him. She hadn’t taken another single thing—not her clothes, her toothbrush. Not a nightie or a change of panties. Nothing that could have been touched by someone who’d assaulted her sense of privacy.
She’d heard that being robbed was something like being raped, but she’d never understood it before. No, the level of violence wasn’t comparable, but the rage at the personal invasion had to be at least a little similar. Though, it appeared she hadn’t been robbed. Because Jen hadn’t been able to find a single thing missing. Everything had just been trashed and gone through.
To her surprise, instead of driving her to his house in Queens, Mike had headed uptown, toward Central Park West. Definitely not a cop’s address. They’d arrived at his grandfather’s vacant penthouse at around 3:00 a.m., Mike explaining that he wanted her someplace where neither of them could be easily traced.
Which might have been fine. This apartment was, after all, more exclusive than any five-star hotel she’d ever seen. It was a fairy-tale setting for a seduction. Or even an I’m-tired-but-we’ve-been-waiting-forever-so-let’s-just-do-it-once-then-go-to-sleep-and-have-morning-sex kind of thing.
Only…she was alone. She had been for hours. Mike had deposited her here, said he was going home for his dog, ordered her not to leave, then taken off. She’d found a message from him on her cell phone this morning saying he’d gone right to work.
He’d dumped her in this magnificent, decadent playground, leaving her feeling like the dirty mistress of a Greek tycoon in one of those romance novels. And she’d been fuming ever since. When she wasn’t sleeping. Or ignoring his orders and going out to buy a few necessities. Or enjoying the fabulous view of the city and the park below. Or nibbling on some of the gourmet foods stashed in the kitchen cabinets. Or indulging in the most incredible bath to be found this side of a pricey spa.
“Not a bad way to fume,” she acknowledged as she strolled barefoot across the lushly carpeted bedroom. She might have been walking on a blanket of thick, soft grass. Her feet could get used to the whole opulence thing. As could the rest of her.
The guest suite in the penthouse was obviously equipped for visitors, with every possible toiletry stocked neatly in the bathroom. From new toothbrushes and bath oils to a variety of robes and wraps, there wasn’t much she couldn’t live without for a few hours in the way of personal care. But there was nothing for her to wear, beyond the robes. So this morning, she’d left briefly, against strict orders.
“Orders,” she said as she began combing her wet hair. “Ha.”
Mike should know by now she didn’t take orders, even if they were well intended. Jen wasn’t an idiot, so she hadn’t gone anywhere near her own neighborhood and she was gone less than an hour. A quick cab ride had given her the chance to at least grab some new panties and a little makeup. Not the Sephora concealer she’d planned on, but it’d do.
When she’d
returned and found the penthouse still empty, she hadn’t known whether to be relieved or annoyed. Part of her was glad he hadn’t been there to gripe at her for having left. Another part just wanted him back.
With nothing else to do this afternoon, she’d taken a hot bubble bath. A long soak in the huge jetted tub had seemed the perfect way to soothe away any lingering aches from Saturday’s accident. She’d soothed so long, she’d nearly fallen asleep.
That probably wasn’t too surprising since she’d only slept for a few hours in the luxurious bed with the feather duvet the night before. If Mike ever did come back, he’d undoubtedly collapse in the thing and remain unconscious for hours.
“I don’t think so,” she said as she opened a bottle of expensive wine and poured herself a glass. “Either we fight or we have sex, those are your only two options, Mike Taylor.”
She was mad enough at him for dumping her like some helpless kid that she was ready to fight. She was also hungry enough to jump on him the moment he walked through the door.
Whatever she did would probably be entirely determined by his attitude whenever he got back here.
Mr. Potts’s penthouse had a patio, where she’d sat this morning sipping coffee—black since there were no fresh supplies in the kitchen. The patio was a veritable jungle in the city, lush and green with rich vegetation. Nearly enclosed by potted palms, banana plants, ferns and some type of unusual flowered vine growing on the railing, the spot had afforded not only an amazing view, but also an incredible amount of privacy. She suspected Mr. Potts liked it that way—being able to see but not be seen unless he chose it.
Glancing at the clock and seeing it was after five, she carried her drink and a year-old edition of a news magazine outside to enjoy the remains of the day. The sound of traffic wasn’t too bad because of the height. For a while, as she sipped and read, she almost forgot she was in the middle of a bulging city, not in a secluded jungle grove. Reclining in a comfortable lounge chair, she could almost have fallen asleep, lulled by the hum of the ceiling fan above her, each breath sweetened by the perfume rising off the flowery vines.
“Hey,” a voice said from behind her.
Dropping the magazine, she jerked her head up and saw Mike standing in the doorway. “He returns,” she mumbled.
Stepping outside, Mike tugged his jacket off and tossed it into an empty chair. When he reached up to unbutton his dress shirt, Jen held her breath, wondering if this striptease was going somewhere or if he was merely unwinding after a long day.
He stopped at the second button. Bummer.
“How was your day, dear?” Sarcasm fell off each word.
“Long.” He twisted the top off a bottle of beer, which she hadn’t even seen him bring out. He’d apparently stopped at the store on the way home. If he’d brought some French vanilla–flavored coffee creamer, she might just forgive him five minutes sooner than she had originally intended to.
“You left,” he said.
Uh-oh.
He didn’t even glance in her direction, merely staring out at the panorama spread below them, half-hidden from her by the sprawling leaves of a large palm. But the clench of his jaw and the harshness of his handsome profile told her he was angry. “There’s a department-store bag in the trash can.”
Busted. His cop powers must be in top form for him to have found the thing so fast. Too bad she hadn’t stuck it in a drawer.
Jen immediately shrugged the thought off—she was no ten-year-old who had to obey orders. “I needed a few things.”
Mike swung around, his dark eyes snapping, tension rolling off him. His body was stiff, and his mouth opened as if he was about to snap a retort. The man was all controlled energy and simmering anger, disguised in his dress shirt as an everyday modern guy, but just as dangerous as an old-fashioned warrior. Though she didn’t fear him, for the first time she realized Mike could be dangerous if crossed.
She shivered a little. Then Jen reminded herself that she’d always enjoyed crossing people.
Lifting his bottle, he sipped from it in a visible stall for time. When he lowered it, he took a deep breath, as if trying to remain calm and reasonable. “I told you to stay here.”
So much for reasonable. “I told you to kiss my butt.”
“What?”
“I said it to the door after you left,” she grudgingly admitted, “but the sentiment’s the same. You can’t dump me in a strange place, order me to stay and expect me to sit here like Suzy from the Sixties waiting for the powerful man to get back.”
He slammed the bottle down on the table so hard she thought it would break. “Damn it, Jen, someone’s stalking you.”
The truth sounded so raw and ugly thrown out there like that. Ugly…and inescapable.
For weeks she’d been fooling herself that the letters were annoying, the phone calls a nuisance. But after last night, when Mike and the other cops had acknowledged she hadn’t been robbed but rather…personally invaded, she couldn’t brush it off anymore. “I know,” she murmured.
He barreled on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’ve got no business being out on the street where this sicko can take things up a notch. First letters, then phone calls, then breaking and entering.” He flattened both hands on the small wrought-iron table right beside her, leaning over it so she could look up at his impossibly broad chest and the tanned bare skin of his neck.
Heat that had absolutely nothing to do with the sunny day slid through her. Her mouth dry, she kept staring at the hollow of his throat, at the tiny bit of dark hair curling above the V of his shirt. She’d been dying to rake her fingers through it since she’d first seen him shirtless that day at the lake.
“He’s been raising the stakes and the next step probably involves personal contact.”
Umm. Personal contact.
She shivered, not because he’d scared her—the evidence of her trashed apartment had already done that, thanks very much—but because he was so incredibly hot. Strength and power radiated off him. She could inhale and be overwhelmed by the testosterone filling the patio. Demons were chased away, fear and annoyance tripping along behind them as awareness flooded through her.
Fighting could be fun. It was also not what she wanted to do right now. Trying to sound contrite, she explained, “I didn’t go anywhere near my apartment, or my agent’s office, or my publisher’s, or any of my friends.”
His fingers relaxed the tiniest bit at her subdued tone.
“I promise, I’m not a heroine in a movie of the week who gets all stupid and puts herself in harm’s way right after the hero warns her not to, okay?”
He raised a brow in blatant skepticism. “Oh?”
Being contrite and conciliatory required a lot of work. Too much of it, in fact. And the thought of going through all these words to get to the making up part at the end of their fight seemed wasteful and stupid.
She’d waited long enough. They could fight later. So she ended their dispute without saying a single thing.
Rising from the chair, she arched sensuously, tossing her nearly dry hair back and running her fingers through it. It was silky against her hand, the robe was soft against her skin, and Mike’s stare was incendiary against every part of her. She felt the burn from a few feet away.
“We’re not finished talking,” he muttered, though he didn’t sound interested in talking anymore. Oh, no, he did not.
“Yeah, Mike. We are.”
Reaching for the loosely belted tie around her waist, Jen slowly slid it apart. He continued to watch, his eyes remaining dark, his hard, magnificent body perfectly still.
Dropping the sides of the belt, she let the soft terry-cloth robe drift open. Though she made no effort to remove it entirely, without the fastening the thing parted in the center, falling open to reveal a narrow strip of her naked form to his hot gaze.
Jen cast a slow, unconcerned look over the patio railing, knowing it was at least possible someone in a nearby building could have binoculars at the ready for j
ust this kind of thing. But the shadowy recesses of the plant-filled patio would prevent anyone from seeing details…and frankly, she didn’t much care. Still, she turned a little bit, presenting her back to the world. And her front only to him.
“Jen…”
“Aren’t you finished talking yet?” she purred as she stretched slightly, her body warm and pliant. Her exceedingly slow movements were mirrored by the movements of the robe, which drifted apart here and then settled back there.
He devoured each glimpse she provided as if they were morsels of succulent meat dripped into the mouth of a starving man. “We’re not finished,” he growled. “Not nearly finished.”
“You really want to fight with me some more?” she asked, knowing full well what he meant but liking this crazy-hot taunting. Especially liking his reaction to it.
The man looked like a predator, a deceptive stillness keeping him rooted in place. Yet a muscle in his cheek betrayed the tightness of his jaw. “Were we fighting?”
She nodded.
“I thought we were just talking.”
“Okay, then, are we done talking now?” she asked. Running her hand through her hair again, she fingered the last few damp strands, letting them absorb the sun’s rays.
The movement was dual purposed, of course. Both to finish drying her hair and to drive Mike toward that precipice he was getting closer to by the second.
As she reached her arm farther to lift the hair spilling past her shoulders, the robe rose and drew back with it. The fabric scraped across one breast with agonizing sensitivity, grazing her nipple, then baring it completely. It pebbled in reaction, silently inviting him to touch, to taste.
Mike muttered something under his breath. Something that sounded helpless. Something that sounded desperate.