But Dash wasn't caught off guard this time, like he'd been at their first meeting. This time he was thinking, and he thought to question her sudden switch on. It was an evasive tactic. Naturally, he was determined to figure out what she was trying to evade.
"Getting...hot yet?" Shana asked.
"Pretty hot," Dash admitted. "Just a little bit harder, Shana. That ought to do the trick."
Her hand stopped on his thigh, then lifted.
"What?" Dash queried.
She paused. "We've got to save something for later, darling."
"Ah, well. Anyway, here's our exit." Dash eased the government issue car onto the exit ramp. By bits and pieces he was putting together the puzzle. She didn't like it when he took control, as he'd just tried to do. Neither did she like it when he asked questions, specifically, questions about her. Unfortunately, Dash had nothing but questions. She was an intricate, fascinating riddle.
On the plus side, he was figuring out some of the correct responses. Hands off, voice low, and pitch an emotional level that suited his understated personality to a T. This managed to soothe her ruffled feathers and would even leave her looking amazed.
Ah, he was smiling again. It was terribly gratifying to learn he actually owned some romantic ability — and with a woman who'd seemed far beyond his meager powers.
A mile from the freeway, Dash turned into the driveway of his rented house and switched off the motor. In the dim glow thrown by the streetlight, he looked over at Shana.
She was a picture of available femininity. The hair that had started the evening in a restrained French twist was now loose and a bit wild. Her plain knit dress was unbuttoned to an interesting degree, and her lips were plumply inviting. It was only her eyes, wary eyes, that told a different story.
"Walk me home?" she purred.
Easy now, Dash warned himself. Take it very, very easy. Every instinct he'd never before given himself credit for owning told him he needed to take this very, very slow, in spite of — or perhaps because of — the come-hither signals she was putting out.
"Ahem. Sure." He was thankful his voice didn't crack. "I'd be happy to walk you home."
She smiled.
Dash took a deep breath and let himself out of the car. The deep breath didn't do a thing to calm his raging erection but he supposed it didn't matter. She had to know she'd given him one. And, in fact, he wanted her to know she turned him on.
He wanted her to know that lack of attraction was not the reason they weren't going to end up in bed together tonight.
A little stiffly then, he walked around the front of the car to open her door. She was smiling with ill-concealed triumph as she held out her hand.
"You are such a gentleman," she cooed.
Dash eyed her sidelong. Was that a dig, amidst the come-on? She was slipping then, losing her control. But why?
He helped her from the car, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, determined to be the very gentleman she mocked. "We'll go all the way down to the start of your walkway rather than cross the lawn," he said. "Your heels will sink right into the grass."
Her soft expression froze. "I'm not that heavy."
"It's not a matter of pounds, but pounds per square inch," he explained. "Those heels of yours couldn't have more than point two five square inches between the two of them and that would translate out to — "
"No, no. Please don't tell me." She took his arm with both hands and retrieved her inviting smile. "I have a feeling it would be ever so much better not to know. We'll just go around the lawn with no further questions asked."
Dash chuckled and then couldn't help himself. He leaned down and kissed her. By sheer force of will — and that nagging, new instinct of his — he hit her cheek instead of those delectable lips. "You're sweet," he pronounced.
"Sweet?" Her playfully arched brows dove downward.
Dash patted her hand and started them down the driveway toward the sidewalk. "Sweet, funny, pretty — "
"Pretty!" It came out as a small explosion that stopped the both of them.
Dash turned to face her, baffled. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong?" She was glaring. All trace of the sex kitten had fled. "I am not pretty. Pretty means — No. I may be exciting, or — or hot, or sexy. But I am not pretty!"
Dash knew he was staring. The bits and pieces of the puzzle that had been revolving in his brain started to fit themselves into a pattern. The way it was like pulling teeth to get her to talk about herself. The surprise she'd evinced when he'd shown up with flowers or when he let her walk first through a door. And now this.
"You are pretty," he told her, definite. "It's the first thing I noticed about you."
She smirked. "The first thing you noticed about me were my breasts."
"Ha! Only after you shoved them in my face."
Her eyes opened wide. "I didn't have to do any shoving."
Easy, easy, Dash reminded himself. He took a breath, counted to five, then retrieved her hand and tucked it firmly against his arm. "No, you didn't have to do any shoving," he agreed mildly. "I would have noticed you anyway." He shot her a wry look. "Though it probably would have taken me a great deal longer to do anything about it."
Shana made a scoffing sound and looked off to the side. They continued that way, with her huffy and stiff beside him all the way down the driveway and then up the parallel walkway to her front stoop. The sex machine had most definitively been turned off again.
Only this time Dash had an idea of what had thrown the switch. It was amazing, but ninety-eight percent probable, he calculated. She, the beautiful, hot, sexually adventurous Shana Taylor was actually insecure! She didn't think she was interesting, funny, or even pretty. She only thought she had one commodity to offer a man.
His new knowledge sent Dash reeling. It was so — preposterous, but at the same time it made so much sense. It fit every puzzle piece.
And it filled him with an utterly novel, and heady, sense of power. He understood her. He understood her, perhaps as no man ever had.
As they came to a stop at her front door, Shana very deliberately pulled her hand out from under his.
He merely smiled and took her hand back again. He captured her other hand for good measure. Holding both her hands then, he looked at her. "I had a very nice time with you tonight."
The soft illumination of the porch light showed a snapping glitter in her eyes. "It's good you enjoyed it because it's the last time it'll ever happen. You remember our deal, I hope."
"I remember." Now that he understood, it was easy for Dash to keep his tone mild. "But I have to say I'm sorry that's how you feel."
"Oh. Well." She turned her face to one side.
Gently, but firmly, he used her hands to pull her closer.
"Don't imagine I'm going to kiss you," she warned.
Dash chuckled softly. "What makes you think I want to?"
Her eyes flashed up at him.
He absorbed the impact of her fury with pleasure. With pleasure, he gambled he could calm her down again. "Of course I want to," he told her softly. "But what makes you think I do?" His head tilted. "Do you think it's because...you liked the same music I did? Or maybe because we both liked the same food? It's possible, of course, that I want to kiss you because it was fun to hear you tell me about your work, or because I'm glad you make me laugh."
He had her attention, oh, definitely. She was staring at him in mute astonishment.
Dash tightened his hands on hers. "But those are all rather puny reasons. Maybe I want to kiss you because when I look into your eyes I see something..." In fact, he was seeing it right then and it made his voice deepen. "...something that makes me pause and wonder and want to look further. So, yes, I think that's after all the real reason I want to kiss you."
Her eyes had gone very wide, and her mouth very soft. It felt soft, too, when Dash bent down and brushed her lips with his. It was such a tiny kiss, almost not there, yet it sent a thrill of excitement through him.
>
No less exciting was the look he found in her eyes when he eased away.
"Good night, Shana," Dash managed to say, and even managed to sound calm and collected while saying it. "And I do thank you for a lovely evening."
Then, with a sense of male confidence that was entirely new to him, he turned and strode straight across the lawn and toward his own front door.
It was a good quarter hour later, when Dash was stepping out of a cold shower, that he realized his oh-so-slick exit from Shana had not gotten him into her house, or at the cookbook Gideon wanted.
He stood dripping on the bathroom tile floor with the towel draped around his neck and felt one keen moment of guilt. He could have done it, managed to get inside — if he hadn't turned off her sex machine. It would have ruined any possibility of a relationship between the two of them, but he would have gotten Gideon his book.
Yes, Dash had one powerful moment of guilt. Then he straightened and lifted the towel to rub his wet hair. The chances of that cookbook actually being related to the case were very slim. Dash seriously doubted Anja would have risked hiding more than one clue in the same house. That thought eased seventy-five percent of his guilt.
The other twenty-five percent fell away as Dash tossed the towel over the shower curtain rod and assured himself, with all his new-found confidence, that he was on the point of having access to all of Shana, from her heart down to her kitchen.
Gideon would still get his cookbook, much good might it do him.
~~~
Monday's dusk lay cloudy gray on the backyard as Gideon, with a big, fat cigar in one hand, strolled across Olivia's unkempt lawn. Olivia had kicked him out with a horrified gasp at mere sight of the thing. Now he paused in the center of her lawn to strike a match and puff it to life. Also to give Peter, over on a ladder at Brittany's house, a chance to notice and climb down.
"Is that a Cohiba?" Peter called, looking over as he stepped off the ladder.
Thanks to the low fences on all of these backyards, such a conversation seemed casual. Gideon shook his head. "Montecristo."
"Mind if I take a look?" Peter moved toward the fence.
At the fence, Gideon showed Peter his cigar. "Find anything yet?" he asked, while regarding the smoldering tip.
"Not a thing," Peter said, and reached to take the cigar from Gideon's hand.
Gideon pointed to the distinctive band on the cigar. "But you have been inside."
Peter's lashes hooded. "I've been inside." His tone was quietly warning.
Gideon lifted his brows. "Don't worry, I'm not going to ask how you managed it. Dash won't talk about it either, nor has he yet gotten hold of that damned cookbook. What is it? Are the two of you going renegade on me?"
The corners of Peter's lips quirked. He drew the cigar close enough to smell. "What about the dog?"
"We traced it. A breeder in Indiana. Said it was specially trained for tracking, and sold to a Sebastian Archibald Hollister, III."
"I've heard of him." Peter held the cigar off to regard it critically. "Owns a pharmaceutical company overseas, plays fast and loose with patent rights and on-line sales."
"The same," said Gideon, and felt himself relax, just as he'd relaxed when he'd first gotten the news. "If Hollister is involved, this is only a question of making illicit money in drug development."
"Not terrorism," agreed Peter.
"We're working on Hollister's whereabouts."
"Hmm." Peter tilted his head, considering the smoke rising lazily from the cigar. "Of course, we don't know if Mr. Hollister has Anja. Or what she may be cooking up on her own."
Gideon turned to glare at Peter. "Thanks."
Peter looked back at him. "What?"
"Thanks for making my day," growled Gideon.
Peter threw him a completely unrepentant grin and handed back the cigar. "Any time."
Gideon watched Peter swagger back to his painting supplies, and reflected bitterly that he was the one, not Peter, with the responsibility of seeing some major disaster wasn't about to occur. If only he knew why Anja had bolted in the first place. He was becoming more and more convinced her reason was somehow key...
He turned to regard the house from which he'd recently exited. A frown creased his brow as he wondered if Olivia knew Anja's reason. Then the frown eased as he shook his head at himself. What could Olivia possibly know about it?
Making sure the cigar was well and truly extinguished — he'd catch holy hell otherwise — Gideon went up the stairs of the deck and through the sliding glass door into the house.
"Something smells good," he announced, pausing on the threshold. Damn good: garlic and onion and a variety of Italian spices. The house hadn't smelled anywhere near this good when he'd left a few minutes ago.
"Well it sure isn't that cigar of yours," Olivia called out. Through the open counter, Gideon could see her at the stove, sipping something from a big wooden spoon.
"I keep telling you, it's an acquired taste," Gideon protested. Meanwhile he walked, like a man who'd turned into a magnet, straight for Olivia.
She smiled as he took hold of her waist from behind, Abandoning whatever was on the wooden spoon, she lifted her chin invitingly.
Gideon nuzzled the herb-scented skin of her neck. "Mm." He gave her a nip and a lick. "If whatever's in that pot didn't smell so good, I'd suggest skipping dinner and going straight to bed."
Olivia laughed, in a deep and knowing way that tempted Gideon to suggest skipping dinner, after all. He closed his eyes and settled his chin on her shoulder, reflecting, once again, on how good it was to be sleeping with her again. Just being with her, but especially intimately, gave him a sense of peace he'd been sorely missing the past six months.
He drew in a deep breath and relished the moment, her waist solid and feminine beneath his hands, her hair tickling his cheek, the certainty this would all be his for the taking in half an hour or so.
And yet — and yet — something was definitely missing. They were in the wrong house, for one thing.
Gideon felt his hands tighten around her waist. Yes, why were they in the wrong house? Why hadn't she moved back in with him by now? She'd totally given up that horrible question of hers, about what had happened to him nine months ago, what he was keeping from her. But still — here they were.
Letting out his in-drawn breath, Gideon eased away. "I guess I should set the table."
Olivia tossed a smiling, innocent glance at him from over her shoulder. "That would be a help."
She turned and thus missed the helpless glare Gideon threw at her. What was she waiting for? Stifling a grunt, he went over to the cabinet where he'd recently learned Olivia kept her dishes. It was a new set, which only served to irritate him further. She'd set up an entire, separate household here, as if she'd been planning to stay.
Gideon took two of the thick, colorful plates and lifted them out of the cabinet. Fine. She'd planned to stay. Once. But everything had changed now, hadn't it? They loved each other, and the past week they'd been doing good together. Really good.
But apparently, even though she'd given up asking the horrible question, she was still waiting for something. Gideon had a bad feeling she was waiting for him to confide in her. Not because she asked, but because he volunteered.
Hell. Gideon's stomach sank just thinking about it as he set the dinner plates on the tiny built-in table. He could never volunteer the information she asked for. Pressing his lips together, he snagged two paper napkins from the artsy holder on the table and then took special care in folding each before putting them beside the plates. All the while he fought a bitter wave of guilt.
She was trusting him to come through and satisfy her expectations regarding a marriage of equal partners. But her expectations were unreasonable. At least they were unreasonable when you were married to a secret agent. Of course, Olivia didn't know that part, which sent the whole issue into a vicious circle.
"You need some silverware over there," Olivia called out.
> "Right, right." Gideon rubbed his chin and forced his mind to calm. "Not to mention a bottle of wine. Luckily I picked up a nice red on my way over tonight."
"You think of everything," Olivia mused approvingly, and whirled to give him a brilliant smile.
That smile hit Gideon like a sledgehammer. But he couldn't confide the truth to her. When he thought of everything he'd concealed from her for the entire length of their relationship — Oh, boy. Just imagining the fallout sent a dagger of terror through him.
Taking a deep breath, Gideon smiled back at Olivia. Instead of getting the silverware or the wine, he moved toward her. Determination coursed through him. No way he'd get lured into telling Olivia the truth, no matter how guilty she made him feel with her smiles and her patience.
There simply had to be another way.
Her eyebrows rose as he took her shoulders. Gideon watched her smile go from domestic tranquility to sensuous mysteriousness, responding to whatever she saw in his face.
"Yes?" she asked, low.
Gideon's voice was deep with emotion. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?"
"Not in the past eight hours, no." A glint of mischief entered Olivia's feminine smile.
"I love you," Gideon said, and lowered his mouth to within an inch of hers. There had to be a way to make everything go back to the way it had been before his promotion. "And just to prove it," he told her, "I won't haul you off to bed and ruin this dinner you've obviously gone to some trouble to prepare."
Humor created interesting layers to her smile. "I'll make the wait worth your while," she promised.
Gideon felt a thrust of desire — for all of it; her body, heart, and soul. He wanted all of it to go back to the way it had been.
But as he lowered his lips the rest of the way to hers, he knew there was no way to turn back the clock. So he was going to have to think of something, something terribly clever, that would get him around the minefield of the future.
Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way Page 14