by J. D. Robb
It was nearly ten by the time she pulled up in Jenny's driveway. Late, she thought. Sort of late to go knocking on a guy's hotel room door.
But just what was the proper time to go knocking on a guy's hotel room door?
Jenny was already coming out of the front door and down the walk. Laine released Henry's seat belt and waited for her friend to open the passenger door.
"Hi, Henry! There's my best guy, there he is. Vince is waiting for you."
"I owe you," Laine said as Henry raced madly for the house.
"Do not. Late date, huh?"
"Don't ask, don't tell."
Jenny leaned in as far as her belly would allow. "Are you kidding me?"
"Yes. I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Just do me one more favor?"
"Sure, what?"
"Pray, really hard, that there's something to tell."
"You got it, but the fabulous way you look, those prayers are already answered."
"Okay. Here goes."
"Go get 'em, honey." Jenny closed the door and stepped back, rubbing her belly as Laine drove away. "The guy's toast," she murmured, and went inside to play with Henry.
6.
It occurred to Laine that she looked like a woman on her way to an assignation. The little black dress, the sexy shoes, the bottle of wine tucked into the crook of her arm.
But that was okay. She was a woman on her way, she hoped, to an assignation. The man involved just didn't know it yet. And if she ran into someone she knew, so what? She was an adult, she was single and unencumbered. She was entitled to a night of healthy, no-strings sex.
But she was relieved when she crossed the lobby of the Wayfarer without seeing a familiar face. She pressed the Up button on the elevator and caught herself doing a relaxation breathing technique she'd learned in a yoga class.
She stopped.
She didn't want to relax. She could relax tomorrow. Tonight she wanted that live-wire sizzle in the blood, the tingling stomach muscles, the dance of chills and heat along the skin.
She stepped into the car when the doors opened and pressed the button for Max's floor. As her elevator doors closed, the doors on the one beside hers opened.
Alex Crew stepped out.
***
At his desk, with the TV muttering in the background for company, Max reviewed his notes and wrote up his daily report. He left out a few things, it was true. There was no point in documenting that he'd played with the dog, kissed Laine, or that he'd tucked a blanket over her then stood watching her sleep.
None of that was salient information.
He did detail the extent of the damage to her property, her actions and reactions and his opinions on what he observed to be her current lifestyle.
Simple, small-town, successful. Knowledgeable about her profession, cozily dug into her hillside home and the community.
But where had she gotten the funds to buy that home, to start up her business? The business loan and the mortgage he'd accessed—not in a strictly legal manner—didn't quite add up. She'd put down sizable deposits—more than it logically seemed possible for a young woman who'd earned a steady but unremarkable salary since college.
And still not an exorbitant amount, he reflected. Nothing showy. Nothing that hinted there was a great big money tree somewhere dripping with millions.
She drove a good, middle-of-the-road car. American made and three years old. She had some nice pieces of art and furnishings in her home, but she was in the business, so it wasn't remarkable.
Her wardrobe, what he'd seen, showed good classic taste. But it, too, wasn't exorbitant, and fit very neatly into the image of the single, successful antique merchant.
Everything about her fit that image, down to the ground.
She didn't live rich. She didn't look like an operator, and he could usually spot one. What was the point of buying a house in the woods, getting an ugly dog, opening a Main Street, U.S.A., business if it wasn't what you wanted?
A woman with her attributes could be anywhere, doing anything. Therefore, it followed that she was doing exactly what she wanted to do.
And that just didn't add up either.
He was messed up about her, that was the problem. He tipped back in his chair, stared up at the ceiling. Every time he looked at her, his brain went soft on him. There was something about that face, the voice, Jesus, the smell of her, that was making a sap out of him.
Maybe he couldn't see her as an operator because he didn't want to see her that way. He hadn't been this twisted up in a woman since . . . Actually, he'd never been this twisted up in a woman.
Practically then, professionally then, he should back off a bit on the personal contact. Whether or not she appeared to be his best conduit to Jack O'Hara, he couldn't use her if he couldn't get over her.
He could make an excuse, leave town for a few days. He could establish a base nearby where he could observe and record. And use his contacts and connections, as well as his own hacker skills, to dig deeper into the life and times of Elaine O'Hara aka Laine Tavish.
When he knew more, he'd decide how to handle her and come back. But meanwhile, he'd have to maintain some objective distance. No more dinners for two, no more spending the day with her at home, no more physical contact that couldn't lead to anything but complications.
He would check out in the morning, give her a quick call to tell her he'd been called back to New York and would be in touch. Keep the lines open, but ease back on the personal front.
A man couldn't do his job efficiently if he was wandering around in a sexual haze.
Satisfied with the plan, Max got up. He'd pack most of his things tonight, maybe go down afterward for a nightcap, then try to sleep off the feelings for her that were building much too quickly and much too inappropriately inside him.
The knock on the door distracted him. They'd already done the turndown, little chocolate mints on the pillows included. He half expected to see an envelope sliding under the door. Though he preferred all communications via e-mail, his clients often insisted on a hard copy fax for instructions.
When nothing appeared, he walked over, glanced through the peep. And came within a breath of swallowing his own tongue.
What the hell was she doing at his door? And what was she wearing?
Jesus Christ.
He backed up, rubbed a hand over his face, his heart. Professional instinct kicked in enough to have him hurrying back to the desk, shutting down his files, burying any hard paperwork, then doing a quick visual sweep for anything that might blow his cover.
He'd get her downstairs to the lounge, that's what he'd do. Get her down, in a public place, tell her he'd been called back, have a quick drink with her.
And move out. Move along. Move away.
He dragged a hand through his hair a couple of times, shook off the nerves. He worked up what he considered an easy, mildly surprised, mildly pleased expression and opened the door.
The full impact of her hadn't come through the peephole. Now the tongue he'd nearly swallowed rolled out again and all but plopped at his feet.
He couldn't quite focus on what she was wearing other than noticing it was black, it was short, and it displayed more curves than a Formula One race. Her legs were longer than he'd imagined, and ended in very high, very thin black heels.
All that fiery hair was scooped up somehow or other, and her eyes seemed bluer, brighter than ever. She'd slicked something dark and glossy and tantalizingly wet over her lips.
God help him.
"I woke up."
"You did. You certainly did."
"Can I come in?"
"Ah. Um." It was as coherent as he could manage, so he just stepped back. And when she walked by him, the scent of her wrapped around his glands, and squeezed.
"I didn't get a chance to thank you, so I thought I would."
"Thank you. Thank me," he corrected, and felt like an imbecile.
She smiled and, holding up the bottle of wine, wagged it slowly side to side. "How do yo
u feel about Merlot?"
"I feel pretty good about it."
It took all her willpower not to laugh. Was there anything that made a woman feel more of a woman than having a man stare at her as if he'd been bewitched? She took a step toward him and was wonderfully flattered when he took one in retreat. "Good enough to share?" she asked him.
"Share?"
"The wine."
"Oh." He'd had a couple of concussions in his day. They often gave the victim the same fuzzy, out-of-body sensation he was experiencing now. "Sure." He took the bottle she held out. "Sure. Sure."
"Well then."
"Well?" There seemed to be some sort of time lag between his brain and his mouth. "Oh, right. Ah, corkscrew." He glanced toward the mini-bar, but she reached in her purse.
"Try this." She offered him a corkscrew. One half of the handle was a naked woman, head to torso. The other was all leg.
"Cute," he managed.
"Kitschy," she corrected. "I have a small collection. Nice room," she added. "A lot of bed." She wandered to the window, eased the drapes apart a few inches. "I bet the view's wonderful."
"Oh yeah."
Perfectly aware his gaze was on her, she continued to look out the window and slowly peeled off the thin sweater. She heard the abrupt clunk of the wine bottle against wood and was satisfied the dress had done its job. From his viewpoint, there wasn't much of it, just a lot of her naked back framed by a bit of snug black.
She wandered away, toward the bed, and plucked one of the mints from the pillow. "Mmm, chocolate. Do you mind?"
The best he could do was a slow shake of his head. The cork came out of the bottle with a surprised pop and the words "Oh my God" rushed into his mind as she unwrapped the little mint, bit slowly into it.
She gave a sexy little moan, licked her lips. "I heard somewhere that money talks but chocolate sings. I like that." She walked to him, held the second half of the mint to his lips. "I'll share, too."
"You're killing me."
"Let's have some wine then, so you can die happy." She sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs. "Did I interrupt your work?"
"Reports. I'll get back to it." When I find my sanity, he decided. He poured wine, handed her a glass. And watched her watch him as she took the first, slow sip.
"It's been a while since anyone's tucked me in. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you, Max."
"You had a rough night, a hard day."
"Not as hard a day as I'd expected, thanks to you."
"Laine—"
"Let me thank you. It was easier doing what needed to be done with you there. I like spending time with you." She took another, longer sip. "I like wanting you, and speculating that you want me."
"Wanting you's squeezing the breath out of my throat, cutting off the oxygen to my brain. That wasn't the plan."
"Ever want to say screw the plan and go with impulse?"
"All the time."
She did laugh now, downed the wine and rose to pour another glass. After another sip, she walked to the door. "I don't. Or rarely do. But you have to respect the exceptions that make the rule."
She opened the door, hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob. She closed the door, locked it, leaned back against it. "If you don't like where this is going, better speak up."
He took a deep gulp of wine himself. "I have absolutely nothing to say."
"That's good because I was prepared to get rough."
He imagined the grin that split his face was big, and stupid. He didn't give a damn. "Really?"
She started back toward him. "I wasn't sure I'd be able to fight fair."
"That dress isn't fighting fair."
"Oh?" She took a last sip of wine, then set the glass aside. "Then I should just take it off."
"Let me. Please." He trailed a fingertip along the milky white skin edged with black. "Let me."
"Help yourself."
He forgot about practicality, professionalism. He forgot about the emotional and physical distance he'd decided would best suit his needs. He forgot about everything but the reality of her, the water-soft texture of her skin, the heady scent, the hot, ripe taste of her mouth when he gripped her hips, pulled her close and kissed her.
She enveloped him—those textures, that scent, that taste until they were—she was—everything he could want or need or imagine.
It was a mistake. Taking her now, like this, was a mistake and edged very close to the forbidden. Knowing that only added an irresistible element of danger to the whole.
He tugged the dress away from her shoulder, set his teeth on flesh. And when her head fell back, he worked his way back toward the little purr in her throat.
"Something to be said about plans though," he murmured, and bared her other shoulder. "I've got all sorts of plans for you."
"I was hoping." She fumbled her hand back to where she'd dropped her purse on the bed. "You're going to need this," she said, and pulled out a condom.
"At some point, we're also going to need a defibrillator and a fire extinguisher."
"Promises, promises."
He grinned. "I could go seriously crazy over you." He laid his lips on hers again, rubbed. "Is this one of those peel-out-of-it deals? The dress, I mean."
"Pretty much."
"Hot damn, a personal favorite." He worked slowly, drawing out the process with his mouth on hers until they were both ready to shudder. Then he drew back, took her hand so she could step out of the dress that pooled at her feet. And just looked at her.
She wore some sort of fascinating female construction of silk and lace that flirted over her breasts so they had little choice but to rise up, threaten to spill out. The black silk skimmed down her torso, nipping in her waist, molding over her hips to end in flirty little garters that held up sheer black stockings.
"I'm trying to think of something memorable to say, but it's really hard when all the blood's drained out of my head."
"Give it a shot."
"Wow."
"That's what I was shooting for." She reached out and began to unbutton his shirt. "I like the way you look at me. I did right from the first time. I especially like the way you're looking at me now."
"I see you even when I'm not looking. That's a first for me, and a little unnerving."
"Maybe some people are supposed to see each other. Maybe that's why this is happening so fast. I don't care why." She drew his shirt away, ran her hands up his chest, then locked them around his neck. "I don't care," she repeated and crushed her lips to his.
She only knew she wanted to go on feeling this way, to have these jolts of excitement shocking her system, to tremble with the sizzling flood of anticipation. To know the power of having a man's, this man's, complete attention and desire.
She wanted to be reckless, to take exactly what she wanted in greedy gulps for once in her life, and to think only of the moment, of the pleasure, of the passion.
When he spun her around, she arched back against him, lifting her arms to hook them around his neck, and gave his hands the freedom to run over her. Over lace, silk, flesh. He fed at her neck, at the curve of her shoulder while he touched her, aroused her. Her breath caught, released on a moan when his hand slid between her thighs. She pressed hers against his, rocked her hips and rose up on that hot wave of pleasure.
He imagined himself swinging her up, laying her on the bed to take the next stage with something approaching romance and finesse. But somehow they were tangled together on the neatly turned-down sheets in a desperate struggle to touch, to taste.
Her hair had spilled down, bright fire against the white. The scent of it, of her skin, dazed his senses until he wondered if he would ever take another breath without drawing her in.
"Do things to me." Her mouth was wild hunger on his. "Do everything to me."
He was lost in a storm of needs and greed, drowning in the heat of them even as he feasted on her, and she on him. As she moved under him, over him, surrounded him, he was rougher than he me
ant to be in a desperate search for more.
Her lungs were screaming, her heart galloping to the point of pain. Her skin was so hot it seemed it might melt off her bones. And God, it was glorious.
His hands were so strong, his mouth so ravenous. She could revel in the sensation of being taken over, body and mind. He tugged and pulled at snaps, impossibly tiny hooks, made her laugh breathlessly when he fumbled and cursed. Made her gasp in shock when he drove into her and shot her over the edge.
It was she who demanded it all, now, now, now ! And arched and opened, who cried out when he plunged inside her. Her vision blurred, her galloping heart stopped. Then everything, everything was clear as crystal, her heartbeat raging, her body racing as they took each other.
She could see his face, the lines and hollows, the shadow of the beard not shaved since morning, and his eyes, tiger eyes focused on hers. Then going darker, going opaque an instant before he buried his face in her hair and emptied into her.
***
Her body was drenched, saturated with pleasure, and her mind calm as a summer lake. She was trapped under his body, and delighted with herself and him. She could hear the ragged sound of his breathing. There was such satisfaction in knowing she'd caused that. Toying with his hair, she closed her eyes and let herself drift.
"You okay down there?" he murmured.
"I'm wonderful down here, thanks. You okay up there?"
"I may be paralyzed, but I'm feeling pretty good about it." He turned his head so his lips brushed the side of her neck. "Laine."
Eyes still closed, she smiled. "Max."
"I have to say . . . I have to say," he repeated as much for himself as her, "this is something I never expected when I . . . took this assignment."
"I like surprises. I stopped liking them along the way, but I'm remembering why I always liked surprises. It's because they just happen."
"If surprises deal with finding you at my door wearing a sexy black dress, I freaking love them."
"If I did it again, it wouldn't be a surprise, it would be a repeat."
"I can live with that. Where's Henry?"
"Henry?"
He pushed onto his elbows to look down at her. "You didn't leave him at home, did you? After what happened last night."