"A long conversation with Agent Devereaux and his superior."
Her eyes flew open again as she struggled away from his hands. "When? What did they say?"
"You could say the stew's simmering. It'll take a couple of days. You'll have to be patient."
"I want to talk to him myself. I think he should-"
"You'll have your shot at him tomorrow. The next day, at the latest." He drew her hands behind her back, handcuffing her wrists with his fingers. "What's going to happen will happen soon enough. I know the when, I know the where."
"Then-"
"Tonight, it's just you and me."
"Tell me-"
"I'm going to show you," he murmured. "Show you just how easy it is to think of nothing else, to feel nothing else. To want nothing else." With his eyes on hers, he teased her mouth. "I wasn't gentle with you before."
"It doesn't matter."
"I don't regret it." He nipped lightly at her lower lip, then soothed the small pain with his tongue. "It's just that seeing you tonight, in your quiet little suit, makes me want to treat you like a lady. Until it drives you crazy."
Her laugh was breathless as his tongue danced up her throat. "I think you already are."
"I haven't even started."
With his free hand, he nudged the jacket from her shoulder. She wore a sheer pastel blouse underneath that made him think of summer teas and formal garden parties. While his mouth roamed over her face and throat, he traced his fingers over the sheer cloth and the lace beneath.
Her body was already quivering. She thought it ridiculous that he held her arms captive, that she allowed it. But there was a dreamy excitement at having him touch her this way, slowly, experimentally, thoroughly.
She felt his breath against her flesh as he opened her blouse, and the moist warmth of his tongue cruising over the tops of her breast just above, then just beneath, the chemise. She knew she was still standing, her feet on the floor, her legs pressed back against the bed, but it felt like floating. Floating, while he lazily savored her as if she were a banquet to be sampled at his whim.
Her skirt slithered down her legs. His hand trailed up. Her murmur of approval was low and long as his fingers toyed seductively with the hook of her garter.
"So unexpected, Mary Ellen." With one expert flick, he unsnapped the front.
"Practical," she said on a gasp as his fingers skimmed up toward the heat. "Cheaper this way, because I'm always- running them."
"Delightfully practical."
Struggling against the need to rush, he laid her back on the bed. In the name of Finn, how could he have known that the sight of that strong, angular body in bits of lace would rip his self-control to shreds?
He wanted to devour, to conquer, to possess.
But he had promised her some tenderness.
He knelt over her, lowered his mouth to hers, and kept his word.
And he was right. In mere moments she understood he was so very right. It was easy to think of nothing but him. To feel nothing but him. To want nothing but him.
She was rocked in the cradle of his gentleness, her body as alive as it had been the night before, certainly as desired as it had been but with the added aspect of being treasured for a femininity she so often forgot.
He savored her, and sent her gliding. He explored and showed her new secrets of herself. All the rush and fury they had indulged in the night before had shifted focus. Now the world was slow, the air was soft, and passion was languid.
And when she felt his heart thudding wildly against hers, when his murmurs became urgent, breathless, she understood that he was as seduced as she by what they made together.
She opened for him, drawing him in, heat to heat, pulse to pulse. When his body shuddered, it was she who cradled him.
CHAPTER 9
We're wasting time."
"On the contrary," Sebastian said, pausing at a shop window to examine an outfit on a stylized, faceless mannequin. "What we're doing is basic, even intricate, groundwork for the operation."
"Shopping?" She made a disgusted sound and hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. "Shopping for an entire day?"
"My dear Sutherland, I'm quite fond of the way you look in jeans, but as the wife of an affluent businessman you need a more extensive wardrobe."
"I've already tried on enough stuff to clothe three women for a year. It'll take a tractor-trailer to deliver it all to your house."
He gave her a bland look. "It was easier to convince the FBI to cooperate than it is you."
Because that made her feel ungrateful and petty, she squirmed. "I'm cooperating. I've been cooperating for hours. I just think we have enough."
"Not quite." He gestured toward the dress in the display. "Now this would make a statement."
Mel chewed on her lower lip as she studied it. "It has sequins."
"You have religious or political objections to sequins?"
"No. It's just that I'm not the glittery type. I'd feel like a jerk. And there's hardly anything to it." She flicked her gaze over the tiny strapless black dress, which left the mannequin's white legs bare to midthigh. "I don't see how you could sit down in it."
"I seem to recall a little number you wore to go to a bar a few weeks ago."
"That was different. I was working." At his patient, amused look, she grimaced. "Okay, okay, Donovan, you made your point."
"Be a good soldier," he said, and patted her cheek. "Go in and try it on."
She grumbled and muttered and swore under her breath, but she was a good soldier. Sebastian roamed the boutique, selecting accessories and thinking of her.
She didn't give a hang for fashion, he mused, and was more embarrassed than pleased that she could now lay claim to a wardrobe most woman would envy. She would play her part, and play it well. She would wear the clothes he'd selected and be totally oblivious to the fact that she looked spectacular in them.
As soon as it was possible, she would slip back into her jeans and boots and faded shirts. And be equally oblivious to the fact that she looked equally spectacular in them.
By Merlin's beard, you have it bad, Donovan, he thought as he chose a silver evening bag with an emerald clasp. His mother had once told him that love was more painful, more delightful and more unstoppable when it came unexpectedly.
How right she had been.
The last thing he'd expected was to feel anything more than an amused attraction for a woman like Mel. She was tough, argumentative, prickly and radically independent. Hardly seductive qualities in a woman.
She was also warm and generous, loyal and brave, and honest.
What man could resist an acid-tongued woman with a caring heart and a questing mind? Certainly not Sebastian Donovan.
It would take time and patience to win her over completely. He didn't have to look to know. She was much too cautious-and, despite her cocky exterior, too insecure-to hand over her heart with both hands until she was sure of its reception.
He had time, and he had patience. If he didn't look to be sure, it was because he felt it would be unfair to both of them. And because, in a deep, secret chamber of his own heart, he was afraid he would look and see her walking away.
"Well, I got it on," Mel griped behind him. "But I don't see how it's going to stay up for long."
He turned. And stared.
"What is it?" Alarmed, she slapped a hand to the slight swell of her breasts above the glittery sequins and looked down. "Do I have it on backwards or something?"
The laugh did the trick of starting his heart again. "No. You wear it very well. There's nothing that raises a man's blood pressure as quickly as a long, slim woman in a black dress."
She snorted. "Give me a break."
"Perfect, perfect." The saleswoman came over to pluck and peck. Mel rolled her eyes at Sebastian. "It fits like a dream."
"Yes," he agreed. "Like a dream."
"I have some red silk evening pants that would be just darling on her."
"Donovan," M
el began, a plea in her voice, but he was already following the eager clerk.
Thirty minutes later, Mel strode out of the store. "That's it. Case closed."
"One more stop."
"Donovan, I'm not trying on any more clothes. I'd rather be staked to an anthill."
"No more clothes," he promised.
"Good. I could be undercover on this case for a decade and not wear everything."
"Two weeks," he told her. "It won't take longer than two weeks. And by the time we've made the rounds at the casinos, the clubs, attended a few parties, you'll have made good use of the wardrobe."
"Two weeks?" She felt excitement begin to percolate through the boredom. "Are you sure?"
"Call it a hunch." He patted her hand. "I have a feeling that what we do in Tahoe will be enough to set the dominoes tumbling on this black-market operation."
"You never told me exactly how you convinced the feds to let us go with this." had been but with the added aspect of being treasured for a femininity she so often forgot.
He savored her, and sent her gliding. He explored and showed her new secrets of herself. All the rush and fury they had indulged in the night before had shifted focus. Now the world was slow, the air was soft, and passion was languid.
And when she felt his heart thudding wildly against hers, when his murmurs became urgent, breathless, she understood that he was as seduced as she by what they made together.
She opened for him, drawing him in, heat to heat, pulse to pulse. When his body shuddered, it was she who cradled him.
CHAPTER 9
"We're wasting time."
"On the contrary," Sebastian said, pausing at a shop window to examine an outfit on a stylized, faceless mannequin. "What we're doing is basic, even intricate, groundwork for the operation."
"Shopping?" She made a disgusted sound and hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. "Shopping for an entire day?"
"My dear Sutherland, I'm quite fond of the way you look in jeans, but as the wife of an affluent businessman you need a more extensive wardrobe."
"I've already tried on enough stuff to clothe three women for a year. It'll take a tractor-trailer to deliver it all to your house."
He gave her a bland look. "It was easier to convince the FBI to cooperate than it is you."
Because that made her feel ungrateful and petty, she squirmed. "I'm cooperating. I've been cooperating for hours. I just think we have enough."
"Not quite." He gestured toward the dress in the display. "Now this would make a statement."
Mel chewed on her lower lip as she studied it. "It has sequins."
"You have religious or political objections to sequins?"
"No. It's just that I'm not the glittery type. I'd feel like a jerk. And there's hardly anything to it." She flicked her gaze over the tiny strapless black dress, which left the mannequin's white legs bare to midthigh. "I don't see how you could sit down in it."
"I seem to recall a little number you wore to go to a bar a few weeks ago."
"That was different. I was working." At his patient, amused look, she grimaced. "Okay, okay, Donovan, you made your point."
"Be a good soldier," he said, and patted her cheek. "Go in and try it on."
She grumbled and muttered and swore under her breath, but she was a good soldier. Sebastian roamed the boutique, selecting accessories and thinking of her.
She didn't give a hang for fashion, he mused, and was more embarrassed than pleased that she could now lay claim to a wardrobe most woman would envy. She would play her part, and play it well. She would wear the clothes he'd selected and be totally oblivious to the fact that she looked spectacular in them.
As soon as it was possible, she would slip back into her jeans and boots and faded shirts. And be equally oblivious to the fact that she looked equally spectacular in them.
By Merlin's beard, you have it bad, Donovan, he thought as he chose a silver evening bag with an emerald clasp. His mother had once told him that love was more painful, more delightful and more unstoppable when it came unexpectedly.
How right she had been.
The last thing he'd expected was to feel anything more than an amused attraction for a woman like Mel. She was tough, argumentative, prickly and radically independent. Hardly seductive qualities in a woman.
She was also warm and generous, loyal and brave, and honest.
What man could resist an acid-tongued woman with a caring heart and a questing mind? Certainly not Sebastian Donovan.
It would take time and patience to win her over completely. He didn't have to look to know. She was much too cautious-and, despite her cocky exterior, too insecure-to hand over her heart with both hands until she was sure of its reception.
He had time, and he had patience. If he didn't look to be sure, it was because he felt it would be unfair to both of them. And because, in a deep, secret chamber of his own heart, he was afraid he would look and see her walking away.
"Well, I got it on," Mel griped behind him. "But I don't see how it's going to stay up for long."
He turned. And stared.
"What is it?" Alarmed, she slapped a hand to the slight swell of her breasts above the glittery sequins and looked down. "Do I have it on backwards or something?"
The laugh did the trick of starting his heart again. "No. You wear it very well. There's nothing that raises a man's blood pressure as quickly as a long, slim woman in a black dress."
She snorted. "Give me a break."
"Perfect, perfect." The saleswoman came over to pluck and peck. Mel rolled her eyes at Sebastian. "It fits like a dream."
"Yes," he agreed. "Like a dream."
"I have some red silk evening pants that would be just darling on her."
"Donovan," Mel began, a plea in her voice, but he was already following the eager clerk.
Thirty minutes later, Mel strode out of the store. "That's it. Case closed."
"One more stop."
"Donovan, I'm not trying on any more clothes. I'd rather be staked to an anthill."
"No more clothes," he promised.
"Good. I could be undercover on this case for a decade and not wear everything."
"Two weeks," he told her. "It won't take longer than two weeks. And by the time we've made the rounds at the casinos, the clubs, attended a few parties, you'll have made good use of the wardrobe."
"Two weeks?" She felt excitement begin to percolate through the boredom. "Are you sure?"
"Call it a hunch." He patted her hand. "I have a feeling that what we do in Tahoe will be enough to set the dominoes tumbling on this black-market operation."
"You never told me exactly how you convinced the feds to let us go with this."
"I have a history with them. You could say I called in a few favors, made some promises."
She stopped to look in another store window, not to peruse the wares, but because she needed a moment to chose her words. "I know I couldn't have gotten them to back me without you. And I know that you don't really have a stake in any of this."
"I have the same stake as you." He turned her to face him. "You don't have a client, Sutherland. No retainer, no fee."
"That doesn't matter."
"No." He smiled and kissed her brow. "It doesn't. Sometimes you're involved simply because there's a chance you can make a difference."
"I thought it was because of Rose," Mel said slowly. "And it is, but it's also because of Mrs. Frost. I can still hear the way she was crying when we took David away."
"I know."
"It's not that I'm a do-gooder," she said, suddenly embarrassed. He kissed her once more.
"I know. There are rules." He took her hand, and they began to walk again.
She took her time, keeping her voice light, as she touched on something that had been nagging at her brain for days.
"If we can really get set up by the end of the week, we'll be sort of living together for a while."
"Does that bother you?"
"Well, no.
If it doesn't bother you." She was beginning to feel like a fool, but it was important she make him understand she wasn't the kind of woman who mixed fantasy with reality. "We'll be pretending that we're married. That we're in love and everything."
"It's convenient to be in love when you're married."
"Right." She let out a huff of breath. "I just want you to know that I can play the game. I can be good at it. So you shouldn't think that-"
He toyed with her fingers as they walked. "Shouldn't think what?"
"Well, I know that some people can get carried away, or mix up the way things are with the way they're pretending they are. I just don't want you to get nervous that I'd do that."
"Oh, I think my nerves can stand the pretense of you being in love with me."
He said it so lightly that she scowled down at the sidewalk. "Well, good. Fine. Just so we know where we stand."
"I think we should practice." He whipped her around so that she collided with him.
"What?"
"Practice," he repeated. "So we can be sure you can pull off the role of the loving wife." He held her a little closer. "Kiss me, Mary Ellen."
"We're out on the street. We're in public."
"All the more reason. It hardly matters how we behave privately. You're blushing."
"I am not."
"You certainly are, and you'll have to watch that. I don't think it would embarrass you to kiss a man you've been married to for-what is it? Five years. And, according to our established cover, we lived together a full year before that. You were twenty-two when you fell in love with me."
"I can add," she muttered.
"You wash my socks."
Her lips quirked. "The hell I do. We have a modern marriage. You do the laundry."
"Ah, but you've given up your career as an ad executive to make a home."
"I hate that part." She slipped her arms around his neck. "What am I supposed to do all day?"
"Putter." He grinned. "Initially, we'll be on vacation, establishing our new home. We'll spend a lot of time in bed."
"Well, all right." She grinned back. "Since it's for a good cause."
She did kiss him then, long and deep, dancing her tongue over his, feeling his heart pick up its beat and race with hers. Then, slowly, she inched away.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 265