by Nora Roberts
She said nothing for a moment, a little surprised at how that smooth voice could so suddenly cut like a razor. Then she let out a sigh, because when she was wrong, she believed in admitting it. Even when it stung.
“Sorry, my mistake. Let’s just say I haven’t had a lot of people offering to help me without some very sticky strings attached.”
“Sex is for pleasure. Business is for … a different kind of pleasure. I don’t tie one to the other. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
Satisfied, he began to flip the coin through his fingers again. “I have some contacts in entertainment. Put together a tape in the next few weeks. I’ll pass it on.”
“Just like that? Why?”
“Because I like your voice. I like the package.”
She hesitated, looking for the strings, the drop-offs, the hidden traps, but couldn’t find any. “I appreciate it. A lot.” To seal the bargain, she held out a hand, then grinned in pure delight as the coin in his vanished. “Cool. Got any more tricks?”
“Too many to count.” Amused by her reaction, he brought the coin back, flipping it between the tips of two fingers. Clamping the cigar between his teeth, he held up two fists, then flashed his hands open, and the coin was gone.
Her laugh was quick, rusty and low as she leaned forward. “Do it again. I’ll figure it out.”
“Wanna bet?”
Her gaze shifted to his briefly. “I’ve got a very sharp eye.”
“Gorgeous eyes. They had my mouth watering when I still thought you were a teenage delinquent. Then there’s this hair.” His voice had softened as he reached out to run a hand down the stream of her ponytail. With his eyes on hers, he slipped the cap off, dropped it into her lap. “Fabulous. Where’s the coin, darling?”
“What?”
Progress, he thought, and smiled. He leaned back, lifted both hands again, palms out. “Nothing up my sleeve.”
When she realized her mind had simply clicked off for a very dangerous moment, she let out a long breath. “You’re good.”
“Damn right.” He picked up her cap. “Hold out your hand,” he told her, then, turning the cap over, spilled out the coin. The instant before it dropped into her palm, he snatched it out of the air. And it was gone.
She couldn’t help it; she laughed again. “Really good. Well, this has been fun, but I want to run through a couple of new numbers I’m hoping to work in.”
She rose, but found her wrists caught in those quick and clever hands. Something bumped inside her, hard, but she tipped her head back, met his gaze straight on.
“Feel that?” he murmured.
“What?”
“The connection.”
“Maybe. Let go.”
He held on just long enough to worry and irritate, then his fingers loosened, his hands dropped away. “No strings, Cat.”
“No strings,” she agreed. “And I like my hands free.” So saying, she reached up, cupped the back of his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.
She expected the jolt. She liked a good, hard jolt—or what was the point of a kiss? She’d already concluded there would be heat, and she enjoyed a solid blast of heat.
But it was more than a jolt when it knocked you flat. It was more than heat when it singed and sizzled through the blood.
She wanted to crawl right into it until her bones dissolved, until this fist of unexpected need loosened inside her. But her survival instinct was strong and keen and had her pulling back. “Well,” she managed, more than a little shaken when she couldn’t quite clear her head.
“Well,” Duncan echoed, then clamped his hands on her hips before she could escape. “My turn.”
He lowered his head, kept his mouth an inch from hers just long enough to hear her quick intake of breath, to see the gold ring around her pupils shimmer.
Then he rubbed his lips over hers, slow and easy.
She’d taken him by surprise before, and he was afraid it could become a habit. If he didn’t stay on his toes, didn’t stay in control, she’d be leading him around by the nose before the first week was up.
He didn’t intend to let that happen.
He knew how to pleasure a woman. How to give and how to take. His hands slid up, skimming her torso, the sides of her breasts, then curved around her back to bring her closer. Slowly, inch by inch, until their bodies bumped, brushed, held.
“Oh, hell.” Her oath was next door to a moan. Accepting the inevitable, she wound her arms around his neck.
Still his mouth did no more than play with hers, tormenting with nibbles, inciting with lazy strokes of the tongue, torturing with gentle nips along her jaw.
And finally, finally, she trembled against him.
His mouth took hers then, hot and hard, strangling the air in her lungs, misting the reason still struggling to surface in her brain. With a low purr of pleasure, she opened for him.
She flooded his senses. Tastes, scents, textures. When his hands fisted in her hair, her head arched back, welcoming him to take them both deeper. But there was no surrender. They met flash for flash now, mouths, bodies, needs fused into one. She strained against him, moved against him, sliding, pressing arousal to arousal.
He felt himself begin to slip, heard the animal inside him snarl and fight against its chain. He clawed his way back, forcing himself to gentle the kiss, to stroke his hands quietly over her before framing her face with them.
He waited for one more delicious tremor, then eased back.
His pulse was wild. A dozen hammers slammed against anvils inside him. Need tore like claws through his gut. But his hands remained gentle on her face as those gorgeous eyes of hers opened heavily.
She ran her tongue around her lips as if to absorb just a bit more of his flavor, and her breath came quickly.
“I guess we could call that a connection,” she said.
It made him smile. “Works for me. Come to my cabin after the show tonight. We’ll … connect.”
She let out a sigh because there wasn’t anything she wanted more, or could risk less. “Sugar, you are suicide, and I’ve got too much at stake to jump off a cliff right now.”
His fingers tightened just enough to hold her in place. “This doesn’t have anything to do with business, Cat.”
“I got that part.” She lifted her hands to his wrists. “And maybe we could even make that stick. That’s not what I mean.” She gave his wrists a quick squeeze before stepping back, reaching down for her cap and glasses. “You’re a heartbreaker, Duncan, and I can’t afford any cracks in mine.”
“I don’t break hearts. Don’t even bruise them.”
She laughed, slipped her glasses back in place. “I bet you believe that.” She tapped a finger to her lips, tossed the sassy kiss at him and got the hell out before she let herself believe it, too.
He started to go after her, then stopped himself. It would be, he realized, entirely too much like begging. The fact that he could almost picture himself doing so made his palms sweat.
He had to figure the odds here. Pacing, he slipped his hands into his pockets and fingered the coin. Wanting a woman was easy; it was natural. It was enjoyable.
Seducing one was all that and more.
He didn’t doubt he could seduce her. There was too much sizzling between them for either one of them to walk away without seeing it through.
And she was wrong, he thought with a frown. He wasn’t a heartbreaker. He’d never hurt a woman. Inevitably he began to ease away before emotions became tangled and messy and led to hurt on either side.
There was no reason for that to change at this stage of the game. She was more of a challenge than most, certainly more intriguing than any. And that raw, in-your-face sex appeal was like a slim feminine finger beckoning in the dark.
He was more than willing to answer the call—as long as it was on his terms.
All he had to do, Duncan mused, was convince her his terms were acceptable.
Considering, he pulled the coin out of hi
s pocket, flipped it high, caught it nimbly. “Heads, I win,” he murmured, and turning the coin between his two fingers, grinned at the twin faces on either side.
He was still grinning when the phone rang. Easing a hip onto the desk, he picked up the receiver. “Blade.”
“Say hello when you answer the phone! Where are your manners?”
The grin widened. “Hello, Grandpa.”
“That’s better. How’s the boat?”
“She’s … a princess. We’re heading toward Memphis and it’s hot as three hells.”
“Hah! I’ve got a nice breeze coming off the ocean here, and I’m enjoying a fine Cuban.”
“Which means Grandma’s out.”
“Woman’s off at some tea party. She’s nagging me about missing you.”
Anna MacGregor had never nagged a day in her life, but Duncan let that pass. “I’ll come up for a couple days in the fall.”
“I was thinking she might like a little ride on the river on your boat.”
“That’d be great. You let me know and we’ll roll out the red carpet.”
“Your brother was telling her about that new singer you’ve got there. Got your grandmother all fired up to hear her.”
“Cat Farrell.” Duncan pressed his lips together and tasted her. “She’s worth the price of a ticket.”
“Don’t I know that? I heard her myself, didn’t I? Told you she’d do.”
“I appreciate it. She was a hit last night. I heard some of the passengers talking about her show this morning.”
“Good, good. Sharp looks, too.”
“She makes a package,” Duncan murmured.
“The Irish are sturdy stock. Catherine Mary Farrell—Irish as they come.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed and he shifted as a thought—as uncomfortable as a tack in the seat—pricked his brain. “Catherine Mary? All I have on her paperwork here is Cat Farrell. How do you know her full name?”
“Ah, your brother,” Daniel said, cursing himself. “Mac mentioned it to me, and it stuck with me as it’s a pretty name—Catherine Mary.”
Duncan drummed his fingers on his knee. “So it is. I imagine she’ll keep it even after she marries the piano player.”
“What! What piano player?”
“The one she’s engaged to,” Duncan said easily. Got you, you meddling old fox. “Dabny Pentwhistle.”
“Pentwhistle? Pentwhistle? What kind of a name is that for a smart woman to stick herself with? Where the devil did he come from? She wasn’t engaged last week.”
“Wasn’t she? And how would you know?”
“Because I …” Sensing a trap, Daniel backtracked. “It pays me to know details. I’ve got an interest in that boat of yours, don’t I? Means I have an interest in who works on it and what they’re about, doesn’t it? Girl wants to marry some piano-playing Pentwhistle, that’s her business, but it pays me to know what’s what.”
“Now you know, don’t you? So if you had any half-baked ideas about setting me up with Catherine Mary Farrell, you can put them to rest.”
“Half-baked? Half-baked? Is that any way to talk to your grandfather? Why, I ought to take a strap to you.”
“So you’ve said before.” Grinning now, Duncan reached for his own cigar and relit it. “When are you going to?”
“Next time you’re within arm’s reach, laddie. See if I don’t. Boy your age sitting on some boat letting a Pentwhistle slip a woman like that out from under you. Why, it’s a sin. Girl’s got grit. Got guts and don’t you mistake it. She deserves the best.”
“And I’m the best?”
“Hah! A scoundrel is what you are. You’ll break your poor old granny’s heart whiling away your time on that river when you should be settling down and seeing to the future.”
“And making her babies to bounce on her knee. I know the drill, MacGregor.” Even as Daniel blustered, Duncan laughed. “I love you, Grandpa.”
“And so you should.” With a warm chuckle, Daniel shifted tactics. “Duncan, laddie, I’m only looking out for you. I want to see my favorite grandchild happy and settled before I die.”
Duncan was fully aware every one of the grandchildren was Daniel’s favorite. “You’ll never die. And if you do, you’ll come back and haunt the great-grandchildren until they’re paired up and procreating. Now go pick on Ian or one of the others. I’m on to you.”
“All right, all right.” But Daniel grinned fiercely at the phone. “Go play with your boat.”
“Exactly what I had in mind. Give my love to Grandma.”
“That I’ll do. Pentwhistle, hah!” Daniel muttered as he hung up, which made Duncan roar with laughter.
Chapter 14
Duncan Blade believed in romance, in the power and the beauty of it. In its small details and sweeping gestures. His brother often said romance was Duncan’s religion. And though he himself wouldn’t go quite that far, he did have absolute faith in its powers.
And in his experience, women were suckers for it.
He sent flowers to her cabin when they docked in Memphis, perfume when they stopped in Natchez, a heart-shaped trinket box when they turned into Baton Rouge.
And while they’d glided down the river toward all those places, he’d sought her out at odd moments, to invite her to dinner on his private balcony, for a moonlit walk on deck, for a quiet supper after her show.
Her answer was always the same. Forget it, sugar.
Cat Farrell, Duncan decided, was one tough nut, and she wasn’t cracking.
It wasn’t just maddening, Duncan thought as he studied the docks of New Orleans out his window. It was unreasonable. They’d sparked something in each other that was impossible to ignore. For him, anyway. Since the moment she’d walked out of his office nearly a week before, she hadn’t given him a single opportunity to get his hands on her again.
Not that she had avoided him, he mused. She wasn’t the type to shut herself in her cabin or duck into crowds. She was there, always there, wandering around the boat, chatting with passengers or crew, rehearsing in the lounge.
She didn’t stutter or look away when they came across each other, but would give him one of those slow, feline smiles, looking him dead in the eye.
She didn’t seem the least affected, even when he got close enough to smell the perfume she wore—perfume he’d given her, for God’s sake.
It was driving him crazy. She was driving him crazy.
But he was far from ready to call it a day.
If the combination of Duncan Blade and New Orleans couldn’t soften a woman up, there was no hope for humanity.
* * *
In her narrow bed, in her cabin with the thin shade pulled over the tiny window, Cat stretched luxuriously. She knew from the rhythm of the boat that they’d docked. After a week on board, she’d grown accustomed to the movements, the sounds, the feel of the Comanche Princess.
New Orleans was outside the window, she thought lazily. Beignets, tumbling flowers, cool jazz and drunken tourists. What more could a woman ask for? She had hours to explore it, to wander the narrow streets, to poke into charming shops, to sample the food the city was famous for and listen to street-corner musicians.
To get off the boat—and away from Dangerous Duncan. Her lips quirked. That was how she was thinking of him these days. A man who paid that much attention to a woman, who was that charming, that gorgeous, that sexy, was every bit as dangerous as a loaded gun.
And she had no intention of taking a stray bullet.
But Lord, she thought as she padded into her tiny bath to shower, the man had a way about him.
A way of looking at a woman out of those fabulous, dark chocolate eyes as if she were the sole focus of his world. A way of talking to her with that smoothly sexy, all-male voice as if he’d waited his whole life to speak to her. A way of touching her with those clever hands so that a simple brush on the shoulder sent echoes of anticipation straight to the core.
The charming son of a bitch was making her crazy.
She couldn’t afford even a short side trip into insanity.
Sending her flowers, she thought as she toweled off. It was so clichéd. But she was smart enough to know there was a reason clichés worked. Hadn’t she mooned over the blossoms, buried her face in them? Hadn’t she thought of him every damn time her gaze had landed on them?
And perfume. Never in her life had she owned real perfume. The kind that came in gorgeous bottles, cost the earth and made a woman feel like a queen. Worse, he’d known exactly what kind of scent would appeal to her, would make that glamorous bottle of fragrance irresistible.
She’d decided he’d been born knowing how to get to a woman.
But the trinket box had nearly done her in. It was so foolish, so useless, so pretty. She’d never had the time or opportunity to indulge in the foolish and useless, hadn’t realized such things would give her such pleasure.
Wrapped in a towel, she crossed the tiny cabin and picked up the box from where it sat on her little dresser. It was glossy white on white with a little pink bow at the tip of the heart. And it was empty, as she had no trinkets to put inside.
But it made her smile.
Still, she set it down and began to dress for a day of steamy summer heat. She knew what Dangerous Duncan was up to. It was a kind of campaign, she thought—carefully, strategically planned. And she was the hill he intended to take.
Once he’d won her and planted his flag—so to speak—he’d move on to the next campaign, the next hill.
“That’s what heartbreakers do,” she murmured.
She shrugged, tucking the hem of a simple white T-shirt into simple black shorts. It was fortunate she knew just how to handle him. She slipped on sandals, stuffed some cash in her pocket, then grabbed her cap and sunglasses.
When she pulled open her door, Duncan was just raising a hand to knock.
“Good, you’re up.”
It jolted her coming face-to-face with him when he’d been so heavily on her mind, and that was irritating. But she swung her glasses casually by the earpiece and cocked her head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you rarely climb out of bed until after noon.”
She only smiled. “Then why would you be knocking on my door at nine in the morning?”