DANGEROUS DECEPTION

by Kylie Brant

  Using his grip on her hand, he tugged her closer. The pulse was hammering at the base of her throat, and he dipped his head to taste it. Her scent lingered there, right there, where the blood beat madly under the skin, beneath his tongue.

  Her reaction called to something inside him, a wild and reckless streak that was carefully harnessed but never completely locked away. Most who knew him would swear it didn't exist. But right now it had him, and he was relishing the freedom.

  Pressing her lips open with his, he swallowed the protest she would have made. And she would have made one, he was certain of it. However much he demanded control, she strove for it, at least around him. There was a distance between them that she was usually careful to cultivate. Snaking an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer, denying her a physical distance even as he felt her trying to maintain an emotional one.

  The taste of her was foreign, forbidden. It called to everything inside him that he sought to tame. This was a bad idea. The worst. The realization didn't make the sudden wanting lessen. Didn't slow the heavy tide of blood from coursing through his veins. And when her tongue met his for the first time, the intimate glide more sure than tentative, he dove headfirst into sensation.

  Her response torched his hunger and ignited a need for more. Pulling her closer, he took the sensual battle a step deeper until they were sealed together, chests, hips, thighs. His mouth ravaged hers and was ravaged in turn. The flavor of her was heady, and he couldn't seem to get his fill. He jammed his fingers through her hair, cupped the back of her head and brought her nearer. A moment more, and the need that had risen so fast, burned so fiercely, would be quenched. Just one more instant to satiate himself with the twist of her lips beneath his, the exotic flavor of her that he couldn't have foreseen. Wouldn't forget.

  There was a burst of sound in the street behind them, and she started in his arms. Her reaction keyed his own, and a belated awareness of their surroundings filtered through him. The blare of a car horn, the accompanying shouted suggestion, had logic returning.

  Releasing her, he took a step away. And then, for good measure, another. The distance helped to keep him from taking her in his arms again as she stared at him, her eyes more green than brown, huge and deep.

  "What the hell was that?"

  The question, delivered in that faintly aghast tone, was almost enough to have him smiling. Easing a hip against the front fender of the car, he said, "If you have to ask, I must be out of practice." She shook her head furiously, one hand coming out in protest, almost as though she expected him to reach for her again. Which of course, he wouldn't. He folded his arms across his chest, just to make sure.

  "Don't go getting all smooth and charming on me, Tremaine. This—" the gesture she made with her hand was unmistakable "—can't happen."

  "I couldn't agree more." And then, unable to resist, he added, "Why?"

  She'd half turned away, but his question had her whirling back. "Why? Why? Because…" Words seemed to fail her for the moment. "Because it's a terrible idea, that's why. Mucking up business with personal stuff is the worst way to run an investigation."

  "Very true. I usually frown on 'mucking up business,' as a general rule."

  She peered at him suspiciously, but he was careful to keep his expression bland. "Well then, that's settled. This shouldn't happen again."

  "It won't." The words were tinged with regret and filled him with a vague sense of surprise. Her reminder should have been unnecessary. Of course something so inappropriate couldn't be allowed to occur again. He didn't prey on his employees. He was normally quite adept at keeping his personal and business worlds from colliding.

  "Okay." She didn't quite manage to keep the wariness from her voice. Backing away, she nearly tripped over the curb. He didn't trust himself to reach out and steady her. "If you're still intent on tagging along tomorrow…"

  "I am."

  "…how about if we just agree to meet there? I've got the address in the copy of the file you made for me. Is 10:00 a.m. all right with you?"

  He thought of the meetings he'd already rescheduled. "Make it one." It would play hell with his calendar tomorrow, but he could go in early, get caught up. He didn't usually have to force the single-minded focus reserved for business.

  But right now, watching Tori turn and walk back into the tavern, he had a feeling that focus was going to be more difficult to summon than usual.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  "You didn't hear a word I said."

  The feminine words were uttered evenly enough. It was only experience that had James's sense of caution heightening. Raising his brows, he looked directly at his little sister and lied through his teeth. "Of course I did."

  Analiese Tremaine Jones tossed her short blond curls and snorted. "Yeah, and pigs fly. I know you have a million things on your CEO mind, oh elder one, but maybe you could show a little interest in the way I'm going to save you about one point five million." After a pause she added, "And a smidgen of gratitude wouldn't be amiss, either."

  Assuming what he hoped was a properly chastened expression, James folded his hands and recited the gist of her conversation. "You've figured a way to up the speed on the file-wiping software. Although it's only on paper right now, you're pretty sure you can accomplish the multiple overwrites at least twice as fast as it is currently, without using our new chip, which—you're right—will save us a nice bundle of change."

  Her blue eyes, so like his own, narrowed at his glib summary. "And how did I say I was going to accomplish it?"

  Neatly dodging that bullet, he gave a careless shrug. "Through genius, of course. I expected nothing less of you." To divert her from his lack of attention, he added, "You must have been here all night working on it. I can't imagine Jones is too happy about that."

  Her smile was innocent. Too innocent. "Nice try, but we're still talking about you. It's not like you to be distracted when we've got this much going on. I mean, that's how a normal person would react." She delivered the dual compliment/insult with the smoothness of family. "Whereas you … you thrive on pressure and deadlines."

  He reached out, yanked a curl before she could duck. "Brat. We're forty-eight hours from delivery of the Pentagon contract and within a week of the Technology Expo. I have just a few things on my mind."

  "Mmm-hmm." Analiese twirled around in her chair, studied him speculatively. He reminded himself that this woman, despite her deceptively petite angelic looks, could put a bloodhound to shame if she caught wind of anything suspicious. "What about the bid on the newest Pentagon contract? They announce their selection soon, don't they?"

  "They do, yes, but we'll be ready." Nothing, especially not some cryptic notes from an anonymous coward, was going to delay the bid. He made a mental note to speak to Jones about beefing up the security around their homes, and especially surrounding Ana. He wasn't willing to take a risk with her well-being.

  She waited, but when he offered nothing more, she made a face. "Secretive to the end, as usual." Giving a theatrical sigh, she switched topics. "What time did you come to work this morning? It was well before dawn, I know that."

  "Early." He strolled past her, crouched down to look at her computer screen. Once he'd gotten home from Juicy's, there had been little chance of sleep. The information the man had given them triggered a seemingly endless stream of scenarios playing across his mind. Which just heightened his frustration, because he was no closer than before to finding definitive answers.

  But that hadn't been what had had him bolting from his bed before the clock had struck three. Those hadn't been the only visions that had haunted him, keeping sleep at bay. Every time he'd shut his eyes, there'd been a sexy, sultry image of Tori drifting behind his eyelids. A memory of the faintly exotic taste of her. The way her body had fit perfectly against his. Followed, of course, by all the reasons she could never be in his arms again.

  Since self-torture really wasn't his thing, it had seemed more
productive to get up, dress and go to work. As Ana had pointed out, he certainly had enough going on here to keep him busy.

  His fingers went to the keyboard, and he was immediately elbowed for his efforts. "No way, this is my baby." Slapping his hands away, she added, "You put me in charge, right?"

  "Of course, but I was just…"

  "…going to go back to your own office and leave me alone? Brilliant idea." Ana stood and gave him a small shove. "I'll let you know when I get this off paper and functioning. Should be before I leave this afternoon."

  With real reluctance James tore his eyes from the keyboard. One of the most difficult lessons learned in running a company this size had been learning to delegate. And it never got easier. "I'll check in later. I have a … an appointment. I'll be off property for a few hours."

  Ana stopped shielding the keyboard with her body and surveyed him. "What kind of appointment?"

  Back on familiar ground, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "One that's none of your business. I'll catch up with you tomorrow."

  She fell back in her seat, folded her arms across her chest and stared at him, her suspicious little brain obviously clicking away. "What's wrong?"

  Determining that discretion was definitely the better part of valor, he began moving to the door. "Nothing. Just a lot of irons in the fire."

  "Which isn't out of the ordinary for you. So there's trouble or a woman. Which is it?"

  "Save that imagination of yours for solving the overwipe problem. You're wasting it on me."

  From the dejected look on her face, he'd managed to convince her. "Probably. I don't know what I was thinking … there hasn't been a woman born who could tear you away from work when you were busy. Not that we all wouldn't pay money to see you fall hard and fast, but…"

  He closed the door with a quiet snick, effectively shutting her out. Unfortunately, he wasn't as successful at shutting out the thoughts conjured by her words.

  It wasn't a woman dragging him away from work, he thought, striding back to his office. Ana was right, no female had ever had that kind of control over him. But there was a decades-old mystery to be solved, and damned if he was going to quit before he had all the answers.

  The fact that Tori Corbett was all wrapped up in that mystery was just a detail he'd have to learn to ignore.

  Tori leaned against the counter of Sanderson's Towing and Recovery and flipped through the papers the owner had obligingly dug out of the filing cabinet for her. He'd been obliging, at least, once she'd flashed a hundred-dollar bill in front of him. She didn't think Tremaine would worry overmuch about the cost of her cure for the man's reticence. He struck her as a man interested in results, and money had a nice way of eliciting cooperation.

  Thoughts of what else had interested James Tremaine last night had the pages trembling in her hands and her focus on them blurring. She'd recovered, almost, from the rocketing response his touch had fired in her. But it would be a while longer before she was able to forgive herself for becoming a mass of stuttering hormones in his arms.

  Her sudden scowl had the proprietor backing carefully away from the counter. Maybe she hadn't done herself any favors by steering clear of men since her divorce. Surely if she hadn't been abstinent for so long, she could have tempered her response a bit better. As it was, she was very much afraid that had it not been for the interruption, she'd have jumped the man's bones then and there.

  And what an ignominious conquest that would have been, she silently jeered at herself. Ripping off James Tremaine's shirt in front on Juicy's, in one of the seediest neighborhoods that side of New Orleans. With her luck, some enterprising cameraman would have been around and the pictures could have been adorning this morning's tabloids. If mortification built character, they'd be erecting a freaking statue in her name right now.

  Scanning the second paper in the file, she flipped it over to look at the next page. The only consolation she'd had in the long sleepless night that had followed their parting was that she'd been the one to step back. Eventually. And once she had, it hadn't taken long for sheer horror to replace the desire pumping through her veins. Getting involved with a client was inviting all sorts of seamy complications. Getting involved with James Tremaine in particular was about as bright as throwing herself in front of a fast-moving bus.

  She'd lived, briefly and unhappily, in his monied sphere once. Or at least as close to it as she ever wanted to be. The people she'd met then, her ex and in-laws especially, had epitomized the term shallow. She'd encountered puddles deeper. She wasn't going to willingly dance the upper crust two-step ever again.

  As the door opened behind her, her attention was captured by the sight of her dad's scrawled signature on the page. She slowed, read more carefully. It wasn't unexpected. In the file Tremaine had copied for her, there had been mention of this place, as well as the lack of any useful leads it had elicited. Still, there was an odd pang knowing she was following in his path, literally and figuratively.

  Because her eyes wanted to mist, she blinked them rapidly before straightening to look at the man who'd joined her at the counter.

  "Tori." The slightly intimate note to his voice jump-started her pulse, conjuring up a smoky image of their kiss last night. He must have come straight from the office, as he was fully decked out in corporate warrior mode. She recognized the Savile Row suit and Versace tie, but was forced to admit that in his case, the man definitely made the clothes, and not vice versa.

  When she was certain her voice would be steady, she said, "Mr. Sanderson was kind enough to dig around for the records on the car's recovery." She nudged the pages toward James and waited as he thumbed through them, skimming quickly.

  He looked up and flicked a glance at the apple-faced, narrow-shouldered man behind the counter. "You the owner?"

  The man straightened, hitched up his pants. "That's right."

  "You wouldn't have been at the time this car came in. Is your father still around?"

  Sanderson pursed his lips. "Pa don't have much to do with the business anymore. He's semiretired."

  "Is he around?"

  "He's probably out back."

  "Good. Get him." His words were repeated politely enough, but imbued with unmistakable command.

  Tori watched the owner shuffle out the back door, into what was presumably a shop area. Irritation arrowed through her. Tremaine had managed to accomplish with two words what she knew intuitively would have cost her another fifty bucks. "Neat trick. Do you do magic, too?"

  James slanted her a look as he spread the papers out to peruse. "I thought you were going to wait for me."

  "Traffic wasn't too bad and I arrived sooner than expected." She inched away, just to give him room. Certainly not because she needed the physical distance between them. Nodding toward the papers, she added,

  "There's nothing of interest here. Just a record of the call and costs for towing and storing the car until it went to salvage. A notation made by the mechanic who conducted the physical examination. My dad collected the personal effects for you?" "There wasn't much."

  Sympathy stirred. The page hadn't detailed the contents of the box her father had picked up. The ladies would have had purses. Perhaps a shoe or two had jolted loose in the crash. She tried to suppress the mental image of James, barely more than a boy, receiving that box, symbolic of the responsibility that circumstances had thrust upon him.

  The man that walked through the back door was wiping his hands on a greasy cloth. Although his careful gait and the seams etched into his face bespoke at least eight decades, his gaze was alert enough as he surveyed them. "I'm Guy Sanderson. M'boy said you wanted to see me?"

  "We wanted to ask you a few questions about a vehicle you recovered twenty years ago," Tori put in smoothly. She picked up the file folder and held it out so he could see the label on it.

  Jamming the cloth into one hand, he reached the other deep into the pocket of his coveralls, drew out a pair of glasses. "Can't read a damn thing without m
y bifocals," he grumbled. "'Course at my age, I guess I'm lucky I still have my sight." He peered closely at the folder, moving his lips silently. Then he swung his head slowly from one side to the other. "Don't recall it exactly. Mebbe if I take a look at them papers…"

  James pushed them together and handed them to him. But rather than taking them, the old man stared hard at him. "Seen you before," he said. "Take me a minute to recollect where…" He snapped his fingers. "I know. It was in them society pages my wife always has laying around. Fancy folk going to useless shindigs." He stared harder at James, and then studied the page lying on top of the papers.

  "Tremaine." His gnarled fist thumped on the counter soundly. "Yep, I 'member now." He nodded sagely. "Nothing wrong with my memory, just takes longer to get it working at my age. Yer the one what runs that comp'ny nearby. We towed the wreckage from the accident what killed your folks. Terrible accident, that."

  Tori sent James a quick look. If the older man's verbal meanderings had awakened bad memories, it didn't show in his expression. "That's what we wanted to talk to you about. The papers list every part you managed to sell off the car." The frame, two tires, axle rods, bumpers and windows had been a loss. Everything else imaginable had found a new home, down to the ash tray and cigarette lighter.

  Sanderson nodded. "There's nothing left of it now, though. See?" With one bony index finger he stabbed at the faded imprint stamped across the top page. "It had been stripped down to its frame, and that was sprung so it was pretty worthless. When there's nothing useful left we sell it for scrap metal. This one has been gone for, oh…" He scratched his jaw, stared into space. "Seems like two, three years now."

  Glancing at the date affixed below the stamp, Tori found he was correct. Maybe his memory would prove useful yet. "What about the front left fender? From the accident photos it appeared seriously damaged, yet you still managed to sell them."