knife out of his ankle sheath. It was just as well that he’d left the pistol, considering it out of character for a wealthy businessman. He’d figured that the knife was an accessory that any man abroad in an unfamiliar foreign city might choose. He felt naked without it. But his hands and feet were weapons themselves after years of intensive training in various martial arts disciplines.
McCloud took his knife. Ward stepped up, gesturing for him to lift his arms. “Excuse me,” he said, sounding far from apologetic.
Val submitted to a thorough pat down. “Do you two work for the club or for Ms. Steele personally?”
“We do our job,” Ward said. “We don’t talk about it.”
Fair enough. McCloud opened a door to an adjoining room, and gestured for him to enter. It was large, candlelit, a table positioned next to a floor-to-ceiling window with a spectacular view of the evening cityscape and the expanse of Elliott Bay.
“Wait here,” Ward said. “Ms. Steele will be in when she’s ready.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Val looked around at the beautifully appointed room. On one side was a long conference table with chairs around it. Against the opposite wall was a lavishly stocked bar, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, a bowl of fruit, a crystal carafe of water, an assortment of glasses. The beige carpet woven of sand-grass had a suble, complex pattern and a sweet, earthy scent. Low, intimate chairs faced each other over the dining nook. It seemed a spot for a lovers’ tryst, not a business meeting.
He wondered at the choice of place. Probably for the privacy, the controlled atmosphere. Ease of monitoring entrances and exits.
He wondered if he was being watched, and sat on the urge to look around for the surveillance equipment. If these people were as professional as they appeared, he would not find it, and he would reveal too much about himself by searching. Val Janos, the pampered Roman uomo d’affare, was not paranoid. He had no reason not to simply pour himself a drink, sit down, and enjoy the view.
Val did exactly that, but he let his foot tap with the jittery impatience of a rich man not accustomed to being kept waiting. It was not good to seem overly controlled, either. That, too, was incongruous.
He stared out at the city lights and added data to the matrix. Watched it shift and turn as he prepared his mind to take in more. To observe all, forget nothing.
The door opened. The anteroom beyond was brighter than the room he was in, and Steele was poised in the door with her face in shadow, backlit for maximum effect. Her slender, gracefully curved body was clothed in black, sinuous as a cat. She held a large leather case. He’d asked her to bring a wide range of designs.
He rose to his feet as she walked in. She gave him a brief nod of greeting, turned to lay her case upon the large conference table, and crossed the room toward him with that loose, feline gait that had fascinated him on the video footage.
She stared into his face. The matrix flashed, sparked and melted in his mind into soup under her direct, unflinching gaze.
He kept a bland smile on his face as he regrouped. He hadn’t been prepared for the physical effect of her upon his senses.
The sheer, raw, electric force of her. He was buzzing, breathless.
Her costume was elegantly simple. Snug black trousers, gleaming, spike-heeled black boots and a tailored black silk blouse, to set off a dazzling array of collars, pendants, earrings. Her hands were loaded with rings, her wrists with bracelets. Her hair was slicked back with gel, plastered to her head and twisted into an intricate knot, which was stabbed through by cruelly sharp sticks, adorned with a snarl of silver and obsidian beadwork. The look was severe and striking.
Her gaze did not waver. His heart quickened. His cock stirred.
Don’t, he told himself. His dick had no say in this. Detach. Three steps back. Seduction yes, but controlled seduction.
Her face was both flawless and unique. Elegant bone structure, each feature bordering on perfection; her lips lush and full and yet delicate in a way that bee-stung silicone lips could never be. The jut of her cheekbone was echoed by the sweep of her eyebrows. Her piercing eyes were huge, tilted at the corners. Her lashes were long and curling.
Hazel green. Not her original color. His lust to know their real color startled him. She wore no makeup on her fine-grained, flawless skin, and needed none. Just a slick of colorless gloss on her lips.
“Mr. Janos.” She also pronounced his name correctly. Her voice was low, husky, but intensely feminine, full of rich colors, spices, smoky sweet overtones. It went straight to his groin, like a bold caress.
“Ms. Steele.” He held out his hand. She hesitated, just long enough to make him consider dropping it, but instinct prodded him to persevere.
She took it, finally. Her skin was soft and smooth. The chilly, textured hard metal of her jewelry was a sharp contrast. A shock of electric awareness shot up his arm from the physical contact, zinging through his nerves, making lights flash, bells ring inside him.
She felt it, too. He sensed her sudden stillness, the way her smile tightened. He released her hand reluctantly. The silence between them felt suddenly awkward, too long. Charged with meaning.
“Would you prefer to conduct our conversation in Italian, Signor Janos?” she asked him, in flawless Italian. “We could, if it would be more comfortable for you. It’s all the same to me.”
Interesting that she would let him choose the language. He could sense her mind-set shifting in a way that wasn’t American at all. Very civilized, very European. Concealing far more than she would ever reveal.
“I am tempted,” he replied in the same tongue. “Italian sounds beautiful on your lips. I usually prefer English for business. I appreciate its clarity. For pleasure, however, perhaps later…?” He let his voice trail off suggestively. Let his eyes gleam with discreet hunger.
“English, then,” she said crisply. “I see you have already made yourself comfortable.” Her eyes flicked to his whiskey glass.
He acknowledged the subtle slap-down with a rueful smile. “May I get you a drink?” he asked. “I chose the Macallan.”
“You are a connoisseur, then. The Macallan is a favorite of mine, too. Mr. Takuda put it out for me especially.”
He seized a tumbler. “Straight up?”
“Of course,” she murmured.
He was grateful to have a moment with his back turned, to collect himself. A few seconds of relative privacy to get the matrix reestablished, the data feed started back up. He had a method. A good one. Stick to it, testa di cazzo. Detach.
He handed her the glass. Candlelight sparkled on her rings and bracelets, off the cut crystal tumbler, the amber swirl of liquid, the bright awareness in her eyes. She lifted the glass to her lips.
He dragged his eyes away. He was sweating, for the love of God. His collar tight, his face hot. This was absurd.
He stared down at her hands and nodded at their glittering load. “A one-woman arsenal, I assume?”
Her lips curved. His lungs suddenly stopped working, his heart speeding up. Her smile was a weapon in itself, spiced with danger and challenge,
