working her tail off like an owner, too. Now if she could just focus on books like The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People instead of tomes like Casanova’s The History of My Life, maybe she’d actually manage to make the lie a reality.
Bryce’s gaze was examining the store’s interior, his inspection of the building as intense as his earlier visual caress of her body—a caress she still remembered with a little tingle.
“Do you think the owner would entertain an offer for the entire brownstone?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
He nodded, but she could tell he was disappointed. “I don’t suppose you’d mind showing me around the flats anyway?”
She licked her lips, the idea of being alone with him in the apartment a little more than she could bear. Still, he did seem genuinely interested, and Ronnie would never forgive her if Joan shunned a potential buyer. “I need to finish up a project before the store opens. But you’re welcome to go on up by yourself. The top apartment’s unlocked and empty. I’m living in the fourth-floor flat, but feel free to wander through it.” She handed him her key.
“You’re sure?”
She shrugged. “Absolutely. No problem.”
He caught her in that intense gaze once more, and she wondered if that was how deer felt, frozen in time but still caught up in something fast and furious. Because this was fast, and the beat of her heart was furious. She wanted him to go. To leave the room. He’d already almost made her break her resolution once. She didn’t intend to let him succeed the next time.
After a second, he nodded, and she pointed him toward the interior stairs that led up to the flats. As soon as he disappeared from sight, she exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. His departure seemed to lift a weight, but, at the same time, it left her feeling oddly hollow.
No flirting, she reminded herself as she headed back to the break room. Focus.
And she did. She focused on her work for at least five solid minutes. Productive minutes, too.
But then she noticed the print again. The man watching the woman. The woman, looking so very enraptured. The man, whose face resembled Bryce’s just a little.
Her body warmed, and Joan groaned, then shifted slightly on the chair to try to ease the pressure building between her thighs. She had one hell of a vivid imagination, but there were times when it seemed more like a curse, because right now she could imagine Bryce creeping down the stairs and moving quietly to the break room door.
He’d stand there, barely breathing, just watching. And as he watched, Joan would arch her back in her chair, her breasts thrusting forward as she grazed her fingertips lightly over her throat. The touch was a tease. Innocent, really, but promising so much more. Promising, that is, if he was good.
He was, of course. Very good. He watched. Just watched. And the watching turned her on. Made her wet. Made her sex throb in a way that demanded attention, demanded release.
Slowly, so slowly, she let her fingers wander down her body, caressing her breasts, following the smooth planes of her stomach down to her waist. The shirt was tucked in, and so she tugged it free, all the while wondering what he was thinking. Did he want to touch her? Or did he simply want the satisfaction of seeing her lose herself to pleasure?
With a little moan of anticipation, she slipped her fingers under the waistband of her skirt, then found the thin elastic band of her panties. She raised her hips, her body craving the touch. And as she licked her lips, her fingers pressed onward, over the coarse curls, finally finding her hot, wet core and—
Enough already! Her eyes flew open. He was in the building. Right above her. He could come back at any time. So what the devil was she doing?
Losing it. That’s what she was doing. She was positively losing it.
Off to her left, she heard the scuffle of shoes, and then the distinct sound of a man clearing his throat.
Shit. In a microsecond, she was sitting upright, fear and embarrassment pounding in her chest. She turned to face the doorway. Sure enough, Bryce stood there, his eyes dark, an unreadable expression on his face.
Joan drew a shaky breath, wondering what she’d done. What he’d seen.
She glanced down, then exhaled in relief when she saw that her silk T was still tucked in. Thank goodness. It had all been in her head.
Please, oh please, let it have all been in her head!
“That was fast,” she said, hoping her voice sounded normal. “What did you think?”
His mouth curled into an enigmatic smile. “It looked good.”
Joan felt her cheeks warm, but she couldn’t ask. Did he really mean the apartments? Or had he been watching her? The possibility was positively mortifying.
“This building’s got great potential,” he continued, and she relaxed a little. “I’m sorry the whole thing’s not on the market.”
“So you’re not interested in just the apartments?”
“Probably not,” Bryce admitted. “But I’ll keep them in mind. Like I said, I liked what I saw.”
He moved toward her then, and Joan swallowed, her entire body tightening as his proximity increased. After a second she saw his brow furrow and then his eyes widen with interest. He nodded toward the table. “Should I even ask?”
Joan glanced down. In her embarrassment, she’d forgotten about the erotica that littered the tabletop in addition to the one pen-and-ink print that she’d been holding. Now, she tried to imagine the scene through his eyes. The store had recently acquired a first edition of Casanova’s Memoirs, which was a magnificent feat in and of itself. But on top of that, Ronnie had managed to locate eight of the original charcoal drawings used to illustrate an early edition of the famous book. Provocative images of men and women in the throes of passion. Copies of the drawings were scattered over the tabletop, along with lighter fare—naughty French postcards and colorful turn-of-the-century engravings showing women reclining in their wide skirts, with just a hint of what was going on underneath.
“A catalog,” she said. “Our summer catalog always features erotica.”
“Really?”
He was intrigued. She could see it in his eyes, and she couldn’t help but shift into her sales mode. He was a customer now, some guy who’d come in to buy a first-edition Tony Hillerman and ended up buying Henry Miller and Fanny Hill, as well.
After a second, his gaze dipped to the table again, and he picked up one of the Casanova sketches, this one showing two women, both focusing every bit of their erotic attention on the man who lay between them on the bed.
“Interesting,” he said, a wry grin playing at his lips.
Joan rolled her eyes. “Men. Funny how that card always seems to draw a man’s attention.”
“I’m not looking for two women,” he said, meeting her eyes. “But I wouldn’t mind spending some time with one good one.”
It was a blatant come-on,
