they remained stubborn and heavy.
A string of curses floated above her head, then suddenly the weight was gone and in its place a cool rush of air.
Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. Light burst, bringing tears that stung under the lids. Regina looked down, waiting for her vision to adjust and for the first time, she realized her arms refused to move.
“So you’re finally awake?”
It took effort to turn her head. Chris Beck stood next to the bed, holding a wet washcloth in one hand.
“Well? Are you okay?”
Regina blinked. No, not Chris.
This man wasn’t her friend. She noted sharp cheekbones, the hard line of his mouth, the rigid set of his jaw.
What did Chris say about his son?
The man had no give.
“I asked if you were okay.”
“No, I’m Regina.” She glanced down for the first time, taking in the tan cotton slacks and gray cardigan with a scooped-neck tee beneath. All smudged with ash, all reeking of smoke. “Do I look okay?”
“You look like hell.”
No humor, either.
She almost sighed. Almost. But when her gaze met his, she actually forgot to.
The eyes were the same. Chris’s and Jordan’s. Both pale blue, cut laser-sharp with specks of silver that flashed little bolts of lightning-edged emotion. Pleasure, sadness, anger, impatience. It didn’t matter which, the intensity never diminished.
Harnessed, yes. Controlled, certainly. But never diluted.
“I guess this pretty much defines ‘in the nick of time,’ doesn’t it, Jordan?”
“Yes—” He stopped, surprise flashed in the blue eyes, just before they narrowed.
Regina bet not many caught this man off guard. A huge dose of satisfaction eased some of the frustration—and admittedly, a small bit of fear—stewing in her belly.
“You know who I am?”
She grimaced more from the pounding pain in her head, than his reaction. Know him? She wondered what the man would do if she told him the truth.
Instead, she settled for another truth. “Chris carried your picture in his wallet. You were younger and in uniform. You’d just received your Royal Air Force pilot’s wings.”
“Considering our relationship, it’s hard to believe he carried a picture of me around anywhere.”
“He was proud of you.” Slowly, she eased up on one elbow. Her gaze skimmed over his jeans and sweater, noting the anger that rode the hard-lined muscles beneath.
“You’re taller than Chris. Leaner, too.” Regina spoke without thought. Something she tended to do. A habit people developed when they spent most of their time alone.
“I’m not here to be compared to my father, Miss Menlow. In or out of bed.”
“Bed?” Confused, she frowned. The sledgehammers in her head had scrambled her brain more than she’d thought. “You think Chris and I were lovers?”
“Weren’t you?”
“This is my hard-earned tax dollars at work?” Annoyed, she brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Your father collected books. First editions. I sold books. First editions. It’s really quite simple. Even for a government man like yourself.”
“My father told you quite a lot, it seems.” His tone was flat with disbelief. “What was in the book?”
“Book?” She froze, remembering. “Your father’s journal. Do you have it?”
“No,” Jordan replied. “The guy who attacked you left with it. I wasn’t able to follow him.”
“He grabbed me from behind and shoved a gun at my head.” She rubbed her right temple, remembering. “I don’t know how he broke in. I had already closed up. Maybe a window in my loft. Although I usually keep both locked.”
“If he was a professional, a locked window wouldn’t have stopped him.”
“He demanded the journal and I told him where to find it. He must have hit me with the pistol right after because I don’t remember anything until I came to in the office. I saw the fire and managed to roll under the desk.” Automatically her fingers went to her head and she winced when she found the top of her skull tender. “I honestly didn’t expect to survive. Thank you.”
“Just your tax dollars at work,” he commented wryly.
Her head jerked up, her mouth tilted in self-deprecation. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. I guess my only excuse is that I’m not at my best right now.”
The apology caught Jordan off guard. She had surprised him for the third time in less than three hours. The fact that she crawled under the desk, then knew he worked for the government and now the apology.
His gaze skimmed over the dark chestnut hair, liking the way the thick waves drifted over the graceful line of her neck, drawing his eye to the delicate spot just above her shoulder.
But it was her eyes—big, somber, moss-green. Pools of liquid that swallowed a man whole.
“I cleaned the wound. The bruise is minor.” He sat on the side of the bed. When she continued to probe the cut, he pulled her hand away. “Stop playing with it or you’ll make it bleed again.”
“I’m sorry.” Her fingers fluttered beneath his, just for a moment before she tugged them away.
Nerves?
“What did your intruder look like, Miss Menlow?”
“Regina,” she corrected him automatically. Slowly, she sat up and drew her knees to her chest.
The woman intrigued him. She was soft, feminine, intelligent. She stirred something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Desire. Interest.
Another surprise.
“He was football-player big. Linebacker size. Cool, mercenary type. Six-two. Dark brown hair. Crew cut. Dark brown eyes. His features were flat. Almost like his face had been pressed by glass.”
“Identifying marks?”
“No tattoos that I saw, but he wore a black corduroy coat. So if he had any on his arms, they were covered. He had a scar, though. A crescent one. Right here.” She stroked the side of her left cheek. “But he didn’t escape with anything important.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he doesn’t have the journal. I made a fake after I read the original. I gave the fake to him.”
“Where is the original?”
