how hard she’d worked to change herself, she sighed. Forget it. She’d long ago proved she could be every bit as dangerous as the kids who’d hurt her.
In the closet, her hand skated over the loose, ankle-length dresses she usually wore to IBI, then settled where it shouldn’t have—on a shimmering silver dress procured for her parents’ last wedding anniversary. It was right out of her fantasies. Sumptuous, barely-there crepe was sexily torn in tatters around the shoulders and draped into a sheath with a jagged hem. The matching three-inch heels would bring her eye level with Edison.
“And you’ll need every extra inch of leverage,” she told herself, imagining his tall, lanky body and the thick, touchable, raven hair that brushed his shoulders. Slipping the dress from its black velvet hanger, she sighed as the fabric teased her fingertips.
“If I wear this,” she murmured, “it’ll be proof I’ve lost my mind.” She couldn’t afford to attract a man at the moment, least of all Edison Lone. Besides, the best men were those she conjured in her imagination. Real men meant trouble.
“Why didn’t I just say no to dinner?” she admonished herself in a rush of panic. Should she back out? Stand him up? But how could she, when she had to find out what he was doing working in Sensitive Data Entry?
Shimmying, she let the towel wrapped around her naked body drop to the floor. Soft scents left by perfumed bathwater rose from her skin. She wondered if Edison would notice the sweet fragrance.
Heat seeped into her cheeks. She was being a fool. Reflected in a full-length mirror on the closet door, she took in the beige carpet behind her, the muted earth-tone bedspread and bare white walls. The apartment had all the charm of a low-budget motel. The black-framed glasses on the nightstand had plastic, nonprescription lenses. Most of the clothes in the closet weren’t to her taste. Only the open diary on the desk hinted at her real personality. Ever since an editor had contacted her about publishing the fantasies, the diary had become a good luck charm. It was her ticket out of Washington. One more way to generate the money she needed to escape…
Otherwise, the room looked exactly like what it was: a place she didn’t intend to live in long. Within weeks, she’d be gone, she figured. And there’d be no trace of Selena Silverwood.
Silverwood wasn’t her real name, anyway.
“So don’t get confused about what you’re doing at IBI,” she lectured herself softly. “Or with Edison Lone.” He might be the most appealing man she’d ever laid eyes on, but this was a job, and she needed to know why he’d suddenly shown up, seated at a desk across from her.
“A floating temp,” she muttered, shaking her head. Even if she hadn’t read his dossier, she’d know better. Not that his name, rank and serial number had prepared her for the reality. When he’d stood next to her, his shoulders had seemed broader than she’d anticipated, the scent and warmth coming from his body infinitely more bothersome. She’d expected something else from the orphan who’d made good. A cold, calloused man, she supposed. With a chip on his shoulder. Instead, despite his self-contained watchfulness, he looked like he had a heart. Not to mention royal-blue eyes so searching that gazing into them had aroused guilt feelings she hadn’t guessed she had.
Had he been sent to spy on her? Was she about to get caught? Or had he come to Sensitive Data Entry for reasons having nothing to do with her? She thought of how the flourescent lights had made his jet hair shine where it curled around his ears, and about how those shocking blue eyes glowed like lasers in a face tanned the color of toasted nuts. And then her eyes settled once more on her diary. If the Marquis de Lancroix could leap from the pages, he’d look more or less like Edison.
Slowly, she unzipped and stepped into the silver dress, trying not to imagine the look on Edison’s face when she’d glide into Passer la Nuit, trailing perfume. Instead of truffles and tortes for dessert, she hoped he’d be eating out of the palm of her hand.
After that, who knew? The truth was, she’d run from men all her life—with just cause. She always tried to tell herself she didn’t care, that sex was overrated and that, when it came to excitement, no man could compete with her work.
But she was thirty now, and defenses she’d erected against love were crumbling. Once red and raw, past scars were losing themselves to memory, their traces barely visible anymore, not to herself or others. She’d worked damn hard at making those old wounds heal, and exploring her innermost dreams of sensual pleasure had been a big part of that. But was she ready to make fantasies a reality?
Maybe. What used to feel like career excitement had started seeming more like plain, old, everyday danger. Earlier this year, Bruce Levinson had gotten killed, doing exactly what she was at IBI. Not that she could back out now. She’d have to play the game, try not to get caught, and figure out where Edison Lone fit into the picture.
“A floating temp,” she murmured again. “Yeah, right.”
She’d been so sure she’d played the unattractive secretary to perfection. The role, she thought with a rush of anger, came easily enough. But now it seemed as if someone was onto her. Were they? Had Edison been sent to scrutinize her files? Rifle through her desk drawers? Was she in danger?
“Definitely,” she decided aloud, thinking of how he’d tied her insides into knots. She’d never flirted with a man so easily as she’d flirted with him today. Reaching behind her, she zipped up the dress, then slid stockinged feet into shimmering silver shoes. Studying herself dispassionately, she found wistful emotion twisting unexpectedly inside her. Why couldn’t she be a million miles from here? Somewhere without secrets, lies and hidden agendas? Someplace where a man like Edison Lone really could become her lover? Under the circumstances, using him to test out her fantasies seemed seriously unadvisable….
“Too bad,” she whispered. Regardless of his unsuitability as her first lover, she wasn’t about to let him think she was a geek. Nervously arranging a scrap of silver fabric against her collarbone, she took a deep breath. Dammit, why did she have to be so desperately attracted to the man most likely to interfere with her subterfuge at IBI?
THERE WAS SOMETHING dreamy in the air, something almost magical, and when Selena breezed into Passer la Nuit dressed almost like the woman in her diary, Edison was lost. Seeing a body she never should have kept hidden, draped with what looked to be silver scarves, he no longer cared if she was stealing from IBI. He was taking Selena Silverwood to bed. Tonight.
Every time he looked at her, he found himself thinking of her diary, of love scenes in shallow pools and between masked partners in dark, scented, mirrored passageways. He half wished he hadn’t tortured himself by reading until he’d left his house to meet her, since the diary had filled him with expectations for the evening. Now they’d finished eating, and he nodded toward the lace-veiled French doors. “Ready to go?”
Offering the slightest lift of a bare shoulder, she drew a sip of burgundy through wine-reddened lips. The flame from a candle at the cozy table made her eyes look like pools of aged whiskey, and made him think that the black-framed glasses she usually wore were a definite mistake. Without them, and in this dress, she was stunning. “I’m enjoying it here,” she murmured.
And he was enjoying watching the thin, scarcely noticeable silver glitter play on her eyelids whenever she glanced at him. As she did so now, something—warmth from her amber gaze or from his own brandy-laced coffee—slid through his bones, turning his voice husky. “I thought you’d like this place, Selena.”
“I do,” she said simply. “I’m glad we came.”
“Me, too.”
Catching
