always. You know how it is. I like to network. And what better place to meet people?’ His bold, dark gaze drifted from her mouth to her breasts, down to her legs and back again.
Skin cells scorched all the way to her ankles. She turned her back on him and bent to check the sofa where she’d sat yesterday, slipping her hand down behind the seat cushion and feeling around the perimeter.
There was nothing there except dusty lint. Hyper-conscious of him, she straightened up to skim the change table and benchtops. He was pretending to be engaged again on his task, but she wasn’t deceived. He was tuned into her every move, or her name wasn’t Sophy Woodruff.
Or…or whatever it was.
She eyed the leather case beside him on the draining board. He might, just might, have found the envelope and be intending to hand it in. ‘Er…’ It was a stretch now at this late stage, but she tried to crank some goodwill into her voice. ‘Have you by any chance—found a letter in here?’
‘A letter.’ His expressive brows gave a quizzical twitch while he considered. ‘This seems an unusual place to expect a mail delivery. It isn’t a covert letter-drop for the CIA, now, is it?’
That sexy, teasing note again in his deep voice. And there was something hard underneath, almost as if he didn’t believe in her sincerity.
In an effort to show she was in earnest, she ignored his tone. ‘It’s not a delivery. I’ve misplaced an envelope. I think it may have dropped from my bag somewhere. Over there where I was sitting, or…’
‘What sort of envelope?’
‘Just a plain, buff-coloured…You know, with a window in it, like—’ Like any official communication to Miss Violet Woodruff, she was about to say, until it occurred to her then how ridiculous it was, having to describe it. How many envelopes was he likely to have found? ‘Look, does it matter what kind it is? Have you or haven’t you found it?’
In her frustration, she might have sounded a tad impatient, because he turned from the mirror and directed the full force of his dark, shimmering gaze on her.
‘I don’t know if I should answer that. It would depend to whom such an envelope was addressed.’
She felt a small shock, as if she’d come up against an unexpected concrete wall, but said, as pleasantly as she could, ‘Well, obviously, it’s addressed to me.’
‘Ah. So you say.’ The infuriating man had finished shaving at last, and turned to wash his razor under the tap. ‘But, then, who are you?’
It was clear he was toying with her. ‘I’m—’ She drew herself up to her full five-seven in heels and asserted, ‘You know, Security in this building is very strict. They wouldn’t tolerate your intrusion in here.’
‘Ah. Now, that’s where you’re wrong. The fact is, it was the Security guy with the freckles who unlocked these rooms for me, since the Gents is having some sort of problem with the pipes.’
‘Oh.’ Nonplussed, she took a second before she managed a comeback. ‘Well, it’s a pity he didn’t explain that that sink you’re using is intended for nursing mothers who want to make themselves a cup of tea. I hope you give it a good wash when you’re finished.’
The man’s eyes gleamed, but he continued, musing, ‘Not all states feel the need to pursue this rigid segregation of the sexes. Take France, for example. A French woman visiting the mothers’ room in, say, the Louvre, would be very unlikely to feel threatened by the presence of a man shaving. Though, I suppose any woman who’s not used to being around men…a woman, say, who’s never watched a man shave…never been kissed, as the saying goes…’
Never been kissed. Was he trying to insult her? She hissed in a breath through her teeth. ‘Look, all I want to know is if you found my envelope. If you didn’t…’
He put on a bland expression. ‘I think I might be able to help if you could be more specific. For instance, if you could give me some idea of the letter’s likely contents…’
‘What?’ She stared at him in incredulity. ‘Are you for real? Look, why can’t you just say—?’
She broke off, shaking her head in disbelief as he bent to splash his face, his composure unruffled.
Her heart started to thud. He must have found it. Why else was he being so obstructive? She breathed deeply for several seconds, wondering how to go about extracting the truth from him. Often she could sense things in people, but in his case she was aware only of an implacable resistance. Despair gripped her. What was left for her to try? An appeal to him as a human being?
He reached for a paper towel and turned to her, patting his face dry.
‘Are you sure—absolutely sure—you didn’t find it?’ Despite an attempt to sound calm she knew the plea in her voice revealed her desperation, loud and clear.
He crumpled the paper towel and dropped it in the bin. Then he slipped a purple silk tie under his collar and tied it, practice in the fluid movements of his lean, tanned fingers. At the same time he turned to appraise her with his dark, intelligent gaze. Drops of moisture sparkled on his black lashes.
‘It’s beginning to sound like a very important letter.’
‘It is. That is—’ She checked herself. The more she talked up the importance of the letter, the more likely he would be to read it if he found it. Just supposing he hadn’t already. ‘No, no, well, it’s not really. It’s only important to me. Not to anyone else.’
He nodded in apparent understanding, his sardonic face suddenly grave. Perhaps she’d misjudged him. Perhaps he could even be sympathetic. Although, how safe was it to trust him? If he could only be serious for a minute…
She watched him shrug on his jacket, then slip the leather case into his briefcase, all the while continuing her theme of playing the letter down. ‘It’s nothing really. Just a small—private thing.’
‘Ah.’ His dark lashes flickered down. ‘A love letter.’
‘No,’ she snapped, goaded. ‘Not a love letter. Look, why can’t you be serious? Why can’t you give me a straight answer?’
He sighed. ‘All right. How about this one? I haven’t found your letter. You can search me if you like.’ He spread his hands in invitation, offering her the pockets of his jacket, his trousers, then as she glared at him in disbelief he thrust his briefcase at her. ‘Go on. Search.’
As if she could. She wanted to snatch the briefcase from him and whack him with it. But even without touching it, she knew there was nothing of hers inside. He was tormenting her, when all he’d had to do was to tell her in the first place…
‘Do you know,’ she said, an angry tremor in her low voice, ‘you are a very rude and aggravating man?’
‘I do know,’ he said ruefully, wickedness in the dark eyes beneath his black lashes. ‘I’m ashamed of myself.’
She felt her blood pressure rise as he moved closer until his broad chest was a bare few inches from her breasts. The clean male scent of him, the masculine buzz of his aura, plunged her normally tranquil pulse into
