so she could get on with it obvious.
He let the silence lengthen a moment before he broke it.
“They’re wrong, but don’t take any chances. This may be someone copycatting Jorgensen’s agenda. Which might mean they are also targeting his enemies.”
“Then why should he be interested in me? I didn’t have anything to do with Jorgensen.”
“I did. That would have been enough for him. Whoever this is—”
“Couldn’t have found me,” she broke in. “Not if Griff couldn’t. And if you’re so concerned, why take a chance on leading him to me?”
“I wasn’t followed.” He was obviously amused by the idea.
That wasn’t based on arrogance, but experience, and as such, she accepted it. Actually she hadn’t been worried about Rafe leading him—whoever he might be—to her. She was more curious about why he had come, especially in person. Despite the excuse he had just offered, there must be something more to this visit.
Wishful thinking? She denied that idea, too, as soon as it was born. She had a perfect right to be curious about why Rafe Sinclair would all of a sudden show up on her doorstep after an absence of nearly six years.
“So what are you doing now?” she asked. “Working for Griff?”
“You know about the Phoenix?”
“Rumors,” she said, choosing the word with care. She didn’t want her feelings about that to be evident.
“They invited you to join.”
They hadn’t, but since he didn’t seem to know they hadn’t, she couldn’t see any point in telling him.
“Did you?” she countered.
He laughed. The sound, low and pleasant and so damned familiar, evoked more memories.
“I think I’m too old to play hero. Somewhere along the way it all seemed to lose its charm.”
Somewhere along the way. And she knew exactly where that had been.
“I’ll let you get back to your groceries,” he said.
In spite of the fact that she had made that suggestion only seconds ago, perversely she had discovered she wasn’t ready for him to leave. Not yet ready to let him walk out of her life for perhaps another six years. Perhaps forever.
That would be the smart thing to do, of course. Just let him walk away. Where Rafe Sinclair was concerned, however, she had never managed to do the smart thing. Why start now?
“Have you eaten?”
Even in the dimness she was aware that his eyes widened. He recovered quickly, but no one could completely control that kind of involuntary physiological response. That he had reacted to the invitation at all was promising.
Promising of what? she wondered, disgusted with her near-Pavlovian response to his every action.
“Today?”
“Dinner,” she said patiently.
“Is that what’s in the sack?”
“It could be.”
“And you’re suggesting that we sit down and have dinner together?”
“It isn’t all that complicated. I’m going to fix something to eat for dinner. Do you want to join me?” she asked, still feigning patience.
That same movement she noticed before touched the corner of his mouth. “Actually, it might be better if I waited until after dark to leave. Since you’re concerned about security.”
“I’m not concerned about security. I just wondered why you aren’t.”
“I told you. I wasn’t followed.”
“Then there’s no reason to wait until after dark to leave, is there?”
This time he laughed. And again that small frisson of sexual reaction stirred deep within her lower body.
“You’re a damned ungracious hostess, Elizabeth. Whatever happened to Southern hospitality?”
“I don’t know. I’m not Southern.”
“I swear there’s a trace of an accent.”
“Hardly,” she said dismissively. “Are you staying or not?”
She could tell he was fighting another smile, which made her regret her impulsive invitation. Maybe he would refuse.
“Of course I am. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”
Chapter Two
“You never told me what you’re doing now,” she said, lifting her wineglass to rest the globe against her cheek.
It was something he had seen her do a hundred times. One of a dozen gestures that had been achingly familiar during the few short hours they had spent together.
He couldn’t explain why he’d accepted her invitation to dinner. No more than he imagined she could have explained why she’d issued it.
Curiosity, perhaps. A longing to recapture something that had been lost. And he refused, even to himself, to articulate what that was.
At least her tension, which had made the first few minutes difficult for both of them, had gradually dissipated. The wine they’d consumed while he’d watched her cook and during the course of the meal might have had more to do with that than any relaxation of the strain their long separation had caused.
After all, he rarely drank, and Elizabeth had never had a head for alcohol. It was one of the small, endearing cracks in the facade of absolute control she’d assumed while she was with the CIA.
It must have been hard being one of the few women on the team. Not that she’d ever had any reason to apologize to any of them for her femininity.
“This and that,” he said aloud. “Consulting mostly.”
“Privately?”
“Of course.”
He had no desire to be at the government’s beck and call. In his opinion, what the agency had done to Griff’s people had bordered on the criminal, which was why the idea that Steiner had been the one who had passed on the information about Jorgensen nagged at him. He didn’t buy altruistic motivations from anyone at the CIA. Not any longer.
“How about you?” he asked, lifting his own glass to finish the remaining swallow of wine it contained.
“You know what I’m doing. Why pretend that you don’t?”
He looked at her over the rim before he lowered the glass, allowing his lips to
