Jule Mcbride - Night Pleasures

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 her fingers lazily between his, Edison marveled at the spark of electricity that jumped between them. Like her seductively tilted eyes, it reminded him that dinner was only one of the reasons he’d brought her here. Espionage was another. So was sex. He was practiced with women, but he hadn’t expected the shock he’d experienced seeing her in a cocktail dress. He glided his fingers along her hand, then rubbed the hollow of her wrist with the pad of his thumbs. “Your pulse is racing.”

She eyed him. “Really?”

“Really,” he assured her, feeling as drugged as the woman in her diary, as if he’d taken a potion. She ran her gaze over him, letting it settle on his deep blue, Vnecked sweater. A gift from an ex-girlfriend, the sweater matched his eyes, complemented his finely woven gray slacks and revealed a hint of swirling dark chest hair that itched for her caress.

Her voice matched his for throatiness, as if she, too, had been sated by the heavy French meal. “You have excellent taste in restaurants, Edison Lone.”

“Women, too.”

Chuckling softly at the compliment, she glanced away, her face a study in contrasts: pleasure, embarrassment, confusion. “So,” she began abruptly, “you work at IBI part-time, and otherwise, you teach?”

His gaze hadn’t left her face. “You won’t get away with it.”

Only the slight widening of her eyes gave away a startled response. “Get away with what?”

Gently pulling on her wrist, he drew her closer, wondering if she really did have something to hide. “With ignoring my flirtation. I am going to take you to bed, Selena.”

“You’re very direct,” she said in a near whisper.

“Looking at you makes me feel I don’t have time to lose.” He shrugged. “Besides, I know what I want.”

“And you take the quickest route to get it?” she asked breathlessly.

He wasn’t the least bit offended. “Especially when I want it badly.” Pausing, he added, “And I want you badly.”

Recovering, she offered a slight smile. “Don’t you believe in getting to know a person first?”

He laughed. “That’s good.”

She frowned. “What?”

“You’re speaking of firsts. It implies I’ll get seconds.”

“Really,” she chided. “Don’t you get to know your dates?”

“You, yes,” Edison said honestly. “But not every woman I take to bed.”

Her glance was droll. “I never said we were going to bed.”

The denial shouldn’t have challenged him, but it did. He tried not to let it show. “You don’t have to say it,” he replied, his leisurely gaze studying her. “It’s in your eyes…in the way you carry yourself.” Pausing, he shook his head. Didn’t she realize she was leaning seductively toward him, offering a tantalizing view of her ripe breasts? His eyes flickered possessively down, hot as the candle flame, and he savored a fantasy about how he’d circle a taut nipple with his tongue until she writhed from the pleasure. Oh, there were many things he had in mind for Selena. He was every bit as imaginative as the marquis. For now, he settled on lifting a finger and lightly tracing a bare shoulder. His voice was silky. “No woman trying to stay out of a man’s bed wears a dress like this.”

“You’re very sure of your ability to get a woman into bed.”

“It’s what happens after she’s in bed that interests me.” Letting her mull over the comment, he sipped coffee that had come just the way he liked it—strong and black, splashed with top-shelf brandy. After a moment, he offered another careless smile. “Of course, if you need to talk first, we certainly can. Some women consider it foreplay.”

Now her lips twitched with a smile. “How obliging.”

He smiled back. “I can be much more obliging than that.”

She took a sip of wine, then shrugged, the feigned nonchalance not reaching her eyes. “Tell me more about yourself.”

“Like I said, I’m a teacher.” The lie had rolled impulsively from his tongue, and tomorrow he’d have to cover his tracks, since she could expose him with one phone call. For now, the fib enabled him to share more of himself, something he’d discovered he wanted to do with Selena. “I only work for IBI when I’m not teaching,” he added. “During spring breaks, like now, and in the summer. A friend told me I could sign up, get a security clearance.”

“Data entry’s odd work for an English teacher.”

“Keeps me busy,” he offered, shrugging easily, his eyes lowering appreciatively. Everything about her was making him ache: the candlelight shimmering on her bare shoulders, the intoxicating scent of wine coming in tandem with her breath. Reaching out, he adjusted a scrap of material on her shoulder again. “As delicate as a spider’s web.”

She smiled. “Afraid I’ll snare you?”

“Afraid you won’t,” he corrected, flashing her another smile. He shrugged. “The money from IBI funds my hobby.”

“Which is?”

“Cracking codes,” he answered, thinking Selena was the puzzle he’d most like to crack. What had possessed her to write down such sensual fantasies? While he was sure they weren’t in code, he figured it would be interesting to test the waters, to see if she reacted to knowing how he spent his time. “I often try to crack the codes to old manuscripts.”

“You mean like the Rosetta stone?”

He nodded. “Right now, I’m working on what’s called the Voynich manuscript. I’m interested in old cave drawings, too. On vacations, I go hunting for them.”

“Like Indiana Jones?”

“More or less.” His blood quickened at thoughts of his work, and at the answering excitement in her eyes. “Secretive communications of any kind draw me like a magnet. I’ve always been more interested in what people don’t say than in what they do.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I get lost in word puzzles.”

“When you want to crack a code, what do you do first?”

Her interest seemed genuine, and he figured she’d probably be defensive if she had something to hide. CIIC had to be wrong. She was on the level. “Check for substitution words and anagrams. Or for known codes people might use. Sometimes I look for pinpricks over words and letters, to see if a message can be pieced together by connecting the dots.” His eyes settled once more on her bare shoulder. “And there are heat-sensitive codes.”

Not missing the innuendo, she murmured, “Heat sensitive?”

He nodded again. “Not to mention secret inks.”

At that, she looked genuinely delighted, and since countless women had had their eyes glaze over when he talked about work, or worse, been jealous of his passion for it, he felt encouraged, maybe more than he should have. “During the Second World War,” he continued, leaning back and rifling a hand through his hair, “soldiers used invisible, heat-sensitive inks on eggshells. Later, the recipient would hard-boil the eggs and peel the shell.”