Addison Fox - The Paris Assignment

But it was something else.

Like a good old-fashioned dose of sexual attraction, her inner voice piped up as she stared out the window. With the unfailing honesty she was known for—especially when it came from within—she acknowledged the sentiment. And then went to work debunking whatever insanity had gripped her since he walked into her office.

Campbell Steele was an enticing package. Altogether too enticing, she quickly admonished herself. And, as of this afternoon when she’d signed off on the contract Kensington had sent over, he was also an employee.

“So get a freaking grip,” she whispered to herself and turned toward the window in an effort to quell the feel of her hand enclosed in his.

The lights of Washington Square Park and the George Washington Arch filled up the early fall dusk as her driver took a right onto Waverly. The neighborhood was known for its effortless blend of old townhomes and bohemian apartments and she held no small measure of surprise when the car pulled up along one of the townhomes that ringed Washington Square Park.

She’d have pegged Campbell for the bohemian apartment, for sure.

Of course, the debonair man swathed in a custom-fit tuxedo standing on the front steps went a long way toward assuaging that thought. The nerves that had accompanied her trip downtown took off on another flight through her stomach, but this time they were paired with a dose of anticipation as he beat the driver to the car door.

Campbell slid his long frame into the limo, the fading evidence of a shower curling his slightly damp hair at his nape as he shifted toward her on the bench seat. The driver had the door closed and the light winked off overhead as Campbell’s leg brushed against hers.

“You look beautiful.”

That anticipation morphed another determined step toward infatuation as she allowed her gaze to settle on his mouth. “And you look very handsome. Not the bohemian I’d taken you for.”

His lips quirked into a slow smile. “What?”

“When the driver mentioned we were headed to the West Village, I pegged you as the resident of a bohemian studio for sure.”

Where she expected a quick retort, instead a far more sober note tinged his face with the slightest edges of sadness as the smile faded. “It was my parents’ first home. My mother’s sister kept it until she retired to Florida and I moved in a few years ago.”

Of course.

“I’m sure it’s absolutely lovely.”

Abby forced herself to keep the sympathy at a minimum, but knew instinctively she’d hit a raw nerve. Charles and Katherine Steele had been killed in a car accident a few years before she and Kensington became college roommates. Although she’d visited some of the family’s other homes, the brownstone on the Upper East Side that now served as House of Steele’s headquarters had been the most frequent destination. Even so, she knew their wealth had extended to other homes.

Other memories.

“What’s that look for?”

She saw the question in his gaze before adding a question of her own. “I’m trying to understand how it is we’ve never met. I’ve known your sister for twelve years.”

“I had quite a few years where I didn’t spend much time at home.”

“What changed?”

“A lot of things.” He shrugged, the motion casual, but she knew there was much more behind his words. “I grew up, mostly.”

“It happens to the best of us.”

“I suppose it does.” The shadows faded from his eyes, replaced with another vivid, killer smile. “You bring up a good point, though, which reminds me you never answered my question earlier. About how we met.”

“I’ll follow your lead.”

“Nope. We need to be in sync on this, especially if we’re asked separately.”

The point was a legitimate one and she threw out the first thing that came to mind. “Walking in the park.”

“Too cliché.”

“Cliché?”

“This is New York. A lot of people meet in the park.”

“Which would make it a logical way to meet.”

He shook his head. “Nope. It’s too efficient. You strike me as the type who pops in her earbuds, does her run and pays no attention to anything, or anyone, around you. Something else.”

The urge to argue was strong, but she had to give him credit for being spot-on. “How’d you know I was a runner?”

“Those legs.” His gaze roamed lightly over her body and she sucked in a breath at the electricity that hummed underneath her skin at the perusal.

“Hmm. All right. How about at a business meeting?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Then people will ask what I do, leading to another lie.”

Abby had to give him credit. What started out as a simple exercise was rapidly morphing into a more serious discussion where walking in unprepared could give them away. “What do you do, then? You know. If I’m asked.”

“I’m in software. If anyone pushes any harder, say fractal wave patterns and it’s usually more than enough to shut them up.”

“You do realize fractal wave patterns are a legitimate, documented phenomenon in the financial industry. What are you going to do if you get a banker asking the question?”

“Ramble.”

She had to laugh at that. “You do this often?”

“Often enough to know that people really don’t want to know the ins and outs of a computer geek’s mind.”

“All right. Let’s just say we met on an internet dating site and be done with it.”

“I don’t need to get a girl through my computer.”

She shook her head at his sexist—and outdated—comment. “First, it’s a perfectly respectable way to meet someone. Second, you do live your life attached to a computer. It would make sense.”

“No.”

“Fine. You’ve got a better idea?”

“We met through my sister. A simple family connection. It’s not exactly a secret you went to Radcliffe. So did Kensington. It’s a perfect cover and it has the added bonus of being one hundred percent true.”

“If this was your goal all along, why not just say it?”

“Wasn’t it far more fun to debate it? Add to it that you’re far less nervous than you were when I got in the car and I’d say it was well worth the time.”

And there it was.

That simple knowledge that he wasn’t to be underestimated, under any circumstances.

He saw far too much and thought too much.

And most of all, he saw her. From the workings of her mind to her exercise routine, he observed, dissected and analyzed. It was unnerving.

Not to mention more than a little exhilarating.

“So what is this event this evening?”

Abby welcomed the change in topic as the lights of Lincoln Center came into view outside the car windows. “The opera.”

A dawning look of horror covered Campbell’s face. “Any chance I can convince you to turn the car around just throw money at the event instead?”

“I’ve already thrown money at the event. This is the result.”

“So they already got what they wanted. Let’s bail. We can get a few hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya and go to the movies instead.”

“What is wrong with you? It’s a few hours and a few arias. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Who’s this evening’s diva?”

“Carlotta Luchino. Why?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

* * *

Whatever questions Abby had at his not-so-subtle rejection of the opera vanished in the whirlwind of the evening. The requisite ode to culture only involved about three pieces of music and the swanky after-party kicked into high gear.

Campbell and Abby mingled with the evening’s attendees, drinking post-performance cocktails and dodging requests for additional donations. He kept his hand steady on her back and played the attentive lover as he watched the room for any sign of the suspicious or out of place.