Julie Miller - Intimate Knowledge

“Congratulations,” Grace offered, but couldn’t help remembering all the other promises made to her mother and broken over the years. “I hope it works out for you.”

“Imagine.” Mimsey’s green eyes lit with the sparkle of hope. “A legitimate stage play, after all these years. That’s how I started my career, you know. Long before you were born.”

“That’s where I know you.” Logan snapped his fingers and diverted Mimsey’s attention. “The Ants That Ate Metropolis. The Beast from Beneath the Sea. You’re that Mimsey Lockhart.”

Seriously? He knew her mother’s movies?

Grace watched in horror as her mother’s fan-club personality emerged.

“Is there any other?” Mimsey laughed, her beautiful smile undimmed by fifty years of flamboyant living. She clutched a modest hand to the plunging décolletage of her pink suit. “I’m flattered you remember those old flicks.”

“Are you kidding?” Was Logan’s enthusiasm for real? Or was this all part of the act that made him irresistible to women? “Sci-fi Sundays were a staple in the old neighborhood. I grew up thinking I could save the world, too. Maybe that’s part of why I went into law enforcement.”

“That’s so sweet.”

Grace had to give her mother credit. She’d never become the actress she’d aspired to be, but she was always proud of the work she’d done. Those monster flicks had put food on the table and given her a place to go when one lover after another abandoned her for younger, easier—childless—fare.

“Mimsey?”

A tall, polished man with jet-black hair touched by gray at the temples joined them at the table.

Did Grace detect a subtle change in her mother’s smile? “Grant, darling, you remember my daughter, Gracie.”

“Of course.” He took her hand and offered a slight bow. “It’s been too many years. You’re looking well.”

Not pretty, not sexy. Well.

Ah, yes, Mimsey stirred hormones, turned heads. Grace looked…well. Like a healthy horse or a well-seeded lawn. Maybe Logan’s mission was impossible, after all. Maybe she had no business trying to prove herself as a competent agent by taking on an eccentric crime lord.

It required every bit of strength she had to look him in the eye and dredge up a smile. “Mr. Stewart. It’s good to see you again.”

“I’m taking Mimsey down to the theater to introduce her to the director personally. Then I have a meeting with some financial backers. Perhaps you could join us for dinner later?”

“Uh, no. Thank you.” She had to take her mother in short spurts, and allow herself plenty of time to recover for the next encounter. She excused herself on an easy white lie. “Agent Pierce and I are working together on a special project.”

“’Round the clock,” Logan added. Her gaze shot across the table and clashed with the terminal amusement in his soft gray eyes. Grace’s cheeks blazed with heat. After all these years in her mother’s company, she should have picked up a few tricks on how to handle a man’s teasing. But no, she’d been busy learning calculus and studying the history of modern warfare instead.

“Another time, perhaps. Pierce.” The two men shook hands. “Grace.” He nodded politely and pulled out Mimsey’s chair.

Before Grace could stand, Mimsey had leaned over her and wrapped her in a tight, maternal hug. Grace gave in to the urge to return the hug, missing those days of innocence when she hadn’t worried about her mother being taken advantage of by men interested more in her breast size than her heart or career.

But Mimsey was independent as ever. Her conspiratorial whisper tickled Grace’s ear. “That Logan’s a keeper, honey. Maybe this FBI gig is working out better than we thought.”

“Mother—”

But Mimsey was gone in a whirl of drama before Grace could launch a proper protest.

Lost between dazed and fuming, she didn’t notice that Logan had moved to the chair beside her until his hand covered hers where it fisted in her lap.

“At ease, Agent Lockhart.” Unwittingly her fingers turned and clutched at his supportive hand. “Embarrassed by Mimsey, are we?”

“Worried about her. She doesn’t always make the best choices. I hope Grant’s sincere in wanting to help her.”

He leaned closer, close enough for the scent of the tangy gel he used in his hair to tease her nose. “You don’t have to live in her shadow, you know.”

He was close enough that she could have seen him without her glasses. But, for once, she was very grateful to have that barrier between them. “What are you talking about?”

“You could learn a lesson from your mother.”

Grace frowned. “What lesson?”

“Rule number four. Sex appeal is all about attitude.”

“What does that mean?”

“Decide that you’re sexy. Once you believe it, everyone around you will, too.”

Without a doubt her mother was sexy. The woman knew what she had and she used it to her advantage. Mimsey Lockhart had learned all about being sexy.

But all Grace had ever wanted was for Mimsey to learn how to be her mother.

LOGAN CLOSED the fashion magazine and slumped on the couch of the department store fitting room, wondering how much more of this Pygmalion stuff he could take. The store could at least provide some male reading while he waited. Anything with fishing rods or pitching stats would be appreciated. He needed something to distract his overworked imagination from creating pImages** of Grace behind the closed door at the end of the hallway, stripping naked and trying on the wardrobe of clothes the salesclerk had selected for her.

He’d been intrigued by Grace’s request to turn her into a seductress. But it had taken those big green eyes of hers, staring up at him with trust and innocence, to trigger a protective impulse and make him say yes to working as her partner.

He’d tried scaring her away from this suicide mission with some crass behavior—the kind Mitchell might throw her way. But it had backfired on him. Badly. She’d responded to his forward touches as if they’d been lovers. As if she’d known exactly the way he liked a woman to respond to him.

She’d battled words with him, proving that intellectual moxie she kept bragging about.

He’d met her mother, saw the potential for the beautiful woman Grace could become.

He’d tortured himself all afternoon and into the evening, watching the transformation take place.

After fitting her for contact lenses, they’d taken a trip to a salon where a man named Miguel had cut her hair into a riot of sexy, chin-length curls, and then highlighted the whole beckoning array to bring out bright gold and soft strawberry shades. Miguel’s friend Bruce had made up her face in a palette of soft colors that emphasized the emerald richness of her eyes and the sensuous pout of her lips.

And now—Logan inhaled deeply and silently cursed the partial arousal that had been with him on and off throughout the day—she’d been parading past him in a variety of outfits that reflected every mood from professional to fun to provocative.

“Logan? Do you think I’ll really need something like this?”

Grace’s sinfully seductive voice interrupted his thoughts and wound into his fantasies. When he looked up at this latest in a long line of outfits, he wished he still had that magazine to pull over his lap.

The woman had the survival skills of a turnip.

She stood in front of him, wearing nothing more than some sort of slip thing and a doubtful expression.

“It’s called a bra-slip. The clerk suggested I wear it with that evening gown I tried on earlier. I could save some money, though, and wear one of my own slips with a strapless bra.” Though he heard her explanation, he paid more attention to the movements of her hands. She cupped the sides of her breasts and pushed them forward, nearly spilling the satiny globes over the tiny strips of ivory silk and lace that cradled them. “The top doesn’t give me much support, anyway.”