Carrie Alexander - Playing With Fire

Tamar Brand, his companion for the evening, aimed a wordless question at him as he passed. He volleyed with a shake of his head. She raised just one of her elegant black brows—a neat trick she used sparingly—her amused smile both forgiving his curtness and informing him that she knew exactly what he was up to. As always.

Daniel didn’t pause. No words were needed; after eleven years together, Tamar knew him far too well. If left to her own devices, she would, with no reproach, take a cab home and charge it to his expense account. Along with a pricey bottle of wine and take-out dinner from one of the city’s ritzy delis.

Bribery, he thought, but Tamar’s silence and skill were worth it.

He turned the corner. Only quick reflexes prevented him from walking straight into his prey. The lioness stood directly on the other side of one of the angled silver walls scattered around the main room like sculptures. No chase, then, he thought, slightly disappointed. She was waiting. For him? Of course.

He saw it first in the rounded innocence of her eyes, then in the smile ready to burst from her lips as laughter. Yet there was also a certain tension in her squared shoulders and elongated swan’s neck. He presumed that although she was confident in herself, she was not entirely sure of him. Good.

He said the first thing that sprang to mind. “Where’s your piercing?”

Her lashes widened. “Are you certain I have one?”

The voice was lovely—a contralto as rich as her laugh. He gestured at the crowd with spread hands, then dropped his arms to his sides at once, far too aware that his palms still itched to stroke her long, bare arms. To sink into her untamed hair.

He said, “Everyone under the age of thirty does.”

“But I’m thirty. Exactly. On the very cusp of your anthropological hypothesis.”

“Then your piercing must be hidden.” He let his gaze drift across the golden dress before rising again to her quirkily beautiful face. She hadn’t used cosmetics to alter her complexion. Her childishly plump cheeks were unshadowed, the pale sun freckles dotting her nose unconcealed. Only her eyes were elaborately enhanced with a muted palette of copper, bronze and green.

The painted lids lowered. “And yours?”

“I’m too old,” he said evenly.

“How old?” Without pretense, she inspected his suit, an impeccably tailored designer deal for which he’d paid a shocking amount, enough to have funded his entire school wardrobe of jeans and tees and the single off-the-rack suit he’d worn to every college function right up to graduation.

The woman’s gaze had lingered long enough to make him wonder if she was studying the suit…or the body beneath it.

He stayed perfectly still, even though his blood thundered with primal urges. “Thirty-six.”

“Married?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“The woman,” she said, ignoring his diversion tactic, “she’s not your wife?”

He was fairly certain that the lioness had arrived after he and Tamar. She couldn’t have seen them together—they’d separated almost at once. “What woman?” he asked carefully.

Her eyes, green as a tropical sea, met his. She smiled, patient and knowing.

He conceded the point. “She’s not my wife.”

“Longtime companion?”

“No.”

“You hesitated.” A mildly playful taunt.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Her voice became serious; her eyes were less so. “I don’t play fun and games with married men.”

He tried not to betray his surprise. Or his conclusion, even though the odds-on possibility that she’d already made up her mind about him—about playing with him—had sent shock waves crashing through his system.

“I see.” He kept his voice gentle but suggestive, asking without actually asking if she meant what he hoped she did.

Her small nod granted the unspoken petition. She was a queenly cat. “Yes, I believe that you do.” Her head tilted. “Convenient for both of us.”

A pocket of silence enveloped them. Daniel, for once, was uncertain. Had they agreed to a sexual affair? A dalliance?

If so, it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Suddenly he wanted more.

“A guess,” he said. “Your tongue.”

Her brows were brown, several shades darker than her hair. They drew together. He saw as her mind clicked into his place in the conversation. “Wrong,” she said, teasing again. She stuck out her tongue so he could see that it was not punctured by a metal stud. Her tongue was pink and moist, as long and narrow as the rest of her. The gesture was oddly intimate. Perhaps because he instantly pictured her licking a path down the center of his chest.

The air between them shifted, thickened.

His heated gaze zeroed in on the tight peaks of her breasts, clearly outlined against thin gold fabric. Unpierced. “Then where…?”

She folded her arms, stroked the hollow in her throat. “Not so fast, sir.” Her voice was light.

His felt dense and needy. “I had the impression you liked it that way.”

“Mmm.” She regarded him frankly. “Yes, I do. And I’ve made up my mind about you.”

His smile was all confidence, his demeanor assured.

She turned and walked away.

“IS THAT YOUR TAIL I see,” Tamar said when he returned, “tucked between your legs?”

Daniel thrust his fists into his trouser pockets and scowled. “Hardly.”

Clearly Tamar was enjoying his failure, but she knew not to take the teasing too far. She set an empty champagne flute rimmed with berry-red lipstick on a passing waiter’s tray. “Shall we call it a night? Bairstow’s already gone, so we’ve done our duty.”

“You’re free to leave.”

She shook her head at Daniel’s scowl, making the blunt ends of her hair brush bony white shoulders bared by a skimpy black sleeveless top. A matching pair of loose silk pants were secured by a drawstring knotted half an inch below her pierced navel; wide etched metal cuffs encircled her toned biceps. Tamar Brand was the type of woman who was not pretty, but whose impeccable style and confidence made other females stare through narrowed eyes as they tried to discern her secret.

“Like a dog with a bone,” she commented dryly, taking an engraved compact out of her tiny evening purse. She flicked it open and frowned at her lips.

Daniel snatched away the compact and snapped it shut. He held it out of Tamar’s reach, though she wasn’t one to reach. His thumb rubbed the engraved initials. It was familiar; after a beat, he remembered giving it to her two birthdays ago. She’d gone to Tiffany’s to select it, then had it wrapped and delivered to his office. He’d meant to pick out something personal, but as usual she’d beaten him to the punch. She was too efficient that way.

Tamar waited in silence. She could be as inscrutable as the Dalai Lama when she chose.

He dropped the compact into her open purse. “Go now.”

She sucked in her already-hollow cheeks, making a face at him. “Thanks, boss.”

“Take the car.”

They’d arrived in a hired car, a perk from his employers, Bairstow & Boone, the Wall Street brokerage house. Frank Bairstow’s dilettante daughter Ophelia was one of the partners in the restaurant’s ownership, thanks to daddy’s money. As Daniel was fresh off a promotion to junior partner, his attendance at the grand opening fete had been mandatory. He’d persuaded Tamar to be his “date.”

“You don’t need the car?” Tamar abandoned the goldfish lips. “My, my, Daniel. So the woman really did shoot you down.” She pretended to examine him for wounds. “Are you bleeding? Was it fatal, this blow to the ego?”

“My ego is fine.” His teeth gritted. Never in his life had he given up so easily, and Tamar surely knew that. She was merely trying to get a rise out of him.