Carrie Alexander - Playing With Fire

“Perhaps you’re losing your skill?”

He didn’t consider himself a ladies’ man. If he’d had success in the field, it was because women couldn’t seem to resist a man who could resist them. His sights had always been set on other goals.

“I’m skilled enough for both of us,” was what he told Tamar. “There’s a guy at the bar. A trader with a hair weave and a platinum Rolex. He’s been eyeing you all evening—”

“Say no more,” she interrupted, withering with disdain. “I’m gone.” With a saucy flick of a smile, she tucked her purse under her arm and wended her way toward the industrial steel doors at the front of the restaurant. Daniel watched, curious if she’d leave alone—several men had approached her—but she appeared on the street unescorted, signaling for the car.

Daniel moved closer to the wide front window, keeping a protective eye on Tamar until the sleek midnight-blue town car glided up to the curb. The woman was an enigma, even to him. Although in some ways she was his closest friend, he knew her a fraction as well as she knew him. She was adamant about keeping her personal life out of the office. Tamar Brand’s vision was clear but narrowly focused. From the start, she’d made it clear that she did not care for questions or complications.

Perhaps that was why they got along so well—Daniel had been accused of the very same thing.

But not tonight, he thought. Tonight, he’d been struck blind. Tonight, he wanted to plunge headlong into a messy, unplanned, completely indulgent affair.

He thought of the lioness who’d refused to be his prize for the evening. And he smiled, a renewed anticipation spiraling through his bloodstream. He would have her.

A hand touched his shoulder. “You were supposed to come after me,” she said huskily into his ear, the action causing her breasts to brush lightly across his back. As if he needed the invitation.

“In another minute, I planned to.”

She made a small sound in her throat. Sexy—it shot tiny splinters of sensation under his skin. “I was always too forward for my own good.”

He didn’t turn. “There’s something to be said for cutting to the chase rather than cutting out the chase.”

“Yes, I could tell you were that type.” She leaned a little closer, resting her chin on his shoulder. He felt her breasts solidly this time, round and firm, pressed just below his shoulder blades. “All right, I’ll let you chase me,” she purred, her lips so close to his ear that his lobe vibrated. “And perhaps I’ll even let you catch me.” Perhaps she’d let him? He managed a dry chuckle.

Her hands closed around his upper arms. Long fingers, a strong grip. “Should we make it a dare?”

He was incited to a profligate degree, in mind as well as body. The latter was potentially embarrassing in such a public venue. “By all means,” he said, turning fractionally away from the banquettes beneath the front windows. The large stained glass piece she’d been looking at earlier hung directly over their heads, its myriad colors illuminated by several carefully placed spotlights. Their warmth was getting to him. A sheen of perspiration had risen on his forehead.

“I wouldn’t want to be just another of your popsies.”

He still hadn’t looked at her, but the black window reflected a pale image of her face, tilted beside his. “Popsies?” he asked, watching the dark shadows formed by the hollows of her eyes. Frustrating—he couldn’t gauge her reactions except in her voice. But she was holding on to him, forestalling his pivot.

“Lollipops.” The husky contralto hummed in his ear. “Sweet little suckers that last an hour, tops.”

“What makes you think I have a sweet tooth?”

Her grip tightened in concert with her voice. “Men like you…” She didn’t finish.

He let that one go. For now. Even though she was dead wrong. “And what is it you want?”

“Is this a negotiation instead of a dare?” She smoothed her right hand along his shoulder, switched her head over and said silkily in his other ear, “Shall we set up a list of rules, then? Would that suit your nature?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed when she reached past his shoulder and tugged playfully at his tie. Her fingertip followed the motion, flicking the bump above his collar as if chiding him for his hesitation. If only she knew. He was getting hard—so hard he had to shove a hand into his pocket and make a little room so his arousal wasn’t readily apparent. He swallowed again.

She said, drawing away, “I suppose you always follow the rules.”

“Not always.” He couldn’t turn.

“No?” She became playful. “By day, a by-the-books businessman. By night—” in the window, her head cocked “—a lawless scalawag.”

His lips compressed, withholding a laugh. “Scalawag?”

“Scoundrel, then.”

He chuckled.

“Libertine?” she suggested, stepping to his side, her eyes searching for his. “Lady-killer?”

“You’re way off base.”

She pretended to pout. “How disappointing. I was counting on your lawless streak to show me a good time.”

He turned quickly and took her by the elbows. A fleeting look of alarm passed over her face before her expression settled into an unblinking, wide-eyed stare. “You have no idea,” he said, startled by his own ferocity. His desire for her was quickly becoming rapacious. “What do you know about me? Not even my name.”

“It’s Daniel.” She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, another small signal of uncertainty. “I heard your wife say it.”

“Tamar is my executive assistant.”

“Your assistant?” A spark lit the feline eyes. “Aha. A substitute wife. Of course. I get it now.” She placed her palms on his chest and pressed lightly as her upper body swayed toward his. “You’re one of those driven Wall Street types. No time for a family, but you’ve been with your secretary for ages. She knows your likes and dislikes better than you do. She manages both your professional and personal life with an efficiency that’s frightening. She fusses over you like a wife.”

“Tamar doesn’t fuss.” He moved his thumbs against the soft skin of her inner elbows. “Otherwise, your assessment is accurate enough to be unsettling. I wasn’t aware that I’d become such a cliché.”

She studied his face, her lips puckering ever so slightly. A half smile. “There’s more to you?”

He said “Yes” with some intensity.

Her eyes were wide, bright; they reached into his, asking a question he couldn’t decipher. Suddenly she turned away, disengaging their linked arms with a shudder so small he might have missed it if they weren’t so attuned.

“What do you think of the restaurant’s decor?” she asked in a social make-nice voice. Pressing her knuckles to the hollow of her throat, she tilted her head to study the panel of stained glass that hung above them like a misplaced church window.

Distracted by the loose tendrils that coiled against her neck, he barely glanced at the piece. He wanted to blow aside her hair and run his fingertips over the bumps of her vertebrae until he reached the hollow of her back. Her dress was so open, so provocative, he might reach inside and cup—

“Daniel?”

“Belongs in a church, not a restaurant,” he said without thought.

Her chin lowered. “Really.”

Damn. He’d said the wrong thing. Aside from a casual interest in photography, understanding Art-with-a-capital-A was a challenge he hadn’t yet set his sights on. Probably he was supposed to have used words like stunning agony or fascinating dichotomy.

But it was only a piece of stained glass.

He looked up at it. Yeah, sure, it was a nice piece of stained glass. The wood-framed panel was large, roughly five feet by three. It contained thousands of tiny pieces of glass—green, gold, orangy-brown and red predominately, with flecks of white, silvery blue and a stark, clear lapis lazuli. No rhyme or reason to the placement, that he could tell. Thinking modern art with a certain derision, he stepped back to better view the piece. The shards of colored glass coalesced into a whole.