Emma Holly (21 page)

It was just as well Eric had asked her to stay out of sight. She didn't want to imagine what Dana would have said if she'd seen who her brother had unzipped for.

Eric's
quarters were almost as private as B.G.'s. Though his were located above ground, the windows opened onto the surrounding woods rather than the hall. The room was peaceful, but after having spent the last hour with Charity, it was also way too empty.

"Jeez," he said aloud, pushing his hands through his hair.

He knew better than to do this. She was a guest. B.G.'s guest. In spite of this, his mind—no—his skin replayed her touch as he made love to her that second time. Her hands were tender and caring. The feel of them had slid through him as deeply as any orgasm.

He tried to tell himself she was too vulnerable. He knew her history. She must have touched men like that before. Charity would leap first and look later. Love wouldn't break her, but it also wouldn't make her smart. She needed it too much to wait until she was sure. This day's caring could disappear tomorrow.

His logic, inarguable though it was, didn't help. Even in the cool-blooded quiet of his room, he knew he wanted more of what they'd shared.

"Crap," he said, then reached determinedly for a shirt and jeans. He couldn't deal with this now. He had to get his head sufficiently together to call his sister back. Whatever she'd phoned him about, speaking to Dana tended to require more than half his wits.

Since she'd graduated from Georgetown, she'd worked for the government—the Treasury Department, to be exact. He'd never been certain precisely what she did, except that it involved accounting. He did know she was better at it than her peers. More than once, she'd been promoted, each advance marked by switching out her wardrobe and her car to more expensive versions of the same conservative items.

Eric didn't understand this mode of celebration, but it seemed to satisfy her. If she had a personal life, she thought it too personal to discuss with him.

His personal life, on the other hand, she thought herself eminently qualified to pronounce about. He knew she'd be happier if he were straight, but the only sin she objected to to his face was his

"flightiness"—B.G. being, according to her, the embodiment of that trait. Everything she considered wrong with Eric she blamed on him.

Or that's why she told herself she disliked B.G. The real truth was that Eric's older sister had never gotten over her teenage intimidation by the boy genius. Dana needed to be the one everyone turned to with respect. Dana needed a world where order and responsibility were valued above all else. B.G.

broke every rule she believed in and was, as she put it, rewarded obscenely.

Reminders that the world wasn't as she wished would never be an easy pill for Dana to swallow.

Knowing this, Eric schooled himself to patience as he dialed her on his cell phone. Her snippy response didn't make keeping his cool easy.

"About time!" she said as if he'd made her wait hours. "What the hell is your freak of a boss up to now?"

Phone to his ear, Eric lay back against his bed's pillows. "You know something, Dana? You're not thirteen anymore. It's time to stop referring to your brother's lover as a freak."

"Sorry," she said, sounding it at least a little. "I'm just rattled. The men in suits paid me a visit. CIA, I think. They flashed their ID pretty fast. They were asking all sorts of questions about your boss—as if
I'd
know anything about
him
."

"That doesn't make sense." Eric ignored the implication that merely knowing his friend was cause for shame. "B.G. has ties to the government. Loose ones, but he does. If they had questions, his contacts could have taken them straight to him."

"All I know is they were very suspicious about something he worked on recently, presumably something with military applications. The weirdest thing was, they wanted to know if you'd mentioned seeing anyone in old-fashioned clothes."

Eric snorted through his nose. "You're going to have to be more specific than that."

"It's so ludicrous I hate to repeat it, but they seem to believe Mosswood has ghosts."

"Ghosts?"

"Don't ask me why they think so or why they care. I sincerely doubt paranormal activity was their central concern. As for what is, they wouldn't explain any more than I've told you—which is ridiculous when you consider it was
me
they were talking to. If they were smart, they'd beg me for help. No one's better at following money trails than me. But they just kept asking if I thought your boss was a loyal American."

Eric switched the phone to his other ear. "What did you say to that?"

"I said the last time we'd discussed politics he was six years old, and I certainly didn't bother to take notes. Eric, if B.G. is involved in something, anything, please tell him to be careful. These men were serious."

"I'll tell him," Eric said, "but unless they're concerned about his lifestyle, I can't fathom what they're bugged about. The work he does is primarily theoretical. Other people turn it into technology. On top of which, he's very cautious about security. Even I don't know the details of his projects."

"You be careful, too," Dana insisted. "I know you love the little freak, but there's no point letting him drag you down."

It was times like this when Eric wondered what alien ship had dropped his sister into the family nest.

Despite the lessons of compassion their mother had tried to inculcate, the thought of putting affection above or even equal to following the rules didn't occur to Dana.

"Thanks," he said through gritted teeth, knowing that in her own ass-backward way she was concerned.

"I'll call you back if I hear anything."

He didn't mean it, but the promise would reassure her. That, he'd discovered, was frequently the best way of dealing with difficult sisters.

Charity
was hardly the poster girl for Eddie Bauer. The plants she felt most comfortable with came in pots. All the same, she felt a sudden need to get outdoors. Everything had happened so quickly. Leaving Future-Tech. Coming here. Sleeping with Eric. Charity might be "adventurous," but any girl would need to clear her head after all that.

Eric's shirt and trousers were still in her room from the night before. Resisting the temptation to borrow, she dressed in her comfiest jeans and T-shirt. She was glad she'd had the foresight to pack them. No one could be a sex kitten all the time.

Happily, she had no trouble leaving the house. Security, it seemed, was most concerned with Mosswood's perimeter. The weather outside was a mist verging on a drizzle, cool enough to warrant shrugging on her blue hoodie. She followed a smoothly beaten path past the conservatory pool, across a short stretch of grass, and into the woods. The presence of planted beds and wooden benches told her she wasn't likely to get lost. People were supposed to walk here. The trail probably made a loop through the trees.

This assumption and the quiet had a welcome effect on her nerves. So what if she was too attracted to Eric? For the first time in she couldn't think how long, she felt tranquil.

I'm all right
, she thought.
I can handle this game
.

A break in the trees up ahead revealed a long, pine-blanketed valley. The mist was thicker at its bottom, a cloud condensing near the earth. Sheltered until now by forest, she'd forgotten a whole big world stretched outside. The reminder encouraged her to keep her head on straight. Her problems were small in the greater scheme of things. Electron-small, B.G. might have said.

When she spotted her host sitting on a stump in front of the view, it didn't even give her a start. Of course he was here. His presence was like what Eric said about thinking of someone moments before they called. However the coincidence happened, B.G. had his back to her and was wearing headphones.

He wasn't moving to the music as she would have been. Instead, he looked like he was analyzing whatever played, too focused to remember to enjoy. That, more than anything, prodded her to intrude.

She touched his shoulder lightly, then sat beside him when he twisted around. The stump was plenty big enough for them both.

"Charity!" he exclaimed, pulling the earphones down around his neck.

Because he seemed pleased to see her, she leaned close enough to hear the tune. Sheryl Crow was trying to tell him that every day was a winding road. Charity smiled to herself. Her recent life was certainly proving that.

"I don't know, B.G., I wouldn't have guessed you were down with the rocker girls."

"Eric gave me this CD," he said as if he didn't want her misled. "I appreciate a taste of what other people listen to, but I'm afraid the eighteenth century is more my speed."

"M-M-Mozart?"

He laughed at the way she said it. "Yes. And thank you for refraining from playing stupid."

"Yeah, well, just don't ask me to name any more eighteenth-century dudes." Pleased with herself for getting one right, she bumped his shoulder with hers. "You come out here because Eric and I were together?"

"You're very direct, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. It's hard to find out what you want to know unless you ask."

He met the challenge in her gaze, decision moving behind his eyes. "Perhaps I was avoiding you and Eric," he said. "Generally speaking, however, I find it more arousing than uncomfortable to watch Eric perform. If you two enjoyed yourselves, I'm satisfied."

"Thank you for giving us the hour."

Rather than ask how it went, he patted the faded patch in the denim over her knee. "You know, Charity, you have a gift for making yourself at home with people—and for making them feel at home with you."

"Yup, us sex kittens turn everybody warm and fuzzy."

"That isn't what I meant, and I think you know it. Speaking as a person who lacks a common touch, I can attest to the value of that knack."

"You seem to do all right."

"Here maybe," he said. "Here no one expects me to be normal."

Charity flipped her hand dismissively. "Normal is overrated—and pretty rare. I've had bosses out in the real world who were nutso compared to you."

He smiled at this, a private curving of his lips with his eyes lowered. "Tell me, Charity: You like Eric, don't you? You feel comfortable with him?"

She wasn't prepared for this change of tack. "Sure, I do. He's—" She hesitated as she realized she had no idea how Miss Manners would advise answering the lover of a man she'd spent the last hour getting sweaty with. "He's a good guy."

"A
good
guy."

"A really good guy. But I wouldn't, you know, fall for him."

"You wouldn't."

"No. That'd be dumber than my usual."

B.G. was peering at her now, and she wished he'd go back to keeping his thoughts to himself. As if this conversation demanded even more attention, he removed the earphones from his neck and shut off the music. He leaned forward over his knees.

"What?" she said, fiddling involuntarily with the zipper on her jacket. The stump beneath her felt very hard.

"I'm wondering why you say falling for Eric would be dumb."

"Well, duh, he's like Summer-in-the-Hamptons Boy."

"And you're… ?"

"Practically trailer trash. I mean, Mom and I never actually owned a trailer, but a few of the places we lived were almost as bad."

"Isn't that mode of thinking archaic? Don't you believe good-quality people can come from any background?"

"It's a cultural difference. It's knowing which forks to use, and trust funds, and being able to drive a yacht."

B.G. pursed his lower lip between his middle finger and thumb. Charity didn't understand how she could feel this defensive when she was totally convinced she was right.

"I'll concede the forks," he said after a pause, "and the yacht, although I don't see what bearing either has on the appropriateness of falling for someone."

"Fine," she said. "It's inappropriate because I'm a mess."

This comment required him to perch his chin on his hand. He looked like a skinny version of
The
Thinker
. "Why do you say you're a mess?"

"Now who's playing stupider than he is? You read my file."

"Yes, and it reads like the account of a twenty-four-year-old with energy, intelligence, and not enough direction."

"Yeesh. You sound like my high school guidance counselor when I dropped out."

"You object to our age disparity then?"

The question startled her even though he had been acting kind of stuffy. "No way. You guys are, what, thirty?"

"Two."

"Big deal. I've dated men older than that—not that you could tell. That stuff about younger women going for father figures is a crock. Half the time, the older they get, the bigger babies they are."

"I'll take that as a cautionary warning."

"I didn't mean it that way. I don't think you'll ever seem like any particular age."

This seemed to amuse him. "You believe me to be immune from time?"

"Or out of it… That was a physics joke, in case you couldn't guess."

His eyes crinkled enough to remind her he was a sexy man—not that she could forget! "I appreciate your effort to communicate across our great divide."

"Haha," she said. "You're pretty funny when you want to be."

Without giving her a chance to see what was coming, he cupped her face, stared straight into her eyes, and touched his lips to hers. "Sweet girl," he whispered against her mouth. "No wonder no one can resist you."

His hands were the gentlest she'd ever felt, and his kiss pulled at her so softly she shivered, a response that doubled when his mouth trailed slowly down her neck. She fought to concentrate enough to speak.

"So that's the way to win you over: tell you I get your jokes."

"Do you want to win me? Do you want to be intimate?"

His fingers snuck beneath the hem of her T-shirt to trace a tingling circle at the base of her spine. Despite the pleasure this inspired, her sense that he'd just slipped her under his microscope made her pull back.

"Why are you asking me that?" she demanded.