From the Heart (24 page)

He whirled to her. “Don't push it, Jess.”

The nickname pleased her—no one but her father had ever
used it. The fury on his face pleased her too. She'd poked the first hole in his shield. “And if I do?” she challenged.

“You'll get pushed back. I'm not polite.”

She laughed. “No, you damn well aren't. Should that scare me?”

She was baiting him. Even knowing it didn't help. Slim and strong, she stood in front of him, her hair whipped around her face by the wind. Her eyes were gold and insolent. No, she wouldn't scare easily. Slade told himself it was to prove a point. Even as he yanked her into his arms, he told himself it was to prove a point. He saw it on her face: anticipation, acceptance. No fear. Cursing her, he brought his mouth down hard on hers.

It was as he thought it would be. Soft, fragrant, pliant. She melted like wax in his arms even as his lips bruised hers. A man could drown in her. The pounding of the surf seemed to echo in his head. There was a sensation of standing in the surf, having it ebb and suck the sand from under him. He dragged her closer.

Her breasts yielded against the hard line of his chest, tempting him to explore their shape with his hands. But all his power, all his concentration, was bound up in the pressure of mouth to mouth. Her hands slid under his jacket, up his back, pressing, urging him to take more. Head swimming, he drew away, struggling to separate himself. With a long, shaky breath, Jessica dropped her head on his shoulder.

“I nearly suffocated.”

His arms were still around her. He'd meant to drop them. Now, with her snuggled close, her hair brushing his cheek, he wasn't certain he could. Then she tilted her face to his—she was smiling.

“You're supposed to breathe through your nose,” he told her.

“I think I forgot.”

So did I, he mused. “Then take a deep breath,” Slade suggested. “I'm not nearly finished yet.”

With no less force, with no less turbulence, his mouth returned to hers. This time she was prepared. No longer passive, Jessica made demands of her own. Her lips parted and her tongue met his, searching, teasing, tasting. His flavor
was as dark and unsettling as she had imagined. Greedy, she dove deeper. She heard his moan, felt the sudden race of his heart against her own. An urgency filled her so quickly that it took total command. There was nothing but him—his arms, his lips. He was all she wanted.

She had never felt this kind of need or this kind of power. Even when his lips were brutal, she returned the same aggression. Arousal was too tame a word, excitement too bland. Jessica felt a frenzy, a burst of energy that could only be tamed by possession.

Touch me! she wanted to scream as her fingers gripped his hair desperately. Take me! It's never been like this and I can't bear to lose it. She strained against him, her gesture as much a demand as an offering. He was stronger, she knew—the sleek, hard muscles warned her—but his need could be no greater. No need could be greater than the one that throbbed in her, pounded in her. Her body felt assaulted, both helpless and invulnerable.

Oh show me, she thought dizzily. I've waited so long to really know.

A gull screamed overhead. Like a spray of ice water, it jolted Slade back. What the hell was he doing? he demanded as he pushed Jessica away. Or more to the point, what was she doing to him? He'd lost everything—his purpose, his identity, his sanity—in one heady taste of her. Now she stared at him, cheeks flushed with passion, eyes dark with it. Her mouth was moist and swollen from his, parted, with her breath coming rapidly.

“Slade.” With his name husky on her lips, she reached for him.

Roughly, he caught her wrist before she could touch him. “You'd better go in.”

There was nothing in his eyes now. They were opaque again, unreadable. He stared down at her with a complete lack of interest. For an instant she was too confused to understand. He'd taken her to the edge, to that thin, tenuous border, then had rudely shoved her back as though she hadn't moved him in the least. Shame flooded her face with color. Anger stole in again.

“Damn you,” she whispered. Turning, she dashed for the beach steps and took them two at a time.

 

Jessica dressed with care. There was nothing like the feel of silk against the skin to salve wounded pride. Turning sideways in front of the full-length mirror, she gave a nod of approval. The lines of the dress were simple, except for the surprising plunge in the back that dipped just below the waist. It didn't bother her conscience that she had chosen the dress more with Slade in mind than Michael. And the color suited her mood—a deep, imperial purple. She swept her hair back from her face with two diamond-crusted pins, then let it fall as it chose. Satisfied, Jessica grabbed her evening bag and started downstairs.

She found Slade in the parlor, tightening a screw in a Chippendale commode. His hands were lean and competent. She remembered the feel of them when they'd run over her body in a quick, desperate search. “Well, aren't you handy,” Jessica stated.

He glanced up, frowned, and tightened his grip on the screwdriver. Did she have to look like that? he thought darkly. The dress clung everywhere, and from the way she walked by him, he knew she was aware of it. Slade turned the screw savagely. “Betsy complained that the handle was loose,” he muttered.

“Jack of all trades,” she said lightly. “Drink? I'm fixing martinis.”

He started to refuse, then made the mistake of looking over at her. Her back was naked and slim and smooth. The silk shifted enticingly as she reached for a bottle of vermouth. Desire was as breathtaking as a punch in the solar plexus.

“Scotch,” he snapped.

She smiled over her shoulder. “Rocks?”

“Straight up.”

“Drink like a man, do you, Slade?” Oh, she'd get through that damned indifference, Jessica vowed. And enjoy every minute of it. After pouring him three fingers, she brought the glass to him. He slipped the screwdriver into the back pocket of his jeans and rose. Keeping his eyes on hers, Slade took a long, slow sip of Scotch.

“Dress like a woman, do you, Jess?”

Determined to rattle him, she turned a circle. “Like it?”

“Did you wear it to stir up Adams' juices or mine?” he countered.

With a provocative smile, she turned away to finish the martinis. “Do you think women always dress to stir men up?”

“Don't they?”

“Normally I dress for myself.” After pouring a drink, she turned back to regard him over the rim. “Tonight I thought I'd test a theory.”

He went to her. The challenge in her eyes and his own ego made it imperative, just as she had anticipated. “What theory?”

Jessica met his angry gaze without faltering. “Do you have any weaknesses, Slade? Any Achilles' heel?”

Deliberately he set down his own glass, then took hers. He felt her stiffen, though she didn't back away. His fingers circled her neck, coaxing her lips to within an inch of his. She felt the warm rush of his breath on her skin.

“You could regret finding out, Jess. I won't treat you like a lady.”

She tossed her head back. Though her heart was hammering, she met his eyes with an angry dare. “Who asked you to?”

His fingers tightened; her lashes lowered. The doorbell rang. Slade picked up his drink and downed the rest of it. “Your date,” he said shortly, then stalked out of the room.

 

Slade pulled his car to a halt a short distance away from the restaurant, switched off the engine, pulled out a cigarette, then waited. Michael's Daimler was just being parked by the valet. Slade would have been more comfortable if he could have slipped inside to keep a closer eye on Jessica, but that was too risky.

He saw the car pull up behind him. Tension pricked at the back of his neck as the driver climbed out to approach his car. Slade slipped a hand inside his jacket and gripped the butt of his gun. A badge was pressed against the window glass. Slade relaxed as the man rounded the hood to enter by the passenger side.

“Sladerman.” Agent Brewster gave a quick nod of greeting. “You follow the lady, I follow the man. Commissioner Dodson told you I'd be in touch?”

“Yeah.”

“Greenhart's looking after Ryce. Not a lot of action there; the guy's been laid up for more than a week. You've got nothing yet, I take it.”

“Nothing” Slade shifted to a more comfortable position. “I spent the day at her shop Saturday, helped her uncart a new shipment. If there was anything in it, I'd swear she didn't know it. I had my hands all over everything in that place. She's too damn casual to be hiding anything.”

“Maybe.” With a weighty sigh, Brewster pulled out a worn black pipe and began to pack it. “If that fancy little shop's the dump site, at least one of 'em's hiding something . . . maybe all three. Seems Ryce is like baby brother. As for Adams . . .” Brewster struck a match and sucked on his pipe. Slade said nothing. “Well, the lady's got the justice's name behind her and a lot of political pressure to keep her name clear, but if she's involved, it's going to hit the fan.”

“She's not,” he heard himself say, then flipped his cigarette out the window.

“You're in the majority,” Brewster commented easily. “Even if she's as pure as a mother's heart, she's in a hell of a spot right now. Pressure's building, Sladerman. The lid's going to blow real soon, and when it does, it's going to get ugly. Winslow might find herself right in the middle. Dodson seems to think you're good enough to keep her out of the way when it goes down.”

“I'll take care of her,” Slade muttered. “I don't like her being alone with Adams in there.”

“Well, I missed my dinner.” Brewster touched his rounded stomach. “I'll just go eat on the taxpayers' money and keep an eye on your lady.”

“She's not my lady,” Slade mumbled.

 

The restaurant was quiet and candlelit. By the table where Jessica sat with Michael was a breathtaking view of the Sound. On the night-black water there was moonlight and the scattered reflection of stars. The murmur of diners was
discreet—low tones, soft laughter. The scent of fresh flowers mixed with the aroma of food and candlewax. Champagne buzzed pleasantly in her head. If someone had told her she'd been working too hard lately, Jessica would have laughed. But now she was completely relaxed for the first time in over a week.

“I'm glad you thought of this, Michael.”

He liked the way the light flickered over her face, throwing a mystery of shadows under her cheekbones, enhancing the odd golden hue of her eyes. Why was it she always seemed that much more beautiful when he'd been away from her? And had he, for a dozen foolish reasons, waited too long?

“Jessica.” He brought her hand to his lips. “I've missed you.”

The gesture and the tone of his voice surprised her. “It's good to have you back, Michael.”

Odd that he'd always been known for his smooth lines and was now unable to think how to proceed. “Jessica . . . I want you to start coming with me on the buying trips.”

“Come with you?” Her brow creased. “Why, Michael? You're more than capable of handling that end. I hate to admit it, but you're much better at it than I.”

“I don't want to be away from you again.”

Puzzled, Jessica gave a quick laugh as she squeezed his hand. “Michael, don't tell me you were lonely. I know there's nothing you like better than zipping around Europe hunting up treasures. If you were homesick, it's a first.”

His fingers tightened on hers. “I wasn't homesick, Jessica, and there was only one thing I was lonely for. I want you to marry me.”

Surprise was a mild term; Jessica was stunned, and her face was transparent.
Marry?
She nearly thought she had misunderstood him. She could hardly conceive of Michael wanting to be married at all, but to her? They'd been together for nearly three years, business associates, friends, but never . . .

“Jessica, you must know how I feel.” He placed a hand over their joined ones. “I've loved you for years.”

“Michael, I had no idea. Oh, Michael, that sounds so trite.” She ran the fingers of her free hand up and down the stem of her glass. “I don't know what to say to you.”

“Say yes.”

“Michael, why now? Why all of a sudden?” She stopped the nervous movement of her hand and studied him. “You never even hinted that you had any feelings for me other than affection.”

“Do you know how hard it's been,” he asked quietly, “contenting myself with that? Jessica, you weren't ready for my feelings. You've been so wrapped up in making a success out of the shop. You needed to make a success of it. And I wanted to build up my own part of it before I asked you. We both needed to be independent.”

It was true, all that he said. And yet how was she to suddenly stop seeing him as Michael, her friend, her associate, and see him as Michael, her lover, her husband? “I don't know.”

He squeezed her hand, either in reassurance or frustration. “I didn't expect you would so quickly. Will you think about it?”

“Yes, of course I will.” And even as she promised, the memory of a violent embrace on a windy beach ran through her mind.

 

In the late hours the phone rang, but it didn't wake him. He'd been expecting it.

“You've located my property?”

He moistened his lips, then dried them again with the back of his hand. “Yes . . . Jessica took the desk home. There's a small problem.”

“I don't like problems.”

Cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. “I'll get the diamonds out. It's just that Jessica's always around. There's no way I can take the desk apart and get them while she's in the house. I need some time to convince her to go away for a few days.”

“Twenty-four hours.”