He gave Michael a long, steady stare. "I wouldn't think so."
"Slade is working on a novel," Jessica intervened. There were undercurrents that made her uncomfortable. "You haven't told me yet what it's about."
He caught the look in her eye, recognizing it as a plea for peace. Not yet, he decided. We'll just see what we can stir up. "Smuggling," he said flatly. There was a loud clatter of china from the doorway.
"Damn!" David took a firmer grip on the tray, then gave Jessica a sheepish smile. "I almost dropped the whole works."
"David!" She sprang up to take the coffee tray from him. "You can hardly carry yourself, much less all this." Slade watched him give her a disgruntled look before he flopped into a chair.
David was still pale--or had the loss of color come when smuggling had been mentioned? Slade wondered. There was a faint line of sweat on his brow between his mop of hair and his glasses. After setting down the tray, Jessica turned back to him.
"How do you feel?"
David scowled at her. "Don't fuss."
"All right." She leaned over until her face was level with his. "If I'd known you were going to be such a bad patient, I'd have brought you some crayons and colored paper."
Though he gave her hair a hard tug, he grinned. "Get me some coffee and shut up."
"Oh, yes, sir," she said meekly.
When she turned, David sent Slade a quick wink. "Gotta know how to handle these society types. Hi, Michael. Welcome back." Reaching in his pocket, he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. As he searched for matches, his eyes lit on the desk. "Hey, what's this?"
"One of Michael's finds I've already laid claim to," Jessica told him as she brought him his coffee. "You can take care of the paperwork next week."
"Monday," he said firmly, eyeing the desk. "Queen Anne."
"It's lovely, isn't it?" She handed Slade a cup before crossing to it.
Opening the lid, she showed off the inside.
Slade felt the back of his neck prickle. There was a rise in tension, he felt it--could nearly smell it. Shifting his eyes from Jessica, he studied both men. Michael added cream to his coffee. David found his match. With a half shrug, Slade told himself he was getting jumpy.
"And wait until you see the rest of the stock," Jessica told David as she came back to the sofa. "Michael outdid himself."
Slade let the conversation hum around him, answering briefly if he was asked a direct question. She was crazy about the kid, he concluded. It showed in the way she teased, lightly bullied, and catered to him. Slade remembered her comment about having wanted a brother or sister. David was obviously her substitute. How far would she go to protect him? he wondered. All the way flashed through his mind. If there was one firm impression he'd gotten from Jessica Winslow, it was loyalty.
Her relationship with Michael was less defined. If they were lovers, Slade concluded that she was very casual about it. Somehow he didn't feel Jessica would be casual about intimacy. Passion, he thought again.
There was hot, vibrant passion smoldering in that slender little body.
If Michael was her lover, Slade would have seen some sign of it in the kiss they had exchanged at the door.
If she had been in his arms, it would have been there, he thought as his gaze drifted to her mouth. It was soft and unpainted. From ten feet away he could all but taste it. Slowly, irresistibly, desire crept into him, and with it an ache--a dull, throbbing ache he'd never felt before. If he could have her, even once, the ache would go. Slade could almost convince himself of that. He needed to touch that butter-soft skin, experience that promise of passion, then he'd be free of her. He had to be free of her.
Glancing up, Jessica found herself trapped again. His eyes imprisoned her. She could feel herself being pulled--as physical a sensation as if he had taken her hand. She resisted. He's quicksand, her mind flashed.
You'll never get away if you take that final step. And yet the risk tempted her.
"Jessica."
Michael took her hand, scattering her thoughts. "Hmm, yes?"
"How about dinner tonight? The little place up the coast you like."
His calm, familiar green eyes smiled at her. Jessica felt her pulses level. This was a man she understood. "I'd love to."
"And don't worry about getting home early," David put in. "I'm minding the shop tomorrow; you stay home."
Jessica lifted her brow at the order. "Oh, really?"
David snorted at the dry tone. "There goes Miss Radcliffe," he told Slade. "She forgets I was around when she was twelve and had braces on her teeth."
"How would you like to be flat on your back again?" she invited sweetly.
"I'll be ready at seven," she told Michael, ignoring David's grin.
"Fine." Giving her a quick kiss, Michael rose. "See you tomorrow, David.
Nice to meet you, Mr. Sladerman."
As he left, Jessica set down her cup and sprang up, as if she had been in one place too long. "I'm going to take Ulysses for a walk on the beach."
"Don't look at me," David drawled. "I have to conserve my energy."
"I wasn't going to ask you. Slade?"
He would have liked to steer clear of her for a while. Resigned, he rose. "Sure. I'll get a jacket."
The beach was long and rocky. From off the bay, the breeze was keen and tinged with salt. Jessica was laughing, stooping to pick up driftwood and toss it for the dog to chase. Ulysses bounded up the beach and back again, running energetic circles around them until Jessica flung another stick. To the right, water hurled itself on rocks, then rose in a misty spray. Slade watched Jessica run to another piece of driftwood.
Doesn't she ever walk? he wondered. She laughed again, holding the stick over her head as the dog leaped clumsily at it. Don't contact us unless you have something useful. Slade jammed his hands in his pockets as he remembered his orders. Watch the woman. He was watching the woman, damn it. And she was getting to him. Watch what the sunlight does to her hair. Watch how a pair of faded jeans cling to narrow hips. Watch how her mouth curves when she smiles... Watch Detective Sladerman blow everything because he can't keep his mind off a skinny woman with brandy-colored eyes.
"What are you thinking?"
He snapped back to find Jessica a step in front of him searching his face. Cursing himself, he realized he was going to blow more than his cover if he wasn't careful. "That I haven't been to the beach in a long time," he improvised.
Jessica narrowed her eyes. "No, I don't think so," she murmured. "I wonder what it is about you that makes you so secretive." With an impatient gesture, she pushed back her hair. The wind immediately blew it back in her face. "But it's your business, I suppose."
Annoyed, he picked up a rock and hurled it into the breakers. "I wonder what it is about you that makes you so suspicious."
"Curious," she corrected, a bit puzzled by his choice of word. "You're an interesting man, Slade, perhaps because there's so much you don't say."
"What do you want, a biography?"
"You annoy easily," she murmured.
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.