Wolfe drew a breath. “I see.” Dammit, she was still pushing buttons—and all the right ones too. Worse, she was reading him like a book written in that easy-on-the-eyes crystal-clear type. And worse yet, she was so nonchalant about his temper that she was perfectly willing to deliberately incite him to lose it.
“What are you—three parts witch?” he demanded.
“Only one part. The other two parts are Irish and Cajun.”
Wolfe all but winced. “If that isn’t a combustible mixture, I don’t know what is.”
“Yeah. And you don’t want to get your fingers burned.”
It shouldn’t have surprised him, Wolfe reflected wryly, that she would ruthlessly return them to the point where he had earlier walked out of the computer room. If he had learned nothing else about Storm Tremaine, he had learned she was utterly fearless in confronting whatever obstacle stood in her way. Even if it was him.
Carefully, he said, “We ended this discussion a few hours ago.”
“No, the discussion didn’t end. It just stopped. Rather abruptly, as I recall.”
Wolfe jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and settled his shoulders. It was probably better to clear the decks here, he thought, where the possibility of being interrupted at least kept him from following his instincts.
“All right, then,” he said grimly. “We’ll finish it. I’m not about to lie and say I don’t want you; we both know better. But I’m also old enough to have learned that it isn’t going to kill me if I don’t get what I want. You pointed out something along those lines yourself.”
Storm regarded him thoughtfully. She was getting herself into more trouble than she needed, and she knew it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. So it didn’t really surprise her when she heard herself say, “Let me get this straight. You want me—and heaven knows I’ve offered—but it isn’t going to happen because I asked for one small assurance you can’t—or won’t—give?”
He nodded, silent.
Very softly, she said, “Some women need promises, Wolfe. Even if they’re only lies.”
CHAPTER
TEN
I
’m not going to lie to you.” He kept his voice
even.
At least, she thought, not about this. And she wondered if that should be her guideline as well; even if part of her life was filled with lies, she could keep this part honest. Couldn’t she? Or would Wolfe hate her even more when he discovered the truth about her?
For an instant, Storm wavered. But looking at him, overwhelmingly conscious of the unexpected strength of her own longing, she silently gave up the struggle. There would be time later to count the cost; for now, she felt an enormous relief in having made the decision.
With a faint smile, she said, “We all pay prices for what we want, don’t we? I’m willing to set aside all those quaint, old-fashioned ideas drummed into me since childhood, throw myself into a brief affair knowing it won’t lead to the altar—and I’ll pay a price for that. But I’m not asking anything of you except one small assurance that I’ll be a little more than another notch on your bedpost.”
“I don’t do that,” he said tightly.
“Oh, sure you do, Wolfe. Not literally—at least, I suppose not—but you must be keeping count. There wouldn’t have been so many if the number didn’t matter.”
That gave him a very sobering shock—because she just might be right. Before he could react, she was going on in the same quiet drawl, the tone matter-of-fact.
“Anyway, my point is that I can only meet you halfway. No matter which way you look at it, I’m giving up a lot more than you are, so I’ll be damned if I give up my pride as well.”
“You make it sound like a battle,” he said.
Her smile turned a bit rueful. “It probably will be, considering the sparks we strike off each other. But I’d prefer to look on it as a kind of grand adventure.” She hesitated, then added, “One I’ve never had before.”
Wolfe forced himself to wait a moment so that he wouldn’t blurt out the question. Slowly, he said, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Characteristically, Storm answered bluntly and with a total lack of self-consciousness. “That you’d be the first man in my bed? Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
“How old are you?” he demanded.
“Pushing thirty,” she said promptly, then chuckled. “Well, twenty-eight, anyway. Naturally, being a proud woman, I have to assure you that there
have
been offers in the past.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Storm eyed him, decided that he was still somewhat stunned by her revelation, and kept talking to give him time to pull himself together.
“Of course, I had boyfriends in high school and college, and the pressure got a bit intense from time to time, but I was never really tempted to experiment. I suppose I just wasn’t ready. And with six older brothers, all a bit fierce about their baby sister, nobody pushed me too hard.” She shrugged. “Then, after school, my career was—is—pretty demanding. Till you stalked into my life yesterday, I still wasn’t tempted.”
Wolfe cleared his throat and forced a note of mockery. “Then you took one look and tumbled, huh?”
Storm laughed. “Something like that.”
Fighting a silent battle with himself, Wolfe said, “If you’ve waited this long, why settle for an affair?”
Storm looked faintly surprised. “I haven’t been
waiting,
not the way you seem to mean. Despite my upbringing, it wasn’t fixed in my head that it had to be marriage or nothing; I’m a bit too independent by nature to think that way. In fact, I like my life just fine as is, without the encumbrance of a husband—or lover.” She shrugged. “Maybe that’s why the timing’s right now; because I want a man who doesn’t want ties. Looks to me like it suits us both. In a few weeks, I’ll be on my way again, free as when I got here.”
“And me?”
“You too. No demands, no complications, no hurts—no problems. Just what I trust will be a pleasant memory for both of us.”
Wolfe knew he’d be a fool to turn her down. There had been a few similar offers in the past, which he had promptly accepted and for which he felt no regrets. But Storm . . . Every instinct warned him that, with Storm, there could never be anything simple and uncomplicated, least of all an affair.
“No,” he said harshly.
She didn’t flinch at his tone or appear the slightest bit ruffled by the rejection. In fact, she smiled at him, and her drawling voice remained casual and matter-of-fact.
“Maybe I should have warned you about the Tremaines. We don’t give up so easily.”
Wolfe didn’t say a word when she turned and headed briskly for the computer room. And he didn’t move. He just stood there, surrounded by lighted display cases of gems in a virtually silent museum, and he would have sworn he could see the gauntlet flung down on the marble floor in front of him.
As she neared the computer room, Storm’s steps slowed and she drew a deep breath.
“Yaaa,” Bear murmured in her ear.
She released the breath. “Shut up. I’ve burned my bridges.”
Refusing to think about anything, she called for a cab as soon as she got to her desk, then gathered up what she needed to take back to her hotel and left, locking the door behind her. It wasn’t yet six o’clock, but since she planned to work in her suite, she didn’t feel guilty about leaving early.
No one could have said Storm bolted from the museum, but she didn’t waste any time in leaving. Making a mental note to rent that Jeep she’d mentioned to Wolfe, she paid the cab in front of her hotel and went up to the suite. She dumped everything she was carrying onto the couch—including Bear—and immediately sat down to wrestle her boots off.
Half an hour later, she was comfortably dressed in an old, frayed sweater and leggings and was curled up on the couch. She had a meeting later—not here as before, because he was wary of being seen here too many times—and her supper was on its way up from room service. She turned on the television, more to provide background noise than anything else, and began sorting through her notes and diagrams.
She tried not to think about Wolfe, but his face kept intruding on her thoughts. Those eyes of his, so fiercely blue, seemed burned in her memory, like the sharp angle of his jaw and the curve of his sensual lips.
Burned, like her bridges. There was no going back now, she knew. Impossible to turn around, even if she’d wanted to. She was following her heart, allowing it to lead her even though her head told her she was likely to regret it. But Storm could only do her best. With all the lies in her life, her only choice was to pick a dividing line and stick to it. It was a chancy decision, and she knew it, but she didn’t really have a choice.
Because of a promise given, she couldn’t tell Wolfe the whole truth, and because of what she had come here to do, he was the last man on earth she should have gotten involved with on any personal level—least of all an intimate one.
It wasn’t until much later that evening, when she was on her way to the meeting, that the real crux of the matter became clear in Storm’s mind. The simple truth was, she was caught between two very strong-willed men, bound to obey one—and seemingly fated to fall in love with the other.
Wolfe caught himself pacing his comfortable sublet for at least the third time since he’d arrived home at eleven.
He was being an idiot. He should take what Storm offered, put another notch on his goddamned bedpost, and then cheerfully wave good-bye to her when she left in a few weeks.
That was what he should do.
So why was he even hesitating?
It was nearly midnight when he sat down to make a call, forcing himself to concentrate on business. The number he called was a familiar one, a special private line to an office in Paris. He waited for the connection to be made, slightly impatient because it took longer than usual. When the receiver was finally picked up, the deep voice sounded very harassed—and very French, even though it snapped only a one-word name.
“Chavalier.”
“If your mood’s that rotten,” Wolfe said, “I’ll call back some other time.”
“Nothing’s wrong with my mood,” Jared Chavalier said, now sounding no more French than Wolfe did. “It’s the rest of the world causing problems.”
Wolfe grunted. “Know what you mean. Listen, can you do me a favor?”
“I suppose you want me to check Interpol’s files for information of some kind, as usual?”
“Yeah. Max’s exhibit is due to open in just a few weeks now, and I’m trying to anticipate problems.”
“Also as usual,” Jared said. “Okay, what do you need from me?”
“Two things. I have a few questions about one of our local collectors, and I’d appreciate any information you can dig up. Her name’s Nyssa Armstrong.” He spelled the name briskly, adding her address.
“Got it. And the second thing?”
Wolfe hesitated, then said, “I’m more than a little worried about the security company we’re using. Max still has faith in them, but after the first technician they sent us screwed up, I started to wonder. Then they lost an employee, who had apparently been blackmailed before she was murdered. And since I’ve seen Nyssa coming out of their offices here in the city—when I happen to know she uses a different security company herself—I can’t help but be concerned. At the very least, the company seems too damned prone to leaking information. Their reputation is excellent, but I’d like to know more than what I’ve found in the public record.” He named Ace Security, provided the address and other necessary information, and said, “See what you can find out about the outfit. All right?”
“No problem. It may take a few days, though. I have to use the computer on a time-sharing basis, remember, and this isn’t exactly official business.”
“Yeah, I know. The collection isn’t threatened until we take it out of the vaults, so I have some time before the information’s critical. Just let me know.”
“All right.”
When he cradled the receiver a few minutes later, Wolfe rose to his feet and went to the living- room window. The apartment boasted a fairly spectacular view of the San Francisco Bay, and in the daylight it was possible to see either a fog bank or the Golden Gate Bridge—whichever happened to be visible. But right now what Wolfe saw were the multicolored lights of the city, some of them hazy because a light fog was rolling in.
He wanted to continue thinking of business, but as he idly watched the lights and the fog, his thoughts returned to Storm. Her hotel wasn’t very far away. In fact, if he went and looked out his bedroom window, he could see it.
He was almost overwhelmingly tempted to pick up the phone again and call her, just to hear the lazy drawl of her voice, but he resisted the urge. She had the trick of throwing him off balance, of maneuvering him, and it was that more than anything else that he was wary of; no matter what happened next in their relationship, he wanted to make damned sure he had at least some control over his own choices.
For a long time after he hung up the phone, Jared Chavalier stared down at the notes he’d made while talking to Wolfe. Then he sighed, tore off the top page of the pad, crumpled it up, and threw it somewhat viciously toward a nearby trash can. It missed, which didn’t improve his mood.
He got up and went to a window, gazing out without paying much attention to what he saw. His eyes moved restlessly, though, scanning the horizon even while his mind was occupied with methodical thoughts.
“Shit,” he murmured finally, English expressing his feelings far better than French would have. He took a good look at the view then, noting that the fog was thickening, blotting out the lights of the bridge. It looked miserable out there, and for a moment he wished he were back in Paris. He muttered another curse, then returned to the spindly desk his hotel provided. He didn’t pick up the special phone, the one that would accept only calls routed through his Paris office. Instead, he picked up his cell phone.
When his call was answered, he didn’t offer a greeting, but simply said, “We’ve got a problem.”
For the next two days, Storm barely saw Wolfe. She didn’t go out of her way to see him, biding her time patiently and allowing her work to occupy her. In truth, because she was on such a short schedule, the project filled more than her usual working hours, and she always spent at least several hours in her hotel suite each evening going over plans, diagrams, operation manuals (dealing with the security hardware), and her notes as she planned a rather involved computer program.
By Friday afternoon she had begun writing the program, filling the first sheet of a brand-new legal pad with line after line of precise mathematical formulas. She expected it to take her another three or four days to finish writing the program and to go over it for possible problems—though there would likely be a few bugs showing up only after the program was installed and running. There usually were.
The work occupied her thoughts and attention, for which she was grateful, but it didn’t do much to help her sleep. She was acclimated by now, the jet lag past, but dreaming about Wolfe had become a habit that left her nights somewhat disturbed. Even Bear had taken to napping often during the day—a feline habit but not one of his—because she kept him awake tossing and turning half the night.
The situation might have continued indefinitely—since Wolfe was a stubborn man and since Storm was still worried about gaining his trust under false pretenses—but the status quo was disturbed late Friday afternoon when a visitor came into the museum.
“Hi, there.”
Startled, Storm looked up to see Nyssa Armstrong standing just inside the doorway of the computer room. The older woman, polished and sophisticated in a silk dress with her pale gold hair bound up in a refined chignon, makeup perfect and a bland social smile on her precisely painted lips, made Storm feel instantly threatened—and that reaction had nothing at all to do with business.
In a contest of elegance, Nyssa won hands-down. Storm was dressed with her usual casual indifference in faded jeans, boots, and a thick green sweater about two sizes too big for her. In addition, her hair was full of static electricity today, there was a smudge of ink on her nose and a pencil tucked behind each ear, and she had chewed one thumbnail down to a nub.