The Wild Side

Riley nodded, shoving back the sympathy he knew his friend hated. Slate had been faithful in the face of endless temptation. Unfortunately, his girlfriend hadn’t seen fit to return the favor. Not surprisingly, Slate had taken it hard. His mother’s death over the past long year hadn’t helped. When he’d showed up on Riley’s doorstep the day before, thin and down, Riley had been shocked. Today was the first sign of the return of his humor and sense of fun—the perfect cover for the brilliant, ruthless operator he was. Riley had done well inviting him to be in on this case. The FBI wasn’t known for granting favors, but they’d let Slate in with a surprising lack of protest. Apparently Gemini’s reputation extended beyond the military.

“And I’ve got a hot date, too, with the real Tom.” Slate grinned around a mouthful of cold cuts. “To make sure he has lots and lots of other plans until this operation is over.”

“And then?”

“Then I get to kick back and be available. I might be useful, since I’m invisible as far as the cops are concerned.”

“And as far as Jake Allston’s people are concerned.” Riley resignedly pulled his plate closer and started on his sandwich. Unfortunately, he had to admit he was the right man for the job. The stolen miniature of Queen Elizabeth was the crucial link needed to prove Senator Mason’s involvement in Jake Allston’s corrupt empire. Allston had used it to bribe the art-loving senator in return for legislation favoring Allston’s business interests. With the portrait, the Feds could grant Mason immunity from prosecution in exchange for his testimony against Allston. Since Riley had been invited in by the police, his involvement would create a buffer zone between the Feds and the cops while the Feds investigated the leak in the force. All the pieces fit. Everyone was happy. Except Riley.

He felt as if he’d been assigned to seduce a viper. Not that Rose would need much seducing, unless she and Tom did have some master-slave thing to act out. In that case, he’d have to pretend to seduce her, while they both knew the entire scene was a bunch of crap. He swallowed a bite; the bread tasted like glue in his dry mouth.

Sex between a man and a woman was supposed to flow, to evolve naturally out of mutual desires and tastes. It wasn’t something you should have to program or teach. Experimenting was all very well; he’d done his share. But how much better to lie together and simply savor what all humans were born to do.

He washed down the glue with a swallow of milk. He’d have to try damn hard either to find the portrait right away, since Captain Watson and the Feds seemed so certain it was in Rose’s apartment, or be absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure it was somewhere else.

ROSE CRAMMED FIVE PAIRS of underwear, two bras, three T-shirts, two pairs of shorts, two mini-sundresses, deodorant, shampoo and a toothbrush into the largest purse she owned, her movements jerky and hurried. She wasn’t sure where she was going yet. Once she got to South Station she could decide. Her budget would only allow travel by train, but she couldn’t pass up this opportunity to leave.

Melissa would be in her apartment in an hour; anyone keeping an eye on the place would see a slender young woman entertaining a man. Nothing so unusual about that. Rose had been careful on the phone, with Melissa out of the room, to make it seem as if Tom would be meeting her tonight, in case her phone was being tapped. He’d sounded so eager and had accepted the “teacher” role so readily, she felt horrible leaving Melissa to face him. But they’d work it out. Or not. Either way, by the time whoever wanted her—or whatever he thought she had—found out she was missing, Rose would be long gone.

If things didn’t work out with Tom, Melissa would go back to her own apartment and her own life, and only wonder once in a while where her neighbor had gone. If things did work out, no doubt she and Tom would use Melissa’s own apartment after tonight. Melissa would be in no danger—of that Rose felt sure, or she wouldn’t be doing this.

She’d considered slipping a note under Melissa’s door, explaining the switch, but after seeing the horror of nerves on Melissa’s face when Rose announced that the date had been set, she knew her neighbor wouldn’t show if she thought Tom expected Rose herself. And Rose really needed Melissa to be in the apartment tonight. Just tonight. So she’d have a chance to escape.

She slung the bulging bag over her shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious that it contained more than the usual purse items. After one last look in the mirror to adjust her blond wig, check her makeup, fasten a sweater over her bare shoulders and flowered sundress, Rose let herself out of the apartment and slid her key under Melissa’s door as planned. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, she took the stairs down three floors to the basement and slipped out the back entrance.

On the way to the Harvard Square T stop, and on the ride from Cambridge to Boston, she channeled her nervous energy into looking happy and carefree—a woman out on a shopping spree, planning to return home tonight for a romantic assignation with Tall Dark and Handsome. She got off at South Station, checking as casually as she could for anyone else leaving the train who might seem unduly interested in her and where she was going.

Then she hurried up the escalator and lunged toward the turnstile, at the exact same moment as a distinctly male body wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

“Sorry. After you.” The distinctly male body stepped back and gestured her through. She turned, looked up and met a pair of dynamite blue eyes under short, military-style blond hair. Eyes brimming with boyish humor, intelligence, warmth and a touch of something grim and steely that even in Rose’s near-frantic state fascinated her.

She smiled her thanks and pushed through the turnstile ahead of him, wishing it was some other day and that she was, in fact, on the mindless, infinitely cancelable errand she wanted everyone to think she was on. Then she could take time to delve into those eyes and what lay behind them. It had been awhile since she’d gotten to know someone close to her age.

“I’m Mike. Slater. Friends call me Slate. What’s your name?” He fell into step beside her, fanning the spark of her regret into a painful ember.

“I’m Rose. Just Rose. Friends call me Rose.” She sent him an I’m-only-teasing smile so he wouldn’t think she was making fun of him. Guys hated being made fun of. Their egos couldn’t stand it. Though this one seemed so natural and boy-next-door in spite of his incredible sex appeal, he might not have minded.

“Where you headed?”

“Train station.” Her smile grew wary. Even a natural, heavenly built boy-next-door could be a threat. Someone out to make sure she disappeared, one way or the other. Or someone trying to keep her from leaving.

Rose clenched her teeth. She hated this. Hated not being able to trust anyone. Hated that everything and everyone might be something other than they seemed. That this nice-looking guy might be about to drag her out to some deserted lot and threaten to shoot her for whatever he thought she’d done, or whatever he thought she had.

The sooner she was out of Boston, the better. Even by talking to this guy, even if he was innocent, she’d already attracted someone’s attention. Someone who could answer questions about her if he bumped into people who wanted to know. As much as she wanted to linger and listen and look, she had to get rid of him.

“What time’s your train?”

“I’m not…it’s not for a while.” Only a few dozen yards into the crowded main room of the station she’d be able to see the departure schedule and take her pick of time and destination. Why couldn’t he have waited to ask until then, so it wouldn’t be so obvious she had no idea where she was going?

“I’ve got a long wait, too. I’m meeting a friend. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, gosh. I don’t think so, thanks.” She quickened her pace; he kept up easily.

“I just want to buy you a drink, that’s it. Juice, milk, soda, whatever…doesn’t have to be booze.”

“No, really. I’m fine.”

“I don’t mind. There are some decent places here.” He gestured toward the assortment of eateries in the station.

Rose stopped and turned to face him, struck again by the depth and complexity of the expression in his eyes. “Are you always this persistent?”

“No.” He grinned and crossed his arms, hands shoved into his armpits. “Usually I don’t even ask in the first place. So I guess I don’t want to start off a career of asking strange women out with a dismal failure.”

She couldn’t help a small smile. This guy would probably be a lot of fun. Damn the timing all to hell.

“I’m sorry. I just have to be so careful.” She bit her lip. “Everyone has to be careful these days.”

“Okay, no problem.” He held up his hands and backed away. “Nice to meet you, Rose. Have a good trip.”

He grinned once more and strode off toward the food court. She took a quick, deep breath. Stupid as it sounded, and as much as she had been anxious to shake him off, now that he was gone, she felt terribly alone.

She pulled herself together, scanned the departure board, chose a train to D.C., so she’d have the most stops to choose from, bought her ticket and a newspaper, and settled down to wait.

3

MELISSA SAT ON HER discarded-outfit littered bed, hands tucked under her thighs, knees pressed together, feet pressed together. She had a good view in the dresser mirror opposite her, so she could see firsthand what she looked like when she was panicking.

Not a pretty sight. Her eyes were huge, her face so pale that the makeup she’d put on looked like it was trying to bring her back from the dead. Her jaw was so tight her teeth were starting to ache, and when she brought her hand up to tuck her hair behind her ears, forgetting her hair wasn’t long enough to tuck anymore, her hand was shaking. In fact, her entire body was shaking.

She glanced at the clock. Seven-fifty. In ten minutes she’d go across the hall and do some shaking there. Seeing as guys were always late, at eight-fifteen this Tom person would waltz in. He’d be overly handsome, with tufts of chest hair that poked all the way up to his Adam’s apple. He’d have several gold necklaces glinting through the unbuttoned opening of his rayon shirt, and he’d make that horrible gun with his fingers and pretend to shoot her in greeting. Which was a damn strange way to be charming, now that she thought about it.

No way. She couldn’t do this. She was not a sex goddess. She belonged with someone dependable and a little dull, someone like Bill. She should be married, cheerfully and gracefully pregnant, glowing with peace and good health, helping her husband make their bed in the morning.

She shuddered. Ick. Not yet. Not until she was thirty, anyway. She needed this time to explore, this last chance in her life to check out the wild side. Each of her relationships had lasted longer than the previous one, and she had a feeling Mr. Right would show up soon. So what was wrong with something before then? A little stopgap? Better to screw around now than do it after she was married. Or wonder the rest of her life what a fling would feel like. Right? Right.

She glanced at the clock again. A little sideways flirt of a glance, so that maybe if she took only the tiniest look, time would slow down a little, or maybe stop, and she wouldn’t ever have to go in there and meet him.

Tom would hook his jacket over one finger on his shoulder and wink at her as if she was a cute child. He’d be too huge and musclebound, the kind of guy who’d have to turn sideways to fit through the door, and who’d have no spit at all and kiss her with a dry mouth that he used special lip weights to keep young and firm. The kind of guy who called women he was trying to impress “kid” or “babe.”

Ick.

No way. She couldn’t do this. What were the odds that he would be attractive to her? How many men did she pass in the street, and how many of them were? Really attractive? Enough to want to touch? Hardly any.

So Rose thought he was sexy. Rose dated men old enough to be her father, who had paunches and horrible taste in clothes and probably bad breath and erectile dysfunction.

What the hell am I doing?

The traitorous clock now said 7:58. Melissa took a shaky breath and moved her shaky body over to the dresser. She picked up the key with her shaky hand, her shaky brain still not sure if she was actually going to use the key. But she had to. She couldn’t stand him up. She couldn’t bear the curiosity for the rest of her life if she never even got a peek at him. And she wasn’t going to stoop to peering through the doorway and only coming out if he was cute.

For one thing, she didn’t want him to know she even lived in this building until she decided whether he was someone she’d like to…get to know.

She opened her door and raced across to Rose’s apartment, managed to fit the key into the lock and went inside, trying to take deep breaths into lungs that had developed some kind of weird stuttering problem. She would have loved a small drink—say, a fifth or so of Scotch—but she didn’t drink that much, and wouldn’t want him to smell it on her if he got close enough to.

Oh, God. What was she doing? What if he was totally wonderful? How could she stop herself from falling in love with him? What made her think she was emotionally equipped for intimacy without feeling?

She went over to the window and opened it, thankful for the cool night air that flowed into Rose’s apartment. If it was humid and oppressive, she’d probably pass out. She looked down into the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guy so she could at least get a preview.

No studs. All she saw was that parked TV repair truck, which must belong to someone who had recently moved onto their street.

The knock on the door was perfect. Not loud and insistent. Not timid. Not silly and overly rhythmic. Confident, firm-knuckled, let me in.

Oh, help. Let him in.

She took a huge deep breath, which her lungs suddenly allowed her to have, and went to open the door.

He was perfect.

He was so perfect she wanted to laugh. He was so perfect she wanted to cry. He was so perfect she just stood there and stared and thought about how perfect he was until it occurred to her she was being totally ridiculous.

“Hi, Tom. Come in.”

He nodded. Even his nod was perfect. Up and down of his head, with his firm jaw starting it and his high forehead following. Dark, dark hair, slightly wavy and thick, dynamite brown eyes surprisingly light in color, long lashes, nice mouth, a sexy groove running down one cheek.

She moved back into Rose’s overdecorated apartment and gestured him in, then closed the door and watched as he walked into the room and looked around.

Perfect. Tall, not too tall; built, not too built. Jacket and tie, respectable, well-groomed. Perfect.

And the most perfect thing of all was that he was so perfect, there wasn’t the slightest chance she’d fall in love with him. Who the hell wanted to stare at someone that perfect for the rest of her life? Talk about feeling inadequate.

He swung around and met her gaze, a faint smile deepening that groove in his right cheek. His eyes were penetrating, his expression slightly cynical, totally exciting. She found herself beaming back in breathless, idiotic, hopeful happiness. This could actually work.

“Call me Riley.” His voice was perfect, too, of course. Deep and rich, the kind of voice that went through you and curled your toes. “It’s my middle name. Only my mom and Amanda call me Tom.”

“Riley.” She nodded and stood there. He stood there, too, and she started feeling a little uneasy. He didn’t seem the type for polite small talk. And now that she thought about it, his stare was making her uncomfortable. There was something sort of speculative in it, something almost…disdainful.

Then it hit her. He didn’t find her attractive.

In a scene out of an alchemist’s nightmare, the gold excitement in her chest turned to lead misery and sank into her stomach. Of course. Mr. Perfect would want Ms. Perfect. Rose probably had told him she was Demi Moore’s double to get him to come.

“Do you want a drink, Riley?” Because she sure as hell did. “Scotch okay?”

He nodded. She moved to the tray she’d brought in earlier from her place, and poured out two stiff drinks. While she did this, Tom-now-Riley walked around the apartment, examining Rose’s clutter of knickknacks: her collection of still-life paintings, sometimes two deep on the red walls; the bowls of potpourri that made the room smell like some anonymous chemist’s idea of fresh.

Melissa crossed to him and handed him his drink. “Cheers.”

She raised her glass in salute, then drained half of it.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Thirsty?”

She smiled and laughed somewhat stupidly, which was very un-perfect of her. “Nervous.”

He nodded, which seemed to be his preferred mode of communication. That weird judgmental expression was still on his face. In spite of the fact that he was perfect, and mysterious, and sort of terrifying in a dangerous, wildly erotic way, she was also starting to find him a little annoying. If he thought what she wanted was so disgusting, why had he come? If he thought she was so disgusting, why didn’t he leave? He didn’t seem the type to worry about politeness.

“So.” She folded her arms across her chest and exhaled a short, forced breath. To hell with him. “How about those Red Sox?”

His grin was slow and surprising, spreading across his face and making grooves in both cheeks, a double in the right one. She couldn’t help smiling back. You couldn’t be in the room with a man who smiled at you that way and not smile back. Even if you sort of wanted to slug him in the gut.

“Think they’ll go all the way this year?” She opened her eyes wide and blinked repeatedly.

He actually chuckled that time. Then he took a healthy swallow of Scotch and put it down behind him on Rose’s mantel, without looking, as if he simply sensed it was there. He stood, hands on his hips pushing back his jacket, staring at her with an intimate I-know-what-we’re-going-to-be-doing-later look in his eyes.

Melissa drew in her breath. Her face turned cold and probably pale, then reheated in a flush of warmth that spread down her body and made her skin feel as if it was reaching out to be touched. Oh. My. Lord. The man could seduce a nun. Maybe he did find her the tiniest bit attractive, after all. Or maybe he’d promised Rose and felt he had to.

Whatever. Melissa wasn’t ready to get cozy yet, not until she’d figured out his strange attitude. And she had this thing about not kissing men until they’d uttered at least four complete sentences.

She backed away and gestured toward the couch with her drink, nearly spilling it in the process. “Would you like to sit down?”

He sat in the burgundy wing chair, the lace antimacassar looking idiotically feminine and out of place behind him.

Melissa gulped more of her drink, its tingly warmth adding to what she already felt from Mr. Perfect’s incredible sex appeal. Maybe if he’d actually talk she wouldn’t be so freaked out.

“Why are you nervous?”

She barely escaped choking on her Scotch. What the hell did he think? If she hadn’t seen the piercing intelligence in those eyes, she’d wonder about his brain power. “I don’t exactly do this often.”

“No.”

She snapped her head up and gaped at him. He kept his gaze level, unperturbed, slightly challenging. Something in the way he’d said “no” did what women had been fighting against for generations: it meant yes. It meant he thought she invited strange men over to explore her sexuality all the time.

“Excuse me?” She stood up, feeling slightly unsteady, beginning to be annoyed in earnest. “Would you mind lifting yourself above the four-word sentence and explaining that?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Do I need to?”

She came very, very close to flinging her drink in his lap. Instead she slammed it down on Rose’s brass table. What a total jerk. This was a major disaster. And he’d been so—

She wasn’t going to use that p word again. Not for a jerk, not even a perfect jerk.

She pointed furiously down at her shoes. “Flats, so you wouldn’t think I’m a tramp, and because I was worried you might not be tall. Knee skirt, plain navy, no sit-down wrinkles across the front—i.e., not too short, not too tight. Basic off-white top, normal makeup, plain old hair. All calculated during the last nearly sleepless twenty-four hours in an obsessive and carefully laid plan, to ensure that if you didn’t find me attractive, or if I didn’t find you attractive, the rejection would be minimal because I didn’t go all out for seduction.”

She jerked her arm straight out in front of her. “Observe the shaking hand, complete with sweaty palm. If you’d like to feel my pulse I think you’ll find it one step shy of panic level. Now. Please tell me exactly what would make you think I’ve done this before.”

His eyes narrowed, then his expression changed to contain something that seemed like admiration. He grinned that slow sexy grin which changed him from terrifying to devastating. “I apologize. You’re perfect.”

Melissa would have laughed, except he sounded like he was mocking her, and she was still furious. He thought she was perfect? “Two sentences that time. I dare you to up the count.”

He stood and took a step toward her. “I’m not much of a talker.”

The implication was there, in his eyes, in his purposeful nearness. I’m better at other things. Melissa reached down for her drink and walked toward Rose’s tiny kitchenette, unsettled to the verge of tears. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for this man. Two minutes into their meeting he was playing mind games, and she hadn’t a clue why. Maybe he thought it was sexy. Maybe he thought making his victims want to stick pins in him would be fabulous foreplay.

It wasn’t. Not even close.

She drained her glass and poured herself another Scotch, knowing she wouldn’t be able to come close to drinking even half of it. She’d rather not exhaust her dignity by throwing up in Rose’s toilet. But it gave her something to do, something to help her escape his calculating stares and overwhelming presence. Something to help calm her while she figured out how to get the evening back on track.

“Look, Riley.” She clenched the whiskey bottle, not yet brave enough to turn around and face him. “I’m kind of a mess over this whole thing. So if you could make it a little easier on me, I’d appreciate it. I don’t know what you expected, but obviously I’m not it.”

She took a long, healing breath, glad to have all that out in the open…and held it. He’d come up behind her. Close. She could feel his warmth, could feel his eyes on her. She wished her hair was still long so the back of her neck wouldn’t feel so exposed. Her sleeveless cotton shirt had only a slightly scooped front and back, but she might as well have been wearing a bikini top, the way she felt.

“You’re better than I expected.” He drew his hands down her arms in a light, caressing touch that ended with him circling her wrists in a firm grip she had a feeling would tighten impossibly if she tried to pull away. Although his tone still hovered between compliment and insult, Melissa’s heartbeat sped up. She stood entranced, imprisoned, and somewhat shamefully aroused.

“I expected you’d be beautiful.” He said the words softly into the top of her hair. She felt as if his voice was surrounding her, heating her, making her joints go watery.

Beautiful? No way. “Pretty”—she’d been called that. “Cute” tons of times—she hated that. Beautiful?

“I expected you’d be desirable.” He drew his hands back up to her shoulders and let go lingeringly. “But I didn’t expect such…perfect innocence, for all I was warned. You’re quite a woman.”

Melissa swallowed. Warned? Rose thought Melissa was so virginal she had to warn him? “Uh, thank you? I’m not really sure what you…I mean, I’m not that innocent, but I am… I mean, it is kind of the whole point of you being here, isn’t it?”