Read Online A Matter of Choice by Nora Roberts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nora Roberts
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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
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
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