her love life or her life of crime. He knew she’d once been married, that she wasn’t in a relationship now. He also knew calling her a criminal based on her history was a stretch. After tonight, well, things in this spy business changed in a hurry.
Leaning toward her, he rested an arm along the seat back. “You can call me Clyde. If it makes you feel better.”
“That’s okay,” she said with a laugh. “I kinda like calling you Harry.”
“Want to know what my nickname is?” he asked, toying with the hem of her tiny nothing of a sleeve.
She hesitated, shivered, answered shyly, “I don’t know. Do I?”
“It’s Rabbit.”
Lips pressed together, she shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask.”
This time he was the one who laughed. “It’s about tricks. Pulling things out of a hat. Trust me. It has nothing to do with, uh, taking my time,” he said, feeling the beginnings of an uncomfortable heat sliding down the length of his spine. “That I know how to do.”
“That’s good to know.” A blush crept up the back of her neck. “Not that I was asking or anything.”
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, laughing again because otherwise he was going to do something really dumb. Like drag her across the seat and into his lap.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice having dropped to a near whisper. “As thorough as you’ve been getting things ready for tonight, it wouldn’t occur to me to think anything else.”
The car hit a bump in the road, jarring her shoulder into his hand. Her whisper had led him to believe she was testing the sexual waters between them. The icy skin of her shoulder changed his mind.
He opened his fingers over the slope of her neck. Damn. “You’re freezing. Here. Take my coat.”
She stopped him before he’d done more than start to shrug one shoulder. “No, really. I’m fine. I’m not cold.”
“Right,” he said, sounding more harsh than he’d intended. “Tell that to your skin.”
“It’s nerves,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I don’t do well with anticipation. Or dreading everything that might go wrong. I’ll be fine once we’re there.”
He wanted to pull her close, rub his hands up and down her arms to warm her. Instead, he sat where he was and watched her huddle in on herself, wondering if she was going to be able to pull it together and hold it together once she had.
They had a hell of a long night to look forward to, and he didn’t know enough of the details of the dossier they were both after to play her part in addition to his.
But then the cab began to slow, pulling in between the line of parked limos and the personal cars waiting to be valeted, and what he did or didn’t know no longer mattered. He had a job to do, and it was time.
A gallery doorman slipped through to open Harry’s door. He climbed out, reached back to give Georgia his hand. And when she stepped out, her back straight, her head high, he knew from her show of strength that the only thing he had to worry about tonight was keeping his hands to himself.
Still, with the evening’s air being nippy and Georgia hardly dressed, he draped his arm around her shoulders as they made their way beneath the gallery’s portico and down the pebbled walkway to the double glass doors.
At the entrance, the hostess pointed them to a short line at a table in the dimly lit and richly carpeted lobby where a cashier waited to take their donation and provide them with a receipt and the reception brochure.
At the mention of the brochure, Georgia’s case of the shakes returned. He wasn’t even touching her, was simply standing at her shoulder. The hem of his suit coat brushed the hanging ends of her wrap, but that was the extent of their contact. And still he felt her tremble. Whether a chill or nerves, her reaction set him on edge; a surge of heat rose along with his blood pressure.
This wasn’t going to work. They needed to settle this now. Once inside the exhibit room, it
Leaning toward her, he rested an arm along the seat back. “You can call me Clyde. If it makes you feel better.”
“That’s okay,” she said with a laugh. “I kinda like calling you Harry.”
“Want to know what my nickname is?” he asked, toying with the hem of her tiny nothing of a sleeve.
She hesitated, shivered, answered shyly, “I don’t know. Do I?”
“It’s Rabbit.”
Lips pressed together, she shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask.”
This time he was the one who laughed. “It’s about tricks. Pulling things out of a hat. Trust me. It has nothing to do with, uh, taking my time,” he said, feeling the beginnings of an uncomfortable heat sliding down the length of his spine. “That I know how to do.”
“That’s good to know.” A blush crept up the back of her neck. “Not that I was asking or anything.”
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, laughing again because otherwise he was going to do something really dumb. Like drag her across the seat and into his lap.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice having dropped to a near whisper. “As thorough as you’ve been getting things ready for tonight, it wouldn’t occur to me to think anything else.”
The car hit a bump in the road, jarring her shoulder into his hand. Her whisper had led him to believe she was testing the sexual waters between them. The icy skin of her shoulder changed his mind.
He opened his fingers over the slope of her neck. Damn. “You’re freezing. Here. Take my coat.”
She stopped him before he’d done more than start to shrug one shoulder. “No, really. I’m fine. I’m not cold.”
“Right,” he said, sounding more harsh than he’d intended. “Tell that to your skin.”
“It’s nerves,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I don’t do well with anticipation. Or dreading everything that might go wrong. I’ll be fine once we’re there.”
He wanted to pull her close, rub his hands up and down her arms to warm her. Instead, he sat where he was and watched her huddle in on herself, wondering if she was going to be able to pull it together and hold it together once she had.
They had a hell of a long night to look forward to, and he didn’t know enough of the details of the dossier they were both after to play her part in addition to his.
But then the cab began to slow, pulling in between the line of parked limos and the personal cars waiting to be valeted, and what he did or didn’t know no longer mattered. He had a job to do, and it was time.
A gallery doorman slipped through to open Harry’s door. He climbed out, reached back to give Georgia his hand. And when she stepped out, her back straight, her head high, he knew from her show of strength that the only thing he had to worry about tonight was keeping his hands to himself.
Still, with the evening’s air being nippy and Georgia hardly dressed, he draped his arm around her shoulders as they made their way beneath the gallery’s portico and down the pebbled walkway to the double glass doors.
At the entrance, the hostess pointed them to a short line at a table in the dimly lit and richly carpeted lobby where a cashier waited to take their donation and provide them with a receipt and the reception brochure.
At the mention of the brochure, Georgia’s case of the shakes returned. He wasn’t even touching her, was simply standing at her shoulder. The hem of his suit coat brushed the hanging ends of her wrap, but that was the extent of their contact. And still he felt her tremble. Whether a chill or nerves, her reaction set him on edge; a surge of heat rose along with his blood pressure.
This wasn’t going to work. They needed to settle this now. Once inside the exhibit room, it
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