operative couldn’t be trusted anyhow, and if she wanted to be used that way, he was only too happy to oblige. As long as he was in control of the situation, of course.
This Nikki Taylor with the fake history had gotten under his skin. Whoever had sent her was very good. He realized now that her casual distance from him was all deliberate, meant to elicit his attention. He should have just stayed away and waited for her to come to him. Instead he had allowed her looks to bring back feelings that he had closed off, and even with his suspicion of what she was, he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t wait.
He clenched one hand as he looked around her bedroomwith its cool white and green colors. The blankets on the bed were folded back, ready for its occupant. He walked toward it, taking in the books stacked by on the nightstand. He picked one up. And another. Fiction.
There was a notepad next to the books. He opened it. He was too used to reading private things to feel any twinge of guilt. What he could find out could help save his skin. His lips twisted derisively. Miss Taylor wasn’t as innocent as she appeared, anyhow. His name was written in there, circled several times. He didn’t think he was the hero of her story.
Nikki pulled on the only thing she had in the bathroom, besides what she had worn that day. The large cotton bathrobe covered every inch from her neck to her ankles. She couldn’t put those clothes back on. Unclean . She shook her head.
Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were too large. She hurriedly pulled back her hair, braiding it with absentminded ease as her mind raced over what had happened and how to face the man outside.
She had expected anger. Even attraction of some sort. Rick Harden, after all, was a sexual man. All reports pointed to his libido. She even understood that was his weapon. His aura of unavailability made him a challenge to women around him. She had watched him long enough to see it at work. An aloof man with a sexual reputation was hard to ignore.
But she hadn’t expected her own response. She tightened the sash around her waist. Five years out of the business had removed that protective layer between emotion and reaction. She had allowed fear to take over the situation, and then to make it worse, she had actually felt something else. She dared not form the word in her mind. That would be admitting something for which she wasn’t ready.
A deep calming breath. She put on some lipstick. She still felt naked somehow. Then, before she started to think too much, she turned around and opened the door.
Rick Harden looked good in black. It highlighted his golden coloring and added toughness to his athletic built—tall and sleek, with powerful arms and, she recalled from experience, equally powerful quadriceps. She pushed away the memory of the feel of his thigh muscles tightening against her, as she emerged slowly from the dark into the lit bedroom.
Gone was the bureaucrat in conservative suit and tie. She had sensed that was just a façade, anyway. She had deliberately stayed away to observe, so she could catch the real Rick Harden. And here he was, in her bedroom, studying her, touching her things. The invaded had become the invader.
He was standing next to where she had hung her wind chime by the bed, and turned when he heard her approach. The significance wasn’t lost to her, that in order to understand this man, she would have to listen very, very closely, to hear his chuung . It would not be an easy task to know Ricardo Harden. His center was buried very deep.
She was drawn to those eyes. They looked greener somehow, reminding her of the nights in the dark when she had yearned for that color. They had glittered with suppressed emotion when he was holding her in his arms. She wanted to stare into those green depths and seek out all his secret pain.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Rick interrupted her thoughts. She cocked her head, not sure what he meant.
This Nikki Taylor with the fake history had gotten under his skin. Whoever had sent her was very good. He realized now that her casual distance from him was all deliberate, meant to elicit his attention. He should have just stayed away and waited for her to come to him. Instead he had allowed her looks to bring back feelings that he had closed off, and even with his suspicion of what she was, he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t wait.
He clenched one hand as he looked around her bedroomwith its cool white and green colors. The blankets on the bed were folded back, ready for its occupant. He walked toward it, taking in the books stacked by on the nightstand. He picked one up. And another. Fiction.
There was a notepad next to the books. He opened it. He was too used to reading private things to feel any twinge of guilt. What he could find out could help save his skin. His lips twisted derisively. Miss Taylor wasn’t as innocent as she appeared, anyhow. His name was written in there, circled several times. He didn’t think he was the hero of her story.
Nikki pulled on the only thing she had in the bathroom, besides what she had worn that day. The large cotton bathrobe covered every inch from her neck to her ankles. She couldn’t put those clothes back on. Unclean . She shook her head.
Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were too large. She hurriedly pulled back her hair, braiding it with absentminded ease as her mind raced over what had happened and how to face the man outside.
She had expected anger. Even attraction of some sort. Rick Harden, after all, was a sexual man. All reports pointed to his libido. She even understood that was his weapon. His aura of unavailability made him a challenge to women around him. She had watched him long enough to see it at work. An aloof man with a sexual reputation was hard to ignore.
But she hadn’t expected her own response. She tightened the sash around her waist. Five years out of the business had removed that protective layer between emotion and reaction. She had allowed fear to take over the situation, and then to make it worse, she had actually felt something else. She dared not form the word in her mind. That would be admitting something for which she wasn’t ready.
A deep calming breath. She put on some lipstick. She still felt naked somehow. Then, before she started to think too much, she turned around and opened the door.
Rick Harden looked good in black. It highlighted his golden coloring and added toughness to his athletic built—tall and sleek, with powerful arms and, she recalled from experience, equally powerful quadriceps. She pushed away the memory of the feel of his thigh muscles tightening against her, as she emerged slowly from the dark into the lit bedroom.
Gone was the bureaucrat in conservative suit and tie. She had sensed that was just a façade, anyway. She had deliberately stayed away to observe, so she could catch the real Rick Harden. And here he was, in her bedroom, studying her, touching her things. The invaded had become the invader.
He was standing next to where she had hung her wind chime by the bed, and turned when he heard her approach. The significance wasn’t lost to her, that in order to understand this man, she would have to listen very, very closely, to hear his chuung . It would not be an easy task to know Ricardo Harden. His center was buried very deep.
She was drawn to those eyes. They looked greener somehow, reminding her of the nights in the dark when she had yearned for that color. They had glittered with suppressed emotion when he was holding her in his arms. She wanted to stare into those green depths and seek out all his secret pain.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Rick interrupted her thoughts. She cocked her head, not sure what he meant.
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