Read Online License to Thrill by Stephanie Bond - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephanie Bond
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small for the police to have wrought much damage. At least the shower curtain hung intact.
She turned on the water and let it run over her fingers until it was warm. Kat stole a glance toward the living room, then slowly pulled the bathroom door shut. Every nerve ending, every muscle quivered as she undressed, keenly aware of the man only a few strides away.
A stranger, really. Handsome, aloof, confident, oozing more testosterone than all the men she'd been complaining about to Denise yesterday at lunch put together. How had they become so...so... comfortable that she had relaxed her normal paranoid security measures where people, and especially men, were concerned?
She unbound her hair and stared at the lock on the bathroom door. It had never worked. Was she being foolishly trustworthy? She had never even seen the man's identification—she'd taken him at his word that he was some kind of secret service man for the crown, or something like that. Walking into the shower backward, she jerked the curtain closed.
Kat reached for the shampoo and dumped a glob on the top of her head. Where exactly had Agent Donovan been during the burglary? If anyone in the group could get around security measures, it would be him. Perhaps his scam was accompanying a piece of art to its destination, then stealing it and selling it on the black market. He'd make money, the owner would collect insurance....
Lathering her hair furiously, she mulled over what she knew about him. If he was a secret agent, then he probably knew all kinds of ways to kill people. Plus, how to make it appear accidental. And if he worked for the British government, he probably had diplomatic immunity—a license to thrill, er...kill.
At the sound of a muffled thump, she jerked up her head. What was that? Had he barricaded them inside the apartment? Would he hold her hostage? Make her bend to his sexual will? She sounded hysterical, even to herself, but she couldn't stop the rush of adrenaline. She had to get out of there.
Rinsing her hair frantically, she remembered his gun—and God only knew how many other weapons he carried: poison-tipped writing pens, detonating jewelry, a switchblade.
The scene from Psycho flashed through her mind and she looked around quickly for something to use in her defense if he came crashing through the door. A rusty disposable razor lay in the corner—she could nick him to death and hope for tetanus.
Kat soaped and rinsed her skin in mere seconds, then turned off the water with shaky hands and wrapped the towel around her. After hurriedly wringing the moisture from her hair, she listened carefully at the bathroom door. Nothing.
No, wait...something.
Music?
Kat recognized the crashing, grinding crescendos of the instrumental theme to a live performance she'd seen. From all the CDs she owned that were probably scattered to the four corners of the apartment, he'd somehow managed to find her favorite.
Opening the door a crack, she peeked into her bedroom. Not only was the coast clear, but it appeared he had closed the door leading into the living room to give her privacy. Was it possible that she had met the last breathing gentleman on earth? Then she recalled his wicked innuendos and decided that James Donovan was only a gentleman when it suited his purposes.
After hunting for toiletries and coming up empty-handed except for a bottle of pink baby lotion, she sat down on her clothes-covered bed and massaged the creamy stuff into her skin. The colossal mess in her room made her sick to her stomach. Or was that hunger? The clock read five-fifteen p.m. and she hadn't eaten since last night's white lasagna. She mined underwear, a pair of gray leggings, and a long white shirt from the mountains of clothing on her bed and dresser. It would take her days to get things back in place. It took every ounce of energy she had to keep from stretching out on the floor on top of her sock collection for a good cry.
Her hair dryer was nowhere to be
She turned on the water and let it run over her fingers until it was warm. Kat stole a glance toward the living room, then slowly pulled the bathroom door shut. Every nerve ending, every muscle quivered as she undressed, keenly aware of the man only a few strides away.
A stranger, really. Handsome, aloof, confident, oozing more testosterone than all the men she'd been complaining about to Denise yesterday at lunch put together. How had they become so...so... comfortable that she had relaxed her normal paranoid security measures where people, and especially men, were concerned?
She unbound her hair and stared at the lock on the bathroom door. It had never worked. Was she being foolishly trustworthy? She had never even seen the man's identification—she'd taken him at his word that he was some kind of secret service man for the crown, or something like that. Walking into the shower backward, she jerked the curtain closed.
Kat reached for the shampoo and dumped a glob on the top of her head. Where exactly had Agent Donovan been during the burglary? If anyone in the group could get around security measures, it would be him. Perhaps his scam was accompanying a piece of art to its destination, then stealing it and selling it on the black market. He'd make money, the owner would collect insurance....
Lathering her hair furiously, she mulled over what she knew about him. If he was a secret agent, then he probably knew all kinds of ways to kill people. Plus, how to make it appear accidental. And if he worked for the British government, he probably had diplomatic immunity—a license to thrill, er...kill.
At the sound of a muffled thump, she jerked up her head. What was that? Had he barricaded them inside the apartment? Would he hold her hostage? Make her bend to his sexual will? She sounded hysterical, even to herself, but she couldn't stop the rush of adrenaline. She had to get out of there.
Rinsing her hair frantically, she remembered his gun—and God only knew how many other weapons he carried: poison-tipped writing pens, detonating jewelry, a switchblade.
The scene from Psycho flashed through her mind and she looked around quickly for something to use in her defense if he came crashing through the door. A rusty disposable razor lay in the corner—she could nick him to death and hope for tetanus.
Kat soaped and rinsed her skin in mere seconds, then turned off the water with shaky hands and wrapped the towel around her. After hurriedly wringing the moisture from her hair, she listened carefully at the bathroom door. Nothing.
No, wait...something.
Music?
Kat recognized the crashing, grinding crescendos of the instrumental theme to a live performance she'd seen. From all the CDs she owned that were probably scattered to the four corners of the apartment, he'd somehow managed to find her favorite.
Opening the door a crack, she peeked into her bedroom. Not only was the coast clear, but it appeared he had closed the door leading into the living room to give her privacy. Was it possible that she had met the last breathing gentleman on earth? Then she recalled his wicked innuendos and decided that James Donovan was only a gentleman when it suited his purposes.
After hunting for toiletries and coming up empty-handed except for a bottle of pink baby lotion, she sat down on her clothes-covered bed and massaged the creamy stuff into her skin. The colossal mess in her room made her sick to her stomach. Or was that hunger? The clock read five-fifteen p.m. and she hadn't eaten since last night's white lasagna. She mined underwear, a pair of gray leggings, and a long white shirt from the mountains of clothing on her bed and dresser. It would take her days to get things back in place. It took every ounce of energy she had to keep from stretching out on the floor on top of her sock collection for a good cry.
Her hair dryer was nowhere to be
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