Sloane's dark eyes studied her closely. He seemed about to say something when the valet opened the door on her side and extended his hand to help her out. With a mischievous grin shot back at her driver, she gracefully exited the car and started toward the entrance of the restaurant. Within moments, Sloane was beside her.
Their arrival had been preceded by that of the other three men, who were already seated and nursing drinks when the maître d' showed the latecomers to the table.
“We were beginning to wonder about you two,” Dan Logan burst out good-naturedly. “I half-suspected that Justine might keep you waiting with any number of last minute emergencies.” The broad smile he sent her way suggested mere teasing.
It was Sloane who answered the charge. “Oh, no. She was right on time. I'm afraid it was my fault.” Only Justine knew the meaning behind the twinkle in his eye. “I ⦠took a circuitous route ⦠inadvertently. But we did make it ⦠and without a ⦠calamity along the way.” Mercifully, he moved behind to hold her chair for her. It hadn't passed her notice that the two empty seats at the table for five were right next to one another. And there
was nothing she could possibly do to alter the situationânot that she wanted to. There was an excitement at the thought of sitting close to Sloane, an excitement whichâgiven the presence of chaperons aplentyârose, unrestrained, within her.
It was not the first time she had been to The Four Seasons. This time, however, the fine linen tablecloths seemed whiter, the sturdy silver more richly polished, the sparkling china more elaborate. For once, the noise of the other patrons drifted by unnoticed. The realm of her attention did not veer once from her own group.
Amid a variety of well-prepared offeringsâlobster, rack of lamb, filet mignon, and prime ribs of beefâthe dinner conversation intrigued her, particularly as it concentrated on Sloane, the guest of honor, and his corporate accomplishments.
“I understand you spent time last year in Italy,” Charlie Stockburne spoke up. “Were you centered in any particular area?”
Justine put down her fork to look expectantly at Sloane, who had finished and now sat comfortably back in his seat. She noted the faint crinkles of white-on-tan at the corners of his eyes, and wondered how much of his time was spent working in the sun. As she watched, the grooves at the corners of his lips deepened, accentuated by the more serious discussion.
“I did spend several months there. We were hired by a group of citizensâa privately funded restoration groupâto study several problems that have been plaguing the government for years.”
“Such as ⦔ Justine's appetite, sated in the physical sense but barely whetted in the intellectual, brought heightened life to her features.
“Such as the problem of the Leaning Tower,” he said, smiling at her, “which threatens to one day topple completely. Such as the matter of moisture in Veniceâin
terms of endangering both the wealth of art work and the city itself.”
She was surprised. “Then you aren't dealing primarily with military issues?”
Sloane's gaze reflected his respect for her insight. “
You
must be familiar with the history of the Rand Corporation. It began as a military-directed operation, then branched out some fifteen years ago.
We
began from the opposite direction. Some of our original projects, particularly once our expansion was underway, dealt with transportation problems, pollution problems, housing problems. They have, perhaps, been our specialty, though we've had our share of military-related contracts.”
Once again Sloane monopolized her attention. The how and why were still an enigma. But when he talked, she listenedâof her own free will and to the exclusion of everything else. Now, Richard Logan's voice startled her.
“You aren't advocating a buildup of arms in the underdeveloped countries, are you?” he asserted, a pacifist bent in his question to Sloane.
Her strawberry-blond tresses swung round as Justine's eyes flew back to Sloane's. This was the first such challenge of the evening. With a touch of apprehension she awaited his response, wondering exactly how he would handle the issue.
It was nearly imperceptible, that slight up-tilt of his firm chin, but it was a gesture of acceptance, a rising to face the test, just as Justine sensed this tall, broad-shouldered man would always do. He spoke with command and calm assurance.
“Personally, given my choice, I would never advocate a buildup of arms. But, in the first place, I don't always have my choice, and, in the second, my personal opinion has no role in the outcome of our research. I hire experts in every pertinent field. It is their job to face a situation, analyze it in the most thorough possible way, then present
the alternatives, along with their own recommendations. No
one
man can ever make a decision in any project.”
“But
you
are against military buildup?” the youngest lawyer persisted. A glance across the table could reveal the thinning of his father's lips.
Sloane was undaunted, his eyes now black, rich in conviction. “On principle, I am. If, however, I were a small, newly emergent nation, struggling for survival, and I was surrounded on all sides by significant military might, you can bet I would armâarm quickly and as powerfully as I could. The name of
that
game is survival.”
Justine gasped at the eloquence of his expression. She, too, was against armament, yet she had to agree with Sloane's premise. Lord only knew how hard she had fought for some of
her
cases, those in which she honestly believed that an injustice was being perpetrated. In some instances it
came
close to the survival of her client.
“And I think we're ready for coffee and dessert,” interrupted Dan, striving to ease the intensity which now held the group at sharp attention.
Justine passed up dessert, opting for a cup of strong and steaming black coffee instead. Though the talk lingered on less emotional issues, her thoughts focused on the man beside her. She noted his hand, easily toying with the unused fork by his place setting. Dark hairs emphasized its manliness, corded lines its strength. Paws.
The fox pinions his victim with his powerful paws.
What might it be like to be pinioned by those hands? Fingers long and straight, nails well trimmed and buffed, palms large enough to encompass her shoulders completely. Justine wondered if they would, then chided herself for her foolishness. After all, despite the intimacy of that small blue Mazda, Sloane had driven her here as a service. She was a lawyer in the firm which now represented his concernsâthat was all. Once again she asked herself why she had been invited along tonight. Ironically, she found that she
no longer cared. It was enough that she had the opportunity of learning more about this man. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable experience.
When the group stood to leave, she presumed she'd find a cab outside to return her to her apartment. When Sloane took her hand and tucked it smoothly in the crook of his elbow, she looked up questioningly.
“I can drop Justine off at her place,” he announced to the group as a whole, though his downward gaze singled her out.
A warning bell jangled in her brain. “Oh, that won't be necessary. I can very easily take a cab.” The eyes of the others were on her; her eyes held Sloane's.
His smiled softly. “It's no problem. After all, your briefcase is still in my car.”
The rose flush which lit her cheeks betrayed the fact of her forgetfulness. Her notebook ⦠now the briefcase. Would he suspect that she had done it on purpose? Had she ⦠subconsciously, of course? She was given no time to consider the possibility, for with leave-taking underway Sloane led her outside, retaining her hand until she was safely stowed in his car once more. Only then did the thudding of her heart pose second thoughts as to the wisdom of this vehicular convenience. But the car moved out into the traffic and she had no out. Softly, she gave her address to the handsome driver, and they were on their way.
Whereas the drive
to
the restaurant had been filled with talk, the return trip was noticeably devoid of it. A watchful silence filled the air, charging the confines of the small car with a growing anticipation. Justine's senses were alive, aware of every vital aspect of the outwardly relaxed man beside her. Only the pulse of a nerve at his temple told of an inner working that decried total calm.
In profile he was striking. The fullness of that silver-sheened hair fell in casual disregard across the lightly furrowed plane of his brow, leading her very appreciative eye down a straight and character-revealing nose to his mouth, that mouth whose lips could be gentle in smile or staunch in controlâas they had been earlier that evening under Richard Logan's pointed questioning.
Justine shifted in her seat, cornering herself against the door to better see him with assumed nonchalance. Her surreptitious glances had become less surreptitious with repetition. Sloane's knowing expression as they sat stopped at a traffic light alerted her to that fact. Self-consciously she combed her fingers through the amber-hued waves at her neck, then ventured to break the silence.
“Now that your headquarters are in New York, are you living here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You've settled in?”
“Just about.”
She gave him time to elaborate; when he forfeited, she tried again.
“Do you enjoy it ⦠living here, I mean?”
The smile on his face was melancholy in the night light.
“I spend so much time traveling that I haven't really come to know New York as home yet.”
In the ensuing silence, an ambulance rushed by in vociferous haste. “Hmmm,” she murmured, half to herself, “must be
some
emergency.”
“I suppose so.”
It puzzled her that the conversation had grown so stilted. They had talked easily enough beforeâbut that had been principally in the business realm. Was Sloane adverse to revealing the personal about himself? The matter of sleeptalking belied that bent. Then, as she pondered it, the overall situation grew suddenly clearer. Regardless of the motive on the part of Dan Logan for her presence at dinner, she was, indirectly or not, part of Sloane's business world. Seemingly, he had tired of business obligations for the evening. This lastâthe driving home of his attorney-once-removedâwas a simple courtesy. Beyond that she should expect nothing.
Yet the sense of expectancy that filled the car was not solely in her imagination. Struggling to quell it, she turned to gaze out the side window, in an act of perfect timing. “Oh, we're almost here!” she exclaimed softly. “It's that one over there ⦠that's right.” Her pointing finger guided Sloane in bringing the car to a halt before the gray stone building, a high-rise apartment house on whose tenth floor she lived.
Determined to avoid further embarrassment, she took a fast inventory of her belongings, clutching the purse and her briefcase as she turned to Sloane. He, however, was already on his way around the car to help her out.
“You don't really need to walk me in. There is a doorman on dutyâ”
But he took her arm firmly. “Come on. I don't want you going up alone.” His smooth intensity startled her, adding to her confusion. Was it business or pleasure? Protectiveness or resentment? She had no way of knowing.
If the car ride had been filled with a strange sense of foreboding, the ride in the elevator was electric. With each passing floor anticipation mounted, weakening Justine's limbs, sending currents of excitement through her. He stood so very masculine beside herâthen looked down and caught the emerald sparkle of her gaze and held it for an instant, before allowing her to lower her eyes in search of her keys.
The moment had arrived. The door of her apartment, stark and white, stood before them.
“Sloane, thank you ⦔ she began politely, turning toward him with as much courage as she could muster. The last thing she wanted was to say good-bye.
A low oath filtered through Sloane's slitted lips as he took her purse and briefcase and propped them on the carpet against the wall. His straightening motion brought her eyes up with it. “I haven't waited since this afternoon for a simple thank you, Justine.”
His eyes were dark and glittering, his hair set to sparkling by the light high above. Then, all light faded as his head lowered, as his lips sought and unerringly found hers. Their touch was warm and light, firm yet gentle. Justine was startled into immobility by the understated power of it all, unable to grasp the extent of her susceptibility, struggling to reconcile her vow of freedom with the sumptuous invitation to submission before her. It seemed a futile battle, with the odds stacked against her.
He lifted his head for an instant to study her features, then raised his hands to gently cup her face, pushing back the curls at her cheeks as he did so. “Justine ⦔ he murmured in warningâand she understood him perfectly. Having read her eyes and her thoughts, Sloane knew her outward passivity to be a denial of the deeper emotion stirring within her.
Her lips parted softly beneath his gaze, their silent invitation met with a smile. “That's better,” he crooned
against their gentle curves. And he kissed her again. This time, she yielded to him, loosing the emotion as it surged through her. It was desire, in its most basic form.
Her arms crept up the front of his jacket to his neck, then coiled around its strong column to draw her whole body closer to his. She warmed, then quivered as his hands covered her back, caressing gently then lifting, lifting her more firmly against him. Passion ignited beneath the persuasion of his lips, which tasted and explored, then consumed in turn. All reserve was abandoned to his kiss, as Justine reeled amid the headiness of the sensual awakening he caused. When he finally pulled back, she felt the loss.
“That's what I've been waiting for,” he whispered, his breath warm against the hair at her temple. “It was worth it.”
Any word she might have offered caught in her throat, as the real world rolled in like fog off the sea. Confusion reigned in her sensual mist, a sense of fear in her subconscious. The pale hands at his lapels exerted a slow pressure, as she levered herself away from him. “Sloane, I â¦I ⦔
Mercifully, a strong finger at her lips stilled her stammer. What would she have said? She had no idea!
“Shhh. It was nice, Justine. Let's leave it there.” With a low sigh, he stepped back himself. “Have you got your key?”
Regaining a semblance of composure, she dropped it in his upturned palm, then watched him open the door. “Thanks,” she murmured, as he returned the key and stood aside to let her pass through.
“Ah ⦠Justine ⦠?” His tone was suddenly lighter.
From across the threshold she turned. “Yâyes?”
“Your things ⦠?”
Before her, he held her briefcase and purse. With a sheepish smirk she took them. “I think I'm hopeless,” she
laughed softly at herself, shaking her light copper curls in despair.
Sloane's hands sought refuge in the depth of his pants' pockets. “Not entirely.” The crinkles at his eyes suggested inner laughter. “You're reputed to be a great lawyer, and” âhis voice loweredâ“you do kiss beautifully.” With the warm pop of one thumb against the button of her nose, he strode back down the hall toward the elevator, sparing her the indignity of her rampant blush.
Once safely locked within her apartment, she stood in stunned silence, leaning back against the door, her arms hanging limply by her sides. The racing of her pulse gradually slowed as the tingle of desire subsided. Desire. It was an awesome force, she realized, suddenly understanding the fear that lurked in the recesses of her mind. For the first time in her twenty-nine years, desire had overpowered her. What else could have explained the abandon with which she had returned Sloane's kiss? But the far reaches of desire were a mystery still. Where would it take her if she gave it free rein?
Where indeed
, she scoffed. Desire would lead to physical involvement and in turn to an emotional quagmire from which she might be unable to free herself. That was what she'd avoided all these years. She wouldn't let history repeat itself. Certainly the forfeit of sensual gratification was well worth her peace of mind.
Pushing away from the door and walking to the sofa to deposit her bags, she turned out of habit to the telephone pad by the refrigerator.
“Everything quiet here, Justine. Am off to work. See you in the morning. Susan.”
The notes rarely said more, yet they were always appreciated, as was Susan herself. A nurse, she worked the night shift. It was a perfect setup for them bothâsharing the apartment in passing, so to speak. They got along famously, though the time they spent together was limited.
At times Justine wished it was greater; now, however, she was glad to be alone.
Changing into a long, white terry robe, she helped herself to a tall glass of iced water, then sank into the sofa. Through it all her thoughts were of Sloane. He had taken her by storm, to say the least. Her defenses had never been crushed as decisively as they had been on this one eventful day.
Day
. She stopped herself in amazement, then corrected herself. Less than half a day! And in that
less than half a day!
she'd been shaken to the core by a depth of desire she hadn't known she possessed.
Would she see Sloane again? The chances were good that their paths would cross at the firm. But after hoursâwould he seek her out? Would there be a repeat of that soul-reaching kiss? A tremor of excitement coursed through her at the memory of it. His hands had cupped her shoulders and drawn her closerâwas this the fox pinioning his victim? If so, she was an easy mark, willing prey for the marauder.
A shiver passed through her in reaction to the image. Thank goodness Susan was
not
here, she mused. The utterly vulnerable Justine O'Neill who sat now on the oatmeal-hued upholstery, flushed and warm in the aftermath of passion, was a far cry from that other Justine who so capably and with such dignity could conduct her legal affairs day after day. Oh, Susan Bovary had seen her in a bad time or two, but nothing, she smirked ruefully, could rival her present state of light-headed agitation!
Â
“Did you know that the fox does most of his hunting between dusk and dawn?”
“No, John, I didn't. Any other gems you would like to pass on?”
“That's it for now, babe,” he said over the interoffice line. “Just thought I'd give you something to think about.”
Picturing his smug smile, Justine was grateful that he could not see her expression. It had been a bad morning, and with a minimum of sleep the night before she was not quite up to par in the good-humor department.
“You can't believe how much I appreciate that,” she murmured facetiously.
“Ah, ah, sarcasm will get you nowhere. Tough morning, Justine? You sound tired.”
“Very perceptive.” She pushed aside a scramble of curls to rub her forehead, where the dull pain of a headache had begun to throb. “It's been one of those days I'd like to forget. Court appearances put in last-minute conflict by delays, uncooperative and impatient witnesses, crotchety judgesâthe list goes on and on. I have every intention”âshe smiled at the prospectâ“of going home and submerging these weary bones in a very warm and bubbly bathâand staying there until the water turns cold.”
John spoke up in a mockery of astonishment. “Justine âI never took you for the bubble bath type. A quick and efficient shower seems more your style. You surprise me!”
In truth she surprised herself. John's surmise was apt; she
had
always preferred the shower. Tonight, however, would be different. She wanted to feel warm, relaxed, and pampered. She wanted to feel soft and scented. She wanted, she realized with a jolt, to feel feminine.
“It's part of the mystique, my friend. And,” she retorted smoothly, “the sooner I get done with this work, the sooner I can get out of here and indulge.
Capiche
?”
“I got ya! Go to it!”
With a sigh she did, but it was tough going from the start, a dire continuation of the morning's frustration. No one she phoned was in and every form she completed lacked some vital bit of information which she could not lay her hands on in the instant. Of the no less than six calls she received in an hour, five involved either complaint or criticism. An evening of pure relaxation had become an
absolute necessity by the time she neatened her desk at six thirty.
“So you're still here?”
Justine's head flew up to find none other than the cause of her sleeplessness last night. Sloane hadn't been far from her thoughts all day, an undercurrent of mystery which only served to aggravate her steadily fraying nerves. Now, she steeled herself against his subtle command.
“Just about finished,” she spoke brusquely. “It's been an awful day. I'm very happy to see it end.”