"Actually, I'm just coming into it."
Another step backward. Another missile. This one the Ming temple dog Marc had bought her during a trip to Beijing some years back.
Cursing, her intended target leapt forward and caught her wrist. A hard twist sent the ceramic dog to the floor. Another twist brought her arm up behind her back.
The brutal hold wiped out Diane's glee and fired her rage all over again. The sophisticated shell she'd cultivated layer by layer over the years cracked and fell away. All that was left was flaming, furious female.
"I've kept quiet all these years. I've watched you make a fool of yourself over and over again with those…those simpering twits who draped themselves all over you. But I won't keep quiet any longer."
Struggling, twisting, raging, she fought his hold. He took a kick to the shins, cursed again and slammed her against his chest.
"If you seduced Trish, you bastard… If you got her pregnant…"
He needed both hands to hold her now. Both arms. He banded her against him, muscles bunching, his fury every bit as fierce but far more controlled than hers.
She fought him, hating that he could contain her, hating him for being so stupid, so damned blind.
"Trish isn't in your league! She isn't anywhere close to your league! You might just understand that if you'd stop jumping into bed with women half your age and… and…"
The band tightened, cutting into her ribs.
"And what, Diane?"
She couldn't breathe, couldn't wiggle. Gritting her teeth, she choked back the thick, clogging mint that threatened to come up her throat.
"I told…you earlier, Sloan. You have to…figure it out…for yourself."
"Oh, I've figured it out."
The pressure eased an infinitesimal degree, just enough for Diane to gulp in air.
"Are you ready to listen to me now?"
"That depends on what you…" The warning flex of his muscles had her grinding her teeth. "Yes!"
"Then listen carefully. I'm only going to say this once. I didn't sleep with Trish. If she's pregnant, I'm not the father. You got that, Walker?"
She looked into his eyes. She'd worked with this man too many years, had loved him too long, to believe he was lying to her now.
"Yes."
"Good. Then we need to clear up another apparent misunderstanding. The reason I haven't tried to jump into the sack with you is because I didn't want to ruin either our partnership or our friendship. The former is what keeps Sloan Engineering humming. The latter happens to be infinitely more precious to me than getting you into bed."
Ignoring her derisive hoot, he altered his stance in a move so smooth and swift it left her blinking. One moment, Diane was locked against his chest. The next, she was off her feet and in his arms.
"Not that I haven't wanted to," he said, as casually as if they were discussing the weather. "You wouldn't believe the number of occasions I've had you naked and on your back in my head."
"What?"
Glass crunched under his feet as he stalked across the room. "Is that the ruby Baccarat bowl I gave you for your birthday?"
"It…it was," she stuttered, still stunned by the bomb he'd just detonated.
It must be the creme de menthe, she thought wildly. It had to be the creme de menthe.
"Damn. I liked that bowl."
Shaking his head, he dropped her on the sofa. His knee came down between her thighs, trapping her skirt and Diane with it. Still stunned and decidedly woozy now, she watched him pop the buttons on his shirt.
This wasn't the first time she'd seen him shirtless. She couldn't count the pool parties, the cruises around the harbor with friends and business associates, the sweaty workouts on the Universal tucked away in a corner of his office suite when he couldn't get out for his morning run.
But this was the first time Marc had stripped off his shirt in front of her. The first time he'd tossed it aside and reached down to rid her of hers. The first time he'd hauled her against him again for a kiss that started the room spinning.
She pulled back after a dizzying moment, her insides roiling. "It's…it's the creme de menthe," she gasped.
"Mmm." His mouth moved over hers. "1 can taste it."
She'd dreamed of this moment, had fantasized about his touch, his scent, his kiss. But never, ever,in any of those sensual fantasies, had she started to gag.
"It's the liqueur," she cried, shoving at his shoulders. "Marc! I'm going to throw up."
It was a rare moment for Sloan.
Not holding a woman's head while she puked into a toilet. God knew he'd done that often enough. No, what shook him was seeing his cool, unflappable executive assistant flushed and embarrassed and curled into a tight ball of misery.
The sight generated all kinds of unfamiliar sensations, not the least of which was the fierce need to care for her the way she'd cared for him all these years. The urge speared from his chest to his groin, where it produced a hard-on of gigantic and painful proportions.
"Come on," he said when she'd finished emptying her stomach. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Moaning, she put her hands over her face. "Go away."
He wasn't going anywhere. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. He understood her need for a few moments of privacy, though. Pushing to his feet, he closed the bathroom door behind him.
He was at the bed, yanking down the duvet, when a warning hiss made him snatch back his hand. A gray blur shot out from behind the braid-trimmed sham and streaked into the living room.
Marc paid no attention to the cat. His entire body was one taut cable, thrumming with anticipation for the woman who'd taken the animal in despite her professed dislike of all things feline.
She came out of the bathroom mortally embarrassed. Marc didn't give her a chance to utter a word. Striding across the room, he covered her mouth with his.
She tasted of toothpaste this time. And eager, glorious woman. All this time, he thought. All these years. What a waste.
He wasn't blind. Or stupid. He knew what they had went deeper than friendship, involved more than business.
Nor had he lied about wanting her. But respect and an awareness of his dismal record when it came to long-term relationships had always held him in check. He couldn't imagine Sloan Engineering without Diane any more than he could believe she'd walked out on him this afternoon. Incensed that she'd even consider leaving him, Marc deepened the kiss.
Five minutes after getting her into bed, he was quivering like a prize bull at stud. Five minutes more, and he was fighting desperately to fish his wallet out of his pants pocket.
"Wait. Diane. Let me get some protection for you."
He was so eager he hurt. So anxious, he shredded the foil and ripped the condom.
"Dammit!"
She lifted her head, saw him
toss aside the package. Her face took on a look of near panic. "Please tell me you always carry a spare."
"I always carry a spare."
He snatched up his wallet again, dug out an extra and attacked the wrapping with more care. When the rubber snapped into place, Diane wet her lips. The glimpse of her tongue moving over the smooth, slick flesh almost pushed Marc over the edge again.
He was surprised to find himself sweating and as nervous as a pimply faced teenager his first time out of the gate. Deliberately, he focused on her needs instead of the ache just about bending him double. Slicking his hands over her hips and rear. Using his tongue and his teeth on her nipples. Employing every skill he'd mastered over the years to bring her to a writhing, moaning climax.
Only after she'd exploded under him did he allow himself to ram home.
11
Cleo drummed her fingertips against the tall, dew-streaked beer glass. It was well past six. She'd give Donovan another ten minutes. Max.
The sizzle of fish and shrimp in hot grease had been tantalizing her for a good half hour. Her stomach had been making obnoxious feed-me noises just as long.
True, she'd arrived well before the time she and Jack had agreed to when she'd called him with the name of the restaurant. It hadn't taken her long to shower, pin her hair up in a twist and wiggle into the splashy, jungle-print dress she'd thrown in her bag at the last minute.
The little designer number was ninety-eight-percent cotton and two percent spandex, cool enough for comfort and stretchy enough to hug her curves. The fact that its hem rode a good five inches above her knees and showed off her newly trim thighs was only a secondary consideration.
Her primary consideration was the tingle in her breasts and her belly whenever she thought about the kiss Donovan had laid on her this afternoon. If he didn't piss her off by keeping her waiting much longer, he might just get lucky tonight.
She'd reasoned through it. Calmly. Logically. There wasn't any rule that said sex had to be accompanied by pledges of lifelong devotion. If all she and Jack could manage was once in a while, why not make the most of those whiles? Every so often wasn't bad when you thought about it, and Cleo had been thinking about it pretty much continuously for the past few hours.
It was in her head now, getting mixed with her belly-rumbling hunger. The mental image of Jack naked, his muscles slick with perspiration and his eyes a hot, liquid blue as he thrust into her, had Cleo squirming.
Grabbing her condensation-coated glass, she downed a long swallow. The ping of her cell phone caught her in mid-gulp. A glance at the number on the screen had her swallowing a sigh along with the beer. Anticipating the inevitable, she hit Receive.
"Okay, Donovan, where are you?"
"At the airport."
The sigh was harder to swallow this time. "Where are you off to now?"
"Salt Lake City."
"Salt Lake, as in the Ogden Air Logistics Center?"
"You got it. The Old Man wants me to brief the center commander."
"So you're going to let a three-star general beat you out of dinner with a lowly former captain?"
"Looks that way. Sorry about standing you up."
There was genuine regret in the apology. Fat lot of good regret would do either of them tonight.
Cleo was tempted to make him suffer. Drop just an itty-bitty hint of what he was missing out on. Like ice-cold beer. Hot fried fish. Wet, squirming female.
On second thought…
"Did you run those phone calls?" she asked, deciding not to go into detail on her present condition. No sense letting the man get too full of himself.
"I did."
"Anything to tell me?"
"Not over a cell phone."
Tilting to one side, she peered around the high-backed bench. "There's a pay phone just a few feet away Hang on while I get the number. You can find a phone booth there at the airport and call me back on a land line."
"No time. They're announcing my flight. Later, North."
"Later when? Hey, Donovan! When are you…? Dammit!"
Thoroughly frustrated in more ways than one, Cleo snapped the phone shut and signaled for a waiter.
She ordered the Captain Joe's Combination #1. The mounds of fried grouper, fried shrimp and fried hush puppies came with french fried sweet potatoes. The platter also contained a ramekin of coleslaw that Cleo ignored. She wasn't in the mood for anything but grease.
It was sloshing around happily in her stomach when she drove back through the warm April night. As chance would have it, Marc pulled into the alley leading to the guesthouse and garage right behind her. Leaving the Escalade parked in the guest-house drive, Cleo crossed the alley and waited while he steered his Porche into the three-car garage attached to his home.
He swung out, unfolding his long, lean frame with an easy grace. Cleo caught a flash of tanned ankle above his polished oxfords and blinked. Had the California mania for going sockless finally reached genteel Charleston?
"I need to talk to you, Marc. Got a minute?"
"Of course."
He ushered her toward the house with his usual courtesy, but Cleo couldn't shake the sense that something was out of whack. She finally pinpointed the problem. His shirttails were tucked neatly in the waistband of his pleated slacks, but he'd missed a couple of buttonholes. And when he reached past her to slide a key card into the security slot, Cleo spotted what looked like a world-class hickey on his neck.
Well, at least someone had gotten lucky tonight. Cleo had a pretty good idea who Marc had hitched up with, too.
"How's Diane taking her newly unemployed status?" she asked casually.
Her nonchalance didn't fool Sloan for a minute. He shot her a swift look before his aristocratic features relaxed into a grin she could only describe as goofy.
"Diane's no longer unemployed. I convinced her to return to work."
"Took a lot of convincing, did she?"
The grin got goofier. "Some."
He escorted her down the hall to the music room. The ornate chamber was fast becoming Cleo's favorite. Her fingers itched to pluck a few strings on that monster of a harp.
"Care for a drink?"
"No, thanks. I had my limit with dinner."
Nodding, he poured a generous shot of Tennessee sour mash and knocked it back like a pro. Cleo noted the resulting slump to his shoulders with some interest. The superefficient Ms. Walker had obviously taken the starch out of him.
Splashing in more bourbon, Marc went easier on this shot. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"We need to discuss our relationship."
The look he gave her hovered between chagrin and apology. "I'm sorry, Cleo. This business with Diane has thrown me off stride. You deserve more of my attention." His gaze slid from her neck to her knees. "E
specially in that dress."
Didn't take him long to slide back into his playboy skin, Cleo thought with a dart of genuine sympathy for Diane. The woman would have to shorten Sloan's chain considerably to keep him in line.
"Nice to know my attire has your stamp of approval, but I was talking about our professional relationship."
"What about it?"
"We have a conflict of interest going here."
"Because of the Afloat Prepositioning inquiry?"
"Because the APP inquiry may lead back to your missing employee."
The playboy disappeared. The executive sent her a sharp look. "Have you established a link?"
"Not yet."
"Then I don't see the problem. I hired you to find Trish. I still want you to find her."
Giving in to impulse, Cleo twanged one of the harp's strings. Damn. You'd have to have Brillo pads for fingertips to play one of these suckers.
"This isn't the best time to bring this up," she commented as the golden note resonated through the high-ceilinged room, "but have you considered the possibility Diane may not want Trish found?"
Sloan opened his mouth. Snapped it shut.
"Yes, I've considered the possibility. Diane and I discussed it this afternoon, after she all but accused me of seducing the girl."
Ha! Cleo suspected they hadn't gotten around to discussing anything until they were both too limp to do anything else.
"Diane Walker didn't have anything to do with Trish's disappearance," Sloan stated.
"Are you thinking now with your head or with your…"
"My dick?"
"I was going to say heart, but dick works."
"I'm thinking with all parts. And just for the record, I didn't engineer Trish's disappearance as a way to avoid paying child support, either. I would hardly have brought you in to find her if I had."
THE MIDDLE SIN Page 12
