She shook her head. “No, thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow as he withdrew a crystal decanter of amber liquid from behind the bar. “It’ll help you sleep.”
“I’ve never learned to tolerate hard liquor. The occasional glass of wine is my limit.”
“Ah, I have an excellent vintage right here.” Replacing the crystal decanter, he reached to extract a bottle from the wine rack.
“No, really—”
“It’ll help you sleep,” he reasserted, interrupting her and proceeding to remove the cork from the bottle. “I’ll join you in drinking it, okay?”
Heather observed him for a moment. She couldn’t very well do her exploring now anyway, and the wine would help her sleep. “Fine.”
He flashed a brief smile. “Good.”
As he set out the glasses and poured, Heather found herself incapable of taking her eyes off him. Or rather, off the disturbing expanse of hair-roughened chest that he’d left exposed. No man had the right to be so…compelling. Had she lived in the days of old, she might have wondered if he was a sorcerer capable of beguiling her with spells and potions. Being a modern day woman, she just wondered instead if she might be dealing with the devil in disguise. How else could she explain the effect this man was having on her?
Oh, he had a magnificent body to be sure; and she should know because she’d seen most of it quite intimately, but…there was something about him, a slight coldness at his core, a ruggedness, that prevented him from being handsome. It was almost as though he stood outside himself watching the actions and reactions of those around him with a detachment that few people had. And sometimes, like now as she met his dispassionate gaze, she had the strangest sense of kinship with a bug under a microscope.
“Come and join me, Heather.” Carrying two glasses of red wine, he indicated a pair of deck chairs and then proceeded to set the wineglasses down on a patio table before taking a chair himself.
Heather took the towel from around her neck, spreading it on the seat of the fabric deck chair to keep it dry, before sitting.
“You don’t have to do that,” he protested. “The fabric is designed for poolside use.”
“I don’t mind.”
He nodded and passed her a glass of wine. It felt awkward sitting here like this with him—two strangers in semidishabille who happened to be sharing living quarters. Heather felt his gaze move over her, as tangible as a caress. “You look nice in a swimsuit.”
“Thank you.” She flushed and, to disguise it, quickly sipped her wine though he probably wouldn’t be able to see her heightened color in the muted solarium light anyway.
“So, Heather, have you lived in Seattle long?”
She nodded. “About ten years I guess. Ever since I was eighteen. I moved in from Redmond to go to school.”
“Hm. Twenty-eight and not married. Ever come close?”
She shrugged, her mind skirting away from dreams long abandoned and pain undiluted by the passage of time. “Yes. Once. A long time ago.”
“What happened if you don’t mind my asking?”
She did mind, but she knew it was time she moved beyond her pain, so she forced herself to respond. “He was killed,” she murmured.
Court frowned. “I’m sorry. Car accident?”
Heather shook her head and then sipped her wine for courage. “No, he—he was a cop.” A lump formed in her throat and she found herself forcing the words past the constriction in a way that was physically painful. “He was shot during what he thought was a routine traffic stop.”
Court’s voice seemed to gentle. “How long ago did it happen?”
“Six years.” She stared wistfully into her wine. “He was a wonderful man. Kind. He—” She broke off.
“He…” Court prompted when she didn’t speak again.
She sighed. “Let’s just say that Jay took me under his wing and helped me to deal with a difficult situation that I’m not certain I would have gotten through without him.”
Court sipped his wine and considered her. “And there’s been nobody in your life since Jay?”
Heather shrugged. “Nobody serious. I was too busy raising my—” She broke off suddenly as she realized that only yesterday she’d stated that she had no family ties.
“Your what?”
She cleared her throat and hastily took another sip of wine, giving herself time to think. “My level of qualification in physical therapy. Working toward my masters degree.”
He nodded, but said nothing. Heather received the impression that he didn’t believe her, although, in truth, there was no way to tell. His expression was as enigmatic as ever.
Unable to sit still any longer beneath his observant gaze, she set her wine on the table and rose to walk to the wall of the solarium where she could look down on the myriad twinkling lights of Seattle. “It really is a beautiful view,” she commented a moment later.
“Yes.” His voice, husky, strange sounding, came from just behind her, startling her. Turning, she found that he wasn’t looking at the view of the lights at all, but at her, and his predator’s eyes glowed with an almost feral light. Her heart leapt into her throat. Oh, no! Even as unpracticed as she was in the exchanges between men and women, Heather recognized that look. She’d seen it before—a long time ago—and remembered its seductive power.
As his potent gaze imprisoned hers, her breath hitched in her throat. If only he wasn’t standing so close, maybe she could think more clearly. “I—I think I’d better turn in for the night.” That was what she needed to do. Escape.
He nodded, but made no effort to step out of her way. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked in a low voice.
“I…” Heather didn’t know how to respond.
He seemed to sense her unease. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Too much wine.” He offered the excuse with a heart-stopping, intensely appreciative glow in his golden eyes. “Moonlight, red wine and a beautiful woman. It’s a heady combination.”
With an effort of pure will, she pulled her gaze from his. He was too serious, too intense. And she was drastically out of her depth. “I’d really better turn in. Good-night.” She began to sidle past him.
“Heather?”
“Yes?” Wary, but tantalized despite herself, she lifted her eyes once more to meet his. It was a mis take. As though the gesture had been some kind of signal, he gently grasped her arms—his hands like hot irons on her water-cooled skin—and slowly drew her toward him. She felt curiously fragile beneath his hands. A shiver raced through her in the wake of his touch. She told herself it was just the contrast between the warmth of his palms and the coolness of her own skin that had caused it, but she wasn’t certain she believed it. She could only stare up at him in mute surprise as he slowly drew her into a tender embrace. Imprisoning her within the circle of his arms, he lowered his head to capture her lips with his. There was no hesitation on his part. No awkwardness. And Heather found herself seduced by the confidence of his touch, the warmth of his body.
Her nipples, flattened against the hard surface of his chest, tingled and tightened. Her lungs seemed to contract, and she had difficulty breathing. He made a sound deep in his throat. Satisfaction? Desire? And increased the pressure of the kiss slightly.
Molten heat spread through her limbs. No! Heather tried to deny her response, to exert some control over it. But her will crumbled beneath the onslaught of a desire made more powerful by abstinence. With a soft sound of protest and surrender, she opened her lips to him.
His response was immediate. He tightened his embrace until she felt every contour of his hard chest against her swollen breasts. He deepened the kiss until she felt consumed by its fiery heat. He pressed her against the solid evidence of his arousal until her knees turned to rubber.
It felt so good to be held by a man again. To know that for just these few seconds, in his arms, she was safe. Cared for. She had been alone for so long, reliant only on herself. And now, Court’s s
trength and power were every bit as seductive to her as his touch.
No! That wasn’t right. Court could well be the enemy. And if he was, she would have failed Des again. Des! She couldn’t forget her purpose here. Not even for a moment.
Wrenching her head to the side, she broke off the kiss and took a desperate step back. “No!” Instinctively, she raised a hand to protect herself from the gentle but devastating assault on her senses, but her slap never connected for he blocked it with ease. Grasping her wrist gently in his large capable hand, he stared down at her, his golden eyes gleaming in the muted combination of moonlight and underwater pool lights. Heather found herself answering the unspoken question in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Please…just let me go.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Forgive me.”
Heather nodded, but her senses were still too befuddled to attempt a response. She was vaguely aware that his hands grasped her shoulders, caressing the contours he found there as though attempting to ease the tension knotted in the muscles, but she was more aware of the sensation than of the action itself. And the sensation frightened her with its subtle power to beguile.
And then suddenly, as his fingers traced the shape of an old and telltale scar high on her back, his hands stilled. An instant later, his massaging thumb found the scar’s mate, in front, beneath the strap of her suit just a couple of inches below her collarbone.
“Heather?”
Her breath arrested in her lungs. She knew what he was going to ask, and she had no idea how she was going to respond. Certainly not with the truth. It would raise too many questions. “Yes?” she managed.
Stepping back, he stared down at her with that astute topaz gaze that wrought such havoc on her senses. Then reaching out with his index finger, he moved the strap of her suit aside and touched the scar again sending a jolt of awareness shooting from the point of contact to the tip of her nipple.
His voice, when he spoke, was little more than a seductive whisper, but it held an underlying core of steel that was unmistakable. “How exactly does a physical therapist go about getting herself shot?”
Oh, Lord, he knew! She hadn’t realized he’d be so certain. And yet she couldn’t tell him. She wouldn’t. It was not something she spoke of. She’d learned long ago that the past belonged in the past, and she kept her eyes firmly fixed forward—on the future. Admittedly, her future might not be too bright at the moment, but she had no choice. She’d simply have to bluff.
“Shot?” she repeated incredulously. “I wasn’t shot.” She touched the small scar herself. “This is from a skiing accident.”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze revealing nothing of his thoughts. And then he said, “I see. And what kind of skiing accident would do that?”
“Landing on a broken ski pole.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “Of course. I should have realized.”
Did he believe her or not? She couldn’t tell. “Well, I think I’ll turn in.” She backed away a couple of steps. “Good night.”
He nodded. “Good night. See you in the morning.”
Court watched her walk away, her lithe form sensuously graceful in the muted light of the solarium. “Ski pole, my foot,” he muttered when she was out of earshot. Another lie. And he had yet to learn why. What was her purpose here? Who precisely had sent her? With only six weeks left until the operation reached its conclusion, Heather Buchanan was an unknown quantity that he couldn’t afford.
Chapter 6
The morning exercise session was a study in ignoring tension. Heather was trying desperately not to remember what it had felt like to feel his lips on hers. To keep her concentration on completing her assessment of Court’s condition for DiMona.
“Let’s start with the parallel bars,” she said as soon as he finished his session on the exercise bike. “I need to see you walk. Try to walk as naturally as possible without depending on the bars for support, if you can.” The morning was only half over and, under his watchful gaze, every second seemed to drag. Unfortunately Court had had no appointments that morning, so there would be no reprieve.
“Sure,” he said.
Immersing herself in her work, she observed him for a couple of minutes as he made his way back and forth. For the most part, he was able to avoid using the support of the bars, but he compensated by keeping the knee of his injured leg rigidly locked. “Does it feel like you’re walking naturally?” she asked.
“Pretty much. Yeah,” he responded.
She looked for a mirror and spotted one. “Come and look in the mirror.” She waited while he did as she’d bidden, and then pointed out his firmly locked knee. “Look at the difference between your knees. Can you relax this one at all?”
He frowned and slowly relaxed the knee.
“You’re not putting any weight on it,” Heather observed. “Try sharing your weight evenly between both legs.”
He did as directed. His leg wobbled slightly, and Heather reached out to steady him, to lend her support should it be necessary. It wasn’t. Forgetting herself, she looked up into his face and smiled. “Headway. It’s supporting you even while in a slightly bent position. So, the leg has already begun to regain some strength.”
His gaze dropped to hers, golden-eyed and predatorial, yet his tone when he spoke was low, a bit labored and somehow almost intimate. “Yeah, but not fast enough,” he said. “It feels like I’m trying to balance two sticks together end to end.” Heather’s heart leapt as his rich burgundy voice caressed her nerve endings and she was suddenly very conscious of her proximity to him, of her hand beneath his tautly muscled forearm. Of his body heat and the faint scent of his perspiration.
Feeling a flush rise in her face, she quickly looked down. “Yes, well, that’s why I’m here, Court.” They proceeded with a series of exercises that ended with him sitting on a bench, shaky and sweaty from exertion. “Okay, last one for this morning,” Heather said as she fastened the Velcro tab of a light weight in place on his ankle. “We’re going to try something a little different. Can you slowly straighten the leg?”
The muscles just above his knee leapt in response, but nothing happened. She looked at his face, saw the strain. “Can you kick toward me?” she asked.
He swore. “Does it look like I can kick?”
“All right, Court. Tell me what’s happening.”
“Not a damn thing!” he yelled suddenly, giving voice to his frustration. “Can’t you see that?”
She ignored his outburst. “Can you feel any kind of response in your leg?”
“No! It’s like a piece of deadwood. There’s nothing there. No reaction.”
“The kick function isn’t working,” she murmured thoughtfully. “I guess that explains why you haven’t been driving.” He wouldn’t be able to move his leg between the gas and the brake.
“How do you know I haven’t been driving?”
Heather froze as DiMona’s words echoed in her brain. He’s not even driving himself anywhere these days, so if you’re smart you might be able to figure out a way to make yourself useful to him when he goes out, too. Had Gabriele’s inability to drive been in his file? It should have been, but she wasn’t sure. Maybe for some reason Court had left that out of his discussion with his previous therapist.
Shrugging as casually as possible, Heather said, “I think one of the staff at the clinic mentioned seeing you arrive with a driver.” Was that a plausible explanation? She hoped so. “Now then, move forward so that you’re sitting on the edge of the bench,” she directed, changing the subject and praying that he wouldn’t notice.
He didn’t move, and once again Heather was forced to make eye contact. His topaz gaze was fastened on her, but there was no expression on his face, nothing to indicate what he was thinking.
She cleared her throat. “Court? Can you move forward please? And don’t put your feet on the floor. Just let your legs relax.”
After a seemingly endless moment, he nodded and his gaze slid away from her face. D
ismissing the incident, Heather concentrated once again on the job at hand. There was a definite difference in the appearance of his thighs when there was no support beneath them. “Look here,” she said, brushing her hand along the outer side of his injured thigh. “See how it appears slightly smaller or sunken in comparison to your other leg.”
He nodded and glanced at her warily, as though preparing himself for bad news. “Yeah. What about it?”
“The muscle isn’t functioning the way it should. This one, on the outside of your thigh, connects to a tendon in your knee joint. I think it could be a large part of your problem with stability.”
“Okay, so how do we fix it?”
Heather frowned. “I’ll have to give it some thought, see if I can come up with some exercises for tomorrow that may isolate and help strengthen that muscle. In the meantime, you might as well shower. We’ll try some more massage stimulation this evening after dinner.” She paused. “Did you want to exercise again this afternoon?”
He shook his head. “No. I’d like to, but I have some things to do so I won’t be in this afternoon.”
Heather nodded, wondering if what he had to do would be of interest to DiMona. Her forehead furrowed slightly as she contemplated just how to go about discovering Court’s plans.
“Is something bothering you, Heather?”
She started. “Oh, no, not at all. I was just thinking that, if you’re not going to be needing me this afternoon, I should go out and get a couple of things done myself. Do you mind?”
He shook his head. “Of course, not.” He began walking toward the door. “Just let Mrs. Kaiser know before you go out if you’re planning on being here for dinner.”
“I will. Thank you.” Heather had no idea what she was going to do with her free afternoon, but she had a half-formed notion that perhaps she should follow him, if she could.
Court halted in the doorway. “Oh, if you see a strange young man wondering around the house, don’t let it bother you. Ernest’s nephew, Dave, is going to be visiting for a while.”
Undercover with the Enemy Page 6
