Tell Me No Lies

by Elizabeth Lowell

  "We're the only ones who know that. Let's keep it that way."

  "Catlin, that's ridiculous!" she exploded.

  "So is wearing a seat belt – until the day your luck goes sour."

  Lindsay's mouth opened, then snapped shut. He was the teacher. She was the student. And this was supposed to be a guided tour of the lower regions.

  "Right,"' she said through her teeth. "I'll take care of it."

  "Today."

  "Right," she snarled. "Today! Any other little thing on your devilish mind?"

  "Do you always wake up sassy?" he asked, smiling faintly as he took another sip of coffee.

  "Do you always wake up insufferable?"

  Catlin sipped his coffee for a moment, then gave up and laughed, shaking his head. "Never an unspoken thought. It could be addictive, that kind of honesty. And dangerous as hell."

  "The door is closed, remember?" she muttered. "I don't have to act like a moonstruck teenager." She took a cautious sip of coffee. Strong but not bitter, with a flavor to break her heart. He had found her secret cache of gourmet coffee and put it to marvelous use. She took another sip and smiled in pure sensual pleasure. "I forgive you. For this coffee, I would forgive the devil himself."

  "I'll remember that. Stone called."

  "Speaking of the devil, right?" Lindsay glanced at the bedside clock. Seven thirty-eight. "Early bird, isn't he?"

  "With a mouthful of worms."

  "Ugh. Catlin, please. What an awful image."

  His smile flashed again beneath his black mustache. "He wants to talk to you after we see Jackie."

  "Just me?"

  "Just you," said Catlin. What he didn't say was that he suspected that the topic under discussion would be Catlin himself. He didn't mind. The questions Lindsay asked him when she came back would tell him what the FBI knew, what they didn't know and what they wanted to know. "I've got an appointment over at the Senate, anyway."

  She opened her mouth to ask the obvious questions – who and why. Then she remembered that she wasn't supposed to ask questions. With a stifled curse she went back to appreciating the unexpected gift of good coffee served to her in bed. From the corner of her eye she caught Catlin's small, approving nod.

  "Am I permitted to ask when you'll be back?" she murmured.

  "You just did," pointed out Catlin. "Where do you want to have lunch?"

  "I don't eat lunch."

  "You do today. We're going to stroll hand in hand through some of the more public bronze exhibits."

  "Wh – Damn! Oh, to hell with it!" she said in exasperation, tired of stifling her very active curiosity before she was even fully awake. "Why?"

  Catlin laughed softly, shaking his head. "To see who follows us, naturally."

  Abruptly Lindsay felt her irritation replaced by sudden uneasiness. "Why would anyone follow us?" she asked before she could stop herself.

  "To see where we're going."

  "Thank you," she said gravely. "Thank you all to bloody hell."

  "Anytime, honey cat," he said, amused and approving at the same time. "Anytime at all."

  A frisson rippled through Lindsay at the endearment, for there was nothing patronizing about Catlin's manner this morning. "The door is closed, Catlin," she pointed out, subduing the natural huskiness of her voice with an effort.

  "Yeah. I kept reminding myself of that fact the whole time I watched you sleep. Wish to hell you were another kind of woman, Lindsay. The casual kind." Catlin drained the rest of his coffee with a quick movement. When he spoke again, his tone was as controlled as the line of his mouth. "How do you like your eggs?"

  "Without shell."

  "I think I can manage that. How long do you take in the shower?"

  "Ten minutes."

  "Breakfast in eleven."

  "Fifteen," Lindsay said firmly. "I don't want to drip on my toast."

  "Who said anything about toast?"

  "I did. I refuse to face naked eggs. Now vanish so that I can get out of bed."

  Slowly Catlin shook his head. "We're supposed to be lovers, remember?"

  "Only when the door is open."

  Catlin sighed. "Look, Lindsay, this act of ours isn't going to have a sinner's chance in hell if your deepest reflex is away from rather than toward intimacy."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Christ," hissed Catlin between his teeth. "Half the time you flinch when I touch you. You touch me reluctantly, if at all. You're as wary as a stray cat. You act like you've never been in a bedroom with a man in your life."

  "And you act like you've been in too many bedrooms with too many women. You call that intimate?" Lindsay made a sound of disgust. "A man your age should know the difference between intimacy and getting his ashes hauled."

  She threw aside the covers and came to her feet in a single motion. Wine-colored silk swirled down her thighs in a shimmer of color. Without a word or a look, she stalked past Catlin into the hall.

  Catlin's silence followed Lindsay into the shower, fading only beneath the thunder of water against lime-green tile. When she came out feeling refreshed if not renewed, the smell of sourdough toast tempted her palate. Hurriedly she put on her underwear and a short terrycloth robe. As she walked into the kitchen, Catlin looked up from the scrambled eggs he was spooning out of the frying pan onto two plates.

  "See, I'm good for something," he said.

  Lindsay looked at Catlin quickly, wondering if he were angry at her for her remark about the difference between intimacy and casual sex. His expression gave away little, but she was learning to read him. He was amused rather than angry with her, for the line of his mouth beneath the black mustache was relaxed, curling up slightly at the left corner. She had the distinct feeling that she was a novelty to Catlin, that most people walked very lightly around him when they couldn't avoid him entirely.

  "Catlin," she said huskily. "I'm sure you're good for many, many things. But one of them isn't me, is it?"

  Catlin's breath came in hard as Lindsay's honesty went through him like a razor, slicing away everything but pain and the truth. "No," he agreed, "one of them isn't you."

  Lindsay looked at Catlin's yellow eyes and felt as though she had just stepped into the same black well from which her nightmares emerged. Except it was day, not night, and Catlin lived within those shadows all the time. Shadows weren't a transient dream state with him. They were the kind of reality that made him come out of deep sleep with a loaded gun in his hand when other men would still be lying in a daze, wondering if they were awake or asleep.

  But those men would be dead before the answer came, and Catlin would be alive.

  Lindsay looked at Catlin, really looked at him, knowing and accepting that he had lived with violence and survived by violence. With acceptance came the thought that it was a pity her uncle hadn't been more like Catlin. Then her uncle wouldn't have trusted the wrong person at the wrong time. Betrayal and death. That was what she had always wanted to ask her mother and had never found the nerve: Do you know who betrayed Uncle Matt?

  "Jam?" asked Catlin, holding out a jar.

  Lindsay looked at the strawberry preserves, shuddered and sat down. With an effort she dragged her mind away from the past that kept getting tangled in nightmares, a dark red tide of shadows rising. "No, thanks."

  Catlin was content to eat in silence, grateful that Lindsay wasn't one of those people who had to be talking all the time in order to know that she was alive. Silence was a commodity that most Americans and almost all Chinese simply didn't appreciate. With Americans it was electronic noise. With Chinese it was the endless uproar of the extended family.

  The comfortable silence held until Catlin and Lindsay went out into the street. While Washington wasn't as noisy as Manhattan, it was still a city, complete with competing horns aw sidewalk construction.

  The hushed, air-conditioned elegance of Jackie's small shop was located on Connecticut Avenue between the Mayflower Hotel and Dupon
t Circle. A gilt sign on the shop door advised that admittance was by appointment only, but Jackie's assistant let them in before Catlin's finger touched the buzzer.

  They were taken to Jackie's office in a genteel rush that made it impossible to linger over the eclectic selections of Chinese objects d'art that were carefully displayed throughout the showroom. The carpet on the floor was luxuriant, absorbing every sound, and elegant porcelain glowed within ebony cabinets. The air smelled of furniture polish and the fid roses that were Jackie's trademark.

  As Catlin and Lindsay approached the office, his hand settled on the nape of her neck in a casual caress. She felt a sudden, involuntary change in her heartbeat and told herself again that she was a fool. Her mind agreed. Her body ignored everything but the warmth radiating through her from the rough palm gently stroking her nape, urging her closer to Catlin's body with each movement.

  For a moment Lindsay almost stopped walking, not knowing how to deal with her own reaction. What would I do if we were really lovers and I didn't give a damn who knew it? she asked herself harshly, trying to still the conflict between her intelligence telling her to pull away from Catlin and her body telling her to get close, closer, closer still.

  There was no answer except the obvious, dangerous one, The longer she was with Catlin, the more he intrigued her, am she was too honest not to admit it to herself. She had never known a man whose mind was so complex and yet so utterly pragmatic, a man whose reflexes were those of a hunter and yet whose touch was both sensitive and exquisitely erotic. Wryly she admitted to herself that if Catlin were truly her lover, chances were that she wouldn't be walking around right now. She'd be in bed, welcoming him into her body, moving with him, wanting him as she'd never wanted another man, knowing him as she longed to know him – intimately.

  Which was precisely the response that the act required.

  Gradually Lindsay gave in to the sensuality that she usually kept well under the control of her practical mind. She turned her head slowly from side to side, increasing the pressure of Catlin's palm on her neck, caressing him in turn as her hair slid over his hand. She sensed the instant of surprise, the almost imperceptible hesitation of his hand, and then the caress came back to her redoubled. His long fingers eased through her hair, seeking the warmth of her scalp, rubbing slowly until she shivered and turned toward him with lips parted in silent invitation.

  "Catlin, Lindsay, how good of you to be on time," said Jackie, walking briskly out of her office to meet them. She glanced at Catlin's expression and the stain of color on Lindsay's cheeks, and added dryly, "Didn't get you out of bed, did I? You really ought to set your alarm earlier. That way you have time for, um, everything."

  "We did," murmured Catlin, smiling down at Lindsay before he turned toward Jackie. "Haven't you ever wanted seconds?"

  Jackie smiled. "Will you settle for coffee?" she asked, gesturing them ahead of her into the office. She tipped a crimson-nailed hand toward an ebony table heaped with various pastries. "I can recommend the croissants and the scones. After that you're on your own, although Sam swears by those sticky buns oozing with jam."

  "We've eaten, thanks," Lindsay said.

  "I'll bet you have," muttered Jackie, smiling as she slanted a sideways look at Catlin. "Coffee?"

  "Not now, thanks. We're on a tight schedule," Catlin said, returning Jackie's smile with interest.

  Lindsay noticed that the smile went no farther than Catlin's teeth. He was in what she had come to think of as his "work mode." Fully involved, fully alert, fully ruthless, a hunter hidden beneath a white cotton shirt, fawn slacks and a linen jacket cut so that it wouldn't tent over the gun in the small of his back.

  Catlin glanced beyond Jackie to a table covered by a rich black velvet cloth. Various bronze artifacts had been set out. All of them were in hues of blue-green, wordless testimony to the passage of time etched deeply into bronze that had been buried in water-soaked earth. Slowly, thoroughly, Catlin began to evaluate the artifacts.

  "Sorry to seem rude," he said without looking up from his study, "but I'm expected on the Hill in an hour."

  "Then I'll leave you and Lindsay to it," said Jackie, walking toward the door with the alacrity of a good salesman who knows that no further pitch is required. "If you have any questions, I'll be in the back."

  Catlin nodded. Still without taking his eyes from the bronzes, he held out his hand to Lindsay. After a very slight hesitation, she took it. He drew her to his side, leaned down and brushed his lips caressingly from her cheekbone to the curve of her ear.

  "The door is still open," he said, looking intently at her to make sure that she understood. His voice was a bare thread of sound that carried less distance than a whisper but was easier to understand. "The whole shop is on closed-circuit TV."

  Lindsay turned her face into Catlin's neck and tried to imitate his very soft voice. "I know."

  He nodded, released her and went back to looking at the bronzes as though they were the only thing on his mind.

  Lindsay stood beside Catlin patiently, not knowing whether the bronzes truly interested him. There was nothing on the table that she would recommend to a serious collector of third century B.C. Chinese bronzes, except perhaps some of the small harness pieces at the end of the table. Even that recommendation was doubtful until she had a chance to examine them very closely, which was what Catlin was doing now.

  In fact, the only piece that truly interested Lindsay was a kuei, a deep circular food dish with a graceful foot-ring and spreading lip. Two handles in the shape of sinuous, exotic animals were set vertically on opposite sides of the bowl. At some point in the bowl's history it had been broken and repaired. The work had been done expertly, with every attempt made to match the color and texture of the repaired surface to the rest of the patina. But even the delicate, expert use of various chemicals to induce rapid corrosion in the newer bronze hadn't wholly concealed the seam that ran diagonally through the bowl.

  The fact that the vessel had been repaired made it much less valuable as an objet d’art in a market where intact bronze bowls were not difficult to find. Most collectors would have passed over the kuei without a second look. But Lindsay was caught by an indefinable quality of the bowl that transcended its battered history. The shape of the vessel itself was superbly executed, capturing the sense of a belly rounded with good food and plentiful harvests. The aura of repletion about the bronze was almost smug, a curving proclamation through the ages that the bowl embodied the very idea of nourishment rather than merely holding food until the moment of serving.

  Somewhere between concept and execution, the bronze kuei had slipped over that very elusive yet unmistakable boundary between artifact and art. To Lindsay that was more important than the marks left on the bowl during its remarkable odyssey of survival through China's violent history.

  "Lindsay."

  "Yes?" she answered, looking up from the sinuous, abstract dragon designs that wrapped the bowl, proclaiming that its creators lived in very late Chou or early Han times. Or perhaps even in the dynasty between. Qin's dynasty.

  "What do you think of this one?" asked Catlin, extending his hand toward her.

  Reluctantly Lindsay set aside the bowl and went to Catlin. Nestled between the base of his thumb and the curious ridge of callus at the edge of his palm was a roughly circular object. The circle was made by the body of an animal whose head was touching its tail, making an unbroken ring. The result was an object used either for personal adornment or for decorating a horse's harness.

  "May I?" asked Lindsay, reaching for the small bronze ornament.

  "Anytime," Catlin said immediately, smiling and running his fingertips down the inside of her wrist as she lifted the tiny bronze from his palm.

  The distracting caress almost made Lindsay drop the bronze. "Catlin," she said warningly.

  He smiled as he withdrew his hand, but his eyes were opaque, unflinching. He had decided that it was time to push Lindsay hard. I
f she blew up in his hands now, no one would die of it. Especially her. "I'll be good," he promised.

  "That's the problem," she retorted, looking at the small circular bronze. "You're too good already."

  "Am I?" he asked, his voice deep. "Then I guess I'll just have to be bad, won't I?" He bent over and fastened his teeth delicately on the rim of her ear. "Very, very bad."

  "The mind falters," she muttered.

  Catlin laughed softly, another kind of caress. His hand slid up Lindsay's arm and closed on her breast with the assured sensuality of a lover. Instantly he found her nipple, drawing forth a response that was all too clear against the thin cotton of her dress.

  "Catlin!" said Lindsay, caught between shock and reaction to his wholly unexpected caress.

  "I know," he said, tracing her stunned mouth with the tip of his tongue even as his fingers teased her breast skillfully. "This isn't the time or the place." His tone was rough, thick, the voice of a man whose blood was running heavily, hotly. "But damn it, you're driving me crazy teasing me like this."

  The injustice of the accusation robbed Lindsay of words. It was just as well, for she had forgotten about any watchers who might be monitoring a TV screen in a hidden room. Her whole body tightened as Catlin's hand teased the erect tip of her breast. Her breath came out in a rush that was almost a moan.

  "You b – " she began, only to have her words overridden.

  "Yes," he said thickly. "Me. All over you, licking up all that warm, wild honey."

  Catlin's hands moved repeatedly, urgently, from Lindsay's shoulders to her hips. He kissed her with a force that left her stunned. All that kept her from striking out at him in rebellion was the knowledge that the door was open and she had a role to play.

  And even more compelling was the evidence of Catlin's own desire pressing against the confinement of his fawn slacks. The knowledge that she wasn't alone in the sudden flaring of passion swept over Lindsay, catching her up in the act as thoroughly as Catlin himself. She thrust her fingers into his thick black hair and let him mold her body to his, giving back a kiss as hot as the one she was receiving.