The Silver Fox

Chapter 3

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 control—as 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 before—but 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 last—the driving home of his attorney-once-removed—was 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 duty—”

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 her—then 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 warning—and 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 … 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. “Y—yes?”

“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”—his voice lowered—“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 both—sharing 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 hours—would 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 closer—was 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 oat-meal-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!

“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 judges—the list goes on and on. I have every intention”—she smiled at the prospect—“of going home and submerging these weary bones in a very warm and bubbly bath—and staying there until the water turns cold.”

John spoke up in a mockery of astonishment. “Justine—I 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.”

Sensing his approach, she continued to pack folders into her case as though she were alone.

“That bad?” he asked quietly.

“That bad.” One more folder. The Ryder case. Where was it?

“Have them often?”

“Not very.” Impatient fingers flew to the file cabinet behind the desk, yanked out a drawer, then dug into the R ’s. Regan. Rollins. Rohmer. Ryan. No Ryder. Where was it? Check again. Rollins. Rohmer. Ryan. No Ryder.

“Try S.”

“It’s Ryder. It doesn’t begin with S.”

“Look under S anyway.”

With a grimace of disgust she flipped to the first S. Ryder. An apologetic smile teased her lips as she shook her head, then she lowered her head to rest on the top of the cabinet. “How did you know?”

His voice was much closer. “It’s a common mistake in the rush of filing. Last R —first S. It’s done all the time.”

Red-blond waves rippled down her back as Justine tilted her head up in supplication. “Why me? Why today?” Then she groaned as she bowed her head again. “I have such a headache.” Her soft whisper was muted, self-directed, yet he heard it.

The gentle hand that moved beneath the thick fall of her hair to knead her neck brought instant relief, as did the voice which flowed like a rich and mellow Burgundy wine. “You look exhausted. Just try to relax and we’ll get that headache under control. Remember, it’s all in the mind.”

“Hmmm, a mindache …” she played beneath her breath, suddenly giddy.

“No, my dear, a cure for your headache!” Once again the nonimitation, drawled deeply.

It was enough. Eyes closed, she followed his instructions, relaxing beneath his touch until he finally withdrew it.

“Better?” he asked, dark eyes beaming energy into her.

“Ummm, better.”

“Ready for dinner?”

“Only if it’s light.”

“You count calories?”

“Always.”

“Never splurge?”

“Nope.”

“Never?”

She shook her head, her green eyes locked into the dark and beckoning depths of his.

“ Never ?”

“Well …” she relented at last, “almost never.”

His smile melted the last of her tension like a magic wand, hovering over her, making everything right. To her astonishment, she felt suddenly refreshed.

“Come on, Justine. Let’s go. I’m starved.” With firm command the large hand closed warmly over hers. Thoughts of an evening of leisurely bathing were fast forgotten.

Dinner was at a small French restaurant in the East Fifties. To Sloane’s escalope de veau proven?al, Justine ordered a lighter crêpe de mer. A semisweet Chablis tided them over while the food was cooked to order.

“Do you have family in this area?” she asked, after the departure of the wine steward.

“I will soon. My two brothers are holding down the Atlanta operation until those headquarters are closed. Then they’ll be joining me here.”

“Two brothers? Also involved in CORE International?” At his nod she prodded. “How did you get to be president?”

A lusty laugh brought boyish crinkles to the corners of his eyes. “You’re very direct, aren’t you?”

Shrugging, she looked down at the soft ruffle of her white blouse. “It’s often the fastest way to get information. I’m sorry if I sounded offensive.” Sincerity filled her green eyes as she dared to meet his gaze. His amusement puzzled her.

“Please, Justine. Never apologize for expressing yourself freely. I admire your ability to do it. As for your question, it’s a legitimate one. I happen to be the oldest of the three of us, with five years over Tom, who’s thirty-four, and six over Chad, who will turn thirty-three next month.” Justine made the mental calculation, as he must have known she would. That made him thirty-nine. As though anticipating her, he added softly, “My father was totally gray at twenty-eight.”

Her utter transparency brought a crimson flush to her cheeks. Hastily she tried to cover her footsteps. “Then it was a matter of seniority—the presidency of CORE International?”

“Not really. I’m better suited for the overall administration of the company than either Tom or Chad.”

“No modesty there …” she teased pertly.

“Modesty has its proper place. Facts are what is important when it comes to running a multimillion-dollar organization.” He spoke with patience, soft yet emphatic. “My training and strength is in administration. I have a better overall feel for the organization than do either of my brothers. Their interests are more specialized. Tom is a linguist by profession, Chad an engineer. They are both extraordinarily well trained—I couldn’t hold a candle to either of them in his own field! And they would no more venture to take over the general operation of CORE International than I would their individual departments.”

Justine could find no fault with his reasoning. It was her own that seemed misguided. “You’ve never married?” The words had bubbled up from nowhere. Her teeth dug into the softness of her lower lip as she wondered whether he would be offended at this forwardness.

He leaned back in his seat, ostensibly comfortable with the question. “No. I’ve never married.”

“May I ask why not?” Though soft-spoken and in her own voice, Justine wondered what demon tossed out these marginally impertinent questions.

Again Sloane was not fazed. “It’s really very simple. I’d never found a woman with whom I cared to spend the rest of my life.”

The information settled slowly into her consciousness as she puzzled with his odd choice of verb form. But it was one mystery too many. “That’s funny,” she said, smiling. “I would have expected to hear some excuse about the demands of your work or the freedom and fun of the bachelor life. Certainly you must date?”

“I do.” He nodded, more enigmatically than ever. His expression was unfathomable, his eyes sharp, his silver hair shining, his jaw set firm, and his lips stretched into a half smile. There was a lazy satisfaction about him, a smugness at her curiosity. “Do you?”

Fresh on her attempts to picture the types of women that Sloane Harper might date, Justine was taken off guard. “Ah, yes. On occasion. I really don’t have time—” It was her own conscience that stopped her. “Uh … strike that!” She grinned in embarrassment, caught in her own trap. “I really don’t make the time. And there is a definite shortage of men who can accept my terms….”

“So you set the terms?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were the color of bright emeralds, glittering with personal conviction.

“And what might they be?” He brought both hands together before him, steepling his fingers pensively, confidently.

Held in a stunning visual bondage, Justine experienced a fleeting moment of panic. It was as though anything she might say to this man on this subject would be purely theoretical, for he would have his way in the end. Absurd it was, yet she felt that he somehow controlled her destiny.

“Ah …” she stammered uncomfortably, wrenching her mind free, then opting for the truth in what seemed the squaring off in a battle of wills. “I won’t become involved … deeply involved … with any man. I don’t want any long range commitments.”

“Sounds very cut-and-dried.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is it your career that’s so important to you?”

His look of well-tempered amusement spurred her on. “In part. I want my career, yes. But, even more importantly, I don’t want marriage.”

“Ah … marriage.” He exhaled lengthily. “So you’re against marriage. Any special reason?”

There were many special reasons, most relating to her experience as a child when her parents’ marriage had shattered into a thousand anguished pieces, stinging her badly. But that was in the past. “Nothing more than what I see every day in my work,” she said with a shrug, though her features were far from nonchalant.

Sloane averted his eyes to follow the slow motion of his fingers as they twirled the stem of his wineglass. For a long time he said nothing. Then he looked up and challenged her. “Why did you agree to have dinner with me tonight?”

The question was one which stymied even Justine. How had it come to pass? She couldn’t even recall. There was something about a headache, his hand massaging relaxation back into her, his voice crooning soft orders by her ear. Tingling anew, she smiled and ad-libbed as best she could. “I was in need,” she enunciated each word clearly, “of refreshment….”

When Sloane smiled warmly at her, that refreshment was heady. Mercifully, the waiter chose that moment to bring their dinner, and the conversation lightened up.

“That’s a nice building you live in. Do you live alone?” he asked, sampling his veal, tasting it, then smiling in approval of its subtle seasoning.

Justine answered easily. “No. I share the apartment with a friend, Susan Bovary. She’s a nurse.”

“That’s fortunate,” he smirked, “if one is accident-prone.”

“—as I am? Go on. I dare you. I can take it.” She chuckled pertly, then took him off the spot. “Actually, we met in the emergency room of the hospital. I had dropped a large container of orange juice concentrate from the freezer onto the floor—and it landed on my toe. I was barefooted.”

Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got to be kidding….”

“Don’t I wish it.” She spoke with due remorse. “It’s costing a bundle—all these emergency visits. That one required four stitches. The only good thing about it was Susan. She was just going off duty and helped me get back home. When she saw the apartment and the extra room going to waste, she asked if I needed a roommate. That was four years ago. It’s worked out well.”

Sloane shook his silvered head in disbelief. “You dropped a container of orange juice concentrate on your bare toe…. Lord help us!” He lifted his eyes heavenward for a brief moment, then returned to his dinner. “She works the night shift, I take it?”

“Yes. We see each other on weekends, but otherwise it’s a short note here or there.”

“Very convenient for you … if, that is, you want a bedtime companion….” The suggestiveness in his tone brought Justine’s head up with a start. From dusk to dawn, John had said, the fox hunts. Was Sloane hunting now? Foolishly, she had shown him the trump card which had often in the past saved her from an annoying and persistent would-be bedmate. The mention of a roommate was a sure coolant to a man’s lust. Now, she didn’t even have that excuse. Did she want it?

For an instant, as their eyes held one another’s, a current of awareness sizzled between them. In Justine it kindled that very heady spark of desire—a desire that only Sloane appeared to have the knack of fueling. Though she dragged her gaze away, he caught her vulnerability and diplomatically changed the subject, directing the conversation to a safer topic as they finished their dinner. Later, when he drove her home, she found herself intent on prolonging the moment of departure.

In addition to being compellingly attractive, Sloane Harper, she discovered, was as interesting a companion as she had found yet. He may not have had the expertise in music that Dave Brody had or the detailed knowledge of literature that Sam Allen, another of her past beaux, had, but he was, in the all-around sense, a challenge.

“Would you like to come up for a last cup of coffee?” she ventured timidly, but he quickly shook his head.

“No, thanks, Justine. I’ll walk you up—I’d like to see the inside of your place—but then I’ve got to be moving along. There’s a meeting of the board at nine tomorrow morning. If I’m late, there will be all hell to pay!”

The “inside” of her place, as Sloane had put it, was thankfully neat. “Living room … kitchen … two bedrooms … and a bath.” Her slim hand gestured in a slow arc.

“Very nice,” he murmured, wandering deeper into the living room to admire the plush shag carpet, the bamboo wall units, the low end tables, and the sectional sofa. “Did you decorate it yourself?”

“Yes. I love doing that type of thing,” she offered softly, feeling strangely shy and on display with Sloane here at her own home. Yet she was proud of the decor—a palette of creams and cocoas spiced with splashes of color in artwork and accessories.

“These prints are fascinating.” He stood before a triptych on the far wall—three oversized oils, tall and narrow, which depicted a wilderness scene in the running, from the open freshness of a babbling stream to the more static expanse of a deer-dotted meadow to the dark of the forest. It was this last to which his eye strayed. “It’s frightening. I wonder why?” he asked, his question honest and totally devoid of amusement or smugness.

Tucking her hands in the pockets of her gray dirndl-style skirt, Justine came to stand by his side. Her copper curls bobbed as she cocked her head in study. “I’m not quite sure. I keep looking into the trees expecting to see something. But it’s never there. It’s … eerie.”

“Do you know the artist?” It was a signed original; his assumption was correct.

“I went to high school with him. We’ve kept in touch over the years. When I saw this, I knew I had to have it. For some reason, I find it riveting.”

Riveting. A powerful word. A word that aptly described her reaction to Sloane. In the instant’s recognition, she glanced up to find him studying her closely. Under his inspection her lips felt suddenly dry. Her tongue circled them as she took a breath.

“Are you … sure I can’t interest you in some coffee? A nightcap?”

His voice was a deep, velvet lure. “No. You’ll do just fine all by yourself.”

Her mouth opened in protest, then closed with protest unspoken. Time, life, the world—all seemed in suspension as she assimilated the raw desire which filled Sloane’s dark gaze. Once again his hair was like a halo; once again Justine knew that his thoughts were far from angelic.

The smoothness of his palm shaped her jaw, his fingers caressed the softness of her cheek. Her lips parted beneath the gentle nudging of his thumb, which circled them with infinite slowness and devastating effect. Her breath caught and held for one, everlasting moment of expectancy. Then, the telephone rang, shattering the mood with its shrill peal.

“Let it ring,” he murmured quietly.

Her eyes darted away from his. “I—I can’t …” With a move backward, she sidestepped his tall form and made for the kitchen, where the wall phone hung.

“Hello? … Yes, Martha…. No, that’s all right…. What? … Oh, no…. Why didn’t you wait until after you’d checked that out with me? … Of course, I understand …. No, it just makes things more difficult. After all, we’re trying to negotiate a settlement, not enforce one! … Look, Martha, since there’s nothing I can do tonight, why don’t we talk in the morning, after I’ve had a chance to speak to your husband’s attorney? … Fine…. Yes, I know, Martha…. Good-bye.”

Replacing the receiver, she leaned forward, steadying her breathing, assuming herself to be unobserved. When Sloane’s lean figure entered her line of sight, she looked up, startled. “I—” she began, only to be cut off by the hands which took her shoulders and hauled her against him, by the lips which clamped down upon hers as though he were taking no further chance of interruption until this particular matter of business had been dealt with.

The dealing was mind-boggling. His initial force gave way to a tenderness which commanded response from Justine as surely as if she had initiated the kiss. After a first moment of shock, she returned everything he gave, then reeled at the havoc of ecstasy his manliness inspired.

Bursts of excitement rippled through her body when his hands began to wander with agonizing precision over every swell and hollow of her supple form. She clung to him, a castaway, struggling simply to keep her head above water.

“God, Justine,” he rasped when he released her mouth to kiss her eyes, her cheeks, the soft lobe of her ear.

The thought of resistance was anathema to her, her vows of abstinence forgotten. In Sloane’s hands she was all woman. She’d never felt as sensually aroused in her entire life. The sensations were new and consuming, demanding more and more as they grew stronger.

Beneath her fingers, his muscles tensed. His back was broad and strong, his waist lean in turn. The hardness of his body stirred greater potions through her veins, driving her to sure madness if the coiled tension within were not somehow released.

Slowly Sloane pulled his head up and away, looking down at her, asking the question she asked herself, softly voicing it for eternity. “Justine, should I stay…?”

They had reached the fork in the road, a fork that she had sensed was inevitable from the start. Confusion whipped a ravaged path across her features, slowly, slowly yielding to denial. She’d lived her life based on solid conviction for so long. Now she couldn’t possibly ignore those beliefs for one brief brush with pleasure. Her eyes were sad as she shook her head. “Not tonight, Sloane. Not … tonight….”

To her total bewilderment a broad smile lit up Sloane’s face. “That’s good. Very good.”

Justine regarded him as though he were deranged. Her nose wrinkled up as she questioned him. “What do you mean—‘that’s good’? Most men would be furious!”

“But I’m not ‘most men’ and I don’t like the idea of your hopping into bed with a man—any man—you’ve only known for little over a day.” His grin was brilliant. “You may be a very passionate red-headed vixen, but you have restored my faith in the morality of women!”

A slow anger began to rise, overshadowing the desire which had moments earlier captivated Justine. “You tested me.”

“You might say that.”

With a vigorous shove, she pushed him away and stormed into the living room. “I think you’d better leave now,” she called loudly over her shoulder, pacing to the fireplace and planting herself there, arms crossed over her chest, with her back to the room. She didn’t hear his approach, merely felt the warm length of his arm slip around her middle and fit snugly beneath her breasts as he drew her back against him once more. Dismay filled her at the involuntary swell of her breasts, the instinctive trembling of her insides. Yet she couldn’t get herself to pull away.

“Don’t be angry,” he crooned against her curls, his body long against her. “I would have been glad to stay. God only knows I’ll have enough trouble trying to sleep. But there’s more to life than lust, isn’t there?” He paused, then squeezed her. “Well, isn’t there? Would you rather I was a forceful rogue, taking whatever I could get, then walking out? Hmmmm?”

She shook her head in misery, racked by a mix of frustration and mortification. Of course, he was right! Her resentment was uncalled-for.

“There,” he declared softly. “One other thing we agree on. And, when the time is right, we’ll agree on everything.” His emphasis on the last word startled her even more than his expression of the entire thought. He implied a future to their relationship —she had not gone that far. “Now.” He loosened his hold and turned her around, keeping her well within the circle of his arms. She had to tilt her head up to face him, yet his height was strangely comforting. His nearness sharpened her senses anew, thrilling her with its aura of masculinity. “I have to go home to Atlanta for the weekend—to see my parents and tie up a few loose ends. From there I’m off to Tucson for a week or so—a small matter regarding an irrigation proposal. Shall I see you when I get back?”

Justine was surprised at the question, given his tone of total self-assurance. Reluctant to give him the satisfaction of an eager acceptance of his very open-ended suggestion, she shrugged, feigning indifference. “Perhaps.” The feel of his thighs, muscled and strong, lingered as he stepped away.

“You’ll wait for me?”

“‘Wait’?”

There was a devilish slant to the upward lift of his eyebrow. “You won’t go and take up with the first man who comes along?”

“Don’t be absurd—is this another one of your little tests?” She followed his progress to the door through eyes narrowed in suspicion.

His laugh was hearty. “Could be, Justine. Could be.” Then he sobered. “Good night. And, Justine?” The door was open by his hand; his eyes captured her. “Take care of yourself, will you?”

Unable to muster a response amid the eddy of emotion, she could only look on in astonishment as he reinforced the request with a visual command, then closed the door quietly behind him.

Justine sighed her bewilderment. “Good night, Sloane,” she whispered at last into the silence.