Playing With Fire. Carrie Alexander

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      She stood and tossed the jacket over his shoulder, pressing down when he started to rise. “Stay here.”

      Part of the game? He was ready to toss her on the nearest flat surface, audience be damned.

      “But—” he said.

      “Not tonight.” She leaned over him. “Tomorrow. Let’s both think this over, decide on terms, and then make a clear-headed decision about continuing.” Her peacock lids blinked. “Tomorrow is soon enough.” He opened his mouth and she plucked at his lips, giving him a soft, supple kiss that set off a few alarm bells in his head. The loose tendrils of her hair brushed his face like cobwebs. “Tomorrow,” she promised.

      “But,” he said again, feeling thick and stupid with desire, “I don’t know your name. I don’t know where you—”

      “Camille.” Her eyes danced. “Camille Claudel.”

      She might have caught him in her web, but that didn’t make him gullible. He grunted. “Camille. Right.”

      She flicked the tip of her tongue against his lip, said in a throaty whisper, “Your move, Daniel,” then turned and walked swiftly out of the bar. He stared, the subtle jiggle of her derriere smiting him between the eyes. As the crowd closed around her, he decided with a dead-on certainty that she’d worn not so much as a stitch beneath her dress the whole time. And as badly as he wanted to go after her, he found he could not move. He was stone. Dank, dense stone. His face was hot; sweat beaded on his upper lip.

      Eventually his brain began to clear. The jacket slid off his shoulder. He caught it, reaching absently for the fancy silk square that Tamar had folded into the pocket right before they left the office.

      The swatch of fabric was pressed beneath his nose before he realized that it wasn’t a pocket square at all. The scent…

      Pure enticement.

      He lowered his hand, watching in stupefaction as Camille’s tiny silk panties blossomed like a golden lotus across his leaden fingers.

      “CAMILLE CLAUDEL,” Tamar said with her usual crisp efficiency the next morning. Daniel always worked on Saturdays, but Tamar did not. She’d met him at the office by personal request. “Lived 1864 to 1943. She was an artist—a sculptor. The apprentice, collaborator and mistress of Rodin.”

      “Auguste Rodin,” he said, wishing he’d taken that college course in art history.

      “Best known for The Thinker and The Kiss.” Tamar handed him printouts of the famed statues, still warm from the printer. “Rodin, that is. Claudel’s work sank into obscurity until revived by a fairly recent interest. There was a movie, Camille Claudel, starring Isabelle Adjani. Shall I get you the DVD? And the screenplay?”

      He was usually thorough to the smallest detail in his research. This once, as the project pertained only to his personal life, such lengths weren’t necessary. He wasn’t evaluating a multinational conglomerate—just outfoxing one naughty little seductress.

      “Yes,” he blurted anyway. The stakes were high. He’d barely slept.

      And the lioness had dared him to make the next move.

      “Tamar?” he asked, stopping her in the doorway. “I hope you enjoyed the party at the restaurant. Did you get home okay?”

      Tamar blinked. Since she was so circumspect about her personal life, he’d learned not to ask. “It was fine,” she said, her dark red lips moving in a deliberate manner. “Enjoyable.”

      “No hardship to come in this morning?” He studied the photos of Rodin’s sculpture, keeping one eye on his assistant, who was taking too long to answer. “I didn’t disrupt any of your plans for the weekend?”

      Her head tilted. “Certainly not.” She waited a beat. “Daniel?”

      He looked up. “Yes?”

      Tamar didn’t answer, but her right eyebrow rose to Alpine heights. Two times in two days, he’d provoked her into impatience.

      “See if you can track down a man called Kensington Webb,” he said, reverting to form. “I believe he’s an art shark. Last night there was a piece of stained glass on display at the restaurant. Get the artist’s name from Webb. And, uh, situation. Any information he’ll provide, in fact. I want—”

      “To buy it?”

      “No. Maybe.” Not like him to be equivocal. He turned away from Tamar’s frank stare. “Say whatever it takes to get the goods. I want the artist’s address. A phone number, at the least.” He thumbed through the sheets of Camille Claudel’s biography. Her father had been an esteemed figure in French literature. “A bio might be helpful.”

      “Yessir.” Tamar’s voice was arch.

      He waved the papers at her. “Go on. And shut the door.”

      “But of course.” She exited silently, followed by a soft thunk.

      Daniel went to the window and its view of the bleak gray canyon of Wall Street. The memory of the lively color and sound of SoHo on a Friday night made him admit that a degree of sameness, even stodginess, had begun to infect his personal life. By concentrating on his climb up the financial ladder, he had neglected other concerns.

      Not to say that he was ready for the monastery. He had a social life outside the office. Still, his career dedication seemed to annoy the women Tamar wrote into and then crossed out of his date book. They started out praising his success. After a month or two, they were peeved by his neglect. They wanted weekends in the Hamptons; he wanted to work. They eventually wanted to discuss commitment; he wanted to work.

      Success was a fine thing. A regimen of all work and no play was something else. Had he been so determined to avoid ending up like his parents that he’d become a drone instead?

      Maybe that was why his reaction to “Camille” had been so volcanic. Or maybe it was only that she’d aroused his primal instincts, then disappeared, setting him off in hot pursuit.

      Who was she? He closed his eyes and inhaled, remembering every detail with perfect clarity. The fake name had been only a part of her game, not an escape plan. Surely she knew he’d run her to ground.

      Daniel smiled. The lioness had left a small but crucial piece of her lingerie in his possession. If he needed an excuse—and he doubted it—he could always say that he wanted to return the panties.

      She would laugh, he knew. Already he relished the thought of it. Her boisterous laugh would be his congratulations for a deed well-done.

      Yes, he decided as he swung around to his teakwood desk, I need this.

      I need her.

      It was nearly a minute before the statement rebounded inside his head.

      He needed her? That was new.

      He’d learned not to need his parents by the time he was eight. They were well-meaning but essentially useless. Lovable layabouts, going from one menial job to another, doing only enough to pay the rent and put tuna casserole and hot СКАЧАТЬ