Serious Risks. Rachel Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ of boxes to the foot of the stairs to be carried up when the doorbell rang. Arlen. This time she didn’t imagine herself slinking away. This time a swift image flashed across her mind that left her aching. Giving herself a mental scolding, she dusted her hands against her jeans and went to open the door.

      If she’d been jolted by his charisma last night, tonight she came close to being stunned. Tonight he wore snug, faded jeans and a black sweater that awoke swashbuckling images in Jessica’s hyperactive imagination. She wouldn’t have thought that a man who could look so elegant and conservative in banker’s gray could look like an outlaw in a pair of jeans.

      “Hello, Jessica.” He smiled, deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes. Unaware of the effect that expression had on her pulse rate, he scanned her from head to foot. Her jeans, unlike last night’s slacks, were worn from many washings and were a closer fit. Her sweatshirt, also worn thin from many washings, hugged her breasts with more familiarity than he suspected she realized. This lady was womanly. She would fill a man’s hands and arms; she would cradle him in softness and surround him in heated satin. And he sure as hell shouldn’t be thinking about things like that when he was supposed to be working.

      Jessica stepped back, achieving a smile despite her heart’s hammering—the way he’d looked at her!—and invited him in.

      “This isn’t a bad time, is it?” he asked as he stepped into her foyer. Immediately he noticed the boxes lined up at the foot of the stairs. “Do you need those carried up? Let me do that for you.”

      “Oh, I couldn’t really—”

      Turning, he smiled down at her. “Sure you can. You’re helping me, and I’d like to do something in return.”

      Jessica’s knees rubberized instantly. That crooked, warmly intimate smile did things to her insides, tweaking, pulling, tingling. Before she could gather her wits to respond, he squatted and hefted the first box. His sweater pulled up in the back, exposing a band of smooth skin and the fact that he wore no belt on his jeans. Why did the absence of a belt cause a deep, slow pulsing inside her?

      “Where upstairs?” Arlen asked as he began climbing.

      “First room on the right.” Was that really her voice, sounding so husky?

      Arlen set the box out of the way against the wall in the designated room. As he straightened, he knew with sudden, deep certainty that this was Jessica’s room. It was, he supposed, prying, but nevertheless he looked around him with interest, noting the ruffled dotted swiss curtains on the tall windows, the white satin comforter and white dust ruffle on the maple four-poster. Embroidered linen doilies decorated the top of her maple dresser, and dotted swiss skirted a dressing table with a matching mirror. The only colors in the room were the bright area rugs scattered around the polished wood floor.

      Virginal, he thought. The room of a sixteen-year-old. He started to turn away, wondering what had arrested Jessica’s development, when he suddenly had the most erotic image of bare skin on white satin and dark hair that tumbled to her waist. How long was her hair? he wondered, then shook himself and headed downstairs for the next box. Damn it, Coulter, this is business!

      Five boxes later, he’d seen the other two bedrooms, one of which held a desk, bookcase and personal computer with all the necessary peripherals. And he was still as randy as the old goat he was beginning to feel like. Bare skin on white satin. He cursed the randomly firing brain cell that had brought that image to mind.

      Jessica awaited him at the foot of the stairs. “Coffee’s ready,” she said brightly.

      “Great.” He descended the last few stairs wondering what she would do if he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. By the time he reached the bottom she’d started to move into the living room, unwittingly giving him a view of her gently swaying rear that only compounded his problem.

      Once again she served coffee in the delicately patterned china cups. Seated in an armchair, Arlen gave himself a few minutes to savor her really excellent coffee and to bank some of his unwanted urges.

      “How’d it go at work this afternoon?” he asked finally.

      “Like always.” She flushed. “Well, not exactly. It seems you were right that we might be observed. Two of the guys I work with saw us, and I got teased about it.”

      One corner of his mouth lifted. “But I bet they didn’t ask who I was.”

      “Of course not. They had that all figured out.” Her voice was tart, and then she laughed softly. “You were right. Once they saw you kiss me, they filled in all the blanks. Nobody even asked your name.”

      “It’s an old magician’s technique. Misdirect the attention of the audience. Works every time.” His smile broadened. “What about the inspection?”

      “It never got anywhere near our section today. The grapevine didn’t even get the word to us until almost quitting time. The only thing different that I noticed was that the security stations were performing random briefcase checks for the first time in an age.”

      Arlen nodded. “I expected that. Just like I expect that tomorrow you’ll have to show your ID to get past the front desk, even if it’s a security crew that knows you.”

      He sipped coffee and let his head rest against the chair back. “This chair is too comfortable, Jess. You may never get rid of me.” Heavy lidded, his eyes watched her lazily. “I’ve got the fingerprint kit out in my car. I suppose I should get it.”

      “There’s no rush,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

      They sat for a while in companionable silence, and he began to feel more relaxed than he could remember feeling in quite a while.

      “Arlen?”

      “Hmm?”

      “How can I carry fingerprints out of the building tomorrow if they’re doing briefcase checks?”

      He rolled his head a fraction so that he could look at her. “There’s no law that says you can’t carry fingerprints around with you.”

      “But what if they ask?” Her small face was worried.

      “Tell them your boyfriend’s a cop, and they’re his. Or tell them you’re taking a night school course in criminology. Relax, Jess. They probably won’t even look in your briefcase tomorrow, but if they do, they’ll know better than to bother you about things that are none of their business. They don’t want any trouble with their bosses.”

      He spoke lazily, his eyelids still drooping, and Jessica’s wild imagination suddenly presented her with the image of a panther lazing in the sun, deceptively sleepy but very much alert.

      “Where are you from originally?” she asked him abruptly.

      Arlen heard the shortness of her tone and wondered if he’d said something to disturb her. No, he was sure he hadn’t. And then coiling through him like liquid heat was the memory of the way her lips had parted at his touch earlier in the day. Could she be bothered by the same impulses that were troubling him? Turning his head a little more, he looked at her fully.

      “I hate to admit this,” he said, “but I’m a damn Yankee from New York.”

      Jessica’s lips curved. “New York? Do you miss it?”

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