Intimate Knowledge. Julie Miller
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became old news and the patrons returned to their own conversations, she slapped the menu shut and leaned forward. “What the hell are we doing here?”
Logan had unzipped his jacket and sprawled back in his chair. With his long legs hidden beneath the white linen tablecloth, he sipped on a glass of water topped with a twist of lime. “I believe it’s called lunch.”
“I said I was happy to eat at the hot dog vendor’s down on the corner.”
At the snap of her whisper, Logan set down his glass and leaned forward, as annoyingly relaxed in their posh surroundings as she was self-conscious. “Hot dogs are a whole other lesson. You want to seduce a big-time crime lord. So we have to learn the big-time lessons first. Mitchell’s got money out the wazoo. You’re going to have to look like you’re at home in places like this.” His eyes lit with amusement at her expense. “So far you’re not doing very well, Gracie.”
She stiffened at the nickname, hearing the cutesy, belittling appellation like a hundred bad memories slapping her in the face. “Never call me Gracie. I am a twenty-six-year-old professional law enforcement officer. Grace or Agent Lockhart will do just fine.”
He patted the air with his hands, placating her. “Don’t be so eager to defend yourself. Keep your temper. Grace, it is.”
At least he’d allow her that one smidgen of respect. She had a feeling she’d have to swallow plenty of pride before this mission was accomplished. She pulled out her steno pad and opened it to the page where she’d listed ten numbers.
“Is that one of your rules?” She clicked her mechanical pencil and prepared to write. “Play it cool? I can do that.”
He reached across the table and stilled her hand. Sensing her instinct to jerk away from the personal contact, his long, calloused fingers wrapped around hers, pencil and all, trapping her in a vise of velvet and steel. Short of stabbing him with a fork or screaming her head off, she was his prisoner.
She shot him as damning a glance as she could muster through her glasses.
“Control, Grace.” Logan shook his finger at her like the recalcitrant pupil she was. “I’m talking about control. A man likes the challenge of breaking that control. You want to be his match, not easy pickings. He wants to earn his reward.”
Something about the softly articulated movement of his lips distracted her from the need to assert herself. The husky pitch of his voice, whispered for her ears alone, seeped inside her like a promise.
She heard her voice in the same soft whisper. “What’s your reward in all this?”
“Walking away from this assignment with you in one piece.”
“I can handle myself.”
Without blinking, those silvery eyes fixed on hers, capturing her curiosity, demanding her attention. Logan pulled her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Grace jumped in her chair, shocked by the bubbling heat that simmered beneath the firm, warm pressure of his lips against her pulse. The whiskers on his chin abraded an apparently sensitive patch of skin there, sending out thousands of tiny little aftershocks in the kiss’s wake.
What surprised her more though, was the lingering, languid warmth that seemed to turn her arm into molten putty, rendering it useless. Rendering her useless for the time being.
“If you can’t handle this, you can’t handle Mitchell.”
“What? Oh.” Grace pulled her hand away and tucked it beneath her napkin in her lap, subconsciously hiding the betraying appendage until she could gather the good sense to compensate for such a mind-numbing reaction to a simple kiss.
Logan settled back and nodded toward her notebook. “You’d better write that down, too. Rule number three. Know your erogenous zones. But don’t tell a man where all of them are. He likes the thrill of discovering some for himself.”
The discovery part hadn’t been all that bad for her, either. She was honest enough to chart that bit of research in her memory. But, good God, it was just a kiss! The world hadn’t shattered beneath her feet. She’d seen no fireworks. After all, men and women had been kissing for centuries, eons, in fact. No need to make a big deal of it. He hadn’t even touched her mouth, just a silly little nibble on her wrist.
She quickly jotted down seduction rules numbers two and three—stay in control; know erogenous zones—embarrassed to admit that, though the earth hadn’t swallowed her up whole, she had, for a few moments, lost all capacity for rational thought. Logan had a point. If she couldn’t stay focused in Harris Mitchell’s company, she wouldn’t be able to plant the computer virus that would expose all his contacts. And she’d be endangering both her and Logan’s cover.
In an act of self-preservation, she quickly turned to the front of her steno pad and wrote a word at the top of the first page.
Research.
Only, she went back to add, in capital letters. No sense getting confused by the education process. Logan was teaching her what she needed to know about working undercover. She was the student who needed to know about catching Harris Mitchell’s eye, winning his trust, and becoming part of his organization. This was research.
This wasn’t real.
Getting trapped in those silvery eyes, collapsing after a kiss on the wrist or a sweep of Logan’s tongue against her neck—none of that was real.
She caught a glimpse of her torn skirt. What was left of her self-righteous anger deflated in a heartbeat. She was Grace Lockhart, frumpy computer nerd. She’d spent her formative years developing her brain and a defensive suit of armor to compensate for the developing shape of her body and a fear of repeating her mother’s mistakes.
Logan Pierce was a secret-agent hero. A handsome, dangerous man who could have any woman he wanted around the world.
She was a curiosity, perhaps. One of those challenges he said men liked. He might even be intrigued by the outrageous proposal to turn her into a seductress. But no way could she be on his list of desirable women. No way.
She went back to the Research Only note and added five exclamation points and a handful of stars.
GRACE HAD JUST POLISHED off her grilled chicken and mushroom pasta when she heard the voice.
“Gracie!” That high-pitched, whispery voice managed to carry across the entire restaurant. “Gracie, darling!”
Her fork clattered on her plate and she scanned the room for the nearest exit.
“Friend of yours?” Logan set his napkin on the table beside his coffee.
“Not exactly.”
Though she’d already been spotted, she nevertheless tried to shield her face behind her hand.
But the woman would have found her one way or the other. Something about a special bond she claimed they shared.
She felt a hug around her shoulders and a kiss on her cheek. Automatically, Grace wiped the spot with her napkin, knowing there would be a splotch of crimson lipstick.
Odd, she thought, when she looked at her napkin. Pale pink.
“Honey. Aren’t you going to get up and give me a hug?”
The different shade of lipstick had thrown her enough to respond without thinking—the way she had when she was a child.
“Mother.” She stood and hugged the woman she matched physically, inch for inch, although the outside trappings were considerably different.
Mimsey Lockhart leaned back and held Grace’s hands. “I never thought I’d run into you in the city today. What a glorious coincidence.”
“May I get an introduction?” Grace recognized a touch of more-than-polite interest in Logan’s husky voice.
“Mother. This is Agent Logan Pierce. My mother—Mimsey Lockhart.”
“Delighted