Intimate Knowledge. Julie Miller
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herself for her adolescent gawking than for any tardiness on his part. But anger was an easy emotion to latch on to. Far easier than trying to decipher the tightening of unseen muscles low in her belly.
“We’re down to four days of training. I thought we’d agreed to an early start.”
“I’m coming off forty-eight hours without any sleep. I needed to catch up.” He turned away and walked on into the house, expecting her to follow. “If your highness can spare me another fifteen minutes, I’ll hit the shower and grab some breakfast.”
As he walked away from her, she noticed he had a shape remarkably similar to that of a lean, muscular T-bone steak. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, narrow hips.
Men and women were so utterly different, she observed.
And Logan was different from any man she’d known.
Maybe only because he was giving her a chance to do research with him, to study those differences in details. Straight lines and rounded curves…
“Coming?”
Fine-tuning her powers of observation, she also noted that his deep voice lacked any trace of the indulgent patience and charm he’d had in such abundant supply yesterday.
Grace shut the door and hurried after him. “Is everything all right?”
She backpedaled to avoid plowing into him when he suddenly stopped and spun around.
“First, no conversation before coffee in the morning.”
He turned and headed up a half flight of stairs, leaving Grace standing at the bottom. “What’s the second thing?” she called after him.
He disappeared around the corner and a door slammed shut.
“Logan?”
The sound of running water provided her only answer.
So where was the irresistible lady-killer who had kissed her senseless and haunted her dreams? Where was the legendary agent who brought down smuggling rings almost single-handedly?
Who was this sexy, rumpled grumpy-butt who refused to even talk to her?
Four days and counting. Maybe infiltrating Harris Mitchell’s ladies-only workforce was an impossible mission, after all.
Left alone without any direction, Grace gave herself a tour of the main floor of the town house. As far as housekeeping went, Logan was the one who could use some training. And the place was sparsely furnished to the point of being ascetic. A leather couch and maple entertainment center with a TV and VCR were the only furniture in the main room. He didn’t even have a lamp to read by.
She dropped her attaché onto the couch beside a pile of laundry and, needing something to do to pass the time, began to fold. The towels were easy. Then came the jeans.
It felt almost naughty to straighten and fold the soft denim. Smoothing the wrinkles out of the considerable length of leg. Pressing her hand over the rear pockets and running her fingers along the same material that cupped his buttocks. Zipping up the front where…
Grace cleared her throat and snatched her hands away, feeling as embarrassed as if she’d been caught snooping through his things. She set the last pair on top of the pile and moved on to the safer territory of the kitchen.
“Yeesh.” Apparently secret-agent school didn’t include any classes on health codes. Stacks of takeout trash, from flat pizza boxes to folding Chinese food cartons, littered the countertops.
She went to the first box and pried a fork from the graying contents. Hadn’t Logan said he’d been away on an assignment? Surely he hadn’t left these things sitting here all that time. And wouldn’t a man who had as many conquests as he reportedly did have at least one woman willing to clean up after him?
Scrounging a garbage bag from under the sink, Grace made quick work of all the trash. She had coffee brewing in a freshly scrubbed pot, and utensils running in the dishwasher by the time Logan walked into the kitchen.
She rinsed her hands in the sink and was drying them with a towel before either of them spoke.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Just cleaning up a bit. I didn’t know how long you’d be. I waited until your shower was done before turning on the dishwasher.” She noted his clean-shaven jaw, exposing an angular stretch of tanned, smooth skin. Idly she wondered how it would feel against her cheek compared to yesterday’s more dangerous look.
“This is all a little too domestic for me.” He already had his black leather holster strapped across his shoulders. He tucked in his New York Yankees T-shirt and scanned the kitchen. “Is that real coffee there?”
Grace nodded. “I found some in the cabinet. It’s past its expiration date, but I don’t think—”
Any explanation proved superfluous. Logan pulled a mug from the cupboard and poured himself a cup, even before it finished brewing. The dripping coffee popped and sizzled as it hit the hot plate and spattered onto the counter.
She picked up the dishcloth and moved toward the mess. “I just cleaned that—”
“Not a word.” He carried the mug to his lips and savored the first sip.
“I was just helping out. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Are you here to catch a crook or to play house?”
Grace absorbed his rudeness by transforming it into sarcasm. “Sor-ry. I thought you might appreciate some civilized behavior since you seem to be in such short supply yourself.” She slapped the dishcloth in the sink and left the room. In a way, she was glad he’d been so curt with her. It made it a hell of a lot easier to knock him off that obsessive fantasy pedestal she’d elevated him to last night.
Some sexy man-god. He could be as rude and ungrateful as any of her mother’s lovers had been.
She picked up her attaché and slung the strap over her shoulder. Grumpy, she could handle. She’d even forgive him for not appreciating her help.
But to question her commitment to this case?
Grace was fuming by the time she reached the door. She flung it open, eager to welcome the heat and humidity outside. It would be a damn sight cooler than the resentment building up inside her right now.
A vise clamped around her wrist. Logan pulled her back inside and slammed the door shut. She whipped around, fist raised, her heel aimed at the instep of his foot. He shuffled his feet and avoided her punch, pinning her to the door in a deft move that made her feel like an amateur.
His big hands pressed her shoulders into the wood behind her as he threw her off balance by wedging one leg between both of hers—a mockery of the embrace they’d shared last night.
Trapped in this position, with her breasts thrusting out toward his chest, and that ultrasensitive feminine spot at the juncture of her thighs balanced like a fulcrum atop his knee, she felt exposed and vulnerable. The layers of blouse and suit she wore didn’t help. His heated gaze swept across her breasts like the caress of his hands, and that feminine spot tingled in response.
But his moody silence demanded she ignore both her self-conscious fears and her body’s unexpected reaction to their brief struggle. She looked up into those deep gray eyes, darkened now to the color of fierce summer storm clouds. “Let’s start this conversation again. Only this time, you tell me why you’re so upset.”
“Upset?” He laughed. But it was an unpleasant sound that rasped deep in his throat. “‘Teach me how to seduce a man.’ Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”
The crisp line of his mouth moved with damning precision. But his soft, dark voice caused her more confusion than fear.
She kept her own voice hushed and even when she answered. “I’m going after Harris Mitchell. You tried to change my mind yesterday and it didn’t work. It won’t