Playing With Fire. Carrie Alexander
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& Boone financial analyst—and newly minted partner—very, very seriously. There was an ambition in him that matched her own. Not a naked, greedy, soulless ambition, but the driven, meaningful, solid-as-bedrock sort.
“Harvard Business School,” she guessed, even though he didn’t seem Ivy League.
He nodded and narrowed his eyes, looking her over. “Cooper Union?”
She’d gone to Rhode Island School of Design. “I apprenticed to a sculptor in Paris,” she said, spinning her tale. “He was older, famous, domineering. He’d seduced me by the time I was twenty-one. Abandoned me some years thereafter.”
Daniel scowled, carving out another vee. “This Auguste guy?”
“That would be the one.”
“Never heard of him.”
She waved a hand. “He’s dead. But you can see his stuff in museums across all continents.”
“This is a joke?”
“It’s a universal truth.”
He looked lost again, but he was catching on. “Poor little artist,” he said. “You need a patron.”
“Oh, no. I prefer my Bohemian existence. Living day by day, scrounging in flea markets, peddling drawings for pennies, having fabulous affairs with rich, important men who grovel after every twitch of my skirt…” His opening.
The man was not slow on the uptake. “In this particular skirt,” he said, running his fingertips along her bare right leg, making her glad she’d skipped the hose, “a twitch is a mind-bending experience.”
Little did he know. Her recent garb was anything loose and sloppy—oversize shirts and elastic-waist shorts, long knit tunics paired with pajama bottoms. A by-product of having no one around to impress. Being fashionable was rather nice, for a change.
“What,” said Daniel, leaning closer so his lips were a millimeter away from touching her cheek, “are you wearing under this dress?”
“Besides a piercing?”
“Mmm.”
Her lashes dropped. “Don’t you want to find out on your own?”
“Now?”
She lifted a shoulder, challenging him with her silent acquiescence.
He reached, pressing against her. His hand curved around her bare thigh. Her breath caught short. With a placement that was devastating in its precision, he inserted his fingertips into the seam of her crossed legs from behind. Suddenly she was hot as a coal furnace, the muscles in her belly and inner thighs quivering as she squeezed her legs together. The noise of the bar receded to a distant hum; all she heard was the heavy sound of their combined breathing. Her pulse beating hard and fast. Pom, pom, pom.
“Up another inch,” she said. A dare.
His fingertips slid a tickling half inch. Pom-pom-pom.
She was molten. “Nearly there.”
His thumb brushed across the critical juncture. Pompompompompom.
“I can’t,” he said with a gust of an exhale, briefly squeezing her buttock in his hand. “Not here.” His breath was hot and lusty. “Let’s go. I’d rather grope you—” he grinned “—in private.”
She was giddy, feverish. “No one here cares.”
His voice seethed in her ear. “You little exhibitionist.”
Apparently so. Another surprise. It was this man and this man alone, she thought again, downing his drink in several long gulps, not even caring if he was trying to get her drunk. She was becoming determined to see how far they were willing to go. Probably not the wisest move she’d ever made, but she’d been cooped up alone too long, working in blissful solitude. This weekend was her chance to break free.
What she needed was an adventure.
A…game.
With no rules.
But one.
THEY SAT AND CHATTED like normal people for another fifteen minutes. Daniel’s fingertips tingled. The tragedy of the near miss. Although he had trouble concentrating, nothing Camille said seemed to make a lot of sense anyway. Airy remarks about Montmarte, the art academy and Auguste’s betrayal. Daniel believed she was toying with him. In most circumstances, he wouldn’t tolerate it. Tonight, however, her frank desire had trumped his need for control.
She’d knocked him off balance. And here he sat, nodding and happy, all because he had to know what, if anything, she wore under her dress.
Blast. She’d reduced him to pliancy, and he was never pliant. Not since his youth in the backwater of West Virginia, when he’d looked at his unenterprising parents and his good-for-nothing older brother and set his mind upon the goals that would save him: education, career, success.
No distraction had been attractive enough to stay him from his course…until Camille.
What a woman.
What a tease.
He focused on her face. The small round face with laughing green eyes. He memorized the shapes her lips made as she prattled on about Paris. He stroked her hand. Suddenly her words were tumbling over each other like upended building blocks. She stopped and caught her lower lip between her teeth, then excused herself to find the ladies’ room.
He stood to watch her legs as she walked away, only to be punched in the solar plexus by a desire so strong it took his breath away.
Where were they going with this? Unmoving amongst the push and pull of the enthusiastic weekend crowd, Daniel took a silent inventory. He was on top of his game—thirty-six, single, gainfully employed in the toughest market in the world. All his goals had been achieved. From here on out, maintenance was the key. He didn’t intend to slack off—ever—but he could finally afford a bit of…recreation.
He wanted Camille for more than a one-night stand. It was only supposition at this point, but he imagined that she might be the kind of woman who’d change his life.
“Good,” he said to himself rather fiercely, and there was such emotion in his voice that the exotic eyes of a young woman with hair like a black satin waterfall lit up with interest. She smiled an invitation, but he had already turned away and seated himself at the small round table, thinking only of Camille. He excelled at narrowing his focus to what mattered most. Tonight the lioness was in his sights.
Feeling less pliant, he removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves, then sat back to wait for her return. She didn’t take long. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as she slid in beside him. Beneath his draped jacket, her body was long and lean in the matte gold dress. A sylph. “I have a humble flat on East Tenth,” he said. “Between First and Second Avenue. It’s not far.”
“Really.” She looked stunned. “The East Village.”
“We can go there,” he explained patiently. “Ah, hmm.”
He took her hand. “Come with me.”
She resisted. Out of sheer feminine contrariness, he supposed, as up to now her signals had been blatant. “Not so fast,” she said, tugging free. “You wanted terms.”
“I don’t remember asking for terms.”
She traced a blunt unpolished fingernail through the hair on his arm above the wide band of his steel wristwatch. “Let’s strike a deal.”
He froze. Was she a professional? Surely not.
Then again, how many men got so lucky without there being qualifications?
He assumed his fiercest analyst’s expression, good for facing down squirrely traders and instilling confidence in wishy-washy clients. “Money,” he suggested, heavy on the dubious connotation. Money was