The Sex Files. Jule Mcbride
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Her eyes darted from left to right, seeking escape.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned quietly.
She wanted to look anywhere but into his eyes, and yet she forced herself to stare him down, not about to be intimidated. “Why did you call me Cameron?”
“What is your name?”
“I see you’re going to answer questions with questions.”
“Until you start talking.”
She considered a long moment. Feeling sure nothing good was going to come of all this, she said, “I guess Cameron will do. For now.” Maybe this way, she could buy time, find out what was happening at the FBI office. Whatever was going through Oliver Vargo’s mind at the moment, he wasn’t saying he was going to take her in for questioning, the way Kevin Hall had….
“Who are you, really?”
She had a thousand answers for that, beginning with Peggy Fox, a woman in trouble. But he was getting impatient. He said, “Are you a fan?”
“Uh…yeah.” That, too.
His gaze flicked down, making her realize her coat had fallen open again. He was slowly perusing the tight white dress beneath, his gaze lingering on the scoop neckline, as if he was thoroughly intrigued by the space where fabric ended and skin began.
The crowd surged, pushing him into her arms, and she gasped. Her hands dropped the coat collar and grabbed the sawhorse behind her. Trapped against the barricade, she felt completely helpless when their hips locked. When his chest brushed hers, there was no help for the way her nipples beaded. Heat flooded her cheeks, staining them a crimson red that even the night’s darkness couldn’t hide. He seemed to be aware of every nuance. She was sure of it when she registered his quickening breath.
“Look,” she managed to say. “We can’t talk here.” In this cold rain, her white dress might as well be made of cellophane.
His intrigued expression didn’t bring much comfort. “You have a better idea?”
The seconds seemed to drag on—as if this whole exchange had lasted an eternity, not a scant few minutes. Apparently, Oliver Vargo thought she was a crazed fan.
Dammit, she was a fan.
But not the one he assumed. Had he had some difficulty with a woman named Cameron? Whatever the case, he didn’t know her real name, which meant Miles McLaughlin hadn’t mentioned her to him. Regarding his and Miles’s relationship, there was only one way to find out the truth—question him. “I…I have a hotel.”
He stared at her. “Did you say hotel?”
She nodded toward McDougal Street. “I’m in the Washington Square Hotel.” It was only two blocks away. She’d been so intent on gauging the distance that she’d barely noticed the genuine smile claiming Oliver’s lips. When she saw it, she felt thoroughly unsettled. All at once, the man’s countenance had cleared. He offered a slight nod, as if a knotty misunderstanding had been resolved and everything now made perfect sense to him.
Good for you, Peggy thought dryly, since she still didn’t have a clue what was going on.
His hand slid slowly downward, gliding from her upper arm to her elbow, creating a wake of electrical current. A brass band began to play, and over the music, Oliver softly repeated the word hotel. And then, under his breath, he added, “Cameron, this is a dream come true.”
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