The Sex Files. Jule Mcbride
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your mask?”
“Must have left it at home.”
It would be a pity to cover those eyes. No, interviews hadn’t prepared Peggy for how the drizzle would look in his hair; glistening droplets caught in the thick, black waves, refracting light. How he towered over her was a surprise, too, since she was nearly six feet tall, herself, and men never did. The power coiling in his body wasn’t anticipated, either. Heat seeped from beneath his clothes, and as it warmed her, she wanted nothing more than to cup her hands over his broad shoulders and let him carry her away….
She came to her senses. “C’mon,” she repeated. “Let me go.”
His hand curled more tightly around her arm. “Go where?”
She said the first thing that came to mind. It was what she most wanted, after all. To be back in Ohio, watching her mother knit while Aunt Jill made one of the apple pies she was so well known for. “Home.”
“And where exactly is that?”
She should have known he wasn’t the kind of guy who liked one-word answers. Still startled by his sudden appearance, she said the next thing that popped into her head. “How did you get over here, anyway? You were across the street.”
“So, you’re definitely following me.”
“I thought you knew that.”
“I’m still waiting to hear why.”
“I’m not really following you,” she protested. “I mean, I…uh…”
His hand flexed in warning, and her mind hazed. Something black seemed to seep in at the edges of her consciousness. What was she about to say? With Oliver so close, she really couldn’t remember. She tried to focus, but only found herself concentrating on the warm hand curled around the sleeve of her coat. His fingers were long, slender and tapered. That was something else she hadn’t anticipated. Oliver Vargo had the hands of an artist.
“How did you get over here?” She managed to begin speaking again even though her throat was tight. “Sixth Avenue was blocked off on both sides.” The instant she said it, she realized he’d probably flashed his badge, but he surprised her again.
“I bought a token and went underground.”
He’d crossed beneath the street, using the subway concourse. “Smart move.”
“I’m full of them.”
“And modest.”
“So they say.”
“What’s your name?” she retorted. Maybe that would throw him off the track. Maybe it was best if she pretended not to know anything about him.
“I think you already know,” he said calmly. “But it’s Oliver. Oliver Vargo.”
The way he said it reminded her of how James Bond always introduced himself. The name’s Bond, James Bond. His fleeting smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, although it did show off rows of straight, white, gleaming teeth. Days ago, she’d decided he was more interesting-looking than handsome, but now that he was inches away, she was changing her mind. He was mouthwatering. Too bad he wasn’t acting nearly as charming as when he was on television, chatting with Kate Olsen.
“And since we’re exchanging names…” he said.
Despite his annoyance, his voice rippled through her, sending heat into her bloodstream, shooting quill after quivering quill into her belly.
“You were outside Grand Central,” he continued. “And outside the apartment where I’m staying, watching me from a club across the street, Nite-Lite.”
Yes, indeed, Oliver was more observant than she’d realized. He had a very commanding presence, too, and she was beginning to understand that denying all the accusations might not be in her best interest. Still, days ago, she’d been ready to turn to him for help, but now, after spying on him from Grand Central, she needed to be more certain she could trust him. “I can explain everything,” she said cautiously.
“I’m waiting.” When she didn’t respond immediately, he added dryly, “No rush. We’ve got all night.”
“We won’t have to spend all night,” she said quickly.
“We won’t be spending the night,” he murmured in soft echo, seemingly liking how the innuendo made her eyes widen.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
Now that she was getting over her shock, Peggy noticed Oliver was looking at her with an oddly curious expression, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. “I don’t know where to start,” she said.
“You said you could explain everything,” he retorted, his gaze still assessing. “So, why don’t you start with that?” he suggested. “Everything.”
Surely she was misinterpreting the strange look in his eyes, but he clearly recognized her. There was no mistaking it now. Had Miles McLaughlin told him about her? And why had Kevin Hall chased her? she wondered again, panic making her insides tighten. “Before I do,” she said, “I need to know why you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Like you know me. And like you want to kiss me. The thought came unbidden, but she could see it in the way his eyes kept drifting to her mouth. In fact, his eyes seemed to devour her, as if he’d long had fantasies about her. That was crazy, of course, and she tried to tell herself it was only wishful thinking, since she’d dreamed of him. What woman wouldn’t? Peggy was healthy. And sexually active before she’d sworn off love.
“Have we met before?” he asked.
“Have we?” she managed.
“I’ve seen you,” he murmured. “The same dark eyes. The same blond hair…”
Something in his voice—a thread of steel weaving through softness—made her heart pound again. As it beat a tattoo against her ribs, she wished with all her strength that he’d let her go. If anything convinced her she’d made a huge mistake by following him, it was the weakness hitting the backs of her knees. Yes, with his hard, aroused body pressed against hers, she suddenly felt sorry, truly sorry, they’d met. As things stood, she’d been in enough trouble.
“Let me go,” she said again, with more conviction.
“I don’t think so,” he answered in an easy tone that belied his commanding words. “You’re coming with me, Cameron.”
Things were getting stranger by the minute. She swallowed nervously. “Cameron?”
“Yeah…” Lightly licking his lips, he repeated the name as if he liked the taste of it in his mouth. “Cameron.”
“What are you talking a—”
He interrupted, saying the strangest thing yet. “Whoever you are—” He squeezed his hand around her arm again as if to test the truth of it. “You’re every bit as real as me.”
“Of course I am.” She squinted at him.
“Why are you following me?” he asked again.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t mean you any harm—”
“You,” he emphasized with a chuckle. “Harm me?”
Of course the idea was ludicrous. Oliver Vargo was tall, broad-shouldered and packed with solid muscle that made her shudder. “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t defend yourself.” The question was, could he defend her?
The longer she looked at him, she wasn’t even sure she wanted him to. The second their bodies connected, she’d realized this man could be dangerous, if only to her heart. How many times could a woman trust, after all? How many times could she heal and then open herself up to let in feelings