Chapter 4

      Kensington leaned her chair back and settled into her first-class seat. The day had sped past in a blur—arrangements for the company and her apartment, postponing some meetings, shifting others to Campbell and Rowan, double-checking details and packing all seen to with frenetic motion—and it was only now, nearly midnight by her body’s clock, that she’d finally slowed down. Her half-drunk glass of Chianti sat on her tray table next to an unopened book.

      Her gaze drifted to the window, the Atlantic nearly forty thousand feet beneath them like a dark abyss.

      “You going to get some sleep?”

      Jack’s words distracted her from her thoughts and she turned away from the window. “Eventually. I don’t sleep well.”

      “You get a remarkable amount accomplished for someone who must be perpetually tired.”

      She shrugged, not quite sure how they’d drifted—yet again—to one of the odd facets of her personality. “I get by. And coffee’s a dear, dear friend.”

      “Have you tried massage?”

      “Yep.”

      “Aromatherapy?”

      “Yep.”

      “Acupuncture?”

      “Not in this lifetime.”

      His smile was quick and immediate, even as his words were surprisingly gentle. “People swear by it.”

      She fought the shudder and reached for her wine. “And they’re welcome to it.”

      A wicked gleam lit that dark brown gaze, adding a new dimension to the smile. “Have I discovered something the great and powerful Kensington Steele is afraid of?”

      “I’m fine with needles for basic health reasons. To voluntarily have them stuck all over my body? No way.”

      His gaze drifted, a lazy perusal over her shoulders, and she fought another shiver—this one far more delicious than the last.

      How did he manage to do that?

      What should have seemed lascivious—or at the least a bit inappropriate—instead made her feel attractive. And, funny enough, cherished.

      As if catching himself, Jack’s gaze snapped back to his own wineglass as he lifted it from his tray. “I wouldn’t go anywhere near it, either.”

      “Yet you think I should?”

      “Hey. I’m the idea guy. You need to relax, so I offered up a few suggestions.”

      “I don’t need to relax.”

      “When was the last time you got eight hours straight?”

      “I don’t need eight hours.”

      “Modern medical wisdom would suggest otherwise.” He paused and shifted in his chair, that gaze once again direct and all consuming. “So when?”

      “I haven’t slept straight through the night since I was fourteen.”

      She saw the question in his gaze—and the ready awareness he’d somehow overstepped—but still he pressed on. “Why is that, Kensington?”

      “My grandmother woke me in the middle of the night to tell me my parents had died. I’ve never slept fully through the night since.”

      * * *

      Jack cursed himself a million times the fool for this stubborn line of questioning. He knew he was a ruthless bastard when he got his teeth around something, but even he respected a certain degree of personal privacy.

      The loss of her parents certainly qualified on that front.

      The proverbial “I’m sorry” sprang to his lips but he kept it to himself. Of all the things he should say, a pithy platitude wasn’t it. “That’s a long time.”

      “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to let on you know a woman’s age?” A wry smile ghosted her mouth and the urge to lean forward and press his lips to hers gripped him with sharp claws. But again, he held back. Tamped down on the obvious and reached for her hand instead.

      “It was more a reference to how young you were when you lost them. And, for what it’s worth, I find a few years on a woman gives her character.” He lifted her hand to his lips, unable to fully resist. “Makes her beauty more authentic somehow.”

      Her hand flexed under his, but she didn’t pull it back. “I told you at lunch yesterday we weren’t going there, Jack.”

      “Why not?”

      “It’s messy and complicated, not to mention unprofessional. We’re working on a job.”

      He kept his fingers locked around hers but resettled their joined hands on the small armrest between them. “A job that requires us to have each other’s backs.”

      The lightest stain colored her cheeks and he couldn’t restrain the very real interest that tightened his stomach once more. He was interested in her—hell, he’d have to be long past dead not to be—and the time in her company only made it more urgent.

      More necessary.

      “I’m not going to be seduced by some simple words and those come-hither eyes of yours.”

      Her comment left her open, and he prided himself on being a man who didn’t miss an opportunity. “What will you be seduced by?”

      “That’s not what I meant.”

      “But I did.”

      “Why do you keep pushing this?”

      Why did he keep pressing the issue? And when, exactly, had that little devil planted itself on his shoulder, intent on ruffling her very smooth feathers?

      Was it the moment he saw her fluster ever so slightly in her home office? Or was it the moment he stared down at her in the jewelry store, a diamond ring shining boldly off her left hand? Or was it the moment he pressed his lips to hers, the rich, ripe taste a succulent feast?

      Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter any longer. He was captivated by her. And he’d