Under Surveillance. Gayle Wilson
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the assignment. A task he’d found extremely pleasant. Dangerously so.
And then she’d played Miss Social Butterfly all evening. He’d watched her do that, too, recognizing that it wasn’t a role she was comfortable with. She’d gotten better as the night progressed, but it had been an effort.
“How about if I call you as a character witness instead?” he suggested.
“I know I’m being ridiculous—”
“Not after this,” he interrupted, looking back at the deflated tires. “Look, if you want to wait—”
“I don’t. I want to go home. I want to get out of these clothes…”
He would have bet that flush of color was again staining her throat. Despite the interior light in the Jag, he couldn’t see her well enough to enjoy it this time.
“And into bed,” she finished.
The last few words had spilled out in a rush. He suspected she’d intended to move away from the slightly suggestive remark she had made about taking off her clothes. It hadn’t quite worked out that way.
“Release the brake and lock it,” he advised again, ignoring the trap she’d laid for herself.
“Should we call the police? File a report or something?”
“Only if you want to spend the next couple of hours answering questions. Those kids are long gone, and on the scale of high priority crimes in D.C., this isn’t even going to rank on the cops’ list. They’ll give the appearance of going after them, because of who you are, but they’ll never make an arrest.”
It wouldn’t be to his advantage to have the cops show up, of course, but everything he’d just told her was the truth. Doing the paperwork on this would be a waste of time.
Putting his hand on the trunk of the car, he pushed himself to his feet with a small grunt of effort. The adrenaline that had flooded his system during the fight had faded so that he was beginning to feel the effects of the blows to the body he’d taken. He was fairly certain his ribs weren’t broken, but he was going to be reminded of those baboons every breath he took for the next couple of days.
She had already leaned back into the car in order to follow his instructions about the emergency brake. Hearing that involuntary intake of breath, she straightened, looking back at him, instead.
“Sore?”
“Nothing a few aspirin and a long, hot shower won’t fix.”
“I can provide the aspirin. And the sooner you take them, the better. In the morning, you might want to get a doctor to take a look at—”
“I’m okay. I will accept the aspirin, however.”
“As soon as we get to my place.”
My place or yours? For a second or two her eyes held on his. Then she turned away, completing the motion she’d begun to release the parking brake.
Yes, sir, he thought, sometimes things just fall into your lap. The problem then became knowing what to do with them when they did.
“THROUGH HERE,” Kelly directed, leading the way down a wide hallway.
There were photographs along each wall. He wanted to stop and check them out, because he recognized more than one famous face. She had already flicked on the light in a room a little farther along, however, and disappeared inside.
He followed, stopping in the doorway of a bathroom that was more than twice the size of his bedroom. There had been no expense spared in either the design or in the facilities. The round glass shower stall would have held a jury of his peers; the whirlpool, only a few less.
“Nice,” he said.
He had refrained from comment as they’d made their way through the rest of the house. It had an understated elegance that, even to his untutored eyes, indicated it had been professionally, and expensively, decorated.
“The house was my brother’s. I didn’t see any sense in not using it while I’m in town.”
She hadn’t looked at him while she gave that information. She was busy searching through a cabinet that had been hidden behind a large panel of mirroring. He suspected the rest of the full-length wall of mirrors covered a variety of storage units. One by one she set the items she took from shelves down on the counter: gauze pads, alcohol, cotton balls, a tube of salve, a prescription medicine bottle, tape.
“It’s a very small cut,” he said as she continued to rummage.
She turned to look at him this time, her hand hesitating over the next selection.
“A Band-Aid’s fine,” he added.
“It needs to be cleaned. They weren’t.”
He was at a loss until he realized she meant the teens who’d attacked her. “The kids weren’t clean?”
“Not the one who grabbed me. His shirt was dirty, and he smelled.”
“Okay. Alcohol and a Band-Aid then.”
“Followed by an antibiotic salve.”
“Whatever floats your boat,” he said agreeably.
He still couldn’t quite believe he was here. As frightening as tonight’s experience had been for her and as sore as he knew he was going to be in the morning, this had been an incredible stroke of luck. He didn’t intend to blow it.
“I think the light’s better over here.”
Since you could have shot a movie in the place, he couldn’t see what difference a few feet made, but obligingly he walked over to the area she’d indicated. She tilted the bottle of alcohol and poured some of it onto a cotton ball.
Its strongly antiseptic tang pervaded the pleasant scent of the room. Unthinkingly he tilted his head back, avoiding it.
“This will sting,” she warned, moving toward him.
She was close enough now that, even above the bite of the alcohol, he could smell whatever perfume she was wearing. She reached up, bringing the soaked cotton ball near his forehead. He closed his lids to protect his eyes and braced for the burn.
It didn’t come. After a couple of seconds, he cautiously opened his eyes to find that, although she was nearer than before, the hand holding the cotton ball still hovered in midair. Given the difference in their heights, she was at a distinct disadvantage.
“This would be easier if you sit,” she suggested.
Obediently he settled one hip on the black marble counter behind him, keeping his other foot on the floor. He closed his eyes again, waiting. Still she hesitated, long enough that he finally opened them once more.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, moving forward until she was standing between his legs. The fragrance he’d noticed before, something dark, undoubtedly costly, and entirely suited to that strapless red gown, surrounded him.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned again.
He hoped so. He hoped it hurt like hell. Enough to take his mind off what he was thinking. And if she got an inch or two closer, she was going to be in no doubt about the direction of his thoughts.
She put her free hand on his face, positioning her thumb under his chin, so she could turn it up to the light. He closed his eyes, determined to keep them that way as long as her cleavage was so temptingly near.
He wanted to bend his head and press his lips into the shadowed hollow between her breasts. To run his tongue along the top of that low-cut dress. He knew how her skin would taste.
The touch of the alcohol against the wound was cold and painful, exactly the distraction he needed. He flinched, pulling his chin away from her fingers.
“Sorry,” she said,