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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

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As she wiggled her toes over the rim of the open drawer, her thoughts wandered recklessly. A man like Sloane Harper, she decided, would demand things. His air of command would inspire total subservience. She, however, was subservient to no man. Hard work and her own innate intelligence had earned her the respect of the majority of her peers. It was what she wanted and she prized it.
Sloane Harper. The Silver Fox. Was he an opportunist? Silver
was
the color of that magnificent head of hair—but was he indeed the proverbial fox? Strangely disquieting, the question was with her for the afternoon, set aside only occasionally by the demands of one or another of her more immediate legal concerns. It didn't help that John stopped by for a final jab late in the day.
“Remember, kid,” he said grinning from the door, “the fox is known for its cunning … .”
She said nothing, reluctant to legitimize his warning by dint of response. Her narrowed gaze was sufficient to convey her distaste for his humor. But he slipped away undaunted.
By the time six o'clock rolled around, she felt duly out of sorts. With foresight she had taken a few moments to touch up her makeup and brush through the tangle of her
waves. The end result, she decided with a wry grin at the rosy image that faced her in the ladies' room mirror, would certainly pass muster.
But when the tall figure, fresh despite his own long afternoon of meetings and unfairly handsome in his dark gray linen suit, appeared at the entrance to her office, her composure tottered.
“All set?” His deep voice surged across the room to enliven her every sensitive nerve. She looked evasively down at the spread of materials on her desk.
“Just about,” she answered, shuffling papers in pretense of neatening the desk top as she stood. “Are the others ready to go?”
His dark eyes held hers with nary a blink. “They've gone ahead in a cab. I've got my car downstairs. We'll meet them at the restaurant.”
This unexpected twist sent jitters through her stomach. The fingers that placed several folders in her briefcase trembled almost imperceptibly. “Fine. There, I think I have everything.”
“Do you always bring work home to do at night?”
“I always bring something home with me,” she said with a smirk, “but it's not necessarily night work.” On this particular evening she doubted she would get anything accomplished. “Very often I spend an hour
before
work looking over my cases for the day. I'm an early riser anyway, and I'm freshest in the morning.”
She sidestepped her desk with care, mindful of her flub that afternoon. Sloane hadn't moved from the door. “You look totally fresh right now. Are dinners with clients part of the normal schedule?”
With a tug she hoisted the shoulder strap of her purse, then lifted the briefcase, only to have it as quickly removed from her fingers when Sloane stepped forward. She released it graciously. “No. This is a surprise. Particularly” —she eyed him cautiously—“since you really aren't
my client.
As a matter of fact, I'm not quite sure
why
Dan suggested I join you all. I know
nothing
about your operation.”
Sloane flipped off the lights as they left the office, then moved beside her toward the deserted reception area. “That, my dear, can be easily remedied.” It was a perfect Clark Gable imitation, yet uniquely Sloane Harper. Nothing about the man, she mused, smacked of imitation. He was one of a kind—certainly in the profound effect he had on her senses.
Now, as they left Ivy, Gates and Logan behind and stood waiting for the elevator, she was acutely aware of those senses and the messages they conveyed. There was a strength about him as he stood tall, a rough six feet four to her five feet eight, and a dignity in his stance that fell short of arrogance. He was masterful in silence, exuding an aura of self-confidence which challenged her. The faint hint of his morning's dose of aftershave was pleasingly light, as was the warmth which radiated from his lean lines.
“Then, tell me,” she began, groping for a diversion from these subtle, sensual messages, “tell me about CORE International.”
“From scratch?” he asked, boyishly pleased.
Justine grinned shyly. “From scratch. I am one of the totally ignorant.” The arrival of the elevator delayed the story as they stepped inside and began the long downward glide. Alone with this silver-haired man in the plush and polished elevator, Justine was infinitely grateful that an impersonal subject had been chosen.
Sloane began softly, his keen eye following the course of the lights on the elevator panel. “The company began as a small operation twenty years ago. My father was its founder, working out of Atlanta, primarily along the southeastern seaboard. When I joined the company twelve
years ago, then took over command three years later, we began to expand.”
“Was your training in business?” she asked, unwittingly delving into the man as a person. The elevator stopped at the garage level, and Sloane smoothly guided her toward the spot where his car was parked.
“I have an M.B.A. from the Tuck School at Dartmouth, but most of what I do is intuitive.”
Before Justine could question him further, he paused beside a small blue Mazda, dug into a pocket for the keys, then opened the door for her.
“Hmmm,” she commented, “I can see why you didn't offer to take the others. Not much room, is there?” The car was a two-seater, well appointed though far from luxurious.
His answering drawl was close by her ear as he leaned in to straighten a seat belt. “Not much.”
A quiver snaked its way through her before she was jolted by the slam of the car door beside her. Moments later Sloane let himself into the driver's side, then turned to face her. The garage was dimly lit, casting a halo effect around the silver cap of his head. An angel, she mused, but far from a saint, if his effect on her was intentional.
“It
is
intimate, I suppose,” he said softly, smiling.
Justine sought sanity by making light of the definite seductiveness of his tone. “I'll say! It's a good thing you don't have a large family!” Once again she regretted her spontaneity the instant her shocked ears heard her words.
His dark eyes were even darker in the confines of the car, his expression unfathomable. The only thing that was clear was his thorough, ongoing survey of her features, as he one by one traced her sculpted lines, illuminated by the very same light which threw his own face into shadow.
“So you
do
know something about me, then.” She could only imagine the eyebrow that arched suspiciously.
“Not really,” she countered quickly. “I simply assumed …”
Very available,
John had said, though that bit of knowledge and its source would remain her own secret. “I mean, no rings or anything …”
“Most men don't wear rings, wedding or otherwise. I notice that you wear none yourself.” Moving too quickly for Justine to anticipate him, he took her left hand in his, caressing her slender fingers with a most subtle, nearly imperceptible motion.
Humor was, once more, her chosen out. “The last ring I wore”—she grinned sheepishly—“was a beautiful pearl one that had originally belonged to my grandmother. Unfortunately, a bee stung me on that knuckle. When the whole finger swelled, the ring cut off its circulation.”
“Why didn't you take the ring off first?” Sloane frowned at the simplicity of the solution.
“
That
was the operable question at the time. I … just … didn't think of it. Until it was too late.”
“The finger—?” To her dismay, he held hers more tightly.
“Oh, the finger stayed, obviously.” She forced a chuckle. “It was the ring which had to go. Cut off. In a doctor's office. By a very efficient little tool. No problem … but I haven't worn a ring since.”
The smile she had expected from him never came. Rather, he grew more serious. “You
are
the master of disaster, aren't you?” At Justine's guilty shrug he continued pointedly. “But that's avoiding the central issue. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
He paused for a moment, contemplating other possibilities. “Engaged?”
“No.”
His gaze narrowed. “Living with—”
“No!” Justine held her breath, a challenge in light of its
sudden irregularity. She was cornered once more, helpless in a prison of Sloane's supreme command. In the small car in the dim garage the same potent force reached out to her as had stunned her earlier that day. It was bizarre, yet vital; its identity was unknown. As it threatened to engulf her, she struggled to hold her own.
“I feel as though I'm on the witness stand,” she quipped weakly.
“Not the witness stand, Justine,” he spoke gently, melting the last of her resistance. “You're in my car—my small car—and I simply want to know where I stand. I may appear to be without scruples when it comes to luring top personnel into my organization, but I've never stolen another man's woman.”
An instant's small spark of rebellion flared in her, charging her spontaneous reaction. “I'm
no
man's woman, Sloane. I never have been, and I never will be. I'm my
own
person—it has to be that way.” Breathless, she stopped. Even in the dark, his faint smirk bemused her.
“Is that so?” he asked, seemingly delighted. But at what? Was it the gist of her vow that amused him—or the challenge it posed?
As Justine pondered the choice, she felt him lean closer, slowly, subtly. His face was inches above hers, his gaze searching hers in the dimness. For a moment of breathtaking anticipation she thought he would kiss her. And, in that same hypnotic moment, she knew she would not resist. Her pulse gathered speed in its race through her veins, preparing her for an experience that was not to be. For, to her odd disappointment, he straightened.
The soft clearing of his throat was the only hint of any possible emotion on his part. His voice was pure velvet. “The others will be waiting. We wouldn't want them to be worried … .”
Throwing a devilish wink her way, he started the car and they were off. It took Justine several long moments to
compose herself. Fearful of the silence and, above all, her own burgeoning fantasies, she returned to the original source of her inquiry.
“Exactly what
is
CORE International?”
Sloane smiled as he deftly negotiated the early evening traffic. “That's right. I still haven't enlightened you. CORE International is a think tank operation, much on the idea of the original Rand Corporation.”
“Really?” she interjected enthusiastically, pleased to find that she would not be sitting in on a potentially boring discussion of dull business procedures all evening.
“Uh-huh. Our business is research. Our clients extend into every major country, plus a number of smaller ones.”
“Your personnel—the ones you unscrupulously steal from other companies—” she began with a smirk, only to be softly but firmly interrupted.
“
Appear
to unscrupulously steal. Please. My reputation tends to get carried away with itself.”
The fox, Justine mused—sly and predatory. So that was the source of the appellation, contrary to John Doucette's lewd implication. Now, she needed to know more.
“I'll give you the benefit of the doubt this time. So, who are these … employees of CORE International? By profession.”
The intermittent honk of nearby horns fell to the side as Sloane elaborated. “There are mathematicians, psychologists, engineers, architects, medical technicians, teachers, administrators—you name it. As the need has arisen, I've hired from practically every field. We span the gamut now, as does our research itself.”
“Fascinating …” she murmured, turning to gaze out the windshield at the riot of colors on the evening avenues. Dusk fast approached, and with it came the array of neon signs and car lights that blended into artistic chaos in this largest of metropolises. Justine always found the urban nightscape enchanting, one of the things she liked most
about New York City. Now, however, it was merely a vivid backdrop for an even more exciting subject. But before she could delve deeper, Sloane's voice stayed her.
“Here we are,” he announced, pulling up before The Four Seasons. It took a moment for Justine to recall their purpose.
“The Four Seasons! Aha!” she exclaimed. “We're doing it up big tonight!”
This time the lights of the restaurant clearly revealed that arched brow. “Do I detect a bit of sarcasm?”
“From me?” Innocence, feigned as it was, became her, rounding her eyes and uplifting the corners of her pink-glossed lips appealingly. “I have no complaint. It certainly beats the sandwich I would have had at home.”

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