Don't Tempt Me (6 page)

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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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Sensing his approach, she continued to pack folders into her case as though she were alone.
“That bad?” he asked quietly.
“That bad.” One more folder. The Ryder case.
Where was it?
“Have them often?”
“Not very.” Impatient fingers flew to the file cabinet behind the desk, yanked out a drawer, then dug into the R's. Regan. Rollins. Rohmer. Ryan. No Ryder.
Where was it?
Check again. Rollins. Rohmer. Ryan. No Ryder.
“Try
S
.”
“It's Ryder. It doesn't begin with
S
.”
“Look under
S
anyway.”
With a grimace of disgust she flipped to the first
S
. Ryder. An apologetic smile teased her lips as she shook her head, then she lowered her head to rest on the top of the cabinet. “How did you know?”
His voice was much closer. “It's a common mistake in the rush of filing. Last
R
—first
S
. It's done all the time.”
Red-blond waves rippled down her back as Justine tilted her head up in supplication. “Why me? Why today?” Then she groaned as she bowed her head again. “I have such a headache.” Her soft whisper was muted, self-directed, yet he heard it.
The gentle hand that moved beneath the thick fall of her hair to knead her neck brought instant relief, as did the
voice which flowed like a rich and mellow Burgundy wine. “You look exhausted. Just try to relax and we'll get that headache under control. Remember, it's all in the mind.”
“Hmmm, a mindache …” she played beneath her breath, suddenly giddy.
“No, my dear, a cure for your headache!” Once again the nonimitation, drawled deeply.
It was enough. Eyes closed, she followed his instructions, relaxing beneath his touch until he finally withdrew it.
“Better?” he asked, dark eyes beaming energy into her.
“Ummm, better.”
“Ready for dinner?”
“Only if it's light.”
“You count calories?”
“Always.”
“Never splurge?”
“Nope.”
“Never?”
She shook her head, her green eyes locked into the dark and beckoning depths of his.
“
Never?
”
“Well …” she relented at last, “
almost
never.”
His smile melted the last of her tension like a magic wand, hovering over her, making everything right. To her astonishment, she felt suddenly refreshed.
“Come on, Justine. Let's go. I'm starved.” With firm command the large hand closed warmly over hers. Thoughts of an evening of leisurely bathing were fast forgotten.
Dinner was at a small French restaurant in the East Fifties. To Sloane's
escalope de veau provençal,
Justine ordered a lighter
crepe de mer.
A semisweet Chablis tided them over while the food was cooked to order.
“Do you have family in this area?” she asked, after the departure of the wine steward.
“I will soon. My two brothers are holding down the Atlanta operation until those headquarters are closed. Then they'll be joining me here.”
“Two brothers? Also involved in CORE International?” At his nod she prodded. “How did
you
get to be president?”
A lusty laugh brought boyish crinkles to the corners of his eyes. “You're very direct, aren't you?”
Shrugging, she looked down at the soft ruffle of her white blouse. “It's often the fastest way to get information. I'm sorry if I sounded offensive.” Sincerity filled her green eyes as she dared to meet his gaze. His amusement puzzled her.
“Please, Justine. Never apologize for expressing yourself freely. I admire your ability to do it. As for your question, it's a legitimate one. I happen to be the oldest of the three of us, with five years over Tom, who's thirty-four, and six over Chad, who will turn thirty-three next month.” Justine made the mental calculation, as he must have known she would. That made him thirty-nine. As though anticipating her, he added softly, “My father was totally gray at twenty-eight.”
Her utter transparency brought a crimson flush to her cheeks. Hastily she tried to cover her footsteps. “Then it was a matter of seniority—the presidency of CORE International?”
“Not really. I'm better suited for the overall administration of the company than either Tom or Chad.”
“No modesty there …” she teased pertly.
“Modesty has its proper place.
Facts
are what is important when it comes to running a multimillion-dollar organization.” He spoke with patience, soft yet emphatic. “My training and strength is in administration. I have a better overall feel for the organization than do either of my brothers. Their interests are more specialized. Tom is a linguist by profession, Chad an engineer. They are both
extraordinarily well trained—I couldn't hold a candle to either of them in his own field! And they would no more venture to take over the general operation of CORE International than I would their individual departments.”
Justine could find no fault with his reasoning. It was her own that seemed misguided. “You've never married?” The words had bubbled up from nowhere. Her teeth dug into the softness of her lower lip as she wondered whether he would be offended at
this
forwardness.
He leaned back in his seat, ostensibly comfortable with the question. “No. I've never married.”
“May I ask why not?” Though soft-spoken and in her own voice, Justine wondered what demon tossed out these marginally impertinent questions.
Again Sloane was not fazed. “It's really very simple. I'd never found a woman with whom I cared to spend the rest of my life.”
The information settled slowly into her consciousness as she puzzled with his odd choice of verb form. But it was one mystery too many. “That's funny,” she said, smiling. “I would have expected to hear some excuse about the demands of your work or the freedom and fun of the bachelor life. Certainly you must date?”
“I do.” He nodded, more enigmatically than ever. His expression was unfathomable, his eyes sharp, his silver hair shining, his jaw set firm, and his lips stretched into a half smile. There was a lazy satisfaction about him, a smugness at her curiosity. “Do you?”
Fresh on her attempts to picture the types of women that Sloane Harper might date, Justine was taken off guard. “Ah, yes. On occasion. I really don't have time—” It was her own conscience that stopped her. “Uh … strike that!” She grinned in embarrassment, caught in her own trap. “I really don't
make
the time. And there is a definite shortage of men who can accept my terms … .”
“So
you
set the terms?”
“Yes.” Her eyes were the color of bright emeralds, glittering with personal conviction.
“And what might they be?” He brought both hands together before him, steepling his fingers pensively, confidently.
Held in a stunning visual bondage, Justine experienced a fleeting moment of panic. It was as though anything she might say to this man on this subject would be purely theoretical, for he would have his way in the end. Absurd it was, yet she felt that he somehow controlled her destiny.
“Ah …” she stammered uncomfortably, wrenching her mind free, then opting for the truth in what seemed the squaring off in a battle of wills. “I won't become involved … deeply involved … with any man. I don't want any long range commitments.”
“Sounds very cut-and-dried.”
“Perhaps.”
“Is it your career that's so important to you?”
His look of well-tempered amusement spurred her on. “In part. I want my career, yes. But, even more importantly, I don't want marriage.”
“Ah … marriage.” He exhaled lengthily. “So you're against marriage. Any special reason?”
There were many special reasons, most relating to her experience as a child when her parents' marriage had shattered into a thousand anguished pieces, stinging her badly. But that was in the past. “Nothing more than what I see every day in my work,” she said with a shrug, though her features were far from nonchalant.
Sloane averted his eyes to follow the slow motion of his fingers as they twirled the stem of his wineglass. For a long time he said nothing. Then he looked up and challenged her. “Why did you agree to have dinner with me tonight?”
The question was one which stymied even Justine. How
had
it come to pass? She couldn't even recall. There was something about a headache, his hand massaging relaxation
back into her, his voice crooning soft orders by her ear. Tingling anew, she smiled and ad-libbed as best she could. “I was in need,” she enunciated each word clearly, “of refreshment … .”
When Sloane smiled warmly at her, that refreshment was heady. Mercifully, the waiter chose that moment to bring their dinner, and the conversation lightened up.
“That's a nice building you live in. Do you live alone?” he asked, sampling his veal, tasting it, then smiling in approval of its subtle seasoning.
Justine answered easily. “No. I share the apartment with a friend, Susan Bovary. She's a nurse.”
“That's fortunate,” he smirked, “if one is accident-prone.”
“—as I am? Go on. I dare you. I can take it.” She chuckled pertly, then took him off the spot. “Actually, we met in the emergency room of the hospital. I had dropped a large container of orange juice concentrate from the freezer onto the floor—and it landed on my toe. I was barefooted.”
Sloane's eyes narrowed. “You've got to be kidding … .”
“Don't I wish it.” She spoke with due remorse. “It's costing a bundle—all these emergency visits. That one required four stitches. The only good thing about it was Susan. She was just going off duty and helped me get back home. When she saw the apartment and the extra room going to waste, she asked if I needed a roommate. That was four years ago. It's worked out well.”
Sloane shook his silvered head in disbelief. “You dropped a container of orange juice concentrate on your bare toe … . Lord help us!” He lifted his eyes heavenward for a brief moment, then returned to his dinner. “She works the night shift, I take it?”
“Yes. We see each other on weekends, but otherwise it's a short note here or there.”
“Very convenient for you … if, that is, you want a bedtime companion … .” The suggestiveness in his tone brought Justine's head up with a start.
From dusk to dawn,
John had said,
the fox hunts.
Was Sloane hunting now? Foolishly, she had shown him the trump card which had often in the past saved her from an annoying and persistent would-be bedmate. The mention of a roommate was a sure coolant to a man's lust. Now, she didn't even have that excuse. Did she want it?
For an instant, as their eyes held one another's, a current of awareness sizzled between them. In Justine it kindled that very heady spark of desire—a desire that only Sloane appeared to have the knack of fueling. Though she dragged her gaze away, he caught her vulnerability and diplomatically changed the subject, directing the conversation to a safer topic as they finished their dinner. Later, when he drove her home, she found herself intent on prolonging the moment of departure.
In addition to being compellingly attractive, Sloane Harper, she discovered, was as interesting a companion as she had found yet. He may not have had the expertise in music that Dave Brody had or the detailed knowledge of literature that Sam Allen, another of her past beaux, had, but he was, in the all-around sense, a challenge.
“Would you like to come up for a last cup of coffee?” she ventured timidly, but he quickly shook his head.
“No, thanks, Justine. I'll walk you up—I'd like to see the
inside
of your place—but then I've got to be moving along. There's a meeting of the board at nine tomorrow morning. If I'm late, there will be all hell to pay!”
The “inside” of her place, as Sloane had put it, was thankfully neat. “Living room … kitchen … two bedrooms … and a bath.” Her slim hand gestured in a slow arc.
“Very nice,” he murmured, wandering deeper into the living room to admire the plush shag carpet, the bamboo
wall units, the low end tables, and the sectional sofa. “Did you decorate it yourself?”
“Yes. I love doing that type of thing,” she offered softly, feeling strangely shy and on display with Sloane here at her own home. Yet she was proud of the decor—a palette of creams and cocoas spiced with splashes of color in artwork and accessories.
“These prints are fascinating.” He stood before a triptych on the far wall—three oversized oils, tall and narrow, which depicted a wilderness scene in the running, from the open freshness of a babbling stream to the more static expanse of a deer-dotted meadow to the dark of the forest. It was this last to which his eye strayed. “It's frightening. I wonder why?” he asked, his question honest and totally devoid of amusement or smugness.

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