The decision made itself, sudden and irrevocable. "OK," she said.
He turned his head, his eyes wary. "OK, what?"
"OK, you can do your thing. If you're serious about trying not to ruin my life, that is. And, urn… thank you for caring."
He stared at her for a moment. "You're welcome."
His eyes flicked down over her body. Heat bloomed between her legs again, and she squeezed her thighs together and tried to smooth her hair back. Her blouse was disheveled. He watched her straighten and button and tuck with intense fascination. The longer the silence stretched, the more fraught with meaning it became.
"So?" She shot for a cheerful, let's-move-on sort of smile, but had no idea if she hit anywhere close to the mark. "Now what?"
He glanced down at his watch. "You hungry?"
She had been too worked up to think food, but all she'd eaten all day was a pecan sticky bun. "I could eat something," she admitted.
"Let's go to the restaurant downstairs. It's got excellent seafood."
"OK. I'll, urn, just pop into the bathroom and freshen up."
She was too flustered to pick out what she needed while he watched. She just grabbed the whole suitcase and lugged it into the bathroom. She closed the lid on the toilet, sat down and doubled over, shaking with a silent combination of laughter and tears.
It was impossible, planning a seduction under these conditions.
Chapter Seven
Connor dropped his face into his hands and listened to the water rushing in the sink. He was in deep trouble. Everything about her challenged and aroused him. He wanted to make that practical facade of hers dissolve into molten heat, to hear that cool, sensible voice sobbing with pleasure. Begging for more.
The bathroom door opened and Erin stepped out. She'd changed into a simple white blouse and a denim skirt that hit her just above her cute, dimpled knees. She laid her suit out on the bed. "This needs to be ironed," she murmured. "I'll, ah, steam it later."
Her face was flushed and dewy. She'd woven her hair into a loose, swinging braid that reached the small of her back, and she'd reapplied some lip gloss that highlighted the shape of her full, sensual lips.
Lip gloss was diabolical stuff, calculated to make a guy think about sex. Moist, lush lips, ready for kissing, for licking, for—
Whoa. Down, boy. He looked away quickly, rubbed his face.
"Are you all right?" she asked. "You look a bit strange."
He transformed a harsh laugh into a cough. "Headache," he lied.
"Would you like a painkiller? I've got Excedrin, Advil, and Tylenol."
"I just need some dinner, that's all."
"You're sure?" She looked disappointed, that she couldn't solve his problem with one of her pills. How innocent. Solving his problem would be a much bigger job than that. It would involve a long, sweaty night in the saddle, taking him from above, from below, from the back. Deep and hard and prolonged.
Come to think of it, it would probably take more than one night.
"Well, then. Let's go get you something to eat," she said briskly. "You probably just have low blood sugar."
"Yeah, that must be it." He stuck his hand in the pocket of his chinos and tented it out to give his boner some privacy as he disabled the squealer. He played it very cool in the elevator, keeping his dick jammed against his thigh. Once they were seated, had checked out the menu and discussed the relative merits of stuffed or deep-fried prawns, and pan-fried oysters versus au gratin, the conversation lagged.
Erin finally took matters into her own hands. "Connor, if I ask you a question, do you promise not to get mad?"
"Nope," he told her. "I can't promise anything of the kind, if I don't know what you're asking."
Her lips tightened. She ripped open a bag of oyster crackers and nibbled on them.
He couldn't stand it any more. "OK, fine. Now I'm curious," he said. "You have to tell me now, whether I get mad or not. Out with it."
"I just wanted to know about Claude Mueller." Her gaze flicked up, delicately cautious. "Did you, um… do a background check?"
"My brother Davy ran a check, yeah," he admitted. He braced himself for the lecture.
She just waited, expectant. "And?"
"And what?"
"Tell me what he found. I don't know much about Mueller, either."
"There's not a lot to tell," he said. "He looks fine on paper. He's got a sickening amount of money. He donates to the arts. He doesn't get out much. He buys lots of museum quality antiquities."
She looked puzzled. "So even though he checks out, you still—"
"On paper is not good enough! You've never seen this guy, Erin!"
"Keep your voice down, please." She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand with her fingertip, light and soothing. Like a kiss. "I was just curious. Please don't get all wound up again."
"I am not all wound up," he snarled.
At that fortuitous moment, his steak and prawns and Erin's pan-fried oysters arrived. He was fascinated with her perfect table manners: dabbity-dab with the napkin after every tidy bite. The quintessential good girl. Out of nowhere, he pictured himself crawling under the table. Spreading her legs wide, and pushing aside the gusset of her white cotton panties. Burying his face between her thighs, his tongue licking, lashing, probing, all while she tried to keep her cool and eat her dinner like nothing was out of the ordinary. Oh, yeah. What a perverse, sicko fantasy. It made his mouth water and his cock throb.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Don't you like your meal?"
Nah, just want to dip you in drawn butter like a juicy prawn and then lick you all over. "I'm fine," he muttered. "Food's great."
She eyed him as she chewed another careful bite. "So, your brother Davy. Is he in law enforcement as well?"
He sliced off a chunk of steak. "Private investigator," he corrected.
"Older or younger?"
"Two years older."
"Do you have any other brothers or sisters?"
"Another brother, four years younger. Sean is his name."
"And where is your family from?" she inquired politely.
He hesitated, a fried prawn halfway to his mouth. "How much do you know about my family?" he asked. "Did Ed ever talk about me?"
Her eyes slid away from his, and her color deepened. "Sometimes," she said. "He had theories about all of his colleagues, and he talked about them with Mom. But he never talked about them with me. I just overheard. Or eavesdropped, I suppose I should say."
"So what was his theory about me?"
She looked trapped. "Um… once I heard him say that the reason you were so good undercover was because you'd been undercover all your life. But I never knew what he meant by that. And when I asked him, he told me it was none of my damn business."
He started to grin. "You asked him about me?"
Her eyelashes swept down. She cut an oyster into perfect quarters and daintily ate one. "I was curious. What did he mean, anyway?"
He stared down at his steak. "Well, uh, it's a long story."
She popped another oyster quarter into her lush, sexy mouth and gave him an encouraging smile.
He took a swig of beer and groped around for a logical beginning place. "Well… my mom died when I was eight, and Davy was ten—"
Her fork clattered onto her plate. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry," she said. "How awful for you."
"Yeah, it was bad," he admitted. "The twins were only four—"
"Twins?" Her eyes widened. "You didn't mention twins."
"I used to have three brothers," he explained. "Sean had a twin. His name was Kevin. He died ten years ago. Ran his truck off a cliff."
Her eyes widened in horrified dismay. She lifted her napkin to her mouth. "God, Connor. I didn't mean to bring back painful memories."
"And I didn't mean to freak you out with a Shakespearean tragedy, either," he said grimly. "I started out wrong. Sorry. Rewind. Let me try this again. So Dad and the four of us lived way out in the hills behind Endicott Falls. Don't know if you're familiar with the area."