me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ah. Let me guess. You know a quaint little Italian place with small, round, candlelit tables and a cellarful of dusty wine bottles.”
She’d hit the nail on the head. The place was called Antonio’s. But because he’d just read her diary, Edison couldn’t help but say, “Actually, for you, Selena, I was thinking about something French. Passer la Nuit.”
“Given how diligently you were reading the employee manual, I figured you were the conscientious type,” she countered. “Doesn’t it bother you that we work together?”
He shrugged. “I’m only a temporary.”
She considered so long that he almost withdrew the offer, but then she simply said, “Okay.”
He tried to hide his surprise. “What about seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.”
“Seven-thirty,” she countered. “I’ll drive my own car and meet you at the restaurant.”
Given her fantasies, he could see why she’d want some control of the situation. No telling what might happen if she let herself go. Now that he’d read part of her diary, he was well aware that she was a lust machine, and yet she’d seemed so oddly vulnerable and straight-laced. Was she really inexperienced? Were these fantasies merely her way of trying on the role of seductress? “Seven-thirty,” he found himself murmuring. “At Passer la Nuit.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Lowering his head, he pretended to read. Did she have a lot of experience with men, or just an imagination as vivid as Technicolor? he wondered once more. And was she stealing from IBI? Was this diary actually in code?
Flipping through the pages, he bit back a soft groan as he read, “Every inch of him went taut. He was ready to explode, but he wanted to hold back—had to hold back. He was waiting for his soft, untutored butterfly, whose wings were about to unfold.”
If he didn’t stop reading, Selena Silverwood would be lucky to make it through an appetizer tonight—Italian, French or otherwise. But then, a job was a job. And because he was a patriot, he was duty-bound to continue mulling over every steamy word she’d written. For God and country, he thought dryly, bracing himself against the soft, feminine scent of her that drifted over the glass partition.
And then, lowering his head, he immersed himself in Night Pleasures.
2
“I’M GOING TO BE LATE,” Selena muttered, her belly fluttering in anticipation. No doubt Edison Lone was already waiting for her at a secluded, candlelit table at the restaurant.
“Passer la Nuit,” she huffed, shaking her head. Spend the Night. She should have known he’d suggest the most romantic, airy French restaurant in town, not to mention the most expensive. His reputation had preceded him. God only knew how many women he’d seduced over Passer la Nuit’s best Dijon filet and a few heady goblets of burgundy.
“You can’t say you weren’t warned,” she whispered. But she hated playing the role of ugly duckling. She simply couldn’t bring herself to continue doing so tonight. She’d hated the way he’d sized her up today, those liquid blue eyes softening in what she took to be sympathy, as if she were still fat, friendless and ugly, the daughter of overly educated, back-to-the-earth liberals who were determined to make a life where they didn’t belong, in the country. Not about to dwell on the devastation of her high school years, or how hard she’d worked to change herself, she sighed. Forget it. She’d long ago proved she could be every bit as dangerous as the kids who’d hurt her.
In the closet, her hand skated over the loose, ankle-length dresses she usually wore to IBI, then settled where it shouldn’t have—on a shimmering silver dress procured for her parents’ last wedding anniversary. It was right out of her fantasies. Sumptuous, barely-there crepe was sexily torn in tatters around the shoulders and draped into a sheath with a jagged hem. The matching three-inch heels would bring her eye level with Edison.
“And you’ll need every extra inch of leverage,” she told herself, imagining his tall, lanky body and the thick, touchable, raven hair that brushed his shoulders. Slipping the dress from its black velvet hanger, she sighed as the fabric teased her fingertips.
“If I wear this,” she murmured, “it’ll be proof I’ve lost my mind.” She couldn’t afford to attract a man at the moment, least of all Edison Lone. Besides, the best men were those she conjured in her imagination. Real men meant trouble.
“Why didn’t I just say no to dinner?” she admonished herself in a rush of panic. Should she back out? Stand him up? But how could she, when she had to find out what he was doing working in Sensitive Data Entry?
Shimmying, she let the towel wrapped around her naked body drop to the floor. Soft scents left by perfumed bathwater rose from her skin. She wondered if Edison would notice the sweet fragrance.
Heat seeped into her cheeks. She was being a fool. Reflected in a full-length mirror on the closet door, she took in the beige carpet behind her, the muted earth-tone bedspread and bare white walls. The apartment had all the charm of a low-budget motel. The black-framed glasses on the nightstand had plastic, nonprescription lenses. Most of the clothes in the closet weren’t to her taste. Only the open diary on the desk hinted at her real personality. Ever since an editor had contacted her about publishing the fantasies, the diary had become a good luck charm. It was her ticket out of Washington. One more way to generate the money she needed to escape…
Otherwise, the room looked exactly like what it was: a place she didn’t intend to live in long. Within weeks, she’d be gone, she figured. And there’d be no trace of Selena Silverwood.
Silverwood wasn’t her real name, anyway.
“So don’t get confused about what you’re doing at IBI,” she lectured herself softly. “Or with Edison Lone.” He might be the most appealing man she’d ever laid eyes on, but this was a job, and she needed to know why he’d suddenly shown up, seated at a desk across from her.
“A floating temp,” she muttered, shaking her head. Even if she hadn’t read his dossier, she’d know better. Not that his name, rank and serial number had prepared her for the reality. When he’d stood next to her, his shoulders had seemed broader than she’d anticipated, the scent and warmth coming from his body infinitely more bothersome. She’d expected something else from the orphan who’d made good. A cold, calloused man, she supposed. With a chip on his shoulder. Instead, despite his self-contained watchfulness, he looked like he had a heart. Not to mention royal-blue eyes so searching that gazing into them had aroused guilt feelings she hadn’t guessed she had.
Had he been sent to spy on her? Was she about to get caught? Or had he come to Sensitive Data Entry for reasons having nothing to do with her? She thought of how the flourescent lights had made his jet hair shine where it curled around his ears, and about how those shocking blue eyes glowed like lasers in a face tanned the color of toasted nuts. And then her eyes settled once more on her diary. If the Marquis de Lancroix could leap from the pages, he’d look more or less like Edison.
Slowly, she unzipped and stepped into the silver dress, trying not to imagine the look on Edison’s face when she’d glide into Passer la Nuit, trailing perfume. Instead of truffles and tortes for dessert, she hoped he’d be eating out of the palm of her hand.
After that, who knew? The truth was, she’d run from men all her life—with just cause. She always tried to tell herself she didn’t care, that sex was overrated and that, when it came to excitement, no man could compete with her work.
But she was thirty now, and defenses she’d erected against love were crumbling. Once red and raw, past scars were losing themselves to memory, their traces barely visible anymore, not to herself or others. She’d worked damn hard at making those old wounds heal, and exploring her innermost dreams of sensual pleasure had been a big part of that. But was she ready to make fantasies a reality?