When the group stood to leave, she presumed she’d find a cab outside to return her to her apartment. When Sloane took her hand and tucked it smoothly in the crook of his elbow, she looked up questioningly.
“I can drop Justine off at her place,” he announced to the group as a whole, though his downward gaze singled her out.
A warning bell jangled in her brain. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I can very easily take a cab.” The eyes of the others were on her; her eyes held Sloane’s.
His smiled softly. “It’s no problem. After all, your briefcase is still in my car.”
The rose flush which lit her cheeks betrayed the fact of her forgetfulness. Her notebook … now the briefcase. Would he suspect that she had done it on purpose? Had she … subconsciously, of course? She was given no time to consider the possibility, for with leave-taking underway Sloane led her outside, retaining her hand until she was safely stowed in his car once more. Only then did the thudding of her heart pose second thoughts as to the wisdom of this vehicular convenience. But the car moved out into the traffic and she had no out. Softly, she gave her address to the handsome driver, and they were on their way.
Chapter 3
Whereas the drivetothe restaurant had been filled with talk, the return trip was noticeably devoid of it. A watchful silence filled the air, charging the confines of the small car with a growing anticipation. Justine’s senses were alive, aware of every vital aspect of the outwardly relaxed man beside her. Only the pulse of a nerve at his temple told of an inner working that decried total calm.
In profile he was striking. The fullness of that silver-sheened hair fell in casual disregard across the lightly furrowed plane of his brow, leading her very appreciative eye down a straight and character-revealing nose to his mouth, that mouth whose lips could be gentle in smile or staunch in control—as they had been earlier that evening under Richard Logan’s pointed questioning.
Justine shifted in her seat, cornering herself against the door to better see him with assumed nonchalance. Her surreptitious glances had become less surreptitious with repetition. Sloane’s knowing expression as they sat stopped at a traffic light alerted her to that fact. Self-consciously she combed her fingers through the amber-hued waves at her neck, then ventured to break the silence.
“Now that your headquarters are in New York, are you living here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’ve settled in?”
“Just about.”
She gave him time to elaborate; when he forfeited, she tried again.
“Do you enjoy it … living here, I mean?”
The smile on his face was melancholy in the night light. “I spend so much time traveling that I haven’t really come to know New York as home yet.”
In the ensuing silence, an ambulance rushed by in vociferous haste. “Hmmm,” she murmured, half to herself, “must besomeemergency.”
“I suppose so.”
It puzzled her that the conversation had grown so stilted. They had talked easily enough before—but that had been principally in the business realm. Was Sloane adverse to revealing the personal about himself? The matter of sleeptalking belied that bent. Then, as she pondered it, the overall situation grew suddenly clearer. Regardless of the motive on the part of Dan Logan for her presence at dinner, she was, indirectly or not, part of Sloane’s business world. Seemingly, he had tired of business obligations for the evening. This last—the driving home of his attorney-once-removed—was a simple courtesy. Beyond that she should expect nothing.
Yet the sense of expectancy that filled the car was not solely in her imagination. Struggling to quell it, she turned to gaze out the side window, in an act of perfect timing. “Oh, we’re almost here!” she exclaimed softly. “It’s that one over there … that’s right.” Her pointing finger guided Sloane in bringing the car to a halt before the gray stone building, a high-rise apartment house on whose tenth floor she lived.
Determined to avoid further embarrassment, she took a fast inventory of her belongings, clutching the purse and her briefcase as she turned to Sloane. He, however, was already on his way around the car to help her out.
“You don’t really need to walk me in. There is a doorman on duty—”
But he took her arm firmly. “Come on. I don’t want you going up alone.” His smooth intensity startled her, adding to her confusion. Was it business or pleasure? Protectiveness or resentment? She had no way of knowing.
If the car ride had been filled with a strange sense of foreboding, the ride in the elevator was electric. With each passing floor anticipation mounted, weakening Justine’s limbs, sending currents of excitement through her. He stood so very masculine beside her—then looked down and caught the emerald sparkle of her gaze and held it for an instant, before allowing her to lower her eyes in search of her keys.
The moment had arrived. The door of her apartment, stark and white, stood before them.
“Sloane, thank you …” she began politely, turning toward him with as much courage as she could muster. The last thing she wanted was to say good-bye.
A low oath filtered through Sloane’s slitted lips as he took her purse and briefcase and propped them on the carpet against the wall. His straightening motion brought her eyes up with it. “I haven’t waited since this afternoon for a simple thank you, Justine.”
His eyes were dark and glittering, his hair set to sparkling by the light high above. Then, all light faded as his head lowered, as his lips sought and unerringly found hers. Their touch was warm and light, firm yet gentle. Justine was startled into immobility by the understated power of it all, unable to grasp the extent of her susceptibility, struggling to reconcile her vow of freedom with the sumptuous invitation to submission before her. It seemed a futile battle, with the odds stacked against her.
He lifted his head for an instant to study her features, then raised his hands to gently cup her face, pushing back the curls at her cheeks as he did so. “Justine …” he murmured in warning—and she understood him perfectly. Having read her eyes and her thoughts, Sloane knew her outward passivity to be a denial of the deeper emotion stirring within her.
Her lips parted softly beneath his gaze, their silent invitation met with a smile. “That’s better,” he crooned against their gentle curves. And he kissed her again. This time, she yielded to him, loosing the emotion as it surged through her. It was desire, in its most basic form.
