Her arms crept up the front of his jacket to his neck, then coiled around its strong column to draw her whole body closer to his. She warmed, then quivered as his hands covered her back, caressing gently then lifting, lifting her more firmly against him. Passion ignited beneath the persuasion of his lips, which tasted and explored, then consumed in turn. All reserve was abandoned to his kiss, as Justine reeled amid the headiness of the sensual awakening he caused. When he finally pulled back, she felt the loss.
“That’s what I’ve been waiting for,” he whispered, his breath warm against the hair at her temple. “It was worth it.”
Any word she might have offered caught in her throat, as the real world rolled in like fog off the sea. Confusion reigned in her sensual mist, a sense of fear in her subconscious. The pale hands at his lapels exerted a slow pressure, as she levered herself away from him. “Sloane, I … I …”
Mercifully, a strong finger at her lips stilled her stammer. What would she have said? She had no idea!
“Shhh. It was nice, Justine. Let’s leave it there.” With a low sigh, he stepped back himself. “Have you got your key?”
Regaining a semblance of composure, she dropped it in his upturned palm, then watched him open the door. “Thanks,” she murmured, as he returned the key and stood aside to let her pass through.
“Ah … Justine…?” His tone was suddenly lighter.
From across the threshold she turned. “Y—yes?”
“Your things…?”
Before her, he held her briefcase and purse. With a sheepish smirk she took them. “I think I’m hopeless,” she laughed softly at herself, shaking her light copper curls in despair.
Sloane’s hands sought refuge in the depth of his pants’ pockets. “Not entirely.” The crinkles at his eyes suggested inner laughter. “You’re reputed to be a great lawyer, and”—his voice lowered—“you do kiss beautifully.” With the warm pop of one thumb against the button of her nose, he strode back down the hall toward the elevator, sparing her the indignity of her rampant blush.
Once safely locked within her apartment, she stood in stunned silence, leaning back against the door, her arms hanging limply by her sides. The racing of her pulse gradually slowed as the tingle of desire subsided.Desire.It was an awesome force, she realized, suddenly understanding the fear that lurked in the recesses of her mind. For the first time in her twenty-nine years, desire had overpowered her. What else could have explained the abandon with which she had returned Sloane’s kiss? But the far reaches of desire were a mystery still. Where would it take her if she gave it free rein?
Where indeed,she scoffed. Desire would lead to physical involvement and in turn to an emotional quagmire from which she might be unable to free herself. That was what she’d avoided all these years. She wouldn’t let history repeat itself. Certainly the forfeit of sensual gratification was well worth her peace of mind.
Pushing away from the door and walking to the sofa to deposit her bags, she turned out of habit to the telephone pad by the refrigerator.
“Everything quiet here, Justine. Am off to work. See you in the morning. Susan.”
The notes rarely said more, yet they were always appreciated, as was Susan herself. A nurse, she worked the night shift. It was a perfect setup for them both—sharing the apartment in passing, so to speak. They got along famously, though the time they spent together was limited. At times Justine wished it was greater; now, however, she was glad to be alone.
Changing into a long, white terry robe, she helped herself to a tall glass of iced water, then sank into the sofa. Through it all her thoughts were of Sloane. He had taken her by storm, to say the least. Her defenses had never been crushed as decisively as they had been on this one eventful day.Day.She stopped herself in amazement, then corrected herself.Less than half a day!And in that less than half a day she’d been shaken to the core by a depth of desire she hadn’t known she possessed.
Would she see Sloane again? The chances were good that their paths would cross at the firm. But after hours—would he seek her out? Would there be a repeat of that soul-reaching kiss? A tremor of excitement coursed through her at the memory of it. His hands had cupped her shoulders and drawn her closer—was this the fox pinioning his victim? If so, she was an easy mark, willing prey for the marauder.
A shiver passed through her in reaction to the image. Thank goodness Susan wasnothere, she mused. The utterly vulnerable Justine O’Neill who sat now on the oat-meal-hued upholstery, flushed and warm in the aftermath of passion, was a far cry from that other Justine who so capably and with such dignity could conduct her legal affairs day after day. Oh, Susan Bovary had seen her in a bad time or two, but nothing, she smirked ruefully, could rival her present state of light-headed agitation!
“Did you know that the fox does most of his hunting between dusk and dawn?”
“No, John, I didn’t. Any other gems you would like to pass on?”
“That’s it for now, babe,” he said over the interoffice line. “Just thought I’d give you something to think about.”
Picturing his smug smile, Justine was grateful that he could not see her expression. It had been a bad morning, and with a minimum of sleep the night before she was not quite up to par in the good-humor department.
“You can’t believe how much I appreciate that,” she murmured facetiously.
“Ah, ah, sarcasm will get you nowhere. Tough morning, Justine? You sound tired.”
“Very perceptive.” She pushed aside a scramble of curls to rub her forehead, where the dull pain of a headache had begun to throb. “It’s been one of those days I’d like to forget. Court appearances put in last-minute conflict by delays, uncooperative and impatient witnesses, crotchety judges—the list goes on and on. I have every intention”—she smiled at the prospect—“of going home and submerging these weary bones in a very warm and bubbly bath—and staying there until the water turns cold.”
John spoke up in a mockery of astonishment. “Justine—I never took you for the bubble bath type. A quick and efficient shower seems more your style. You surprise me!”
In truth she surprised herself. John’s surmise was apt; shehadalways preferred the shower. Tonight, however, would be different. She wanted to feel warm, relaxed, and pampered. She wanted to feel soft and scented. She wanted, she realized with a jolt, to feel feminine.
“It’s part of the mystique, my friend. And,” she retorted smoothly, “the sooner I get done with this work, the sooner I can get out of here and indulge.Capiche?”
“I got ya! Go to it!”
