“What else?” Despite her initial resistance, Justine now found great amusement in his chatter.
“Ah, let me see. His keenest sense is that of smell, and”—he feigned concentration—“the female fox is called his vixen.”
Vixen.Hadn’t Sloane himself called her that? Could it be that he was aware of the appellation which his thick, silver thatch inspired? Was he subtly mocking it—or her?
“Justine … Justine … are you still here?” John’s voice called her from her reverie.
“Y—yes. I was just … thinking about something else….” she fibbed, frowning, then forcing herself to brighten up once more. “Sorry, I just remembered a call I was supposed to make.”
This time John did take the hint, taking his leave of her with a salute. Alone once more she lapsed into deep thought on this most perplexing, most exhilarating topic. But her thoughts had nowhere else to go. If it was the nature of her relationship with Sloane Harper which puzzled her, only his return would straighten things out.
The fifteenth of May came and went with no sign of Sloane. It was four days after that, on Thursday morning, when she least expected it, that she finally saw him. Court had just adjourned for a lunch recess. Justine stood at the plaintiffs table, gathered her papers together, and deposited them in her briefcase, then lent a cursory glance toward her navy linen skirt and beige cotton blouse, both tailored to skim her slender lines and brought together as a set by the lightweight woven vest of blues, creams, and browns which swung freely to the top of her hips. She had chosen her outfit for the day with great care. This particular case, a custody hearing with the opposing attorney a distinctly macho man, called for a certain degree of femininity—enough to cleverly understate the force of the attorney-in-skirts, who might then be able to creep in even closer before lunging. Perhaps, she laughed to herself, there was a bit of the fox in everyone.
Turning, she made her way to the courtroom door then looked up and froze. Sloane stood there, tall and straight, striking in a dark gray suit and crisp white shirt, his silver hair falling gently across his forehead. His eyes sparkled, yet the lines around his mouth spoke of fatigue.
The last of the other people stepped past her and left the room before Justine could find the strength to speak. It had been a long three weeks of wild imaginings, all of which might very well be strewn to the winds of farce within the next few moments.
It was finally Sloane who moved, slowly approaching her as his eyes held hers with the command she remembered from that very first day. “Is there somewhere we can go for a minute?” he murmured softly, his expression held in taut and puzzling control.
Her heart hovered in her throat. “Uh, yes. A conference room. Down the hall.” Without further word she led him there, dying a bit with each footstep. The waiting had been frustrating but so lovely—thinking that the end would be pure rapture. Wasthiswhat it had come to? Strangers?
The room she led him to was small and drab, a far cry from the plush and spacious conference room at Ivy, Gates and Logan. Barred windows conspired to keep the beauty of springtime on the far outside. Even the spartan table and chairs held a somberness. As she turned to face him, Sloane closed the door. For a breath-stopping moment he studied her, searching her face for something known only to him. Then, he smiled in what she could only term sheer relief.
“Come over here.” He cocked his head jauntily and held out his arms. It was all the invitation she needed. Smooth steps brought her into the embrace which her own arms slid inside his jacket to complete. It was all here—the warmth and the caring she feared she might have imagined. Words were unnecessary. There was only the tightening of his arms as she was crushed fiercely against him, full witness to the thunderous beat of his heart.
She could have stood this way forever, had it not been for the flame of desire which would not stay banked for long. His hold of her slackened just enough to permit the upward tilt of her face. Then he kissed her. His lips closed hungrily over hers, satisfying that initial need before growing more measured. She welcomed his tongue with the seductive thrust of her own, abandoning herself to the spiraling rise of passion.
Totally breathless, she was finally released when Sloane held her back to bathe her features in the light of his gaze. “You look wonderful!” he exclaimed softly and with obvious bias.
A wavering line of worry broke beneath the copper curls on her forehead.“Youlook tired. Was it a bad trip?”
“It was much, much too long. Knowingyouwereherewas as much an agony as it was a solace!”
She dropped her head into the fitted crook beneath his jaw, inhaling deeply of the scent that was uniquely male—uniquely Sloane. “It’s been such a long time,” she whispered, closing her eyes and savoring the moment with every bit of appreciation that the wait had inspired. “I missed you.”
A low groan slipped from Sloane’s lips the instant before he tightened his arms about her, pressing her closely against his length. “There was a problem in Atlanta,” he explained with sucked-in breath, as though he had to force himself to talk of business or lose total control of his senses. “I was in Arizona for no more than two hours when I had to turn around and fly back. Then, when I finally managed to examine the Tucson project, there were unexpected problems. At some points, I wondered just when Iwouldbe able to get back.”
“I received the gifts, Sloane”—she looked up at him—“the candy, the wine, and the rose. Thank you. They helped me along the way there.”
“They were the least I could do. I didn’t dare call …”
The reasoning behind that last seemed totally irrelevant now. Justine could only revel in the delight of his return. “Are you back for a while?”
“I hope so.” He nodded emphatically, his dark eyes searing her intently.
“Hey, what—oh, excuse me, Ms. O’Neill!” The voice at the door brought both faces around in a flash. Justine instantly recognized the court officer, who had unwittingly walked into her own private and uncharacteristically intimate conference. Sloane let her go, stepping back with amusement at her struggle to regain her composure.
“That’s—ah—perfectly all right.” She blushed, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. “Was there some problem, Sergeant?”
“No, ma’am,” the short and stocky man replied with a wry smile. “Just wanted to find a free room for a meeting. I’ll keep looking—”
“Please, Sergeant,” Sloane spoke up deeply, “be our guest.” He gestured toward the table with his hand. “Ms. O’Neill and I have to be leaving.”
“Must you go?” she asked softly when they reached the hall. Sloane took her elbow and began to walk slowly.
“My plane landed just about an hour ago. I came straight from the airport. I still have to stop at the office—and face whatever goodies may have piled up there during my absence.” He paused, turning her toward him again. “Are you free for dinner?”
Justine grinned coyly. “I think I can manage to be.”
