“So youdoknow something about me, then.” She could only imagine the eyebrow that arched suspiciously.
“Not really,” she countered quickly. “I simply assumed …”Very available,John had said, though that bit of knowledge and its source would remain her own secret. “I mean, no rings or anything …”
“Most men don’t wear rings, wedding or otherwise. I notice that you wear none yourself.” Moving too quickly for Justine to anticipate him, he took her left hand in his, caressing her slender fingers with a most subtle, nearly imperceptible motion.
Humor was, once more, her chosen out. “The last ring I wore”—she grinned sheepishly—“was a beautiful pearl one that had originally belonged to my grandmother. Unfortunately, a bee stung me on that knuckle. When the whole finger swelled, the ring cut off its circulation.”
“Why didn’t you take the ring off first?” Sloane frowned at the simplicity of the solution.
“Thatwas the operable question at the time. I … just … didn’t think of it. Until it was too late.”
“The finger—?” To her dismay, he held hers more tightly.
“Oh, the finger stayed, obviously.” She forced a chuckle. “It was the ring which had to go. Cut off. In a doctor’s office. By a very efficient little tool. No problem … but I haven’t worn a ring since.”
The smile she had expected from him never came. Rather, he grew more serious. “Youarethe master of disaster, aren’t you?” At Justine’s guilty shrug he continued pointedly. “But that’s avoiding the central issue. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
He paused for a moment, contemplating other possibilities. “Engaged?”
“No.”
His gaze narrowed. “Living with—”
“No!” Justine held her breath, a challenge in light of its sudden irregularity. She was cornered once more, helpless in a prison of Sloane’s supreme command. In the small car in the dim garage the same potent force reached out to her as had stunned her earlier that day. It was bizarre, yet vital; its identity was unknown. As it threatened to engulf her, she struggled to hold her own.
“I feel as though I’m on the witness stand,” she quipped weakly.
“Not the witness stand, Justine,” he spoke gently, melting the last of her resistance. “You’re in my car—my small car—and I simply want to know where I stand. I may appear to be without scruples when it comes to luring top personnel into my organization, but I’ve never stolen another man’s woman.”
An instant’s small spark of rebellion flared in her, charging her spontaneous reaction. “I’mnoman’s woman, Sloane. I never have been, and I never will be. I’m myownperson—it has to be that way.” Breathless, she stopped. Even in the dark, his faint smirk bemused her.
“Is that so?” he asked, seemingly delighted. But at what? Was it the gist of her vow that amused him—or the challenge it posed?
As Justine pondered the choice, she felt him lean closer, slowly, subtly. His face was inches above hers, his gaze searching hers in the dimness. For a moment of breathtaking anticipation she thought he would kiss her. And, in that same hypnotic moment, she knew she would not resist. Her pulse gathered speed in its race through her veins, preparing her for an experience that was not to be. For, to her odd disappointment, he straightened.
The soft clearing of his throat was the only hint of any possible emotion on his part. His voice was pure velvet. “The others will be waiting. We wouldn’t want them to be worried….”
Throwing a devilish wink her way, he started the car and they were off. It took Justine several long moments to compose herself. Fearful of the silence and, above all, her own burgeoning fantasies, she returned to the original source of her inquiry.
“Exactly whatisCORE International?”
Sloane smiled as he deftly negotiated the early evening traffic. “That’s right. I still haven’t enlightened you. CORE International is a think tank operation, much on the idea of the original Rand Corporation.”
“Really?” she interjected enthusiastically, pleased to find that she would not be sitting in on a potentially boring discussion of dull business procedures all evening.
“Uh-huh. Our business is research. Our clients extend into every major country, plus a number of smaller ones.”
“Your personnel—the ones you unscrupulously steal from other companies—” she began with a smirk, only to be softly but firmly interrupted.
“Appearto unscrupulously steal. Please. My reputation tends to get carried away with itself.”
The fox, Justine mused—sly and predatory. So that was the source of the appellation, contrary to John Doucette’s lewd implication. Now, she needed to know more.
