He slowly leaned back, bringing their still-joined hands to her front. Her tight grip relaxed but she did not pull away.
He took a deep breath, inhaling that tangy citrus lotion or shampoo or whatever it was she wore. “I’m—sorry. That was not meant to happen.”
Her head jerked. Big eyes, as big as his, no doubt.
He released her hands with one last gentle squeeze. “I think I made my point,” he said, with little certainty. Then he nodded and walked out to his car.
Eve was a pacer. When alone and troubled, she would pace while conversing out loud, throwing her arms around to accentuate her points. But minutes after the sound of Conn’s car faded away, she stood exactly where he’d left her.
The initial clamoring of desire, from scalp to toes, was fading, too—into worry. She didn’t want to regret this kiss. Why should she regret something that warmed her through, reminded her of the joy of being a woman? She loved that stomach-plummeting feeling, like dreaming you’re falling off a cliff—scary but not fatal. Her blood was pumping and, yes, her juices flowed and it felt fantastic.
But this was a path already trodden. Eve did not trust lust. It had led directly to her marriage. In fact, if you wanted to think about it, her ex-husband’s lust—for other women—had led directly to her divorce.
Oh, no. She could not, she would not be drawn again into a relationship based on the physical.
“Don’t trust lust.” That would be her mantra. That night, she recited it until she fell asleep, and again when she woke up. Eve made a firm resolution to stay away from Conn Bannerman unless—unless her house was on fire.
Wouldn’t he just love that? she thought wryly.
The next day she received a small packet of newspaper clippings about Conn’s past from Lesley’s boyfriend. Not yet she thought, tossing it unopened in a kitchen drawer. Not with the taste of his kiss still fresh in her memory.
She spent the next few days following leads on Pete Scanlon. In a worrying turn of events she discovered that her ex-boss, Grant, was also thick with the mayoral candidate. She’d been fond of Grant. There was a kindliness in him unusual in the cutthroat world of TV ratings. She suspected sacking her had been difficult for him and he’d certainly copped a lot of public flak since her departure.
However, for Pete Scanlon to be friendly with two leading personnel of the national TV station put a sinister slant on Eve’s exit from that station.
A call from the mystery businessman gave her insight into a surprisingly clever money laundering and tax scam. Eve was surprised. The Pete Scanlon she knew was boorish and unrefined. Yet he had devised a simple but effective way to exploit the gray area between tax avoidance and tax evasion.
But then her contact moved onto the blackmail part of it, and that involved not only the businessmen he had already compromised but also government and police officials, politicians, media moguls. Private yacht trips, everything supplied—drugs, girls, gambling, whatever took their fancy. And, of course, the hidden camera.
“It’s not money that spins Pete’s wheels,” the man told her. “It’s power. Turn the screws and keep the favors coming. Forever.”
Oh, yes, this was so much more his style.
“Will you go on record?” Eve implored, without much hope. The stakes were far higher than she’d realized.
“Not on my own,” the man said. “If this all comes out, a couple of the players could get jail time. Others—and I’m in that category—will get massive fines and destroyed reputations.”
“He will win this election,” Eve fretted, her faith in the incumbent mayor dwindling. “Benson’s stale. The people want something new.”
“You have around three weeks to do something about it. Else there won’t be a clean cop or politician or newsman in this city.”
Eve was jarred by the sudden realization that Conn could be one of the business cartel involved in the money laundering. Or worse, what if the not-so-honorable mayoral candidate had something awful hanging over his head?
The packet of clippings had taunted her for two days. Her resolution to stay away from him was strong. But if her neighbor was implicated in Pete’s web of deceit, best she be prepared.
Her hand trembled as she slit open the plastic envelope. Conn’s past, all rubber-banded in chronological order, fell out.
The car’s tires crunched to a halt in her driveway. “Check one,” Eve muttered and stood up from the couch, smoothing her top.
A car door slammed. “Check two.” She picked up the full wineglass from the mantel where it had been warming.
Determined footfalls pulverized her shell footpath. “Check three,” she whispered, and her heartbeats thumped in tandem with her steps down the hall toward her door.
Bang! Bang! Bang! “Check four,” she said under her breath, and turned the lock.
The thunderous glower. Check five. She smiled serenely and offered him the glass.
Conn gaped. What started as a terrific frown slowly smoothed out into confusion. His eyes moved from her face to the glass and back.
“Come in. It’s cold.” Eve stepped closer, holding out the glass, and he had no option but to take it. She ushered him in and closed the door. “Come down to the lounge. The fire’s going.” She turned and walked down the hallway.
Doing her best to appear unperturbed, she poked the fire, then picked up her glass off the mantel and sipped the brackish red liquid. It was a full twenty, nail-biting seconds to the beat of an old Pink Floyd song, before Conn appeared. He stood, dwarfing the doorway, looking at her.
She took another big sip and let it rest in her mouth for a few moments while she submitted to the rake of his eyes. She had taken care dressing and was comfortable under his scrutiny, even if her pulse thumped in her ears.
After a long perusal, Conn raised his glass and sipped.
“Is the wine okay?”
He swallowed and inclined his head.
She carefully let her breath out and watched while he did a leisurely circle of the room. He reminded her of a wild animal, marking his territory. He paused often, studying every object: her four-foot wooden tiger, the burnished, naked art torso on the wall that seemed to move in the flickering firelight, a couple of family photos. Once his hand reached out to smooth over a section of wall that she had stripped and sanded for painting. He glanced at the candles on the coffee table and again at the line of tea lights on the mantel. He stared for quite a few moments at the platter of cheese and olives and dipping oils for the little chunks of crusty bread.
Eve inhaled. If he was going to lose it, it would be now.
Not once did he glance her way until he had come full circle. Then he stopped by the couch, brows raised sardonically in a pretence of asking her permission to sit.
Eve nodded.
When he was seated, he took another sip of wine, then leaned forward and placed the glass on the coffee table.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.” He pointed his chin at the glass. “Wine. Food. Candles.” He looked up at her standing in front of the fire. You. The unspoken word danced in his eyes as they flickered and glowed up and down her body like the reflected flames.
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