Playing With Fire. Carrie Alexander

“I think I’m forced to kiss you.”

      Her eyes widened, but in the next instant she was in his embrace and his lips were on hers, kissing the pucker right out of them. It happened too fast for her to react. No time to savor the flavor of his warm mouth. No time to absorb the woodsy, masculine scent of him. No time to appreciate the sensation of being pressed against his wide, hard chest.

      He kissed her quickly but fully, and then he was drawing her inside the close, dim entry of the brick row house and she was looking around, gaze darting like a chickadee, landing everywhere but on his face. The dark woodwork needed refinishing. A jagged crack ran though the only window—a small, square, stained-glass panel near the door. The limited space was crammed with mailboxes, crumpled takeout flyers, inline skates, hats, jackets and a bike frame that had been stripped of its wheels.

      “You live here?” she said, incredulous, his kiss burning on her lips.

      “A humble abode, but mine own.” To one side was a long narrow staircase that turned back on itself when it reached the second floor. On the right a door opened off the foyer, emanating light and warmth and cooking smells. Daniel shut the front door and herded her toward the open one. “Let’s take our kisses privately for a change, shall we?”

      She arched her brows. “I’m making no promises.” But her body said otherwise. It had reacted instinctively to his.

      He put his hand on her shoulder, pausing her at the threshold. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

      That’s just it, she thought. I want to do it. I want to do…

      She looked into Daniel’s molten eyes. Everything.

      “Then no dishes for me,” she joshed, her throat too dry to laugh.

      His hand skimmed to her waist. “I never make my guests do dishes.”

      “Even if they stay all night?”

      “Hmm…” He smiled slightly. “If you’re planning to stay all night, then I guess you can help me.” His mouth lowered to her ear and with a flick of his tongue against her lobe he set her teardrop earrings swinging. “To make the bed.”

      She shivered, sliding him a provocative glance beneath lowered lids. “If that’s to be the case, Daniel, I’d much rather help you unmake it.”

      4

      LARA’S CAPTOR SLIPPED a blindfold over her eyes, instantly turning her titillation to raw vulnerability.

      She shifted toward the warmth of the fire, curling tighter, her arms twined over her naked breasts. The sensory deprivation was startling—electrifying. Her pulse drummed in a frantic rhythm. She mustn’t allow this. The man was a stranger. All she knew was his name, and the ease with which he’d seduced her with a long look, a single, coaxing caress.

      But she didn’t know if she could trust him.

      Was that why she was so excited?

      “LARA?” Daniel said, not for the first time. “Your drink?”

      She looked at him quickly, dragging her unfocused gaze away from the tame flickering of flames in the gas fireplace. “Yes, thanks,” she said, taking the glass of sherry. His eyes lingered on her face—curious, contemplative, but knowing.

      Then he was way ahead of her. She truly had no idea what to expect next. I don’t know him, she thought, finding the lack of familiarity deeply intriguing. He could be anyone. He could do anything.

      Exactly.

      She smiled to herself as she turned away to survey the modest apartment. It was small, made even smaller by the bookshelves that lined opposite walls of the…library? Living room? She wasn’t sure. There was no window or sofa, only two big, deep armchairs, upholstered in an amber leather so old it was finely crackled and worn at the seams. A pair of starkly modern copper floor lamps, tilted at cranelike angles, were positioned beside the chairs. A nubby rug and a low round table of dark mahogany filmed with dust and stacked with multiple editions of the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and Garden Design completed the seating arrangement.

      She did a double take. Garden Design? Other than a potted orchid constructed with a bamboo trellis and a crinkled tie of raffia, there were no plants in sight. But there was a lot of stuff—running shoes, balled-up socks, an open briefcase, a small terra-cotta urn filled with rocks, a spilled pile of spare change. Camera lenses were scattered over the bookshelves like objets d’art.

      Daniel saw her looking. “Maid’s day off,” he said, plucking a pair of fingerless gloves and a roll of masking tape off one of the chairs. “Make yourself at home. Hope you don’t mind clutter.”

      She’d pegged him as a neat freak. Wrong again. “Unless you go for minimalist design, it’s hard to keep a small place uncluttered. I know—I lived in a Chelsea broom closet for nearly two years.”

      “A broom closet?”

      “Seemed like.” The chair creaked beneath her. “How much space do you have?”

      Daniel cocked his head to indicate a closed door behind them. “There’s the bedroom and connecting bath. Heading toward the back, we have the dining room slash foyer and kitchen. None of them larger than twelve by fourteen.”

      “Then you’re not claustrophobic….”

      “One day I might knock down a few walls and convert the building to a single-family living space, but for now I rent out the two upper-floor apartments. I’m a bachelor with modest needs. This suits.”

      “You own the building?” And you foresee yourself with a family? she silently added, sipping the smooth sherry to distract herself from a distinct sinking feeling. If Daniel was looking for Miss Right, he’d soon find out she was only Miss Right Now. “Yes.”

      Her gaze caught on his hands. She imagined them on her body, on her thighs, opening her with a sure touch. Miss Take Me Right Now.

      “I have a country house,” she said. Awkwardly.

      “I know.”

      “How…”

      “Did I track you down?” He leaned back in the chair, his legs, clad in black trousers, outstretched and crossed at the ankles. He looked completely relaxed yet ready to spring into action at her slightest movement.