“I’m not here to be compared to my father, Miss Menlow. In or out of bed.”
“Bed?” Confused, she frowned. The sledgehammers in her head had scrambled her brain more than she’d thought. “You think Chris and I were lovers?”
“Weren’t you?”
“This is my hard-earned tax dollars at work?” Annoyed, she brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Your father collected books. First editions. I sold books. First editions. It’s really quite simple. Even for a government man like yourself.”
“My father told you quite a lot, it seems.” His tone was flat with disbelief. “What was in the book?”
“Book?” She froze, remembering. “Your father’s journal. Do you have it?”
“No,” Jordan replied. “The guy who attacked you left with it. I wasn’t able to follow him.”
“He grabbed me from behind and shoved a gun at my head.” She rubbed her right temple, remembering. “I don’t know how he broke in. I had already closed up. Maybe a window in my loft. Although I usually keep both locked.”
“If he was a professional, a locked window wouldn’t have stopped him.”
“He demanded the journal and I told him where to find it. He must have hit me with the pistol right after because I don’t remember anything until I came to in the office. I saw the fire and managed to roll under the desk.” Automatically her fingers went to her head and she winced when she found the top of her skull tender. “I honestly didn’t expect to survive. Thank you.”
“Just your tax dollars at work,” he commented wryly.
Her head jerked up, her mouth tilted in self-deprecation. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. I guess my only excuse is that I’m not at my best right now.”
The apology caught Jordan off guard. She had surprised him for the third time in less than three hours. The fact that she crawled under the desk, then knew he worked for the government and now the apology.
His gaze skimmed over the dark chestnut hair, liking the way the thick waves drifted over the graceful line of her neck, drawing his eye to the delicate spot just above her shoulder.
But it was her eyes—big, somber, moss-green. Pools of liquid that swallowed a man whole.
“I cleaned the wound. The bruise is minor.” He sat on the side of the bed. When she continued to probe the cut, he pulled her hand away. “Stop playing with it or you’ll make it bleed again.”
“I’m sorry.” Her fingers fluttered beneath his, just for a moment before she tugged them away.
Nerves?
“What did your intruder look like, Miss Menlow?”
“Regina,” she corrected him automatically. Slowly, she sat up and drew her knees to her chest.
The woman intrigued him. She was soft, feminine, intelligent. She stirred something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Desire. Interest.
Another surprise.
“He was football-player big. Linebacker size. Cool, mercenary type. Six-two. Dark brown hair. Crew cut. Dark brown eyes. His features were flat. Almost like his face had been pressed by glass.”
“Identifying marks?”
“No tattoos that I saw, but he wore a black corduroy coat. So if he had any on his arms, they were covered. He had a scar, though. A crescent one. Right here.” She stroked the side of her left cheek. “But he didn’t escape with anything important.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he doesn’t have the journal. I made a fake after I read the original. I gave the fake to him.”
“Where is the original?”
“In my loft. Under the sink in my bathroom.” She wrapped her arms around her knees, bracing herself. “How bad was the fire?”
“The bathroom, along with the rest of your loft crashed into the store just after we escaped.”
Her forehead dropped to her knees. Everything gone. Not that she owned much. But there were photographs, small treasures her parents had left for her. The letter Chris had given her.
The pain wasn’t sharp, but a dull throb just under her heart. Or maybe she’d just gotten used to it over the years and didn’t notice the sharp edges anymore.
“Did you read my father’s journal?”
“Yes.” Actually, she’d read it front to back, twice, before she’d been satisfied she’d committed it to memory. “Chris sent it with a letter. He told me to read it then wait for you to contact me. He said you’d know what to do.”
“His message told me to find you. To protect you until I could decipher the information he’d given you. I had no idea the information was a book until tonight.” He walked over to the window, split the curtain apart barely an inch and peered out. “When I saw Scarface walk out of the store with it. I just knew.”
“You watched him?” Regina asked. “How long were you outside the store?”
The curtain dropped back into place as he turned back to her. “Not long. I decided to wait for you to lock up. I didn’t want any interruptions.”
“So you preferred to wait in a snowstorm rather than a warm office while I dealt with my customers? Which I didn’t have,” she rationalized, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense. Now if you were to tell me I was under surveillance, that you wanted to make sure I was legitimate before you approached me…”
He ignored her comment, simply because it hit too close to the truth. “The only lead we have now is the guy who left you for dead.”
“Not necessarily.” She shook her head, only to stop mid-motion, dizzy. “How well did you know your father, Jordan?”
“Bloody well,” Jordan responded, smoothly. “The question is, how well did you know him, Miss Menlow?”
“Bloody well,” she quipped in a perfect British accent, mimicking him. “Or at least I thought I did.”
“Well enough to sleep with?”
With his temper, came hers. “Do I look like the mistress type?” She snapped the question back, expecting the epiphany to dawn on him any moment.
His eyes raked over her, and Regina’s cheek’s flushed when the blue eyes lingered over her breasts, then her face.
“Yes,” Jordan drawled; the deep timbre of his voice set her trembling, but not from temper or fear, she realized. “You do.”
“Well, I’m not.” The fact that she managed to look down her nose at him surprised them both. “I was his friend.” She scooted to the edge of the bed. Her muscles protested with some aches and stiffness, forcing her to move slower than her anger demanded. But once her feet touched the floor, knowing she could run if needed gave her a sense of bravado.
“You’re lying,” Jordan bit out the words. “And you’re not very good at it.”
“I’m not lying. Because you’re right, I’m not good at it.” She turned away, not wanting to deal with the contempt that flashed in his eyes. Instead, she studied her surroundings, cringing.
Roses spattered on the wallpaper all four sides of the room—their image faded until the flowers were no more than red splotches on the walls. The only thing that broke the dizzying monotony was the black lacquered bed and matching nightstand, both scuffed and cigarette scarred.
“Where are we, anyway?” A shag carpet—crimson and orange-speckled—covered the floor, its traffic pattern worn bald from the door, to the bathroom,