Naughty By Nature

She thought of how brazenly her tongue had swirled over every inch of him. “You’ve got a point there,” she admitted shakily. She’d certainly never shared her body with somebody who didn’t even like her. “I definitely should have gotten to know you better before—before…” She couldn’t force herself to say the words before we made love. “Before, well, you know.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve made this mistake, is it?”

She felt a sledgehammer knock the wind from her. “What?”

“A little truth bothers you?” His gaze was tracing her lips, the expression in his eyes a little lost, as if he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her again. “At least you’ve got a conscience.”

“Just because I slept with you,” she said, color flooding her cheeks, “and just because it was good doesn’t mean I do it all the time.” Before Hans Breakman, she’d only had one other lover, a boy she’d met in high school. “You say that as if I’ve slept with every Tom, Dick and—”

“Ivan Petrovitch.” Morgan cut in. “What about him?”

Had Morgan Fine stooped to believing what he read in the tabloids? Before she could ask, he added, “And let’s not forget Kenneth Hopper.”

Apparently Kenneth Hopper had told his Secret Service buddies about the most humiliating incident of her life. For a second, the present fell away, and with it a piece of her heart. Vanessa was reliving the months following her mother’s death. Slowly, she was watching her father withdraw to hide in his work. Since he kept forcing her to attend school, she’d kept flunking out so she could come home and take care of him. With her mother gone, she’d had no shoulder to cry on except Lucy’s—and Hans’s. Mrs. Giangarfalo had left for Arizona. Vanessa had been so sure Hans loved her that, even now, the betrayal made her voice falter. “What did Kenneth say?” How could the agent who’d been kind enough to bring her home lie to his coworkers?

Morgan’s eyes turned cold. “Not much. He’s never worked in this country again.”

“Kenneth wanted to work overseas.” She defended herself. “And I don’t know what you heard, but I was…was in love with Hans.”

Morgan shrugged. “He was the gardener, right?”

She was starting to think better of making herself vulnerable to Morgan, but after last night, she still felt compelled to try. “You’re the one coming onto me as if I’m a snob. What’s his job got to do with anything?” Before he could answer, she plunged on. “Is that what’s bothering you this morning? That you’re working for my father?”

“I work for the Secret Service.”

And he thought she was a flighty woman looking for flings—with men who worked here. Well, so be it. She had more pride than to let him know how he’d gotten to her last night.

At least until he said, “What about your lover?”

Once more, his words took the wind out of her sails. “My…what?”

“Lover.” Seemingly impulsively, Morgan lifted the hand from her arm and glided a finger down her cheek, the touch leaving a furrow filled with longing for him. “‘Oh, Vanessa,”’ he murmured, the sexy words coming from his lips affecting her more than they should have as he quoted one of the letters, “‘I’m hungry to taste every tall, lanky, elegant inch of you….”’

No matter what happened, Morgan Fine could never discover who wrote those letters. Not after last night. She’d sooner die than have him discover the truth. Luckily, he was leaving this morning. “Those letters aren’t signed,” she argued quickly. “They’re anonymous. I don’t know who’s sending them. The…the writer’s not my lover.” She shook her head adamantly. “Definitely not.”

He eyed her for what felt like an eternity, and when he spoke, he sounded very convinced. “You’re lying.”

She was. “That,” she said, “or you’re very suspicious.”

He didn’t deny it. “You met him at the Blues Bar, right?”

“No,” she replied. “Not knowingly, anyway,” she clarified. “Maybe he met me there but, if so, I don’t remember it. He’s a…a secret admirer. Nothing more.”

Morgan’s voice was just gentle enough to remind her how it sounded when he whispered sweet nothings. “You really expect me to believe that, Ms. Verne?”

“Of course I do.”

But he thought she slept around. He believed she’d taken him to bed when she already had another lover. She couldn’t defend herself, either. The truth was, she had written the fool letters. After Morgan had been there a week during which he hadn’t seemed to notice her, she’d solicited Lucy’s advice. Lucy thought Morgan might become more interested in Vanessa if he thought another man was in the picture. “You know what they always say in Cosmo.” Lucy had coached her. “If there are no cars parked in front of a restaurant, a man won’t go inside.”

Sending herself a couple of love letters that she knew Morgan would open seemed harmless, and Vanessa had done it in a spirit of good, clean fun. In fact, when she’d surreptitiously watched him read the first, she’d doubled over laughing at the practical joke.

But now the joke was on her.

Silently, she cursed herself for listening to Lucy. Giangarfalo women, Lucy’s mother included, were hopelessly Italian, which meant when it came to men they thought everything boiled down to love triangles and hot-blooded jealousy. It wasn’t the first time Vanessa realized she’d be better off following her safer, Anglo-Saxon impulses.

“Yes.” She finally continued, trying to find a way to end this encounter before it worsened. “I have a secret admirer. I do not know who he is. And while you were so busy disparaging me, blackening my reputation and raking me over the coals, Mr. Fine, I noticed my father and Lucy quit talking downstairs. Since he’s no longer in the kitchen, maybe you should leave now.” When he didn’t move, she knew her only hope was to give him a taste of his own medicine. “You really didn’t know it was me?”

His dark eyes surveyed her with the same caution he used in crowds while protecting a client. “No.”

“Well, before you gossip like Kenneth Hopper, you might want to think twice,” she cautioned, a slight smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Your Secret Service buddies might point out that I don’t look anything like Lucy. I’m taller. She’s bustier.” Pausing for effect, she added, “And it wasn’t really all that dark, now, was it, Morgan?”

His glance was wary. “It was pitch-black.”

“My voice is deeper.”

He was watching her so carefully she could have been a bomb about to explode. “I’d had a long day.”

“Pardon me for mentioning what we’re supposed to forget,” she returned coolly, “but you didn’t seem all that fatigued to me last night.”

He considered a long time, and when he spoke, she felt the soft rasp of his voice in her blood. “I guess you’ve got a point there.”

At the admission he’d enjoyed their evening, something fluid attacked her knees, making them flimsy as noodles. Once more, she was sure Morgan was about to break down, confess he’d really known it was her and repeat every sweet, heartfelt confession he’d made to Lucy. Right before the part about passion that kept people together forever, his hot, hard mouth would settle over hers….

Instead, he said, “You’re right. I think Lucy finally got your father out of the kitchen.”

“I hope you’ll be more discreet than Kenneth and not share the intimate details of my life,” she said, mustering one last shred of dignity. “You said we couldn’t pretend. But apparently we can. So, let’s pretend last night never happened.”

Sighing in relief, he nodded. “I’m expected back at headquarters by eight this morning. If I’m ever assigned to your home in the future—”

“You won’t be,” she assured him, thinking fate could never be so cruel. She managed a curt nod, and then, having no idea what to do next and being too well-bred to turn away, she thrust out her hand. After a second’s hesitation, he shook it, and from the sigh that left his lips—this one quick and involuntary—she could tell the touch affected him, too. Not that their uncanny attraction stopped him from leaving. He headed downstairs, his parting words floating over broad shoulders that spanned the stairwell. “See you around, Ms. Verne.”

“Looking forward to it, Mr. Fine.”

But both of them knew it was a lie.

3

WHAT HAD HE DONE? Morgan slipped into an overcoat, shouldered his duffel bag and headed for the Vernes’ front door. He had to get out of here. If Vanessa Verne was lying about those letters to protect a man in her life, it wasn’t Morgan’s problem. “Tell my Secret Service buddies about this?” he whispered with a wince, straightening the silver silk tie he was wearing with a fresh gray suit. Was she crazy? Morgan wouldn’t confess this adventure to a hearing-impaired priest who didn’t speak English. Meet me in broad daylight. Had he really said that? And We made each other insane with lust. We need to follow this passion wherever it takes us.

Fortunately, he wouldn’t be seeing Vanessa again. But how could he forget her? By four o’clock this morning, when she’d done that mind-bending, over-the-top thing where her tongue twirled around every inch of him, Morgan had suspected he’d never again crave another woman. Every tantalizing tidbit he’d ever heard about Vanessa had turned out to be true. And boy, oh boy, he’d loved every minute of it.

“Two words,” Morgan whispered, resting his hand on the doorknob. “Forget her.”

Vanessa Verne was rich, smart, gorgeous and played with fire, something that could cost Morgan the job he loved. Just as he swung open the door and realized Bjorn hadn’t brought his car around front as he’d promised, the senator’s bass voice sounded behind him. “You won’t be needing your car.”

Morgan got a sinking, no-way-out feeling. Two minutes later, he was ensconced opposite Vanessa in a leather armchair in the late Nora Verne’s study, and his worst fears were realized. His eyes trailed from floral draperies to peach walls lined with photographs of the nationally renowned socialite who’d befriended countless dignitaries and achieved fame for her tastefully lavish parties—and then to Vanessa.

She’d inherited her mother’s looks. Her father, who was pacing between them in front of a teak desk, was a full five inches shorter than she. He was known for his taciturn manner, and he had heavy sagging jowls and watery dark eyes that hid in the fleshy folds of his eyelids. If it weren’t for the navy suits that barely buttoned over his portly girth and the conservative ties he favored—this one printed with sailing ships—Ellery Verne would look more like a Mafia don than an aging, eccentric, retired U.S. senator.