The Sex Files

“I don’t think so,” he answered in an easy tone that belied his commanding words. “You’re coming with me, Cameron.”

Things were getting stranger by the minute. She swallowed nervously. “Cameron?”

“Yeah…” Lightly licking his lips, he repeated the name as if he liked the taste of it in his mouth. “Cameron.”

“What are you talking a—”

He interrupted, saying the strangest thing yet. “Whoever you are—” He squeezed his hand around her arm again as if to test the truth of it. “You’re every bit as real as me.”

“Of course I am.” She squinted at him.

“Why are you following me?” he asked again.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t mean you any harm—”

“You,” he emphasized with a chuckle. “Harm me?”

Of course the idea was ludicrous. Oliver Vargo was tall, broad-shouldered and packed with solid muscle that made her shudder. “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t defend yourself.” The question was, could he defend her?

The longer she looked at him, she wasn’t even sure she wanted him to. The second their bodies connected, she’d realized this man could be dangerous, if only to her heart. How many times could a woman trust, after all? How many times could she heal and then open herself up to let in feelings of love—only to find out she’d been used again?

She bit down hard on her lower lip. Everything around her seemed to tilt off-kilter. Admit it, she thought. She was already half in love with him. She was a crime-story junkie, which was what had gotten her into all this trouble in the first place, and when she’d read Oliver’s books she’d been smitten…

Her eyes darted from left to right, seeking escape.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned quietly.

She wanted to look anywhere but into his eyes, and yet she forced herself to stare him down, not about to be intimidated. “Why did you call me Cameron?”

“What is your name?”

“I see you’re going to answer questions with questions.”

“Until you start talking.”

She considered a long moment. Feeling sure nothing good was going to come of all this, she said, “I guess Cameron will do. For now.” Maybe this way, she could buy time, find out what was happening at the FBI office. Whatever was going through Oliver Vargo’s mind at the moment, he wasn’t saying he was going to take her in for questioning, the way Kevin Hall had….

“Who are you, really?”

She had a thousand answers for that, beginning with Peggy Fox, a woman in trouble. But he was getting impatient. He said, “Are you a fan?”

“Uh…yeah.” That, too.

His gaze flicked down, making her realize her coat had fallen open again. He was slowly perusing the tight white dress beneath, his gaze lingering on the scoop neckline, as if he was thoroughly intrigued by the space where fabric ended and skin began.

The crowd surged, pushing him into her arms, and she gasped. Her hands dropped the coat collar and grabbed the sawhorse behind her. Trapped against the barricade, she felt completely helpless when their hips locked. When his chest brushed hers, there was no help for the way her nipples beaded. Heat flooded her cheeks, staining them a crimson red that even the night’s darkness couldn’t hide. He seemed to be aware of every nuance. She was sure of it when she registered his quickening breath.

“Look,” she managed to say. “We can’t talk here.” In this cold rain, her white dress might as well be made of cellophane.

His intrigued expression didn’t bring much comfort. “You have a better idea?”

The seconds seemed to drag on—as if this whole exchange had lasted an eternity, not a scant few minutes. Apparently, Oliver Vargo thought she was a crazed fan.

Dammit, she was a fan.

But not the one he assumed. Had he had some difficulty with a woman named Cameron? Whatever the case, he didn’t know her real name, which meant Miles McLaughlin hadn’t mentioned her to him. Regarding his and Miles’s relationship, there was only one way to find out the truth—question him. “I…I have a hotel.”

He stared at her. “Did you say hotel?”

She nodded toward McDougal Street. “I’m in the Washington Square Hotel.” It was only two blocks away. She’d been so intent on gauging the distance that she’d barely noticed the genuine smile claiming Oliver’s lips. When she saw it, she felt thoroughly unsettled. All at once, the man’s countenance had cleared. He offered a slight nod, as if a knotty misunderstanding had been resolved and everything now made perfect sense to him.

Good for you, Peggy thought dryly, since she still didn’t have a clue what was going on.

His hand slid slowly downward, gliding from her upper arm to her elbow, creating a wake of electrical current. A brass band began to play, and over the music, Oliver softly repeated the word hotel. And then, under his breath, he added, “Cameron, this is a dream come true.”

4

CAMERON WAS SEDUCING him, Oliver thought moments later, loosening his grasp on her elbow as they went through a brass revolving door that spit them into a hotel lobby. At first, he’d thought the woman might be a fan, but that didn’t explain how her picture had wound up on his PC screen. Which meant she must be a friend of his sister’s. Anna had been doing everything she could to fix him up with one of her friends, and this was obviously part of a scheme cooked up by the two women. Anna must have fed the picture of her friend into his computer, convincing him that the woman was America’s Sexiest Woman, all so that he’d be excited when the woman actually appeared.

“Home sweet home,” she said.

The idea that she was trying to get him into bed had calmed Oliver considerably. He glanced around. Long past its glory days, the red-carpeted lobby was decorated with marble-top tables and chandeliers. Outside, the streets surrounding the parade had sounded like Bourbon Street in New Orleans on a Saturday night, so only when Oliver squeezed into a rickety, dimly lit elevator with Cameron did he fully register the comparative deafening silence. “Quiet in here,” he offered.

As she pushed the seventh-floor button, he noted her nails were painted opal, not love-me red as they had been in both her picture and his fantasies. He tried not to feel too disappointed, but it was difficult when she’d appeared so often in his dreams, raking those fingertips over his body. At nothing more than the thought, his breath turned shallow with anticipation.

“Dark, too,” she supplied.

He heard the faintest quiver in her voice, and the answering flutter of his heart took him by surprise. Whoever this woman was, she probably didn’t make a habit of seducing men, judging by her nervousness. And yet she’d chosen him.

He sent her an encouraging smile. “The elevator could use a new lightbulb,” he conceded.

She didn’t answer.

But he wasn’t put off by her lack of response. In fact, he was feeling uncharacteristically anxious himself. Who wouldn’t? He was about to have sex with a stranger, after all. Why else would the woman ask him to her hotel room? And she wasn’t quite a stranger, he mentally corrected. She was a friend of Anna’s.

Suppressing a shudder, he remembered how she’d felt pressed against him in the street—how the curves of her backside had risen, cushioning his groin, and how the harder ridges of her hips had collided with his when she’d whirled around. Their lower bodies had clicked, and now the memory sent heat prancing across his skin.

Yeah, while they’d been on Sixth Avenue, he’d realized she had to be a friend of his sister’s—there was simply no other reasonable explanation—and now, with her standing so close, and her scent driving him wild in the cramped elevator, he wished he’d been nicer. Could he help it if he’d been worried, though? She’d been tailing him…

Oliver broadened his smile as he tucked down the collar of his coat, allowing the rainwater to roll off. “And wet,” he added. Another uncomfortable moment passed before the smile twitched his lips and he continued. “The elevator’s slow, too.”

His comical efforts to make conversation solicited a low, barely audible laugh from her. “At this rate,” she murmured, lifting a hand to reposition the eye mask, a fashion accessory that had been heightening his excitement immeasurably, “we won’t reach the seventh floor until tomorrow.”

“Midnight,” he countered. His eyes said he could think of countless things he and his masked date might do to amuse themselves during the wait.

“Midnight,” she echoed.

He flicked his gaze down her body. “I’m an optimist,” he assured.