Silent Confessions

She closed her eyes, her body tightening as she imagined the press of her dream lover’s body against hers. His hands in her hair, trailing down her shoulder. She’d conjured the dream man the same night she’d walked out on Burt. Her ex-husband may have known all about sex, but her imaginary lover knew all about her.

A composite of the men she read about in her books, today he had the face of a certain sexy detective. Her dream lover was a man who wanted to please her, who was so in tune with her—body and soul—that he could almost read her thoughts. A man who knew if she wanted him to kiss her hard and take her right there on the kitchen table, or if she needed it slow and languid. A thousand caresses. Soft words and even lighter touches. Hours of exploration. Teasing and tempting until she couldn’t stand it anymore and she begged, begged, for him to enter her.

The man in her fantasies played her body like a symphony. Compared to him, Burt had played her like a ukulele.

She wasn’t asking for true love. Hell, she wasn’t even sure it existed. And the thought of committing to another man...

She shook her head. Right now? No way. But, oh, how she wanted passion. The heart-pounding, blood-boiling, loins-throbbing kind of desire she read about in her books.

She glanced back down at the woman on the card. “I bet you don’t have any problem finding lovers,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

Oh, hell. That was a male voice, and it most definitely didn’t belong to her brother. She felt her face warm, and she looked up...straight into the amused face of Detective Parker.

She swallowed, her cheeks heating in what surely had to be a blush red enough to start a fire. She flashed the postcard for him to see. “I was talking to her,” she said, then mentally kicked herself for such an idiotic comment.

“So I gathered.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, revealing a sexy dimple, and she cursed herself for noticing. Damn the man for materializing when she had erotica—and him—on the brain.

“I’m not exactly sure what a two-dimensional woman needs with a lover,” he added, “but I have no doubts she’ll find one.” The twitch turned into a full smile and the dimple deepened. “But if you want to help her get lucky, I’ve got a copy of Fortune in my car. Maybe she’s into two-dimensional, entrepreneur types.”

Swallowing a laugh, she tried to glare at him. “I spent the entire morning being furious with you. Waltzing in here unannounced and making me laugh isn’t fair.”

Immediately, the smile vanished, replaced by a firm mouth and apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, pulling out a chair. He sat opposite her at the table, and she had the unreasonable urge to reach out and touch his hair. “Unfortunately, I’m still not going to be a lot of help.”

Still? He hadn’t even tried to help earlier. Instead he’d just tormented her.

Even so, something about those pale gray eyes called to her, silently telling her he was sorry, that he did want to help. And that if she kicked him out now, she’d be making the biggest mistake of her life.

Well, maybe that was a little melodramatic, but she did want to hear what he had to say. And, frankly, she hoped it was good. She took a deep breath, then took the plunge. “Okay, give. What are you talking about?”

“Your robbery. No fingerprints, no motive, no suspects. Nothing missing—”

“That I know of.”

“Nothing expensive, then. Nothing obvious.”

She nodded. “Right.”

He shrugged. “That leaves us with nothing to go on.”

“You could have just told me that this morning, instead of putting me through the erotica edition of Trivial Pursuit.”

“Right.” He shifted in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Sorry about that.”

“You should be.” She grabbed up a small Rojan print—the one showing a couple in the back of a limousine, the man in a trench coat, intimately touching his companion, and the woman in a garter and stockings, her skirt around her waist. She waved the print in front of him. “I’m sorry if my life’s work offends you, but at least you could be professional, even if this kind of thing rubs you the wrong way.”

Coughing, he reached up and tugged at his tie, loosening the knot. His gaze dipped toward the lithograph, then back up to her. His eyes bore into hers with dark intensity, and she shivered, certain he’d touched her without even lifting a finger. “Trust me, lady. That picture rubs me a lot of ways, but wrong isn’t one of them.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly. Intelligent thought abandoned her, replaced by the image of her and Detective Parker in the back of a black stretch limo....

Her cheeks heated and she looked away, suddenly fascinated with a brown stain on the ancient vinyl flooring.

He must have picked up on her discomfort, because he took the print from her and turned it facedown on the table. “I didn’t mean to offend you earlier. I don’t work robberies, and I’m not assigned to your case. I thought you were somebody else.” Absently, he picked up the postcard she’d been examining and began tracing the outline with his fingertip.

She waited for him to keep talking, but he stayed silent, apparently waiting to gauge her reaction.

This was all very odd. Part of her wanted to jump out of the chair, chew him out for being a jerk and run back into the main room to help Joan with the customers. Another part of her just wanted to sit and stare into those fabulous eyes.

Besides, she didn’t really want to run from him. If what he said was true, he’d actually gone out of his way to help her by investigating her robbery even though it wasn’t his case. And she didn’t really have any reason to doubt him. After all, the police clerk had told her that neither Parker nor Donovan had anything to do with investigating the robbery. Which left some big questions—who had he mistaken her for, and why was he here?

“Okay, Officer.” She took a deep breath. “Keep talking.”

“Detective,” he said as he laid the postcard faceup on the table between them, like a gambler playing his card. “I need help. With this,” he said, glancing down at the card. He looked up again, his eyes burning into her. “I’m assigned to the sex crimes division.”

She frowned. “Sex crimes?”

He nodded. “I’m investigating a stalker.”

“That stuff you showed me...”

“That’s what he’s been leaving. His calling cards, you could say.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you. How can I help?”

“You’re an expert on this stuff, right? Well, I need an education.” He smiled, and her heart picked up its tempo. “An erotic education.”

Lord have mercy.

The thought that this man, this six-foot-something hunk of pure maleness needed help in anything erotic was almost beyond comprehension. The entire situation was surreal. They were sitting in a break room, of all places, surrounded by plastic and Formica, lit with fluorescent lighting. Nothing could be less sensual, and yet every nerve ending in her body was hyperaware. Her pulse beat in her throat, and she was sure her palms were sweating.

“I realize it’s not an ordinary request, but I can probably scrounge up some sort of hourly rate. A consulting fee.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

She nodded vaguely. He made it all sound so professional, so academic. But academic or not, lessons in erotica with this man would be dangerous...in an absolutely delicious way.

“Miss Archer?”

Nibbling on her lower lip, she glanced down at the card on the table. He was waiting for her answer, waiting for her to put her cards on the table

She picked up the postcard, taking another look at the flapper whose erotic adventures she’d been so envious of only moments before. Then she lifted her eyes to look once again at the man. The shadow of his beard. Those enigmatic eyes. The sturdy angle of his jaw. All of it put together in a face that somehow pushed her senses into overdrive.

If she were thinking rationally, she’d ask more questions, would try to figure out exactly what he needed. After all, she had a business to run and a dissertation to write.

But on the other hand, in a lot of ways he was the answer to her prayers. If she could honestly tell Nat that she had an in with the cops—a source for information about the investigation—surely that would be enough to get him on that plane.

And the work did sound right up her alley....