Intimate Knowledge

She ran her gaze past the flat, flexing plateau of his lips and up beyond the slightly bent angle of his nose to those eyes. This close, she could see the silvery sunburst of color around his pupils, bewitching irises of dove-gray and steel and flint, rimmed by a darker shade of charcoal.

She’d never seen such beautiful eyes.

“Just like that,” he whispered, his words stirring a caress of air against her cheek.

Grace’s lungs expanded, as if just now remembering to breathe. The sudden intake of oxygen seemed to stir some coherent thought inside her brain.

“Does that mean you’re taking the assignment?”

“You’re going after Mitchell no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

Trapped by the unexpected warmth in those beautiful gray eyes, she could only nod.

“You’re clueless enough that somebody needs to watch your back.”

His shoulders shifted in her peripheral vision, and a moment later she felt the weight of silk-lined leather settling around her, enveloping her in Logan’s warmth and scent. She clutched his jacket together at her neck, but wondered if the tender gesture was the equivalent of another dismissive pat on the head.

“Will you be the one watching my back?”

He raked his gaze down along the swell of her breasts, giving her the distinct impression that he might be willing to watch even more. She pressed her lips together to quell the anticipation that raced through her, not trusting her ability to read a man’s thoughts.

“You have the raw materials to get the job done. But a rookie like you needs the best in the business to pull this off. You need me.”

There was less cocky arrogance in his statement than there was a reluctant acceptance of fact.

“So you’ll have me ready to go undercover by the end of the week…partner?”

“I won’t promise miracles. You still have nine rules to learn.” He pushed her glasses back onto her nose, plunging her back into plain-Jane obscurity and reminding her of the enormity of his task. “And don’t call me partner.”

WHO’D HAVE THOUGHT? The stunned question played through Logan’s mind again as he unpacked a second helmet from the back of his Harley-Davidson.

His body still ached from that torrid encounter back in the administration building with Grace. He thought he could scare her off from her foolish notion of going after Harris Mitchell. Knock some sense into that virginal determination of hers. But she’d been so soft to the touch, so responsive to his hands and mouth.

Teach her how to seduce a man?

She’d damn near seduced him.

And she didn’t even know it.

Grace Lockhart was deliberately disguising a national treasure. She was plain as a bucket until she lost her temper. But a little bit of makeup would get her noticed no matter her state of mind. She was blind as a bat, but contacts would help. She had soft hair with a tendency to curl that she controlled in an unflattering bun. A reputable salon would know what to do there.

But beneath that gray, shapeless suit—

Who’d have thought?

She might be the brainy strategist Carmody claimed, but she had inexperience written all over her. Sexual and professional. He had to make her smarter. Teach her survival skills. Teach her to mentally detach herself from a man’s touch when she was working undercover, to look at him with those liquid green orbs and make him think he had just given her the best sexual rush of her life.

A look like that could make a man think the cuddling and fondling and kissing they shared was the real thing.

Logan raked his fingers through his hair and struggled to find a similar detachment. He had five days to mold Grace Lockhart into a savvy, sexy field agent who could bring Harris Mitchell to his knees, and then walk away unscathed. Did he really think he could pull this off? Or was he just too afraid that nobody else understood the consequences of failure?

A sobering image of Roy Silverton’s bullet-ridden body blipped into his mind and reaffirmed his decision to take this assignment. He had to do this right. He hadn’t prepared Roy for every contingency. But he’d make double sure Grace knew how to take care of herself. How to think on her feet.

And what he couldn’t teach her, he’d take care of himself. He’d keep her alive.

To do that, he couldn’t let himself be distracted by the temptation of that goddesslike figure. He had to play this like a pro. Keep his mind focused on the mission. Keep Grace in one piece, not take her to his bed.

The scuff of her flat-heeled oxfords on the asphalt pavement announced her arrival long before she said a word.

“You’re joking, right?”

He watched her look down at the slim fit of her skirt and up at the back seat of his Harley. She thumbed over her shoulder toward the center of the parking lot. “My car’s just over there. We could take it to lunch, instead.”

“Sensible sedan, right?”

She nodded. “Safe. Good mileage—”

“We’ll requisition a new car for you. Something sporty. Red, I think.” Lustful thoughts of long blond hair blowing across the back seat of a red convertible eased the doom and gloom that had consumed him. A nice roomy back seat where…

“I would prefer blue. Or green.”

Logan opened his eyes and shook his head at her earnest expression. She’d rebuttoned her gray-suited armor up to her neck, and fastened her hair back into that tight little bun. She hadn’t even left any curling wisps free to soften her face. Instead, she’d added a functional black shoulder attaché to the outfit. Probably where she carried that ever-present notebook.

She just didn’t get it, did she? Men would salute that body of hers. Harris Mitchell would voluntarily go to prison for that body. He, personally, would sacrifice a well-earned vacation for the opportunity to know that body better—once he got her through this assignment.

He had to teach her to get comfortable with her fantasy-proportioned figure. To use it to her advantage.

Oh, yeah.

“Definitely red.”

Logan reached into his jeans and pulled out his pocketknife. Confused, distrusting perhaps, Grace took a step back when he knelt in front of her. “What are you—?” With a grasp and a twist, he slit the seam of her skirt. “Hey!”

He preferred that flash of fire in her cheeks to her usual pasty-faced demeanor.

“If you want to work undercover, you have to be willing to take risks. Willing to do what you don’t normally do. Willing to do whatever’s necessary to get the job done.” He punctuated his first bit of advice by ripping the seam of her skirt up to the hemline of her jacket.

“Oh, my God. You ruined it.”

Logan stood, smiled, put away his pocketknife, and enjoyed the twists and turns of her body as she struggled first to assess the damage, and then to tuck her slip up beneath the thigh-high slit. “Don’t worry, just make a note of it. The agency will reimburse you. C’mon.”

He put on his helmet, buckled the second one around the flushed fury of her face and climbed onto the Harley. When he had the engine purring smoothly beneath him, he extended his hand for Grace.

“I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

He’d guessed as much. He steadied her while she tested one foothold and then another, finally climbing aboard as if it were a horse waiting to buck her off. She settled astride the seat, behind him, leaving a good five inches of space between them. “What do I do?”

Logan grinned. “Hold on, sweetheart.”