Charade

Jeff turned and gave her a patient smile. “All I said was, it’s a nice place. You look good, too, by the way.”

Sasha sucked her breath in so quickly it made her chest ache. What the hell was he doing? Being nice to her? Complimenting her? Using his Summit voice on her in person, when he surely knew it was meant solely for electronic communications over safe distances?

But there he was, sounding strong and safe and sexy. Combined with his deep green eyes and admiring smile, the effect was lethal. Yet she knew it was false—this guy thought she was a crime waiting to happen!—so she steadied herself, then demanded, “Why are you here, Agent Crossman?”

“Sorry, I know it’s late. I just wanted to apologize for the way I acted earlier.”

Sasha moistened her lips. “Pardon?”

“You did a great job today. And I gave you a rough time. I’m sorry.”

“You always give me a rough time,” she reminded him. “What’s so different about today?” Before he could respond, she insisted, “Don’t give it another thought. I’m used to it.”

“That’s my point. I’ve been wrong. I admit it.”

She would have been shaken by the sentiment had she not noticed his gaze slip, just for a moment, from her face to her body, which probably looked fairly good in this particular robe. “Oh. My. God. Don’t even think about it. Just go home and sleep it off.”

He flushed. “It’s not that, either. Although like I said, you look great. You’re amazing, actually. If we land Vincent the Butcher because of you—well—”

“So? You came here—at eleven o’clock at night—to apologize for calling me a spoiled Mafia princess? Fine. Apology accepted. Now go home.”

Jeff frowned. “I never called you that. At least…”

“Not to my face? Yeah, you’re a classy guy. No doubt about it.” Stepping close to him, she raised her chin defiantly. “You know what really bugs me? All these months, you’ve been railing about my divided loyalties and crappy motivation because of my so-called vendetta against my father. But you know what? I think you’re the one with a vendetta. Against me.”

“That’s not true,” he assured her, using his Summit voice again.

“Isn’t it?” She smiled grimly. “You’ve seen all my advantages—fancy houses, elite prep schools, zillion-dollar weddings and colorful relatives. And then there’s you. So drenched in normalness you can’t possibly relate to all that. So you denigrate it.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow. “How am I drenched in normalness? If that’s even a word, which I doubt.”

Sasha bit her lip, regretting the display of temper. Wasn’t she just feeding the stereotype? The hot-blooded Italian female? Plus, he was right about normalness. It wasn’t a word per se, but it fit him sooo well.

Except for his body, which was anything but normal. And his face was superior, too. And his voice. And to be fair, winning the Heisman Trophy in his junior year at Princeton was nothing to sneeze at, especially since her father—Big Frankie—had reportedly made a bundle on a related bet.

Jeff touched her shoulder lightly. “Come on, Sasha. Let me apologize. I’ve been tough on you. For a lot of reasons. I see now I was wrong. You’re invaluable to my operation. And the most amazing person I’ve ever worked with.”

“But…?” She licked her lips. “You still don’t trust me. Right?”

“I’ve always trusted you. It was your motives I questioned. Because of your relationship with your father.” He exhaled sharply. “I’m sure I would have reacted the same way you did if I—well, if I suspected my father of—well, of doing what you think your father did.”

“You can’t even say it!” She backed away in embarrassed disgust. “That’s the real reason you didn’t trust me. You have so much contempt for the world I grew up in, you can’t believe—not even for one minute—that something or someone decent could come out of it.”

“Sasha—”

“Your father would never have anyone killed. Even if your mother had had sex with another man right in front of his eyes! They’d all just troop over to group counseling, right? But scum like my father and me—”

“Cut it out,” he instructed firmly. “I never said that. And I never thought it, either. Not once.”

She forced herself to settle down. Then she said with a sigh, “You figured I’d forgive Dad one day, right? And then my loyalty to you would shift back to him.”

“Loyalty to me, loyalty to him.” Jeff exhaled again, this time in clear frustration. “That’s my point, Sasha. You’re setting yourself up for a huge disappointment—or worse, if you look at it that way. Real loyalty has to be grounded in something unshakable. It’s great that your culture respects family above all else, but that opens the door to factions, infighting, jealousy—”

“What’s your loyalty grounded in?”

“I guess, justice. The rule of law. Our legislatures and courts. Not personal vengeance and passion.”

“Judges and politicians are just as corrupt as anyone else who wields power,” Sasha insisted. Then she turned away from him, folding her arms across her chest. “Maybe you should just go.”

“Hey.” He rested his hands on her waist and massaged it lightly. “Don’t be mad, okay?”

She turned back to him, completely disoriented. “What are you doing?”

“Tell me to stop,” he suggested hoarsely.

She wanted to say something—anything—but found herself moistening her lips instead.

Countless fantasies, some from earlier in Sasha’s life, some from the day she first met this frustrating, judgmental hunk, flooded her mind and body with heat and excitement. Not that she needed it. He was supplying more than enough juice with his hot, appreciative stare.

Then he pulled her against himself, and she gasped at the hard-body feel of him. In an instant his tongue was sparring with hers, his hand roving under her robe, his breathing growing ragged and needy—

And then—as if to rescue them from themselves—there was another unexpected knock on the front door.

“Damn.” Jeff realigned Sasha so that her cheek was nestled against his chest. “Are you expecting someone?”

She loved the erratic way his heart was pounding, mostly because it offered proof that he was as excited as she. Not that other proof hadn’t been pressed against her, but that was just physical. Just a guy thing. This breathless lack of control was something else. Emotion. Confusion.

All the things Sasha was experiencing.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone. Especially not you,” she told him.

“Yeah. Me, either.”

She pulled free and tried not to smile too widely. “It’s probably Carmine Martino. Here to collect on his bet.”

Jeff’s amorous expression rearranged itself instantly. “He can collect on my fist, the asshole.”

“Earth to Jeff. If he sees you here, my cover’s blown, remember?” She stroked his tightened jaw. “I can handle him, believe me. Go hide in the bedroom.”

Jeff shook his head. “I don’t want him alone with you. Not ever.”

“I won’t be alone with him. You’ll be in the next room. Plus,” she added playfully, “I can kick his ass. And yours. Thanks to my fancy prep school.”

He hesitated, then grinned. “Yeah. I know all about that from your file.”

“Don’t forget it,” she said in mock warning. “Now shoo.”

Still smiling, Sasha forced herself to recover from the lip-lock with Jeff, then took a few moments to re-belt her robe, which had been forced open during the kiss. She knew she should change into something less sexy, but her clothes were in the bedroom with Jeff and the bed, and that combination seemed just as dangerous as whatever was waiting for her in the hall.