“Wow,” she said when the elevator opened onto his living room. It was enormous, like a house without walls. Big floor-to-ceiling glass windows formed two walls, and sheer drapes lifted with the night breeze. The room still had the look of the warehouse from which it had been converted—exposed ventilation in the ceiling, four big columns, and scored concrete floors. There were no walls between the kitchen and the living area, and the only evidence of a bedroom or bathroom was a single door at one end of the room.
In the middle of the enormous living area was a thick shag rug, buttery leather couch and chairs, and a distressed coffee table topped with several books and magazines.
“Great place,” Leah said as she walked into the room. “Great rug,” she added, looking down at her feet. “I don’t think this one came from the Discount Barn.”
Michael laughed as he shrugged out of his jacket. “It came from Turkey. A friend owed me a favor.”
She could only imagine what sorts of favors people owed an ex-CIA operative. Best not to think about it at all—those sorts of questions only led to more questions. Leah walked to one of the windows, pushed aside the sheer drape, and looked out at the skyline. “I guess you guys do pretty well in the stunt business,” she said. “This is prime real estate.” Real estate that made her bungalow in Venice Beach look like a shack.
“We do well,” he said. “But I’ve also invested wisely.”
Another couple of questions popped into her head. Where he’d gotten the money to invest. What did he invest in, and did it have anything to do with his former line of work? Just the usual sorts of things one thought of when standing in James Bond’s very expensive and very chic loft apartment.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked from somewhere behind her.
Leah ran her fingers down the sheer drape. “I’d love one.” What in the hell was she doing here? Curiosity to see how he lived, okay, she’d admit to that. But there was an unspoken expectation, and no matter how much she pretended they were only friends, she was skating out onto some extremely thin ice.
It was a foolish thing to have done, and she would blame the wine . . . but there was something else, wasn’t there? He looked so damn good, so sexy, and in spite of her deep misgivings, she was having a bit of a problem—she couldn’t stop thinking about sex in his presence. Raw, hot, and very ambitious sex.
She really missed that.
She really missed him.
She really missed being loved, although technically, she wasn’t being loved at the time, or he never would have left her, but there she went again, trying to sort out what happened five years ago, letting it mess up an otherwise perfect evening.
Michael touched her shoulder, bringing her back to the here and now. She turned around, and he handed her a cognac. “I don’t have any cigars,” he said with a smile. “But I hope you can still enjoy it.” He was referring to a night they had spent in Boston. He’d had to go for business—what business, she wondered—and she’d accompanied him for a chance to see the Red Sox play. After a particularly lusty romp between the sheets, they had sipped cognac and smoked cigars. Sort of. Neither one of them was a smoker, but it had seemed like decadent fun.
She smiled and lifted the glass to her lips. “I think I can manage,” she said, and tasted it. It was smooth and rich—an excellent vintage, she assumed. Michael turned and walked back to the small bar. His tuxedo fit like a glove, she couldn’t help noticing. There was that thought of sex again, only this time, it wasn’t just an idea that sprung into her head, it was a jolt to her groin.
Maybe she could get over the past and start over, fresh, just like he’d said. Maybe he really meant all the things he’d said. Maybe he really regretted what happened. Maybe, this time, it could be even better. And besides, she’d suffered through a sexual dry spell recently, and he was an excellent lover. Sex didn’t mean forever. It didn’t mean she was naive or going to make the same mistake again. It just meant . . . sex.
Leah abruptly followed Michael, tossing her evening bag onto the couch. “What did you do with the soufflé?” she asked, looking around.
“I put it away,” he said and picked up his snifter, strolled toward her.
“We could have a taste of it with our cognac.”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Don’t think so.”
“Why not?” she asked as he reached her.
“Because . . .” He leaned his head toward hers and breathed her in. A little shiver of anticipation shot down Leah’s spine. “You have to earn it,” he murmured as he moved around behind her, slowly circling her. It was a little joke between them, something he used to say when he wanted to be decadent with her body.
She smiled, turned her head away from him to better feel his breath on her neck. “What exactly do I have to do to earn it?”
He brushed his lips against her ear. “You have to come.”
If that’s all it took, he should just touch her, because she was fairly certain if he kept this up, she could come standing. “That’s not on the agenda, remember?”