He touched the collar of her linen shirt, just a flick of the finger that nonetheless sent shock waves through her. “You’re trying to tell yourself it’s strictly business between us, Mollie, but it’s not. It can’t be.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She sounded prim and unconvincing even to herself. She imagined he could see through the facade, straight into all the parts of her that still wanted him. “Of course it can.”
“You’re remembering. Right now, you’re remembering.”
Her knees quavered. “Remembering what?”
“I was your first lover.” His voice was low, not much above a whisper, a caress. “You remember.”
“Jeremiah…” She swallowed, telling herself this was a test, a way for him to establish terms. He liked making the rules. It was why he worked alone, it was why he stayed alone. She steeled herself against the onslaught of desire, the knot of confused emotions. “Jeremiah, I assure you, I’m long over you. I put your photo on my dartboard for my amusement, nothing more. It could have been a picture of Darth Vader.”
He seemed amused. “And yesterday when I kissed you, could I have been Darth Vader then, too?”
“The Emperor,” she said, unable to stop a smile.
“And if I kissed you right here, right now, what would I be?”
“Very forward.” But her head spun, her body burned at the thought of his mouth on hers.
“I like being forward.”
And his mouth descended to hers, his hand drifting to the back of her neck, where she wasn’t injured. She threw a hand back on the hood of her car, steadying herself as his tongue slid between her lips, tasted, probed, her entire body responding.
He drew back slightly, his eyes dark, his own arousal evident. “That wasn’t too forward, was it?”
Mollie straightened, tried to ignore the strain of her breasts against her linen top, the agony of wanting him. She was shaking with it, unsteady, her mind flooded with memories of him slowly, erotically exploring her body with his hands, then his mouth, teeth, and tongue, until, finally, when she was hot and quivering, taking her with hard, deep thrusts.
His dusky gaze told her that he, too, was remembering.
She willed coherency upon her thoughts. “Look, Jeremiah—” She swallowed, adjusting her shirt so her pebbled nipples wouldn’t show. “I know what you’re doing, but you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to fall for you. It was my choice to drive down here. And I take full responsibility for the consequences of that choice.”
“Hell, it sounds as if you decided to climb Mount Everest.”
She smiled. “You just concentrate on doing your job, okay?”
He dragged one finger along the line of her jaw, sending a stream of liquid heat straight into her bloodstream. “I always do.” He winked. “See you at six-twenty-five.”
Jeremiah went back to his desk feeling grumpy, out of sorts, and way too damned much as if he should have taken Mollie back to his apartment for the rest of the afternoon. He checked his messages. Nothing. He plopped into his chair and stared at his blank computer screen. Neutrality and objectivity had gone straight to hell with the appearance of Mollie and her bottomless eyes, bruised neck, and tale of a nasty phone call.
Helen Samuel couldn’t wait to accost him. “Okay. Tell me what Mollie Lavender was doing here.”
Jeremiah swung around in his chair. Bad coffee and frustration burned in his stomach. Fatigue pounded behind his eyes. “You know why you’ve lasted as long as you have, Helen? You’re by nature a very nosy woman.”
She grinned at him, unoffended. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just in a bad mood because you wanted to write the story about Friday night and couldn’t. You’re feeling conflicted.”
“Conflicted? Jesus, Helen. A reporter has to make these kinds of calls all the time.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got a woman wearing a necklace owned by one of the most famous tenors in the world. You’ve got the necklace ripped off at a fancy private party. You’ve got a gloved hand. You’ve got a daring, clever cat burglar. And you were right there. Jesus. It has to kill you. No wonder you’re a grouch.”
He shoved back his chair and stood up. “That’s right, Helen. I was right there. I was a part of the goddamned story. No way could I write it. I did the right thing. So I’m not conflicted.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a grump. You’re still on this thing, aren’t you?”
He sighed. “Damned lot of good it’s doing me. I don’t have a clue who’s behind the robberies, or why, or how he’s getting into exclusive parties without being noticed. I don’t know if it’s a man or woman. I don’t know if it’s someone acting alone or a group. You know, even if the Trib had reported that Mollie Lavender, Palm Beach publicist, was robbed at Diantha Atwood’s party Friday night, it would only have filled two inches on page thirty-seven.”