“Can you do it tomorrow?”
I regarded him warily. “You think there’s a miniature flash drive hiding in there?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
With a nod, I said, “I’ll start on it tomorrow morning.”
“Good. The sooner you do that, the sooner we might have some answers to our questions. And it just might save Robin’s life.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
He studied the book for another few minutes. Opened the pages, ran his hands over the calligraphy, examined the paintings and brushstrokes, inspected the positions. “It’s quite extraordinary.”
“Yes.” I sounded breathless. I’d been just as fascinated watching him as he was with exploring the book.
“And it’s written in French,” he murmured. “That’s unexpected, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
He looked up at me. “Have you studied the Kama Sutra?”
“Only a bit,” I said, as I ran my fingers over the corded spine. “I suppose everyone has a vague knowledge of it. You know, positions and such. But wasn’t it written as a social primer of sorts? Marital etiquette or something like that?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what it is.” He turned a page and stared at the French script. Was he translating the words? “An Englishman, Richard Burton, is said to have written the definitive English translation. I was compelled to study it extensively for an assignment once upon a time.”
I laughed. “Oh, don’t stop there. I want to hear about this assignment.”
“I can’t say too much—only that one of our own government operatives had been co-opted by a sex therapist working at a spa somewhere on the coast of Sardinia, who planned to extort certain secrets.”
“Sounds like fun.”
He chuckled. “Elucidating, yes. Fun? Not really.”
“Well, that’s a shame.”
He lifted the book again and perused the ornate red leather cover. “This is really outstanding.”
“I think so, too.” I gave up, took a deep breath, reached over, and stroked the spine. “What does Vatsyayana mean?”
He looked amused as our hands touched. “He’s the author.”
“Oh.” Warmth spread up my neck. My cheeks would be turning pink any second now. Again. “I guess I should’ve known that. And I should probably know what the words Kama Sutra mean, but I don’t.”
“It’s Sanskrit,” he said, moving closer. “Kama is ‘love.’ Sutra, loosely translated, means ‘a lesson’ or ‘a rule.’ So essentially, the Kama Sutra contains the rules of love.”
“Ah, I see.”
He turned to a page in the middle of the book. “Here’s a rule you might be interested in. It refers to pressure points.” He read the text in perfect French, an experience I found insanely erotic.
“Um . . .”
“In the corresponding illustration”—he pointed to the facing page—“you can see how the woman’s anxiety has been eased.”
“Oh . . . yes.”
“Let’s try that.” He took my hand and rubbed a spot between my thumb and first finger. At the same time, he pressed his leg against my thigh.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Do you feel that?” he murmured.
“I feel . . . Oh . . .”
“Yes, you do.” He moved in and covered my mouth with his. His lips were firm and his intention was clear. My heart thrummed against my ribs as he softened the kiss; then his lips moved along the ridge of my jaw to my ear. It was pure instinct that made me stretch to accommodate his every move. I felt a twisting and turning in the pit of my stomach and I heard myself moan with need. The sound and its unfamiliarity brought me back to reality, if slowly.
Derek stood and pulled my chair back and I slid off it. His mouth hovered within reach of mine and I didn’t hesitate. I stretched up and pressed my lips to his. He enclosed his arms around me and deepened the kiss, just as someone battered their fists against my front door.
The door flew open and a man burst into my house, waving a gun.
I screamed.
“What the—” Derek shouted, then shoved me behind him. “Get back.”
I watched as Derek boldly slapped the man’s gun hand, then grabbed and shook it. The gun went flying as the man fell to his knees.
He was big with a pockmarked face. Big and ugly. Was this Tyler’s bad guy?
“Who do you work for?” Derek yelled as he grabbed the man’s shirt and tie and shook him.
From where I was crouched, I could see blood dripping onto the floor. “Derek, he’s bleeding.”
Derek took hold of the man’s jacket lapels and whipped them apart. A large splotch of blood was seeping through his white shirt.
“Who did this to you?” Derek asked in concern. “Who are you?”
The man blinked up at him. He was heavyset, and his eyes were red rimmed.
“Who sent you?” Derek asked again, then spurted out a flurry of words in a foreign language. Russian? Ukrainian? I didn’t know, but the man nodded quickly and replied in the same language.
Derek barked out one more sentence.
The man sighed deeply, muttered something else, then crumpled to the floor.
Chapter 11