Page 29 of Cursed
She was speaking again, and he tried to focus on the words through the humming in his brain. “Then I’ll go off and e-mail my office and let them know that I’m on the job.” She started to walk away, then turned. “I need the network password.”
“Yes right.” He strode to his desk, pulled out a pen and paper and wrote down some letters and numbers before handing her the sheet.
When he held out his hand, she was careful not to touch him as she reached for the paper.
After she started for the door again, he breathed out a little sigh, needing to be alone in the aftermath of the hot, desperate kiss.
When she paused at the door, his fist clenched. It didn’t ease his tension to hear her say, “And I need to think about why you’re having trouble giving me complete answers to my questions.”
Probably she’d thrown that at him to cover her embarrassment before she made her hasty exit.
With a jerky motion, he took several steps toward the serenity of the garden. The landscape he’d created always soothed him. Not today. He had cooked up a reason for asking her to come here and work for him. Well, not exactly cooked up. What he’d told her was true—as far as it went. Unfortunately, she wasn’t taking his explanations at face value. She kept digging for more information. Information that he wasn’t willing to spit out.
With a muttered curse, he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about answering her pointed questions. He wanted to think about the kiss. To relive every tantalizing detail.
Yes. The kiss. That was easier.
Morgan had ended it. But while it had lasted, it had been glorious.
He’d felt an instant connection to her. And it must be the same for her—judging from the heat they’d generated.
He sighed, leaning more firmly against the French door because his legs felt unsteady.
He thought about how her lips had felt against his. Her tongue. Her breasts pressed to his chest.
When he started getting hard again, he made a rough noise, then struggled to cut off the sensations assaulting his body. The intimate contact had made his head spin. It had been a mistake, and he’d better keep his hands off her until they got to know each other better. Then maybe he’d have the guts to tell her the real reason why he’d hired her.
He stifled a sharp laugh. Or maybe not. It had seemed like a great idea at the time. Now he couldn’t help thinking he’d been kidding himself all along when he’d asked her here.
Pushing away from the woodwork, he headed down the hall to his office and closed the door. The computer was already on, and all he had to do was touch the mouse to make the screen spring to life.
He would spend a few hours checking his credit card records. That should cool him off pretty well.
He had every intention of checking his bank statement. Instead he opened the Morgan Kirkland file and began reading over all the information he’d collected on her.
Morgan Kirkland, age thirty. Marital status: widow. He didn’t like that part. He would have preferred her to have been unmarried. But he wasn’t old-fashioned enough to think she needed to be a virgin. Besides, he didn’t have his choice about that—or anything else.
He’d started looking up information on private investigators seven months ago—then rejected each one. But the moment he’dfound Decorah Security, something had felt different. Eagerly, he’d accessed their staff of agents. As soon as he’d read the name Morgan Kirkland, he’d known she was the right one.
She wasn’t pictured, of course. None of the agents had been, since they often worked undercover. But he had excellent Web skills, and he’d traced her back to her yearbook photo at Penn State. Seeing her picture had made his chest go suddenly tight. When he’d gotten his breath back, he’d booted up his special photographic program and added twelve years to her face.
He stared at that picture now, thinking that the real woman was more complicated than the manufactured image.
Quirking his lips, he went back to her résumé. It fudged her background, but he’d put several sources of information together and come to the conclusion that she’d worked for a supersecret government organization called The Peregrine Connection. There was no direct information on Peregrine, beyond speculation on whether or not it actually existed. But he gathered that both she and her dead husband, Trevor Kirkland, had been covert agents for them. They’d met in college where he’d studied international relations, and she’d majored in law enforcement. Without going into detail, her résumé said she’d worked undercover both in and outside of the U.S.
Then the husband had been killed, and Decorah Security had scooped her up. Probably because she had friends who already worked for them.
Since coming on board, she’d demonstrated extraordinary bravery and excellent investigative skills. But that wasn’t why he had hired her.
Instead, he’d sensed that she was the woman who could get him out of the trap he’d been sucked into—through no fault of his own, he told himself firmly.
He switched files—to their e-mail correspondence. He’d read it so many times that he’d memorized almost every sentence.They’d started off discussing business. But incidents from their daily lives had crept into the conversation. He remembered the confession she’d made about buying a very expensive leather jacket. He’d reassured her that there was nothing wrong with indulging herself.
He remembered when she’d told him about an all-Beethoven concert she’d enjoyed at the concert hall in Baltimore. He’d wished he could have been there. For the Beethoven and her company.
Their relationship had blossomed over the past few weeks. He’d enjoyed the give and take with her. Enjoyed the way she’d opened up with him. He’d even ended up advising her how to fix a leaky faucet in her Beltsville townhouse.
Now he kept wondering if bringing Morgan here and not telling her the whole story made him as guilty as his grandfather?
