Читать книгу Untamed Billionaire, Undressed Virgin - Anna Cleary, Anna Cleary - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

SOPHY strode along the gallery to the children’s clinic. Connor O’Brien’s door was closed, but she had to steel herself to walk past it and breathe the air he was infecting with his intolerable masculine game-playing. He was probably in there now, gloating over her DNA profile.

Although, what could it possibly mean to him? What could he do with it? Apart from post it on the Internet. Take it to the papers. Contact Elliott…

She shut her eyes and tried to breathe calmly. The man could be a blackmailer. He looked bad, with that mocking dark gaze and that sardonic mouth. Just remembering his refusal to take her seriously made her blood boil all over again. She wished she’d said something clever and cutting enough to douse that insolent amusement in his eyes.

She used her pass key to unlock the clinic, relieved that neither Cindy, their receptionist, nor Bruce, the paediatrician, had arrived yet, praying that against the odds someone wonderful had found the letter and popped it through the mail slot. But no such luck. In her office she plunged into a frenzied search, her desk, her drawers, all around the children’s table and chairs, the armchairs for parents, only confirming what she already knew—she’d lost it after she’d left yesterday.

Millie was her last resort. She’d spent a good hour in there yesterday, helping her friend pack up her files. Fingers crossed, she phoned her, but again her luck was out. Amidst all her files and books, Millie had been in too much of an uproar to find anything, let alone something so ordinary and unobtrusive as an envelope.

She slumped down in her chair. Perhaps she should alert Elliott, but she wasn’t ready to give up yet. He’d seemed so paranoid at the idea of the news getting out. Not that she could blame him altogether. Her existence had come as a complete shock to him. She pitied him for what he must have gone through when he found out. Anyone—anyone would have been upset.

She tried to crush down a nasty feeling at how he might react when he knew the letter was out of her hands. Then, with some relief, she remembered he said he’d be out of town for a week, and brightened a little. At least that gave her a bit of breathing space. He might not have even received his copy yet.

And, honestly, what was the worst that could happen to him if the news got out? Thousands of people had given up their children for adoption, for all sorts of reasons. It was hardly such a shocking scandal anymore. His wife should be capable of understanding something that had happened twenty-three years ago.

And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t an independent adult. She hoped she’d made it absolutely crystal clear that it wouldn’t cost him anything to invite her into his life—their lives. Only a bit of friendship. Not a relationship, exactly. She knew she couldn’t expect that.

But there was no denying her disappointment. Elliott’s utter dismay when she’d made that first contact had been almost tangible. He’d tried to disguise it with his smooth manners, but she’d been able to sense how he truly felt. In the subsequent meetings, in the coffee shop and the bar, he’d seemed more concerned to find out who she might have told rather than how she’d spent her life to date, while she…

Her heart had been so full, so brimming over with joy and hope, she’d wanted to know everything about him. And Matthew.

But she felt sure, when someone got to know him, he was a wonderful person. When he got used to the idea, he would come round to seeing the fantastic side of having a daughter.

Restlessly she got up and started tweaking some brown-edged leaves from her geraniums on the window ledge. She hadn’t felt such confusion for years, not since Henry and Bea had told her they were staying on in England for a bit. Possibly for ever. She lifted her gaze to the Botanical Gardens across the street, wishing she could go across right now, before she saw the first of the children on her morning’s list. Somehow the soothing essence of those cool, leafy pathways always managed to soak into her like balm.

Connor O’Brien was to blame for this turmoil. A wave of puzzlement swept through her. What was wrong with him? Why had he been so mocking, almost distrustful of her?

His behaviour had been so arrogant, so callous and indifferent, as if her anxiety had been a joke. And as for that crack about her never having been kissed…

Of course she had. Countless times. He’d only been teasing, using a typical male ploy to start a flirty conversation, unless he’d been suggesting… A chilling possibility crept in. If, by some quirk of fate, a woman still happened to be a virgin, surely that minor detail wasn’t obvious to people? Could there be something about her that flagged her status to the world?

And if so, what? Could it be her clothes? Her conversation? The way she walked?

She’d never thought it worth worrying about before. It was just—the way things had turned out for her.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t had opportunities. Plenty of men had been keen to relieve her of it. And she had no philosophical objections to sex. In fact, she fully believed that every woman should drink deeply from the cup of life, although the values Henry and Bea had instilled in her had quietly insisted that the drinker should be in love. And there was the little matter of trust. She’d tried a few tentative sips once or twice, but for some reason the trust factor had always intruded and she’d stalled at a certain point.

Leah and Zoe, her flatmates, called her a late bloomer. Sooner or later, they declared, some ruthless hunk would send her completely overboard and she’d plunge right in. And that was where she needed to beware, because someone as dreamy and impulsive as Sophy Woodruff was at risk of a broken heart.

If she wanted to land a man, she needed to do her research, they’d said. Find a solid prospect with financial security and a career trajectory, and plan a campaign.

‘But what if we have nothing in common?’ she’d argued.

The answer was stern and unequivocal. ‘Plan a campaign. Build things in common.’

What Zoe and Leah didn’t understand—well, they did, but they scoffed about it—was that she had dreams. And dreams didn’t go with campaigns. In fact, she preferred to rely on her instincts about people, though she couldn’t always, she had to admit. She had been mistaken more than once, sometimes quite spectacularly. But she’d known definitely at once that those boys she’d turned down just didn’t have the chemistry, and never, ever would.

As for her needing to become more proactive, with a plan and some cold, hard strategy, she doubted she could bring that off. Campaigns weren’t her style. In the situation she was in right now, though, some cool, ruthless strategy was definitely warranted.

She felt a little shiver of apprehension.

There was only one thing for it. Whatever it took, she would have to find a way to seize her letter back. She couldn’t allow Connor O’Brien to ruin her chance to know her father before it had even begun. And he wouldn’t win any future encounter with her, either, dammit. He’d better learn that, kissed or unkissed, Sophy Woodruff was a force to be reckoned with.

Somehow, if it killed her, she would find a way into his office.

It gave her an eerie feeling to realise that at this very second he might be on the other side of her wall, gazing out at the very same view.

Connor frowned out across the treetops, beyond the Gardens, to where a strip of Walsh Bay glimmered under a hot blue sky. It occurred to him that not so very far away, as the crow flew, he owned a house. Most of his father’s things had been auctioned for charity, as became the possessions of the extremely wealthy, but it might do, especially as it wasn’t too far from the haunts of Elliott Fraser. He was sure he’d left some of his law books there. Slightly outdated perhaps, but he could pick up some of the current publications later. It might be interesting to see what had changed this side of his old profession.

He stepped back from the window and gazed appreciatively around at the high-ceilinged rooms with their ornate cornices. If he’d been setting up for real, he couldn’t have found a more pleasing location.

He glanced at his watch. Organise a car, then take some time to pick up his books and some stationery supplies before the office furnishings were delivered. Consider his next encounter with Sophy Woodruff….

His pulse rate quickened. He wondered what the letter was she’d been searching for. The anxiety in those stunning eyes had seemed genuine enough. With her sweet low voice, the ready flush washing into her cheek, she’d seemed amazingly soft, too soft to be any of the things Sir Frank suspected. But he was too hardened a case to be sucked in by appearances. Women in the profession could be superb actresses…

Whatever she was searching for, his challenge would be to find it first.

He remembered the fire that had flashed in those blue eyes when he’d touched her, and his blood stirred. He could so enjoy a worthy protagonist.

* * *

At lunchtime, on her way down to the basement deli, Sophy saw Connor O’Brien assisting some workmen to manoeuvre a handsome rosewood bookshelf through his door. She grimaced to herself. No doubt he needed it for storing other people’s private documents.

She queued at the deli for a salad sandwich, but instead of taking it to her usual picnic spot in the Gardens, headed back upstairs to finish some of the morning’s reports. As she reached the top of the last flight her stomach flipped in excitement.

Connor’s door was standing half open.

Her imagination leaped to the possibilities. The workmen must have gone to pick up their next load. Had the arrogant beast gone with them?

Except that would be too good to be true. Surely he wouldn’t leave his office unlocked and unattended?

With a thudding heart, she slowed her pace, and as she reached his door hesitated, pretending to search for something in her bag. She could hear no sound from within. All she could see in the slice of reception office visible through the half-open door was an empty expanse of carpet and the corner of the built-in reception desk.

He could be in the inner room, though, skulking. She hovered there, straining her ears, trying to guess if anyone was inside. If he was in there, she reasoned, she should be able to sense his presence. A quick glance along the gallery revealed a couple of people waiting for the lift at the other end. She closed her eyes and listened, but the air seemed flat and empty.

Voices floated up to her from below. She darted across and looked over the balustrade. There were people on the stairs to the lower levels, but no sign of Connor O’Brien. And the lift must have arrived without the workmen, for the waiting people were now stepping into it.

For the moment, the coast seemed to be clear.

It was too good a chance to lose. She made a small precautionary knock, then waited with her heart thumping fit to burst. Nothing disturbed the stillness. Feeling as guilty as a thief, she cast a last furtive glance about, then slipped inside.

Familiar with the layout, she sensed immediately that the entire suite, including both offices and the tiny tea-room inside, were unoccupied. She ventured through the connecting door into the larger room. Already Millie’s comfortable presence had gone. The place had a different feel, as if it had been given over to some sterner god.

Daylight streamed in through the tall windows, and with it the view her office shared of the Botanical Gardens and the strip of harbour beyond. A laptop sat on a heavy rosewood desk beside a stack of new stationery—cardboard folder files, packaged paper and a selection of office equipment. The bookshelves were bare, a large tea chest of books beside them waiting to be unpacked. She tilted her head and read a couple of the titles upside down. Policy and Practice of Human Rights Law. International Human Rights.

She felt disconcerted. Connor O’Brien was a lawyer?

How ironic. If he was so concerned about human rights, what was he doing stealing people’s private letters? For a second she experienced a doubt. It hardly made sense. Could she have leaped to the wrong conclusion and lost her letter somewhere else?

Even visualising the envelope made a hot and cold sensation of the most unmistakable immediacy sweep over her, as though all the tiny hairs on her body were standing on end. Her overwhelming instinct told her it was close by. If she closed her eyes, she could practically feel the texture of the paper in her hands. Without a doubt she knew it had to be here in this room.

The question was where?

A new filing cabinet stood within easy reach of the desk. She glanced over her shoulder at the door and, ignoring some warning prickles in her nape, tried the top drawer. It sounded empty, but it was locked. They were all locked. She felt a surge of excitement.

Why would he lock the filing cabinet if he had nothing worth hiding? She looked around for the keys. She tried the desk drawers first, but, finding them empty, turned to survey the room. Her eye fell on a briefcase, leaning up against the leg of his desk chair.

Ah. A thrill of guilty excitement shivered down her spine.

Should she?

She vacillated for a moment, but with the seconds ticking away it was no time for squeamishness. Her pulse drumming in her ears, she whisked the briefcase up onto the desk, pushing aside stationery to make room, and unzipped the main compartment intended for the laptop. It was empty, apart from a couple of memory sticks.

Increasingly conscious of the possibility of the workmen’s return, she made a hasty search of the other compartments. Her letter wasn’t in any of them, nor any keys. In fact, the case contained nothing except for a few odds and ends for the computer. That was when she noticed Connor O’Brien’s jacket, slung on the back of his chair.

Having sunk this deep into crime, rifling a personal jacket didn’t seem much more of a stretch.

Gingerly, suspense creeping up her spine, she slipped her hands into the side pockets, and came up with nothing. She had no greater luck with the breast pocket, although her fingers detected a bulge through the fabric. She turned the jacket to the inside and tried the inset pocket. Her heart bounded in her chest. There was no envelope in there. Only a passport.

She slipped it out, then put it straight back in. This would be an unforgivable invasion of the man’s privacy. But then, how concerned was he about respecting hers?

With a bracing breath, she squashed down her scruples and took out the alluring little red book.

Probably it was her imagination, but the covers felt warm to her touch, as if the book vibrated with some vital energy. It was such a temptation. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to examine the photo. Almost at once she gave in, opening straight to the ID page to be faced with Connor O’Brien.

She might have known. Other people took ghastly mugshots, but not him. She stared, riveted, as his face looked out at her, stern and unsmiling, but still with the faint possibility of amusement breaking out on his sardonic mouth. He was thirty-four, according to his birthdate. She flicked to the back pages, and widened her eyes in surprise. Connor was a frequent traveller. And a recent one, going by the last stamp in the book. He’d only just arrived in the country.

She’d heard of workaholics, but this was an extreme case, surely, if he came to work straight off a plane without going home first to shave. Unable to resist one more look at his picture, she flipped back to the identity page. Was it her imagination, or were his eyes piercing her now with that infuriating mockery as if he knew what she was doing and could see right through her?

Her heart suddenly thumping too fast, she snapped the book shut. She held it between her palms, swept by a confused mixture of conflicting instincts about Connor O’Brien. They couldn’t all be true. Was she going insane?

She gave an alarmed start as the sound of approaching voices alerted her that she was about to be caught red-handed, and the passport slipped from her fingers.

She dived to pick it up as bumps and grunts began to issue from the reception office, suggestive of several men hefting some bulky piece of furniture through a narrow aperture.

In her haste to slot the little book into the pocket, she knocked the stationery pile askew, and sent manilla folders sliding across the desk and onto the floor.

She dropped to her knees, and as she scrabbled to gather the files and stack them back on the desk the activity outside ceased. Her heart nearly seized as she caught sight of the briefcase. Quickly she dashed it onto the floor. For a panicked instant she considered hiding in the tea-room, then dismissed the action as cowardly.

She could do this, she thought, her heart slamming into her ribs. She’d just brazen it out. She straightened up and faced the door, steeled for the worst.

There was a brief exchange of conversation outside. She was straining to hear what was being said when the door to the room burst open. At almost the identical moment her horrified gaze fell on the passport, still lying on the corner of the desk.

She snatched it up, whipping it behind her back just as Connor strode in. When he saw her, he stopped short, an initial flare of astonishment in his dark eyes changing nearly at once to cynicism. Almost as if catching her there was no real surprise.

Without a word he stepped past her, seized a pen from the desk, and turned back to the outer room, where he signed something on a clipboard presented to him by one of the delivery men.

With no time to return the passport to his jacket, and nowhere to hide it, she popped it down the front of her shirt, just as Connor turned to stroll slowly and purposefully back into his office.

If he saw her surreptitious movement, he didn’t show it. He shut the door gently behind him, then paused to examine her, his black eyebrows raised.

He looked taller, grimmer and more authoritative when he was annoyed. It was harder to imagine him plunging through the pond.

No. No, it wasn’t.

Her mouth became uncomfortably dry, and she smoothed her skirt with moistening palms.

He didn’t appear to be imagining her in as favourable a light. His speculative gaze swept over her while she waited in an anguish of suspense, realising from the hard glint in his eyes he wasn’t about to let her off lightly.

‘Did you want something?’ His deep voice was polite, with just a tinge of incredulity lapping at its edges.

As if he didn’t know. The sheer duplicity of the man.

She tried to assume a cool, poised demeanour. ‘Oh, look, er, I should apologise. I probably shouldn’t have walked in. I came to—speak to you. The door was open, so I just—’ she made a breezy gesture ‘—wandered in.’ Her voice wobbled a little, but she kept her head high and forced herself to keep meeting his eyes, all the time conscious of her pulse ticking like a time bomb.

His eyes flicked to his desk, over the once rigidly neat pile of stationery, now listing dangerously to one side, and on—to her conscious eyes at least—to the neon-flashing space where she’d rested the briefcase.

In a brilliant move inspired by adrenaline, she did the only possible thing, and sat on the desk in the telltale space, stretching a hand back so she could lean, and once again knocking over the wonky pile.

‘Oh, damn,’ she said, trying to sound careless, ‘that’s the second time I’ve done that.’

Connor O’Brien didn’t look fooled. His acute dark eyes slid over her in sardonic appreciation. She grew uncomfortably conscious of her breasts and legs, accentuated by her posture, and hoped the red passport didn’t blaze through her shirt.

‘What can I help you with, Sophy?’

She smiled, but her sexual sensors, to say nothing of the others, were all madly oscillating on panic alert. Somehow, though, the danger she was in gave her a reckless sort of courage. She hadn’t spent lonely years of her life watching old black-and-white movie reels into the small hours for nothing. She knew how Lana Turner would have played this scene.

‘Ah, so you’ve found out my name,’ she said throatily, crossing her legs.

His glinting gaze flicked to them. ‘I described you to the Security guy. He had no trouble recognising you.’

Something in his voice told her the conversation he’d had with the man had been a loaded one. She could just imagine the sort of things they’d said about her. If his passport hadn’t been burning a hole in her midriff, she might have been incensed. As it was, her major concern for the moment, apart from escaping unscathed, was how she was to return it to its pocket. It was one thing to be suspected of snooping, another to leave behind glaring evidence.

What if he accused her of stealing? He could have her up before the courts. Her boss would be forced to sack her. Perhaps, though, if she owned up and produced the passport at once…

She examined Connor’s face for signs of softening, but his eyebrows were heavy and forbidding, his mouth and jaw stern.

Lana would have known what to do. If ever there was a man who needed beguiling, here was the man. Her skirt had ridden up a little on her thigh, and she discreetly tugged it down.

Connor O’Brien didn’t miss the movement. He prowled closer and stood looking down at her with his harsh, uncompromising gaze. ‘Breaking and entering is a criminal offence.’ She noticed his glance flick to her mouth. ‘What were you hoping to steal?’

Her heart made a scared lurch at the ‘s’ word. Somehow, owning up lost its attractiveness as an option.

‘Steal? That’s ridiculous.’ She fluttered her lashes in denial. ‘It was hardly breaking and entering… You left your door wide-open, and I came in to talk to you. Simple as that.’

He looked unconvinced. ‘I should hand you over to that Security guy and make his day.’

‘Oh, why? For coming in for a chat?’

‘A chat.’ His lip curled in disbelief. ‘About what?’

She wished he wouldn’t use that sceptical tone. It was rich, this distrust he had of her, when he was the one who stole people’s confidential DNA reports.

‘The weather,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘What else?’

She slid off the desk so she could bring more height to the exchange, but standing before Connor only seemed to illustrate how slight and insubstantial five feet seven of guilty woman was in comparison with six feet three of hard, cynical man. Still, after the way he’d behaved, his outraged morality act was too much to swallow.

‘I felt a bit sorry about not being so friendly this morning.’ She stretched languidly, then sashayed towards the door, casting him a long Lana-esque glance over her shoulder. ‘But I see now that my first instincts about you were correct.’

She had just grasped the door knob when she felt a big powerful bulk stride up behind her. A lean hand closed firmly over hers.

‘No, you don’t, sweetheart. Not yet.’

She could feel his hot breath on her neck. As his raw masculine proximity washed over her, accelerating her pulse into a mad racing turmoil, it homed in on her that, while she might have been playing Lana Turner, he was no two-dimensional Hollywood hero on the silver screen. He was a big, dangerous, flesh-and-blood man, and he wasn’t confined to a script.

Heat emanated from his body. She turned to face him, her back against the door, barely able to keep her rapid breathing under control, panting like a marathon runner. Her blood throbbed with a tense excitement. Still, as sexy as he looked with his black brows bristling, his intelligent dark eyes scouring her face, she reminded herself that he was the man who’d stolen her letter. It was imperative that she keep her wits about her.

She made an attempt to ignore the major chemical reaction effervescing inside her, and stiffened her spine.

He stepped back a little to study her, frowning, his dark eyes burning with a curious intensity. ‘Empty your pockets.’

In spite of her bravado, she felt her cheeks flame with the insult. ‘I don’t have any.’

A dark gleam lit his eyes. ‘Ah. Well, then, I’ll have no choice but to search you.’

Her stomach lurched. The silkiness of his deep voice couldn’t disguise the determination in the set of his chiselled jaw.

It was a seminal moment. If she allowed him to make the attempt, she was lost. His stern, masculine mouth, not so far away from hers, relaxed its unforgiving lines, as though Connor was enjoying his mastery of the situation. His mastery of her.

Suspense coiled her insides.

On a rush of adrenaline, she leaned back against the door, her breasts rising and falling, and breathed huskily, ‘But…would you feel honourable about violating my person? A woman who’s never been kissed?’

His eyes flickered over her face and throat. She could sense his hesitation, his struggle against temptation. It gave her such an exhilarating feeling to see that she could tempt him from his intent. And he would succumb, she realised with a thrilled, almost incredulous certainty, her heart thundering.

Beneath his black lashes his pupils flared like a hungry wolf’s.

He curled his lean fingers under her jaw. ‘That can be fixed,’ he said. Then he brought his lips down on hers with deliberate, sensual purpose.

At that first firm touch, a fiery tingling sensation shot through her veins like an electric charge, and sent an immediate swell of warmth to her breasts.

A shudder roiled through Connor’s tall frame, as with a gruff little sexy sound he increased the sizzling pressure and sent her blood temperature soaring.

She tried to remember he was her adversary, and made a half-hearted attempt to cool her response, but he drew her in closer. Then, like the cunning devil he was, he softened the kiss to clever, gentle persuasion, until the fire on her lips ignited her bloodstream and aroused all her secret, intimate places with erotic yearning.

Though he was a big, powerful man, he held her tenderly, his lean, tanned hands on her waist. His touch was so seductive that, instead of her putting up a sound resistance, her own hands went sliding across his ribs. Even through his shirt, the heat of his hard, vibrant body under her palms was so thrilling, she couldn’t restrain herself from writhing with pleasure.

Just when she was ready to swoon at all the intoxicating sensations of hot, strong, tender man, he tempted her lips apart with his tongue.

The taste of him exploded in her senses like a sunburst. Faint tangs of coffee and toothpaste were overridden with another flavour, some arousing primitive essence that was surely unique to him. His devilish tongue slid through, teasing and stroking erotic tissues inside her mouth she hadn’t been aware existed. The sheer pleasure of his artful, gliding tongue lit her with a fever that infected every little corner of her being.

Her insides went into involuntary meltdown. Boneless, she had to clutch at him for support.

And he was so satisfying to the touch. He was all hard muscle, bone and sinew, as strong and unyielding as steel. Through his shirt, the solid reality of him under her clinging hands felt right, and her breasts strained against her bra for—something.

As her brain swam in a drugged delirium the hot, panting hunger of desire stalked through her feverish body like a ravenous panther. She had little doubt Connor felt it, too, for on deepening the kiss he pulled her even harder against him, as though to experience more intensely her softness in arousing friction with his lean, sexy body.

His restless, seeking hands caressed her breasts, the curves of her waist and hips, and she burned for more. She let go of all her reservations about him and surrendered herself utterly. Lost in the escalating sensation, she hardly noticed a sharp little tweak of the shirt at her waist until she became aware of the scrape of his knuckles on the skin of her midriff. Then his hands came up to her shoulders, and he pushed her away.

The sudden cold shock left her gasping and adrift.

As she stood struggling to adjust to reality, her blood still heavy and inflamed, Connor stepped away a pace. He was breathing hard, his darkened eyes ablaze. An angry quirk curled his mouth. He held up his passport and waved it at her.

‘Did you really think you’d get away with this?’ The clipped words were like a face-slap.

‘Oh. Oh, that.’ Impossible, considering how flushed she must have been already, but she felt her ears grow hot enough to spontaneously combust. ‘Look, I did intend to put it back, but you—you came in too soon.’ As his expression impinged on her brain her breathless, husky voice grew more strained. ‘I couldn’t think of what else to do with it. Sorry.’

‘Sorry.’ Several conflicting emotions warred on his handsome face. Astonishment, bemusement and—judging by the compression of his stirringly sexy mouth—contempt. He gave a sardonic shrug. ‘Well, I hope you were satisfied with what you discovered.’

Stung by his disdain, she was reminded of his callous behaviour when she’d been so anxious over her letter, the letter he’d stolen, and felt her own anger flare.

‘Well, I’m not satisfied,’ she snapped. ‘And I won’t be satisfied until I get my letter back.’

‘What?’ He stared at her, then his face changed and his dark eyes lit with amused comprehension. ‘Oh, your letter. Of course.’ To her absolute fury he had the insensitivity to laugh. ‘Still searching for that, are you?’ His smile slowly faded and his gaze softened as he read her hot, flushed face, her heaving breasts. ‘Ah, but it was worth getting caught, though, don’t you think?’ He reached forward and brushed her mouth with his finger. ‘Delicious, Sophy.’ His deep voice was velvet with sensuality. ‘You must come and search again.’

She felt the strongest desire to murder Connor O’Brien.

She turned on her heel and yanked open the door, and had to restrain herself to walk with dignity and not run. When she reached the clinic, she strode blindly past Reception without seeing a soul, then stalked through her room to the window, where she stood gasping in air and trying to cool her face.

She was in a confused daze for minutes, then thoughts finally seethed to the surface in her brain. She absolutely loathed that man. She would get her letter back. And she would make him suffer.

Later on, though, after she’d cooled down and had time to analyse her feelings, she realised her humiliation was not so much about being caught. She didn’t feel as guilty as she should about breaking in. The circumstances had demanded a bold move and the opportunity had been too good to throw away. She didn’t really even feel bad about the passport. That had merely been the result of an unfortunate sequence of events.

The thing that was tearing at her, eating her up, gnawing at her soul—was that kiss.

She covered her cheeks with her hands. If she hadn’t responded to him… She felt herself grow hot all over again at the thought of her undeniable enthusiasm. She hadn’t seemed able to help herself. And he… He had seemed equally involved during the—event. She couldn’t forget, though, how quickly he’d regained his cool, while she’d still been so hot and aroused to the bitter end.

What was truly humiliating was not knowing why he’d kissed her.

Had it only been because he’d known she had the passport?

Or—because he’d wanted to?

Connor finished shelving his books and closed the glass doors. The latest developments in his field as they applied to the rules of war had been his daily practice for years. Now, seeing the tomes lined up so proudly, his curiosity was aroused about what might have changed in human rights practice on the domestic front. This would be a good opportunity to catch up.

He glanced about him with satisfaction. His short-term hired furniture looked quite impressive. He could almost imagine what it would be like to set up here for real, with Sophy Woodruff in the room next door.

She was a puzzle. If Sir Frank’s suspicions had any foundation, she was the most unusual operative he’d ever encountered.

He made a wry grimace at himself, still getting over his astounding lapse of judgement in leaving his passport unsecured. All at once Sir Frank’s warning about him reaching his use-by date had a prophetic ring to it.

He would have to assume she’d have noticed the difference in his passport, forcing him now to some further embroidery of his cover story. Still, the lapse could work in his favour. Only a man with nothing to hide left his office door unlocked.

He smiled to himself, remembering her petrified expression in the first instant he’d surprised her search. Her clear blue eyes, alight with mingled horror and shame—that hint of a laugh dying to break out.

The question was whether she was inept, or very, very clever.

Whatever she was searching for now assumed crucial dimensions. With her being prepared to risk being caught in his office, she had to be near desperate, although there was no doubt she’d played her role of nervous bravado to perfection.

Of course, she still might have done if she were Sir Frank’s other possibility—a rapacious predator seeking to lift a besotted middle-aged man from the marital nest.