Читать книгу The Sex Files - Jule McBride, Jule Mcbride - Страница 9

“WHERE ARE YOU?” Peggy Fox whispered, hugging her green raincoat to her waist to stay warm and nervously pushing away the strands of blond hair falling over her eye. How could she have lost Oliver in the crowd? Just a second ago, he’d been standing across Sixth Avenue, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.

Now he was gone. She shuddered, either because of the chill air and fog, or because she couldn’t decide whether or not to approach him. As soon as she’d left the Plaza Hotel, things had taken a turn for the worse. She’d found where Oliver was staying, all right—a downtown apartment on Barrow Street that belonged to the sister he’d mentioned on TV—but before she could solicit his help, one of the men he worked with had chased her through the subway. He was a tall, bald, massively built black man who bore a striking resemblance to Bruce Willis.

“Halt!” he’d yelled. “I’m Kevin Hall. FBI. You’re wanted for questioning.”

She’d bolted, somehow losing him. But why was an agent chasing her? And why would she be wanted for questioning? She hadn’t done anything wrong. If Kevin Hall thought she was guilty of something, did Oliver Vargo think the same?

He, too, had spotted her in the subway, in the West Fourth Street station, and he’d given chase, although unlike Agent Hall, he hadn’t looked as if he wanted to arrest her. She’d had the distinct impression Oliver had realized she was following him, but until she knew for certain what was going on, she meant to play her cards close to the vest. Which was why she’d been spying on Oliver from Grand Central; unfortunately, from what she’d seen so far, he was chummy with Miles McLaughlin and Kevin Hall. Maybe that didn’t mean anything, though. The men were co-workers, after all.

Still, all this had thrown a wrench into her plans to contact Oliver, and now she felt even more ambivalent about going to the police. Why was an FBI agent chasing her? Her eyes darting, she searched the street as people surged around her. Oliver couldn’t have gone far. Moments ago, she’d tried to get closer to him by crossing the street, but both sides of Sixth Avenue were barricaded by police officers and saw-horses. Oliver had to be as trapped by the crowds as she.

The parade was a sight to behold, nothing like the well-known Macy’s parade. Here, in Greenwich Village, the atmosphere was more akin to Mardi Gras. Downtown revelers were costumed, dressed as turkeys, pilgrims and Native Americans. Irreverently ignoring the usual solemnity of the family holiday, the merrymakers scattered firecrackers in the street while a jazz band played the Wizard of Oz theme song.

She glanced around nervously. Oliver had seemed to recognize her in the subway, but maybe he’d just been running late and trying to catch a train. Now, even though she was wearing a simple, black Lone Ranger’s mask she’d bought from a street vendor, she feared the disguise would never fool Oliver Vargo, much less Susan Jones. Was the woman looking for her? If Peggy was found, would Susan try taking another shot?

Stress was taking its toll. Shivering, Peggy wished she’d eaten dinner. She was hungry and cold, even though the temperature was hovering in the forties. The wind had picked up, turning brisk, and the rain had tapered to an icy drizzle. The skimpy white dress beneath her coat had gotten damp.

She hugged her arms around herself. “Where are you?” she whispered again. How, in all this madness, was she supposed to find Oliver? She could only pray he wasn’t really as friendly with Miles as he’d looked when she’d spied on them. If it was Peggy’s word against Miles’s, who would Oliver be most inclined to believe? Peggy Fox, whom he’d never even met—or one of his own colleagues, a man he lunched with every day?

Shoving ungloved hands deep into the raincoat’s pockets, Peggy shivered again. Despite the body heat enveloping her, the gutters were gushing and her feet were soaked. She wanted to return to the hotel, take a shower and dry her wet clothes on the steam-heat registers. Just as she turned, preparing to fight her way through the crowd and back to the hotel, a hand curled around her upper arm.

Susan Jones! Fear bubbled in her throat as the fingers tightened purposefully. The woman had found her! Peggy was about to die! Her body tensed, and her throat closed in panic. She waited to feel a gun prodding her ribs. Cocking her head, she strained her ears. She didn’t know what command she expected. Don’t say a word, Ms. Fox. Just do exactly as I say, maybe. Or, One wrong move and you’re history. Or even worse, If you tell anyone what you know, your mom and Aunt Jill will pay.

She wished with all her heart that she hadn’t caught Miles in bed with Susan Jones—and that she hadn’t seen the money in the suitcase. Pain sliced through her. Her mom and Aunt Jill would be devastated if something bad happened to her. She’d do anything she could to protect them. When no one spoke, she tried unsuccessfully to wrench around, realizing in the process that the tall, hard body pressed against her back was decidedly male, which meant it wasn’t Susan Jones.

Was it Miles? Had she spoken his name aloud? She was so scared, Peggy wasn’t sure. Or was this his sidekick, the black man, Kevin Hall? Trapped by the crowd, she couldn’t turn. Or run. Or hide.

She squirmed, but every inch of the man’s muscular body moved with her. It was definitely the wrong time to notice how well suited she and this stranger were, at least from a physical perspective. His thighs molded to hers, his lap curved over her behind, his solar plexus fit into the groove of her spine, and finally, the steady thud of his heart seemed to take up residence inside her own chest, in the space just below her left shoulder.

Her pulse was racing, and when she sucked in another breath, hoping to calm herself, she knew it was useless. The man leaned closer, angled his head down, and she felt his breath against her neck; in the cold night, it was as warm as a fire. Suddenly, her heart ached. A wave of homesickness brought tears to her eyes. Blinking, she whispered, “Stop.”

He didn’t move or say a word. His breath kept teasing her, though—stirring strands of hair that traced her neck and the curve of her ear. What was going on? Was some crazy stranger about to try to steal a kiss? Was some psycho behind her? Half expecting his tongue to trace the shell of her ear, she felt her pulse catapult, jolting over the top.

“Gotcha,” he whispered simply.

Oliver Vargo.

She’d never felt the man’s touch before, but she’d recognize his voice anywhere. The distinctive bass was exactly as it had sounded during his televised interviews—and it sent a shiver of longing down her spine. He must have caught her watching him and doubled back to confront her.

“What are you doing?” she managed to say, ignoring traitorous sensations as she craned her neck to look over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he returned, his low voice dropping a seductive notch as his fingers flexed around her arm. “That might be a better place to start.”

Jerking her head in his direction, she struggled to keep her voice noncommittal. “I’m watching the parade.”

“Following me,” he countered.

Silently, she berated herself. Of course he’d noticed. He was an FBI agent—and one of the best. Oh, that day in the subway, she’d worried that he’d seen her, but she’d told herself that throwing her hair in front of her face had worked as a disguise. Guess not.

Oblivious of how his physical proximity was affecting her, he inched closer, and her heart missed a beat as heat flooded her. Yes, this was definitely the wrong time to contemplate how many fantasies she’d had about him rescuing her….

But she’d had plenty. Which was why, when the crowd behind him swelled, pushing him against her, she knew the man wasn’t really aroused. Oh, no. She was the one who’d been fantasizing about him—not the other way around. What Peggy felt was the result of her overactive imagination. Nevertheless, hadn’t she felt…something? And before she could stop herself, hadn’t that hard, powerful something brought a soft sigh to her lips? Well, no matter how sexy Oliver was, she had to stay in control. She had to keep her wits about her, in case whatever had prompted Kevin Hall to chase her might also prompt Oliver to…

On a surge of fear, she pivoted. Struggling as a second arm circled her, she continued fighting. She was sorry she did, too, because all the maneuvering brought the front of her body flush with his—and while Oliver wasn’t exactly aroused, he wasn’t not-aroused, either. Even more unsettling, she found herself gazing into his heart-stopping eyes. Darker than on television, they looked the color of liquid ink in the night, and they were scrutinizing her without apology.

“Let me go,” she said, trying to tell herself that the male awareness she saw was only her own wishful thinking.

When he didn’t release her, she swallowed hard. Was he helping Miles McLaughlin and Kevin Hall find her? Moving on instinct, she tried to run again, but there was nowhere to go. Oliver reflexively drew her nearer, and her cheek wound up pressed against a white shirt he wore beneath his trench coat. Heady scents assaulted her. He smelled just the way a man should.

Veering back, she slammed a fist to his chest, using the wall of muscle to steady herself, vaguely aware that her own coat was opening in the process. When she registered his skin quivering under her fingertips, she snatched back her hand. Inhaling audibly, she said, “Could you give me some breathing room?”

“Don’t worry,” he retorted dryly, his gaze flicking over the low-cut white dress she’d exposed. “I won’t burn you.”

“I doubt that,” she grumbled. Fighting embarrassment, she drew together the sides of the coat, knowing the lace of her bra had been visible through the dress’s tight fabric. No doubt, he’d noticed the effects of the chill air, too. She considered telling him that the dress didn’t even belong to her, but that would only call attention to the outfit and make matters worse.

“You doubt that? What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

But no TV image could have prepared her for how Oliver Vargo would affect her in real life. She’d already noted that his eyes seemed darker, as liquid as the November night, and yet they were full of glinting fire. Feeling completely unsettled, she tried to ignore how those eyes were roving over her face, as if memorizing each contour. “Why don’t you take off the mask?”

“Why?”

“I want to see your eyes.”

At the thought of Oliver Vargo scrutinizing her further, a shiver went down her spine, and she was glad for the mask. “I’d take it off, but everybody here’s in costume if you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed.”

“Then where’s your mask?”

“Must have left it at home.”

It would be a pity to cover those eyes. No, interviews hadn’t prepared Peggy for how the drizzle would look in his hair; glistening droplets caught in the thick, black waves, refracting light. How he towered over her was a surprise, too, since she was nearly six feet tall, herself, and men never did. The power coiling in his body wasn’t anticipated, either. Heat seeped from beneath his clothes, and as it warmed her, she wanted nothing more than to cup her hands over his broad shoulders and let him carry her away….

She came to her senses. “C’mon,” she repeated. “Let me go.”

His hand curled more tightly around her arm. “Go where?”

She said the first thing that came to mind. It was what she most wanted, after all. To be back in Ohio, watching her mother knit while Aunt Jill made one of the apple pies she was so well known for. “Home.”

“And where exactly is that?”

She should have known he wasn’t the kind of guy who liked one-word answers. Still startled by his sudden appearance, she said the next thing that popped into her head. “How did you get over here, anyway? You were across the street.”

“So, you’re definitely following me.”

“I thought you knew that.”

“I’m still waiting to hear why.”

“I’m not really following you,” she protested. “I mean, I…uh…”

His hand flexed in warning, and her mind hazed. Something black seemed to seep in at the edges of her consciousness. What was she about to say? With Oliver so close, she really couldn’t remember. She tried to focus, but only found herself concentrating on the warm hand curled around the sleeve of her coat. His fingers were long, slender and tapered. That was something else she hadn’t anticipated. Oliver Vargo had the hands of an artist.

“How did you get over here?” She managed to begin speaking again even though her throat was tight. “Sixth Avenue was blocked off on both sides.” The instant she said it, she realized he’d probably flashed his badge, but he surprised her again.

“I bought a token and went underground.”

He’d crossed beneath the street, using the subway concourse. “Smart move.”

“I’m full of them.”

“And modest.”

“So they say.”

“What’s your name?” she retorted. Maybe that would throw him off the track. Maybe it was best if she pretended not to know anything about him.

“I think you already know,” he said calmly. “But it’s Oliver. Oliver Vargo.”

The way he said it reminded her of how James Bond always introduced himself. The name’s Bond, James Bond. His fleeting smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, although it did show off rows of straight, white, gleaming teeth. Days ago, she’d decided he was more interesting-looking than handsome, but now that he was inches away, she was changing her mind. He was mouthwatering. Too bad he wasn’t acting nearly as charming as when he was on television, chatting with Kate Olsen.

“And since we’re exchanging names…” he said.

Despite his annoyance, his voice rippled through her, sending heat into her bloodstream, shooting quill after quivering quill into her belly.

“You were outside Grand Central,” he continued. “And outside the apartment where I’m staying, watching me from a club across the street, Nite-Lite.”

Yes, indeed, Oliver was more observant than she’d realized. He had a very commanding presence, too, and she was beginning to understand that denying all the accusations might not be in her best interest. Still, days ago, she’d been ready to turn to him for help, but now, after spying on him from Grand Central, she needed to be more certain she could trust him. “I can explain everything,” she said cautiously.

“I’m waiting.” When she didn’t respond immediately, he added dryly, “No rush. We’ve got all night.”

“We won’t have to spend all night,” she said quickly.

“We won’t be spending the night,” he murmured in soft echo, seemingly liking how the innuendo made her eyes widen.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Now that she was getting over her shock, Peggy noticed Oliver was looking at her with an oddly curious expression, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. “I don’t know where to start,” she said.

“You said you could explain everything,” he retorted, his gaze still assessing. “So, why don’t you start with that?” he suggested. “Everything.”

Surely she was misinterpreting the strange look in his eyes, but he clearly recognized her. There was no mistaking it now. Had Miles McLaughlin told him about her? And why had Kevin Hall chased her? she wondered again, panic making her insides tighten. “Before I do,” she said, “I need to know why you’re looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Like you know me. And like you want to kiss me. The thought came unbidden, but she could see it in the way his eyes kept drifting to her mouth. In fact, his eyes seemed to devour her, as if he’d long had fantasies about her. That was crazy, of course, and she tried to tell herself it was only wishful thinking, since she’d dreamed of him. What woman wouldn’t? Peggy was healthy. And sexually active before she’d sworn off love.

“Have we met before?” he asked.

“Have we?” she managed.

“I’ve seen you,” he murmured. “The same dark eyes. The same blond hair…”

Something in his voice—a thread of steel weaving through softness—made her heart pound again. As it beat a tattoo against her ribs, she wished with all her strength that he’d let her go. If anything convinced her she’d made a huge mistake by following him, it was the weakness hitting the backs of her knees. Yes, with his hard, aroused body pressed against hers, she suddenly felt sorry, truly sorry, they’d met. As things stood, she’d been in enough trouble.

“Let me go,” she said again, with more conviction.

“I don’t think so,” he answered in an easy tone that belied his commanding words. “You’re coming with me, Cameron.”

Things were getting stranger by the minute. She swallowed nervously. “Cameron?”

“Yeah…” Lightly licking his lips, he repeated the name as if he liked the taste of it in his mouth. “Cameron.”

“What are you talking a—”

He interrupted, saying the strangest thing yet. “Whoever you are—” He squeezed his hand around her arm again as if to test the truth of it. “You’re every bit as real as me.”

“Of course I am.” She squinted at him.

“Why are you following me?” he asked again.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t mean you any harm—”

“You,” he emphasized with a chuckle. “Harm me?”

Of course the idea was ludicrous. Oliver Vargo was tall, broad-shouldered and packed with solid muscle that made her shudder. “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t defend yourself.” The question was, could he defend her?

The longer she looked at him, she wasn’t even sure she wanted him to. The second their bodies connected, she’d realized this man could be dangerous, if only to her heart. How many times could a woman trust, after all? How many times could she heal and then open herself up to let in feelings of love—only to find out she’d been used again?

She bit down hard on her lower lip. Everything around her seemed to tilt off-kilter. Admit it, she thought. She was already half in love with him. She was a crime-story junkie, which was what had gotten her into all this trouble in the first place, and when she’d read Oliver’s books she’d been smitten…

Her eyes darted from left to right, seeking escape.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned quietly.

She wanted to look anywhere but into his eyes, and yet she forced herself to stare him down, not about to be intimidated. “Why did you call me Cameron?”

“What is your name?”

“I see you’re going to answer questions with questions.”

“Until you start talking.”

She considered a long moment. Feeling sure nothing good was going to come of all this, she said, “I guess Cameron will do. For now.” Maybe this way, she could buy time, find out what was happening at the FBI office. Whatever was going through Oliver Vargo’s mind at the moment, he wasn’t saying he was going to take her in for questioning, the way Kevin Hall had….

“Who are you, really?”

She had a thousand answers for that, beginning with Peggy Fox, a woman in trouble. But he was getting impatient. He said, “Are you a fan?”

“Uh…yeah.” That, too.

His gaze flicked down, making her realize her coat had fallen open again. He was slowly perusing the tight white dress beneath, his gaze lingering on the scoop neckline, as if he was thoroughly intrigued by the space where fabric ended and skin began.

The crowd surged, pushing him into her arms, and she gasped. Her hands dropped the coat collar and grabbed the sawhorse behind her. Trapped against the barricade, she felt completely helpless when their hips locked. When his chest brushed hers, there was no help for the way her nipples beaded. Heat flooded her cheeks, staining them a crimson red that even the night’s darkness couldn’t hide. He seemed to be aware of every nuance. She was sure of it when she registered his quickening breath.

“Look,” she managed to say. “We can’t talk here.” In this cold rain, her white dress might as well be made of cellophane.

His intrigued expression didn’t bring much comfort. “You have a better idea?”

The seconds seemed to drag on—as if this whole exchange had lasted an eternity, not a scant few minutes. Apparently, Oliver Vargo thought she was a crazed fan.

Dammit, she was a fan.

But not the one he assumed. Had he had some difficulty with a woman named Cameron? Whatever the case, he didn’t know her real name, which meant Miles McLaughlin hadn’t mentioned her to him. Regarding his and Miles’s relationship, there was only one way to find out the truth—question him. “I…I have a hotel.”

He stared at her. “Did you say hotel?”

She nodded toward McDougal Street. “I’m in the Washington Square Hotel.” It was only two blocks away. She’d been so intent on gauging the distance that she’d barely noticed the genuine smile claiming Oliver’s lips. When she saw it, she felt thoroughly unsettled. All at once, the man’s countenance had cleared. He offered a slight nod, as if a knotty misunderstanding had been resolved and everything now made perfect sense to him.

Good for you, Peggy thought dryly, since she still didn’t have a clue what was going on.

His hand slid slowly downward, gliding from her upper arm to her elbow, creating a wake of electrical current. A brass band began to play, and over the music, Oliver softly repeated the word hotel. And then, under his breath, he added, “Cameron, this is a dream come true.”