Don't Tempt Me by Barbara Delinsky Read Free Book Online Page B

decried total calm.
    In profile he was striking. The fullness of that silver-sheened hair fell in casual disregard across the lightly furrowed plane of his brow, leading her very appreciative eye down a straight and character-revealing nose to his mouth, that mouth whose lips could be gentle in smile or staunch in control—as they had been earlier that evening under Richard Logan’s pointed questioning.
    Justine shifted in her seat, cornering herself against the door to better see him with assumed nonchalance. Her surreptitious glances had become less surreptitious with repetition. Sloane’s knowing expression as they sat stopped at a traffic light alerted her to that fact. Self-consciously she combed her fingers through the amber-hued waves at her neck, then ventured to break the silence.
    â€œNow that your headquarters are in New York, are you living here?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œYou’ve settled in?”
    â€œJust about.”
    She gave him time to elaborate; when he forfeited, she tried again.
    â€œDo you enjoy it … living here, I mean?”
    The smile on his face was melancholy in the night light.
“I spend so much time traveling that I haven’t really come to know New York as home yet.”
    In the ensuing silence, an ambulance rushed by in vociferous haste. “Hmmm,” she murmured, half to herself, “must be some emergency.”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    It puzzled her that the conversation had grown so stilted. They had talked easily enough before—but that had been principally in the business realm. Was Sloane adverse to revealing the personal about himself? The matter of sleeptalking belied that bent. Then, as she pondered it, the overall situation grew suddenly clearer. Regardless of the motive on the part of Dan Logan for her presence at dinner, she was, indirectly or not, part of Sloane’s business world. Seemingly, he had tired of business obligations for the evening. This last—the driving home of his attorney-once-removed—was a simple courtesy. Beyond that she should expect nothing.
    Yet the sense of expectancy that filled the car was not solely in her imagination. Struggling to quell it, she turned to gaze out the side window, in an act of perfect timing. “Oh, we’re almost here!” she exclaimed softly. “It’s that one over there … that’s right.” Her pointing finger guided Sloane in bringing the car to a halt before the gray stone building, a high-rise apartment house on whose tenth floor she lived.
    Determined to avoid further embarrassment, she took a fast inventory of her belongings, clutching the purse and her briefcase as she turned to Sloane. He, however, was already on his way around the car to help her out.
    â€œYou don’t really need to walk me in. There is a doorman on duty—”
    But he took her arm firmly. “Come on. I don’t want you going up alone.” His smooth intensity startled her, adding to her confusion. Was it business or pleasure? Protectiveness or resentment? She had no way of knowing.

    If the car ride had been filled with a strange sense of foreboding, the ride in the elevator was electric. With each passing floor anticipation mounted, weakening Justine’s limbs, sending currents of excitement through her. He stood so very masculine beside her—then looked down and caught the emerald sparkle of her gaze and held it for an instant, before allowing her to lower her eyes in search of her keys.
    The moment had arrived. The door of her apartment, stark and white, stood before them.
    â€œSloane, thank you …” she began politely, turning toward him with as much courage as she could muster. The last thing she wanted was to say good-bye.
    A low oath filtered through Sloane’s slitted lips as he took her purse and briefcase and propped them on the carpet against the wall. His straightening motion brought her eyes up with it. “I