Deadly Little Secrets (15 page)

“Right,” she managed to laugh. Somehow, his dry humor was helping her recover her equilibrium. “You're a real button-pusher there, Gates Bromley. We women should beware.”

“Exactly,” he said, then asked, more seriously, “Do you think you could eat?”

“Yes.” Her stomach protested the long wait with an audible growl. “Obviously.”

“Good, me too.” He tapped on the smoked-glass panel, and the driver smoothly changed lanes and made a turn. Before she could finish her wine, they were there.

“Wow, I'm feeling the impact of the day,” she said, clipping the glass into its holder. “Between the crying jag and the wine, I'm not sure how steady I'm going to be.” Much as she hated to admit it, she figured it was better to forewarn him rather than drop like a rock at his feet if she was overextended.

“Food then, first thing.”

“Good.” She glanced out the window, trying to figure out where they were. Nothing looked familiar, which bothered her.

She hated feeling out of control. Being vulnerable with Gates had given him too much insight into her. She needed to find her footing, be sure she was on solid ground before they got back into this dark, cozy town car and he took her home. She'd made too many mistakes with suave, handsome men. She didn't want to repeat them.

When she'd refused Jen's attempts to get her to go out, this was what she'd been avoiding. Intimacy. The powerful draw of the sensual.

No one's ever done this to you, made you feel this way.
The little voice in her head, referring to Gates and her reaction to him, was almost as frightening as losing control.

Whether it was the effect of the wine or the adrenaline, Gates was even more attractive, more sensual than he'd seemed before. Considering she'd had erotic dreams about him based just on his voice, that was saying something.

I gotta get some food before I do something stupid.

That was the first sensible thought she'd had in an hour, so she repeated a version of it out loud. “Seriously, you're right. I think I'd better get something to eat, and soon.”

“That's the plan,” Gates said as they pulled into an alleyway. “Here we are.”

Startled, Ana balked at getting out. “Why are we in the alley?”

Gates's smile was charming and totally calm. “The front entrance is too exposed. Given that someone took a shot at me yesterday and you today, I'm feeling vulnerable.” He grimaced. “Yeah, I guess that's a trigger word for me too. Anyway, we'll be going in the side door. We can pretend we're rock stars.”

Nonplussed, Ana looked at him. “Side door it is. Now, let's go before I do something stupid like hug you and start crying again.”

“Wait? There's hugging?” he said as they slid out into the dark. The driver held an umbrella over their heads. “Nobody told me there was going to be hugging,” he protested, laughing.

“It's barely raining now,” she murmured, trying to ignore his teasing.

“Can't shoot what you can't see,” he whispered in her ear, his words as serious now as he'd been playful before. The driver opened the side door to the restaurant and ushered them in. A maitre d' was waiting, all beaming smiles.

“Welcome, welcome, Mr. Bromley. And your lovely guest. Yes, yes, come this way,” he enthused. “I have your table all ready. Certainly,” he answered some unasked question. “Yes, and a nice bottle of white chilling. So, lovely lady, is there anything you don't like to eat? Anything you cannot eat?”

The man paused with considerable drama at the end of the corridor, his hand on the door that presumably led to the restaurant itself. Distracted by thoughts of Gates, the ride to the restaurant, everything, including the maitre d'took her off guard. He was obviously waiting for her to answer, but she didn't remember the question.

“Yes?”

“Food allergies? Anything you detest? Are you vegetarian, vegan?”

Whoa. Now
that
is service.

“I hate Brussels sprouts and pretty much any kind of beans,” she said, feeling slightly defensive about food issues when put on the spot. “I don't eat veal.”

“Yes, yes, good. None of that tonight, so good. Anything else?”

“Not that I know of.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when he whisked through the door with a further wave of his hand. “This way, this way. Yes, yes, yes, it's all ready. Very good. Welcome and all that. Now, here you are, sir,” he directed Gates to slide in one side of a booth in a darkened corner. There were other diners, but they were separated by high banquettes. Several other isolated tables like theirs were minimally visible through screening plants. Some were occupied; some were not. “And you on this side, Madame,” he directed, holding out an imperious hand for her briefcase. “Settle in now, be comfortable. I'll put this right here.”

The maitre d' bustled around, fluffing their napkins and dropping them artistically on each of their laps. “Your usual vintage, Mr. Bromley?”

“Please,” Gates said, and Ana could tell he was suppressing a smile. “My companion found it to be enjoyable, so we'll continue with that.”

“Water too, please,” Ana added.

“But of course, Madame. Sparkling?”

“That's fine, Mr. Prinz.” Gates was polite, but Prinz easily read the dismissal and with a brilliant smile, he trotted off to do their bidding. Gates turned to her. “So, no Brussels sprouts for you either?”

She made a face. “Nasty things. Bitter. Bleeech.”

“I know people who love them, but I agree with you. Bleeech.” He tapped the menu in front of her. “Nothing in here warrants that face or reaction, I can assure you. I've never had a bad meal here, and most of the ones I've had have been,” he paused, which made her look his way, “exquisite.”

Somehow, he was making that all about her and not about the food. That
look
was back, and the hand he'd casually slipped behind her in the booth now toyed with the loose tendrils of hair at the back of her neck. The roller-coaster ride of her emotions took another startling dip and rise. He was putting on the serious flirt again, but it was far more than a surface thing. This was real, important, and that scared her to death.

“That's quite the uh, recommendation.” She was having a hard time concentrating on the slim folder. His touch was so sure, so sensuous; she wanted to arch into his hand, purr like her cat, Lancelot. Where was her control? Where was the reserve, the shell that had served her so well since Rome?

Gone. Gone like the block that had kept her tears from flowing. Washed away by the spate of weeping.

She was still staring blindly at the menu when Prinz bustled back to the table.

“Here we are, wine and water. Essential to life, both of them, of course.” He beamed, pouring a taste for Gates.

“No need for formality, Mr. Prinz. I know it's wonderful, so pour out.”

“Of course, sir.” He poured out and bustled off again.

Gates let the menu fall so he could pick up his wine without stopping his assault on her senses, as he continued to stroke her neck under the fall of her heavy hair. He was a dangerous, dangerous man.

“I think we should get our orders settled, discuss some business, and then I can have dinner to just enjoy your company. Does that work for you?” Gates said, watching her with just the hint of a smile.

“Of course.” She returned to the consideration of her own menu as if he'd said nothing out of the ordinary. The list of luscious dishes blurred before her tired eyes, and all she could focus on was the feel of his stroking fingers. “That would be fine,” Ana said, trying once more to resurrect her equilibrium.

She felt idiotic. Then again, the last time she'd been on a date, it had been with an all-hands octopus of an Italian in Rome, just before the bombing. She'd been trying to get back on the proverbial dating horse. It hadn't worked. Certainly, the sensation of Gates's featherlight touch on her neck was nothing like the ham-handed grabbiness of the Italian guy.

“Ana?”

“Sorry,” she said, distracting his all-too-sharp gaze by tapping the menu. Trying for normal conversation, she asked, “What do you think is involved in bourgeois steak with potato frites and greens? How does one make a steak bourgeois?”

She fell back on the agent's rule of thumb: When in doubt, ask questions.

“Ah, bourgeois? I have no idea, but this chef is legendary for unusual dishes. If it sounds intriguing, it probably is.”

“Intriguing. Do I want to eat intriguing food? It's been a rough enough day already,” Ana said, feeling every bit of that statement in her bones. Rough didn't even begin to describe how she was feeling.

“You'll enjoy it, trust me. It will be great. Here, have a glass of wine and get out your notes. Let's dig into this so you'll have something solid to occupy your mind before you wig out.”

“Wig out? Nice. Thanks.” Ana accepted a filled glass and reached into her briefcase for a writing pad and one of the files. How could he know that the work would steady her? For now, she didn't question it. However it worked, it would help her, so she went with it.

Gates topped off his own glass and took a set of folded papers from the breast pocket of his coat. Scrawled writing filled the pages, with a variety of boxed comments and underlined sentences with question marks.

“Interesting notes,” Ana said as she opened her own folder.

“Ideas. Searches I've pulled recently on the art,” he dismissed the notes. “Nothing turned up on the two databases we discussed. So,” he leaned into the banquette, wine in hand. “Talk to me.”

“It started with this,” Ana began, pointing to the original search she'd done when she reviewed the case for the first time. By the time they came to the dessert course, Ana had to admit that the chef was a total genius with food. Between the food, the wine, and the stimulating company, Ana felt more alive, more in the groove than she had for over a year.

“See here?” She pointed out the terms of the latest search she'd run. “This is where things began to happen.”

 

Gates looked at the page where Ana was pointing. As much as her presence was distracting, it was also invigorating. Conversation with her sharpened his mind as well as his senses. He'd decided after she left the estate earlier in the day that he was going to pursue her. He hadn't done that in years, much to Dav's irritation. With Ana, he'd decided to make an exception. Something about her tugged at him, pulled at his intellect as well as his libido.

She said something else that caught his attention, tapping a search parameter. He frowned over her notes, over the ideas.

“Wait,” he interrupted her. “That doesn't make sense.” He flipped open the leather notepad he kept in his pocket, began a timeline. “If your runs on the data started here,” he began drawing out the line, marking delineations of things as they occurred. “Why did you get a reaction now?”

“Hmmm, not sure,” she murmured, leaning close to him so she could see what he had written. She took his pen, made another mark. “I ran a basic three-prong query on Moroni here, just to see what popped in Google and Mackie,” she said.

He knew she wasn't doing it deliberately, but the warmth of her body distracted him. He thought of Ana's soft body against his, their heated exchange of kisses.

God, he hadn't felt that hot for a woman in, well, ever. He watched her. Her brow furrowed as she scanned through the annotations in her file. She wouldn't let him read any of it—that would give him too much power, be too intrusive, which he understood—but she was sharing, matching her skills with his. It felt good. Too good in some ways. The power of it was seductive. He'd already decided he was going to pursue her. He had to be careful though, to keep his own heart intact. The combination of intellect and sensuality, even her tears, had drawn him, inexorably, to her.

“What about this?” he rattled off a series of search options, and had the interesting experience of seeing her eyes light up, feeling her body quiver with repressed excitement over the concept. He let his eyes drift shut, imagining her next to him, under him, quivering in the same way, but for different reasons.

The intensity was almost shocking. He forced himself to pull back from it, make sure he gave it plenty of thought before he leapt in. She'd been hurt, but his own pain was still fresh, despite the years since his parents' deaths. He never forgot that relationships, obsessions, had led to that loss. The woman responsible had vowed to finish the job, eradicate everything his father had loved, including Gates and his sister.

Passion took many dangerous turns, and turning toward Ana would never be simple.

“If we did
this,
it might get us something,” Ana said, bringing him abruptly back to the discussion. She pointed to a series of obscure search terms she'd scribbled on a blank sheet. They surprised him. Her mind was fast and flexible. Again, he felt the undeniable surge of deep attraction to her.

Fortunately for him, she was oblivious to his wandering thoughts, as she continued. “We might trace calls from the various galleries. I'd have to get a lot of permissions,” she mused. He could all but see the wheels turning in her mind. “If we took the search terms, though, and factored in each of the victim's numbers, provided they'd let us use them,” she grinned wryly, and he answered it with his own smile. “We could do a multi-factor overlayment process, with multiple keywords.” She was getting enthusiastic, now. “If we did that,” she scribbled down a list of terms and rates, processes and multitasking data runs. “Then this,” she jotted two more items. “There. That would do it, don't you think?”

Focusing on the pages, he tracked her logic.

She was brilliant. No doubt in his mind, seeing what she'd written. And damn him if that wasn't as sexy, as attractive, as her long, lean body, dark hair, and hazel eyes. As she talked, he saw the sheer creativity with which her mind worked.