License to Thrill

"I'm sorry I asked you to help me, but I needed someone I could..." She trailed off, stopping short of using the word "trust." Was it trust, or was she so eager to buy into the glamour of a gorgeous, sexy, foreign agent coming to her rescue that she’d thrown caution to the wind?
    He leaned forward with agonizing slowness, until his eyes were level with hers. "Did you do it?" His dark eyes bore into hers, commanding the truth.
    Hurt that he suspected her sparked, then flamed in her breast. "No."
    His eyebrows rose and relief eased his features, then he angled his head. "Do I have your word, Pussy-Kat?"
    His velvety voice rolled over her eardrums like a symphony, echoing deep inside her. Like her, he seemed to be struggling with a desire to trust. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?"
    "Indeed," he acknowledged with a small nod. The lines of his face had softened. He reached forward and grazed her cheek with the back of his hand. "But it's your own fault."
    The touch of his hand sent her pulse racing. "My fault?"
    His mouth curved into a warm smile that made her heart catch. "If you had simply allowed me to spend the night, you would've had an airtight alibi—not to mention an unforgettable experience."
    Absurdly heartened by the return of his good cheer, Kat smiled and swung into the seat. "Right now I'd settle for the alibi."
    He adopted a hurt expression. "Once again you wound me, Ms. McKray." Then he winked and stepped back to close her door.
    Unfamiliar feelings raged in her chest as Kat watched him walk around the car. His body moved with offhand athleticism in gray wool slacks, black turtleneck, and black cashmere jacket. He looked sleek and dangerous as he slid behind the wheel. After he pulled away from the curb, he glanced at her pointedly. "Were you treated well?"
    She nodded. "I suppose, although I have no other experiences to compare with this one."
    "Don't think I haven't been concerned, but I spent most of the day at the gallery, trying to glean as much information as possible about the break-in."
    Weariness pulled her head back on the leather seat. "This situation is so unbelievable, I don't know how to sort it all out."
    "You could begin by telling me about the circumstances surrounding your father's death."
    She was grateful for his careful tone, for treading softly on her loss. "He didn't kill himself, no matter what anyone says."
    "And what about the embezzling?"
    "Never," she whispered fiercely. "Dad could never have stolen from the gallery. He loved Jellico's—it was his life."
    "Could he have reacted to being overlooked for the general manager position?"
    Kat bit her bottom lip. "He was hurt—devastated even—when Mr. Jellico brought in Guy, but they acknowledged Dad's value to the gallery and gave him a hefty raise. He was content, if not entirely happy." She blinked back hot tears.
    "So if you believe him innocent, why are you paying back the money?"
    Embarrassment shot through her and she averted her eyes. "I see Guy has been spilling his guts."
    "He thinks you're guilty."
    "He's a moron."
    "Detective Tenner believes him."
    "Then he's a moron too."
    James laughed, a low, pleasing sound. "So why?"
    Kat lifted her chin. "Keeping my dad's name clear was the last thing I could do for him."
    He pressed his lips together. "Mr. Trent said you've nearly paid back the amount that was missing."
    Satisfaction warmed her. "In another couple of months it'll be paid in full, with interest. Forty-four thousand, six hundred fifty-two dollars." It was probably a paltry amount to James, but it was a considerable sum to her.
    "I suspect San Francisco is an expensive place to live. How did you manage?"
    "A ridiculous amount is deducted from my paycheck, and I make extra payments when I can." She choked out a bitter laugh. "I was planning to resign the day I made the last payment."
    "They made you stay at Jellico's as part of the deal?"
    Her lips formed a straight, hard line. "That's right."
    "That borders on extortion."
    She shrugged. "I suppose. But Jellico's is a prestigious gallery, so I'm getting good experience. Make that past tense—I'm sure I'm fired."
    "Your boss implied that you'd gotten the money for extra payments by selling items stolen from the gallery."
    Kat scoffed and pushed her hands toward him, palm up. "I earned the money for extra payments by refinishing antiques for people who are too rich to get their own hands dirty. See—my hands are permanently stained