License to Thrill

cut to his in the mirror. "The stronger, the better."
    James shook his head slightly in confusion, willing his libido to heel. "Sorry?"
    "The coffee," she said, removing a hair dryer from the vanity. "The stronger, the better."
    "Right," he said, straightening. "Strong coffee coming up."
    She flicked a switch, eliciting the whine of the hair dryer, blowing her lustrous hair back from her face like some exotic model photo shoot. He turned and retreated into his room, chastising himself for allowing her to reduce him to a gawking schoolboy, when a stiff breeze would've had him chafing in his drawers.
    He dialed room service and ordered enough food for both of them. Glancing at the open connecting door, he resisted the urge to watch Kat complete her toilette and instead drew aside the curtains in his room to admire the spectacular twelfth-story view.
    San Francisco was a picturesque city, with hundreds of old Victorian row houses snuggled together in the hills, utilizing every square foot of scarce and expensive land. Their ice-cream colors and dark roofs with identical pitches reminded him of the patchwork quilt that used to cover the foot of his mother's bed. She'd called the pattern "tumbling blocks," although he had no idea how he remembered such an obscure detail.
    Diabetes had snatched her from them when he was not quite a full-grown man, and his father had succumbed less than a year later, of a broken heart, James was convinced. His older sister had been dating the man she'd eventually married, so for the most part, James had been left to his own devices.
    Later, his superiors and co-agents at British Intelligence had become his family, although he acknowledged that, out of necessity, everyone conducted themselves more like distant relatives. In the ensuing years, he'd grown fond of his own company...but suddenly he felt a swell of reverence for that elusive connection to another person, the bond which had crossed ethereal boundaries for his parents.
    Why these bittersweet domestic memories were descending on him now, he couldn't fathom. He peered back over his shoulder and bit the inside of his cheek—maybe his mood had something to do with Katherine McKray and the feelings she had dislodged within him. As if on cue, the muffled sound of her honeyed voice, half humming, half singing, invaded his room above the static noise of the hair dryer. The song was indistinguishable, but her tone sounded sweet and melancholy. And beckoning.
    He abandoned his station at the window and, against his will, took three strides toward her room before a knock on his door pulled him up short.
    "Room service," a voice called through the door.
    Grateful for the distraction, James claimed the food and tipped the man, then set the covered tray on an impractical looking writing desk. He stepped to the doorway to summon Kat, and leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, to watch her. Once again he was struck by her natural beauty as she finished drying her dark hair and sang to herself, apparently oblivious to being heard. She glanced up and stopped, mid-note, then blushed furiously and switched off the dryer.
    "Very nice," he said, grinning.
    "I didn't realize you could hear me."
    "I assure you, I found it delightful. Breakfast has arrived."
    She plucked her glasses from the vanity and slid them on, then preceded him into his room, her gaze pivoting from one side to the other. "Wow, I'll bet it's neater in here now than when you checked in."
    He shrugged, feeling a bit sheepish. "I'm trained not to leave a trail—I guess old habits die hard."

    *****

    A pang of disappointment cut through Kat's chest. "So," she said lightly, lifting the silver lid from the tray, "when you leave, no one will even know you've been here, is that what you're saying?"
    He was quiet for so long, she glanced up to find his head angled toward her. "Are you saying you will miss me, Pussy-Kat?" His voice was husky and colored with surprise.
    She dropped the lid and lifted her chin. "I said no such thing."
    His mouth twisted in an infuriating smile, then he wagged his finger at her and stepped closer. "Thou doth protest too much."
    "You're putting words in my mouth."
    "Then allow me to occupy it elsewhere," he murmured, pulling her into his arms.
    Her heart cartwheeled as he dipped his head with calculating slowness and captured her lips with his. The desire she'd smothered all morning, hoping to extinguish, rose like a phoenix out of the flames. All the