License to Thrill

laugh was short and dry. "Mr. Donovan, certainly you don't expect me to give you the run of my museum."
    "No," he said pleasantly. "Just standard precautions, I assure you."
    She pursed her lips. "Sir, our painting vault contains many valuable works—some worth much more than a letter which has yet to be authenticated. We typically don't give security demonstrations."
    "I'm wounded you don't trust me, Ms. McKray. I can arrange for associates from the FBI and the CIA to contact you within the hour to vouch for my good character."
    Kat frowned. "From what organization did you retire, Mr. Donovan?"
    "I was an intelligence agent for the British government."
    "Agent double-oh-seven?" she asked lightly.
    "No," he said in a grave tone, then leaned forward and whispered, "Agent sixty-nine." His mouth bent in a lopsided smile that left her wondering if he was struggling not to laugh at her.
    That smile of his still mocked her when she unlocked the door to her apartment after work. She glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. Denise would be here soon, and they would settle in for several hours of female bonding over beer and pepperoni pizza. Kat yawned widely at the prospect.
    As she undressed and rehung her suit, she felt twinges of regret for turning down James Donovan's dinner invitation. There were worse ways to spend an evening than eating on an expense account with an attractive man and his sexy accent. But she knew a womanizer when she saw one, and Mr. Donovan was much too irresistible to get tangled up with, even for a few hours.
    She pulled on a faded T-shirt that barely covered her cotton undies and released her dark shoulder-length hair from its chignon, frowning when she remembered his comment about her hairstyle. But she smirked when she surveyed her legs, still and always her best physical attribute. After further, more critical perusal in the full-length mirror, Kat sprawled on the wood floor in her bedroom and did fifty sit-ups.
    Out of breath, she dug her ratty, pink house shoes from the bottom of her closet and hopped to the living room as she put them on. After phoning in the pizza order, she picked up the thriller she'd half read. At exactly seven, the doorbell rang, and Kat rose from the couch, still reading the book she carried.
    She absently unlocked the two deadbolts on the door, then swung it open to greet her friend.
    James Donovan stood in the doorway, dressed in casual attire and unabashedly studying her legs. Kat's tongue felt wooden, her limbs paralyzed. He glanced up and grinned lazily.
    "Hallo, Pussy-Kat."

Chapter Two

    JAMES KNEW HE WOULD forever remember the look on Katherine McKray's face as she stood in the doorway of her flat. Her fetching mouth was relaxed in a most becoming way, and behind those schoolmarm's glasses, the dark blue irises of her eyes were generously framed in white.
    "You're a truthful woman, Ms. McKray, your legs are indeed beautiful."
    Her mouth snapped shut and she drew back her shoulders, inadvertently exposing a few more inches of thigh for his enjoyment. "How did you know where I live?"
    He smiled. "I can assure you I've tackled more challenging tasks in my career."
    "You have ten seconds to explain why you're here."
    "You're not wearing a watch."
    "One Mississippi, two Mississippi—"
    "It's simple." James shrugged. "I was hoping to persuade you to change your mind about sharing a meal." He reached forward and plucked the novel from her hand. After studying its cover, he made a clicking sound with his cheek. "You prefer a paperback to my company? I'm wounded, Ms. McKray."
    Kat snatched the book out of his hand. "For your information, Mr. Donovan—"
    "Please call me James, all my friends do."
    Her eyes blazed. "For your information, Mr. Donovan, I'm expecting company."
    He studied her carefully, inch by inch, from the top of her mussed hair to the curled toes of her horrid slippers. "And this is someone you wish to impress?"
    "Good night." She slammed the door in his face.
    The sound vibrated throughout the worn hallway, followed by the purposeful thwack , thwack , of both deadbolts turning. He shifted from foot to foot, waiting for inspiration to strike him. Damn, she was a spirited woman!
    "Hello," came a voice down the hall.
    He turned to see a skinny redhead with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder approaching him warily.
    "Are you here to see Kat?" she asked, her head angled skeptically.
    "Yes," he said quickly. "I was just about to knock." He gave her his most