License to Thrill

inspect it more closely. Thoroughly impressed, he caressed the knobby surface of a brass-inlaid mahogany humidor the size of a breadbox, then carefully turned the tiny tasseled key and lifted the lid. "Bloody hell," he breathed as the rich scent of fresh tobacco filled his nostrils. He lifted one of the cigars lovingly.
    "They're Cuban," came Kat's voice from the other side of the room.
    James turned to find her leaning against the wall, arms crossed over a demure white cardigan sweater atop wide-leg black pants. Her rich dark hair had been twisted into a somewhat looser knot—Denise's touch, he presumed. She was not smiling.
    "I know," he said, looking back to the cigar he held. "Hoyo De Monterrey Double Coronas—the best." And according to the long-running U.S. Cuban embargo, quite illegal, he noted. "Are these yours?"
    "They were my father's," she said, pushing away from the wall and walking toward him slowly.
    "Were?"
    "He died last year. I saved his cigars—the smell reminds me of him."
    Her voice sounded steady, but the total lack of emotion betrayed the effort she expended to sound casual. He could tell she'd been devastated by her father's death, and he felt a pang of sympathy. Although relatively sure she juniored his thirty-seven years only by a half dozen or so, at this moment she looked as vulnerable as a child.
    "You've taken exceptional care of them." He replaced the cigar carefully among the two dozen or so identical ones remaining, then lowered the lid.
    "Replenishing the water in his humidor is a small thing to do to preserve something he loved," she said softy.
    "I'm sure he would be pleased," James said, stifling the urge to fold her into his arms. He shook himself mentally. Lust was a comfortable, familiar emotion—sometimes he conquered it, sometimes he surrendered to it. But this sudden... affection ...was unsettling. "Are you ready?"
    She lifted one eyebrow. "Are you finished snooping?"
    He grinned sheepishly. "Forgive me, I was quite intrigued."
    She simply inclined her head, and James felt as if they'd reached some kind of understanding.
    "Where's your friend?" he asked.
    "She's using her phone in my room—I guess it's her way of giving us some privacy."
    "I'm indebted to her for her efforts."
    "Don't feel so special," she warned. "This week alone she tried to set me up with the pest control sprayer, the meter reader, and the guy who delivers for the Chinese restaurant down the street."
    Holding the door open, James acknowledged her outfit with a wry smile. "Very nice, but do you always dress so, um, warmly?"
    Kat was donning a long all-weather coat, but stopped mid-motion, tossed it on a chair, and stuck her tongue out at him. He rather liked it.
    Stepping into the hall, he asked, "Where are we going?"
    "To Torbett's, about six blocks over. The food is good, the utensils are clean, and there's usually a little jazz band playing."
    "Hmmm, sounds romantic," he murmured, settling an arm around her waist.
    She stopped and carefully removed his hand, then continued walking out of the building.
    It was a balmy August evening, but a salty wind from the bay nipped at his cheeks. Suddenly, James understood Kat's penchant for sweaters. "Brilliant weather," he offered.
    "The rainy season will begin soon," she lamented.
    "Good for attendance at the museum," he said with a smile.
    "True," she said, smiling back.
    She had a very pretty face, he decided. Not model perfect, but striking, to be sure. Animated and fresh, Kat looked vibrant and interesting, and James found himself already planning ways to extend their time past the hour he'd promised her. He could always catch a flight to New York tomorrow.
    After they descended the stairs to the sidewalk, she asked, "Shall we walk or take a taxi?"
    "Neither," he said, pointing. "I was able to rent a passable car for the duration of my short stay."
    Kat followed his finger and blinked. "The black Jaguar?"
    "It'll do in a pinch."

    *****

    Okay, Kat acknowledged begrudgingly, not only did the man have good taste in clothes and cigars, but he scored high in the automobile category, too. James unlocked the door with a keyless remote and held open the passenger door for her. "Remind me never to show you the heap I drive," she said as she lowered herself into the squeaky leather seat.
    Panic rose in her throat after he slid into his seat and the slight vacuum seal of the door isolated them in the intimate interior of the car. Everything about this man screamed