Mad About You

think she could have stolen the letter and sold it?"
    "It's possible. Would she have such contacts?"
    Kat glanced around the room, her mind racing, trying to recall conversations, people, places. "The Chinese have a corner on the import-export trade on the West Coast, so naturally they also control the black market." She pressed her lips together, then looked back to James. "Denise hangs out in Chinatown—she likes Asian men."
    His black eyebrows rose a fraction. "And as a model, I suspect she has access to wigs and such."
    Tears pricked her eyes as she nodded. Not Denise.
    Leaning toward the ottoman, he captured her bare feet in his hands and fingered the delicate bones of her ankles. "Kat, I'm sure this is hurtful to you, but it's good news—at the very least it's enough evidence to instill doubt in the minds of the grand jury."
    She shook her head, disbelief coursing through her. "I would have to hear it from her own mouth."
    "Shh," he whispered, stroking the tops of her feet. "Things will look better in the morning, Pussy-Kat. I'm glad you decided to come here—I'll feel better knowing you're nearby." He nodded to a narrow door beside the dresser and smiled, dimples carved deep in his cheeks. "And look—our rooms adjoin in the event you find yourself in need of"—he cleared his throat—"an alibi."
    His hands sent shivers up her legs, straight to the core of her desire. Her toes curled involuntarily, and her eyelids floated down. It would be so easy to let herself be swept away for the night, to lie beneath him and revel in the coming together of their bodies. He wanted her, and she wanted him. Their kisses were so sizzling, their coupling was bound to be mind-blowing. Why not? After all, he'd be leaving soon.
    A sharp pain pierced her chest even as his hands worked magic. He'd be leaving soon. And taking with him the fleeting memory of another conquest. She, on the other hand, would be left with the idealized perception of a hero no other man could live up to.
    Years ago she'd gotten through that hormone-crazed period where she believed physical love was synonymous with spiritual love. Now she was looking for someone to share the simple pleasures of life, someone who wanted a family and a measure of the American dream she'd observed on television.
    She opened her eyes and absorbed James's image: gorgeous, sexy beyond belief, charming...and completely untouchable. She deserved more than a casual affair, and she wasn't about to settle.
    He moved his ministrations to her calves, kneading her flesh through the thin knit of her leggings.
    Kat swallowed. Not even if he made her feel weak with longing.
    His fingers traced circles over her knees, then moved higher to caress her thighs.
    Her breath caught in her chest, and her gaze locked with his. Not even if he made her forget her surroundings.
    He leaned forward and inched his hand beneath the tail of her shirt, grazing the sensitive mound between her thighs.
    Kat's knees came up instinctively. Not even if he made her forget her name.
    She opened her mouth to protest before she lost the ability to speak, but his mouth closed over hers, stealing the words from her throat. This kiss held no tenderness, simply hard passion as he gathered her in his arms, pulled her forward onto the ottoman, and cradled her between his knees.
    His tongue wrought havoc on hers, teasing, battling, conquering. She shuddered, her nipples beading and scalding wetness warming her thighs. Her mind spun, racing to transmit a desperate message, a memory of what she'd been thinking the second before his lips touched hers. She had the faint feeling that the notion had been an important one, but it eluded her.

    James felt a strange, scary feeling erupt as he held Kat against him and delved into the sweet recesses of her mouth. Unidentifiable, the emotion pressing against his chest could best be compared to the time he had parachuted directly into a guerrilla camp in South America. And he had the distinct impression that he would not be able to shoot himself out of this situation.
    He lifted his head and studied her blue eyes, smoky with passion. Inhaling sharply, he released her and stood in one motion, albeit unsteadily. He'd crossed the room, opened the door, and taken one step into the hallway before he realized he owed her some token of an explanation. Turning, he took one look at her kiss-softened mouth and forgot whatever clever quip he'd intended to deliver.
    An indistinct good-night was