Midnight Jewels

seemed able to read her as easily as he would read a book.
    But she had learned some things about him, too. Falconer was, for the most part, supremely in control of himself and the world around him, yet he had his limits and he could be pushed beyond them. He could be provoked into letting go of the internal reins he held. Last night Mercy knew she had succeeded in doing exactly that.
    In the clear light of day she was amazed by her own daring. More than amazed. She was staggered by it.
    Mercy opened her eyes and found the room filled with predawn light. A glance at the clock beside the bed told her it was five-thirty. A glance at the bed beside her told her that Croft was gone.
    She frowned and sat up. Belatedly she remembered she had never gotten around to putting on a nightgown. As she climbed out of bed and reached for a robe, Mercy listened for the sound of the shower or the clatter of the coffeepot in the kitchen. The apartment was utterly silent, but she sensed it wasn't empty.
    Tying the yellow sash of the scarlet robe around her narrow waist, Mercy padded to the bedroom door and paused again to listen. There was still no sound, but now she was certain Croft hadn't left. Silently she walked down the short hall to the living room.
    He was sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of the window. He was nude and his hands rested easily on his bent knees. His whole attention seemed focused on a point on the horizon at the very limits of her tiny scrap of view. Mercy realized Croft was meditating.
    Respectfully she withdrew and went back down the hall toward the bathroom. This discovery, she decided as she stepped into the shower a few minutes later, was fascinating. But then, everything about this man seemed to interest her.
    The incident was illuminating in several respects, she thought as she stood under the hot spray, but above all it illustrated just how little she still knew about him.
    Common sense dictated that she slow down the affair that had sprung up like wildfire on a hot summer day. She had no doubt that Croft knew what he wanted and what he was doing. Unfortunately, she wasn't as in touch with her own wants and needs.
    Perhaps she was the one who needed a period of meditation to try to get her thoughts in order.
    Wrapped in a towel, Mercy emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later to find Croft in the bedroom, examining the copy of
Valley of Secret Jewels
that had been lying on the nightstand. He had put on a pair of jeans but that was all. The contoured muscles of his shoulders and back were well defined in the morning light. He glanced up, taking in the sight of her wet hair swept back in a neat, clinging wave, her freshly scrubbed face and the waterdrops that still glistened on her bare shoulders. The faint smile that lit his eyes could only be described as satisfied and possessive. He took a step toward her but halted immediately when Mercy went still. He held up the book.
    "Don't forget to pack this."
    "Don't worry," she retorted, "I wasn't planning on leaving it behind."
    "Been using it for some late night reading, I see."
    "Purely professional interest," she informed him loftily and turned away to search about in a drawer for her underwear. She knew she was turning pink.
    "Professional interest. Is that what you call it?"
    She heard the teasing quality in his voice and was torn between the pleasure of hearing his silent laughter and the annoyance of having him discover the book in such an incriminating location. "Yes, it was professional interest. I even formed a professional opinion about the author."
    "Rivington Burleigh?" Croft walked up behind her and put his hands on her bare shoulders. He dropped a feather light kiss on her wet hair. "What conclusion did you come to about him?"
    "That he's a her."
    "What?"
    She could tell she had surprised him. Mercy smiled smugly. "That's right. A her. I think Rivington Burleigh was a woman."
    "Eighteenth century porn written by a woman? Not likely."
    "Why not? There were other women writers in the eighteenth century. Lots of them. And it wasn't uncommon for them to write under a man's name."
    "But this kind of thing?"
    "Are you one of those men who think women aren't interested in erotica?" She moved away from his hands, heading for the closet to find her jeans. "If so, I've got news for you. Our tastes in it might be different than men's tastes, but that doesn't mean we don't appreciate it on occasion."
    "Oh, I believe you, Mercy," he drawled,