Remember When

that face, the voice, Jesus, the smell of her, that was making a sap out of him.
    Maybe he couldn't see her as an operator because he didn't want to see her that way. He hadn't been this twisted up in a woman since... Actually, he'd never been this twisted up in a woman.
    Practically then, professionally then, he should back off a bit on the personal contact. Whether or not she appeared to be his best conduit to Jack O'Hara, he couldn't use her if he couldn't get over her.
    He could make an excuse, leave town for a few days. He could establish a base nearby where he could observe and record. And use his contacts and connections, as well as his own hacker skills, to dig deeper into the life and times of Elaine O'Hara aka Laine Tavish.
    When he knew more, he'd decide how to handle her and come back. But meanwhile, he'd have to maintain some objective distance. No more dinners for two, no more spending the day with her at home, no more physical contact that couldn't lead to anything but complications.
    He would check out in the morning, give her a quick call to tell her he'd been called back to New York and would be in touch. Keep the lines open, but ease back on the personal front.
    A man couldn't do his job efficiently if he was wandering around in a sexual haze.
    Satisfied with the plan, Max got up. He'd pack most of his things tonight, maybe go down afterward for a nightcap, then try to sleep off the feelings for her that were building much too quickly and much too inappropriately inside him.
    The knock on the door distracted him. They'd already done the turndown, little chocolate mints on the pillows included. He half expected to see an envelope sliding under the door. Though he preferred all communications via e-mail, his clients often insisted on a hard copy fax for instructions.
    When nothing appeared, he walked over, glanced through the peep. And came within a breath of swallowing his own tongue.
    What the hell was she doing at his door? And what was she wearing?
    Jesus Christ.
    He backed up, rubbed a hand over his face, his heart. Professional instinct kicked in enough to have him hurrying back to the desk, shutting down his files, burying any hard paperwork, then doing a quick visual sweep for anything that might blow his cover.
    He'd get her downstairs to the lounge, that's what he'd do. Get her down, in a public place, tell her he'd been called back, have a quick drink with her.
    And move out. Move along. Move away.
    He dragged a hand through his hair a couple of times, shook off the nerves. He worked up what he considered an easy, mildly surprised, mildly pleased expression and opened the door.
    The full impact of her hadn't come through the peephole. Now the tongue he'd nearly swallowed rolled out again and all but plopped at his feet.
    He couldn't quite focus on what she was wearing other than noticing it was black, it was short, and it displayed more curves than a Formula One race. Her legs were longer than he'd imagined, and ended in very high, very thin black heels.
    All that fiery hair was scooped up somehow or other, and her eyes seemed bluer, brighter than ever. She'd slicked something dark and glossy and tantalizingly wet over her lips.
    God help him.
    "I woke up."
    "You did. You certainly did."
    "Can I come in?"
    "Ah. Um." It was as coherent as he could manage, so he just stepped back. And when she walked by him, the scent of her wrapped around his glands, and squeezed.
    "I didn't get a chance to thank you, so I thought I would."
    "Thank you. Thank me," he corrected, and felt like an imbecile.
    She smiled and, holding up the bottle of wine, wagged it slowly side to side. "How do you feel about Merlot?"
    "I feel pretty good about it."
    It took all her willpower not to laugh. Was there anything that made a woman feel more of a woman than having a man stare at her as if he'd been bewitched? She took a step toward him and was wonderfully flattered when he took one in retreat. "Good enough to share?" she asked him.
    "Share?"
    "The wine."
    "Oh." He'd had a couple of concussions in his day. They often gave the victim the same fuzzy, out-of-body sensation he was experiencing now. "Sure." He took the bottle she held out. "Sure.
    Sure."
    "Well then."
    "Well?" There seemed to be some sort of time lag between his brain and his mouth. "Oh, right.
    Ah, corkscrew." He glanced toward the mini-bar, but she reached in her purse.
    "Try this." She offered him a corkscrew. One half of the handle was a naked woman,