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  “Relax, Macy. Let the silkiness of the water awaken you. I’d forfeit my entire holdings to be in the water right now, surrounding you, penetrating you, experiencing every sweet curve and crevice of your body.”

  She attempted to resist the power of his suggestion, but couldn’t. His desire was too evident, too overwhelming, too delicious to ignore. In the past, Dante had always made her feel desirable, but never to this extreme. Never to the point where he’d expose his own weakness for romantic nostalgia in order to prove the depth of his passion. Never to the point where he’d ask her to expose her own weaknesses, too many to count.

  She couldn’t resist running her hands over her legs beneath the water, up her thighs to the flat plane of her belly or the round curves of her breasts. Despite her arousal, her nipples couldn’t fight the intense heat of the water to remain erect. But one brush from her fingertips and they tightened with intense, but lazy arousal.

  She hummed as the sweet sensation eased through her body like slow molasses poured over hot cakes, sugary and thick with anticipation.

  Dante knelt beside the tub.

  “How smooth is your skin?”

  “Like silk,” she replied, continuing to run her hands over her body, awakening nerve endings unaccustomed to such delightful decadence.

  “What about your muscles? If I touched you now, would you jump out of your skin?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure my muscles even work anymore. You won’t let me drown, will you?” she asked, slipping farther into the water so that only her head and chin were exposed.

  “Never, love. I wish I could see you, but the ripples in the water are enough to make me hard. You’re touching your breasts now, aren’t you?”

  She’d hardly realized how hypnotic the sensations could be, her thumbs drawing lazy circles around her areola, her fingers toying with the buoyant flesh of her breasts, creating a warm cocoon of sweet sensation.

  She hummed her response.

  “I can’t imagine your nipples hardening with all that wet heat surrounding you. They must be so pliable, so sensitive to the slightest touch.”

  Willingly, she accepted his suggestion. He was right. She had to pluck hard to bring her nipples to full extension, but the sizzling sensations that shot through her blood as a result made the nips of pain entirely worthwhile. Between her legs, her labia pulsed with need.

  She shifted in the water, exposing a breast long enough for a silky rose petal to adhere to her skin. Her sharp intake of breath matched Dante’s. He was watching from so close—and yet, he didn’t touch.

  She should have opened her eyes, but she didn’t dare. She couldn’t bear to face his need when she was nearly drowning in the power on her own. If she looked, she might pull him into the tub with her. A girl could only take so much teasing without some release.

  “Do it,” he urged.

  She bit her bottom lip. She’d pleasured herself before—more times than she cared to admit—but never with an audience. Never while knowing that she could have so much more if only she surrendered. If only she begged.

  “No,” she said.

  “You want to,” he countered. “The pulsing is maddening, isn’t it? Especially when you know precisely how to sate the hunger. You won’t let me take care of you, Macy. But you can take care of yourself. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to prove your whole life? How you don’t need anyone to give you what you need?”

  He was goading her. Challenging her at her core and she saw no reason to deny the truth, especially when her body so desperately needed what only she—at this moment—could provide. She slipped her fingers between the folds of flesh, found her clit and stroked.

  Leaning in close behind her, Dante whispered and cajoled, made suggestions and suppositions that drove her further into madness. And when she gasped for breath as her climax peaked, he kissed her.

  With a splash, she wrapped her arms around him. He may have promised not to drug her or get her drunk, but he intoxicated her with a long, languid kiss that made every inch of her body ache for more. She wanted hot and heavy—and again, he denied her. He kissed her softly, toying with her tongue with only enough energy to bring her back to earth with gentle persuasion.

  When he pulled away, his gaze betrayed the depth of his need.

  “Make love to me,” she said, knowing his game could go no further.

  “No,” he said, standing and stepping back, creating a chasm of space.

  She attempted to stand. Her muscles wavered, but Dante braced her with hands on her elbows. She rewarded his quick reflexes with a hungry smile.

  “You want to make love to me,” she said.

  “Of course, but we’re not ready.”

  “Because I didn’t come to you? Drop the game, Dante. We’re both here. We’re both incredibly aroused. Imagine how hot and slick I am right now. Imagine how easy your sex will slip into mine?”

  She’d gone too far. She recognized the moment his control nearly snapped, but instead of yanking her out of the tub and flinging her on the soft mossy floor of the arboretum to finish what he’d started, he grabbed her robe and nearly ripped the fabric in his haste to cover her.

  Forcing herself to remain silent, her hopes soared as he lifted her into his arms, refusing eye contact until he’d pounded up the stairs and kicked open the door of the master suite.

  Finally! Once they did this, they’d expend the last of their mutual attraction and end this game of sexual teasing. He laid her on the bed, leaving her to open the robe as he circled around to the footboard, his eyes blazing, his nostrils flaring with unchecked lust.

  Then, he was gone. She blinked, unsure that she’d actually seen him turn and leave. She struggled off the bed, her muscles still weak, and staggered toward the door.

  Just in time to hear the click of the lock.

  She sagged against the carved wood frame, unwilling to shout for him to let her out when she knew he’d never comply. She pounded on the wood once, an impotent but necessary gesture. Exhausted and angry, but mostly swimming in a wash of desires she needed to exercise out of her system, she rolled onto her back. The room glowed with candles, flickering seductive fingers of light over the golden bed sheets and intricately woven satin duvet.

  He’d planned to seduce her here, just as she’d anticipated. She’d asked him—nearly begged him. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

  Wasn’t she?

  She staggered back to the bed, tossed aside the robe and climbed between the covers naked. Maybe he’d come to her later tonight, when he’d found some control for the wild emotions she’d caught in his eyes.

  Or maybe not. Either way, by tomorrow, she’d end his game, if it was the last thing she did.

  Chapter 7

  “He’s here.”

  Dante snapped his attention away from the monitors to the speaker on his desk. “Show him up.”

  After flipping the switch so that the image of Macy searching the billiard room instantly disappeared, he slid his chair back, retrieved his jacket from the brass peg on the wall and slipped his arms into the silk-lined garment.

  An anxious tremor ratcheted through his system. Just a decade ago, a meeting such as this would have been unheard of, but Dante had decided after receiving the urgent communiqué from T-45 that the time had come for change—especially under the current circumstances.

  As far as Dante knew, Abercrombie Marshall had not returned to the States since he’d left the Arm. Though Dante had never met the man, he had the highest respect for him—not only because of his impressive dossier, but because he’d not only gained Macy’s high opinion, but he’d also been the one to finally give the woman her due.

  Macy was the reason Marshall had come in person. Their arrangement had been unorthodox, especially with a possible terrorist strike at stake.

  Marshall entered the room without hesitation, barely waiting for the agent assigned to open the door to move out of the way. Tall and broad shouldered, Abercrombie Marshall wor
e his hair sheared short, without a single sprinkle of gray at the temples. His eyes, dark and assessing, crinkled at the corners and his full-lipped mouth melted easily into a friendly smile.

  He held out his hand, which Dante accepted.

  “Mr. Marshall,” Dante said. “I’m honored to meet you.”

  “Probably more like shocked as hell, but I hear your manners wouldn’t allow you to speak so freely.”

  Dante released the man’s hand after a hearty shake, and then directed his guest toward one of two comfortable leather chairs in front of his desk. “My manners have been exaggerated, sir, I assure you. Plain speaking is simply a lost art in our business.”

  Marshall sat. Dante took the chair next to his. He had no reason to try and show superiority by sitting behind his desk. He wouldn’t be fooling anyone if he did.

  “I want to speak with my agent,” Marshall said.

  “I’ve done nothing to block communications with you. She’s sent regular updates.”

  “Which you’ve monitored,” Marshall pointed out. “Is she a prisoner?”

  Dante didn’t hide his surprise. “Absolutely not. She’s working hard, though with frustrating results,” Dante said, privately noting the double entendre. What he and Macy had shared over the past two days had given new depth to the word frustrating. “You may see her immediately, of course.”

  “Good,” Marshall acknowledged, with a gleam in his eye that told Dante that at this point, he’d see Macy if he wanted to, with or without Dante’s permission. “And I will. But first, I have a private matter to discuss.”

  Dante shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable with the Marshall’s tone. He sounded less like the head of an international spy agency and more like a concerned father.

  “I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. You probably think this old black man has come here to make sure Macy’s heart doesn’t get broken through your deal, whatever it is. I don’t give a damn about her heart.” He leaned forward, his large, long-fingered hands braced on his knees. “For all I know, Macy doesn’t have a heart. And if she didn’t, I wouldn’t give a damn because she’d probably be a better agent for it, not that she’s lacking in any way. But this mission is critical, and I won’t allow one of my agents to have her will broken as a consequence of working with the Arm.”

  Dante frowned. Under Dante’s direction, the Arm had not used the type of tactics Marshall spoke of—at least, never with someone like Macy. He had created a scenario where she’d been forced to comply because he’d had no other option. And only he had known that he planned to give Macy access to the house, even if she refused their deal.

  Though he’d like to think that deep down, Macy understood. His entire career, he’d put national security above everything else—including her. That’s how he’d lost her—though she didn’t know this yet.

  “I assure you, sir,” Dante said, clearing his throat before continuing, “I’d never authorize any type of mind control with Macy. She means a great deal to me. You must know about our past.”

  Marshall’s gaze didn’t waver. “Vaguely. She’s never volunteered specifics. I know you were once lovers. I know that you did something that royally pissed her off.”

  To say the least.

  “In her eyes, I betrayed her.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  Marshall sat back into the chair, his hands casually draped on the armrests. “So you’ve used your position as head of the Arm to manipulate a mission and win her back?”

  Dante winced. Sounded so much worse when spoken by someone else. “It’s because of my loyalty to the Arm that I lost her in the first place. I want her back.”

  Marshall’s eyes narrowed. “As an agent?”

  “I couldn’t care less about what organization Macy gives her allegiance to.”

  “She can’t work for T-45 and be personally involved with you. I respect Macy and I trust her with my life, but that’s a conflict of interest no organization can ignore. Understand one thing, Mr. Burke. If Macy returns to you emotionally, you’ll be asking her to give up her career. She’s poised to take a leadership role within T-45, a job she’s deserved for a long time. Are you promising her something in return that is worth her giving up her life’s dream for?”

  Little by little, the air deflated out of Dante’s chest. What exactly was he offering Macy, other than a slow roll in the hay as opposed to the fast ones they’d shared in the past? He’d attempted to show her how much he’d changed, how much he wanted to pamper her, pay attention to her, concentrate on her and her needs. But she’d need much more than a couple of nights of great sex before she’d chose him over her career.

  And he wasn’t entirely sure he had anything that valuable to give.

  “Your point is well-taken, Mr. Marshall.”

  “Good,” Marshall said before his face dissolved into a mask of dire seriousness. “Now, on to the real reason I’m here.”

  * * *

  Macy stretched, waiting until every disk in her spine had popped before she released a guttural, frustrated groan and threw down her gloves in defeat. She’d had such high hopes for the billiards room. Though the housekeeper had reported that Bogdanov hardly used the room while he’d lived in the house, the nature of the room invited images of numbers, patterns and shapes, all of which could be used to successfully hide a counter-code. With dark, hand-carved paneling and numerous photographs of homes from all around New Orleans from the French Quarter to the Garden District on the walls, she’d had a thousand sound possibilities about where the scientist might have hidden the sought-after sequence.

  Unfortunately, none of her theories had held together. Her best shot had been a combination of the addresses and street names of the houses pictured on the wall, but no matter how many times the computer ran the data, a successful match to the characteristics of known counter-codes would not emerge.

  The clues had been so promising, she’d nearly questioned the accuracy of the software—until she reminded herself that Bogdanov had written the program himself long before his mind had started to wither away.

  So she’d worked from sunrise to sundown exclusively in this room, skipping her nap and putting off her search of the library until tomorrow. Now hungry, tired and teetering on the edge of surrender, she flopped onto the overstuffed couch, threw her head back against the cushions and allowed herself to think about Dante for the first time today.

  She slipped back to the moment, shortly before dawn, when she’d heard the lock click open on the bedroom door. Awakened by the sound, she’d kept still beneath the covers, regulating her breathing so she appeared asleep. Luckily, she was on her side so he couldn’t see how her nipples had hardened at the mere possibility that he’d enter the room and finish what he’d started last night.

  Several silent, still moments later, she’d finally realized he wasn’t coming in, no matter how much her body ached for him.

  The disappointment had rolled with her out of bed in a rush, causing her to jam her arms back into the robe with more force than necessary. She had to give the man his props—he’d succeeded in getting under her skin.

  For the first time in years, she wanted to know why he’d betrayed her. Up until now, the fact that he’d ruined her career to further his own had been enough to keep her from ruminating about the past. What was done was done.

  But maybe she’d done them both a disservice by taking off without asking for his side of the story. The promises T-45 had made to lure her away from the Arm had been an irresistible salve for her personal pain. With her choice of assignments, she could travel the world, pocket impressive financial rewards and gain access to the world’s most advanced technology—all without the red tape and old-boy network so prevalent in the CIA.

  In her anger, she’d blamed Dante for her lack of advancement in the Arm, when, in truth, he couldn’t have stonewalled her on his own. And why would he have? The powers-that-be would never have tapped her
for a leadership role over him.

  She was good, but he was better—so much better that he’d managed to force himself back into her life and make her face the truths about their past through eyes unclouded by raw emotions, righteous indignation or rage.

  She loved her new life. She had no regrets. In many ways, her leaving Dante—and the Arm—had been best for both of them. Nine years ago, neither she nor Dante had been ready for a real relationship. They’d been too young. Too ambitious. The man she’d known then couldn’t have been able to be patient or gentle. The woman she’d been then wouldn’t have known what to do with a man who could orchestrate a seduction with the same precise detail as a covert operation.

  He’d changed. And so had she.

  Damn him. Damn them both.

  She hadn’t wanted change. She’d found peace in her new life—or at least, she’d found a niche she could fit snugly inside of—a niche that left little room for a real relationship. She wasn’t even sure she knew what that was anymore. The nature of her job would keep her from ever having a normal marriage like her parents had. Her dad owned a car repair shop and her mother took care of the books. Their love might have been tested over the years, but never by forces who were trying to save the world.

  Slapping her hands on her thighs, Macy sat up. Lack of sleep and frustration over the elusive code had addled her brains. Why was she thinking of the words “Dante” and “relationship” in the same context? If nothing else, they worked for rival organizations. Except for a brief affair to burn away the ghosts of the past, they couldn’t be anything more to each other than former lovers.

  But the time had come to lay their cards on the table. All of them. The new ones, the old ones and all the cards in between. Maybe she’d end up with a winning hand, but if nothing else, the terminable game would be over.

  She dashed to her tiny bedroom in the back of the house, showered, changed and returned to the billiards room. She grabbed some fruit from the kitchen and munched while she arranged the furniture to her liking.