LITMIR.BIZ

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to crack. What had possessed her to write down such sensual fantasies? While he was sure they weren’t in code, he figured it would be interesting to test the waters, to see if she reacted to knowing how he spent his time. “I often try to crack the codes to old manuscripts.”

      “You mean like the Rosetta stone?”

      He nodded. “Right now, I’m working on what’s called the Voynich manuscript. I’m interested in old cave drawings, too. On vacations, I go hunting for them.”

      “Like Indiana Jones?”

      “More or less.” His blood quickened at thoughts of his work, and at the answering excitement in her eyes. “Secretive communications of any kind draw me like a magnet. I’ve always been more interested in what people don’t say than in what they do.”

      “Really?”

      He nodded. “I get lost in word puzzles.”

      “When you want to crack a code, what do you do first?”

      Her interest seemed genuine, and he figured she’d probably be defensive if she had something to hide. CIIC had to be wrong. She was on the level. “Check for substitution words and anagrams. Or for known codes people might use. Sometimes I look for pinpricks over words and letters, to see if a message can be pieced together by connecting the dots.” His eyes settled once more on her bare shoulder. “And there are heat-sensitive codes.”

      Not missing the innuendo, she murmured, “Heat sensitive?”

      He nodded again. “Not to mention secret inks.”

      At that, she looked genuinely delighted, and since countless women had had their eyes glaze over when he talked about work, or worse, been jealous of his passion for it, he felt encouraged, maybe more than he should have. “During the Second World War,” he continued, leaning back and rifling a hand through his hair, “soldiers used invisible, heat-sensitive inks on eggshells. Later, the recipient would hard-boil the eggs and peel the shell.”

      “And the secret message would be written on the egg,” she guessed with a soft laugh.

      “Exactly.”

      “Tasty.”

      Not nearly as tasty as she looked. “A woman in Germany kept special inks stored in the dyes of her scarves.”

      Selena considered, then said, “So, why do you like cave drawings? What’s the connection?”

      “They tell stories.”

      Her eyes—rimmed by kohl pencil, the lashes darkened—drifted around the room, and her breasts rose with a deep breath as she took in the wall paintings—tasteful nudes in heavy gilt frames. “I suppose most pieces of art do tell stories.”

      “In that dress, you’re a piece of art,” he couldn’t help but say, images from her diary playing once more in his head. “What story are you waiting to tell, Selena?”

      When she shrugged, the dress slipped a fraction, revealing another inch of creamy skin, just the hint of a sloping breast. “I hardly think I’m like a cave drawing.”

      “I’m convinced you have the same innocence,” he murmured. No way in hell was she guilty of wrongdoing. She was sexy, yes. But involved in espionage? Never. Given a few more days, he’d prove it, too.

      She was squinting. “How can cave drawings be innocent?”

      “Easy. They look untutored. Primitive. And they possess a raw passion characteristic of the ancients.”

      Another smile tilted her mouth. “Just the ancients, huh?”

      “Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of passion to be had in the present,” he assured her with a laugh. “But not if we stay here all night.”

      He could see her throat work. “I should get home.”

      “You will,” he promised, capturing her hand as he rose. “Eventually.”

      She gazed up at him. “I meant sooner than eventually.”

      As she stood, he draped her shawl around her shoulders. Loosely woven silver threads brushed his fingertips, leaving him to imagine how soft her naked skin would feel gliding beneath his palms. Placing a hand under her elbow, he guided her to the street, and when her body grazed his, he tried not to notice they were a perfect fit. She was eye level, too. He liked that.

      They’d walked a half block when she nodded. “My car.”

      “Sure you won’t come to my place? Meet M?”

      The dog’s name was so foolish that mention of it broke the dreamy mood. Her laughter was like bubbles, and she was clearly thinking of a point earlier in the evening when he’d amused her with stories about the dog’s exploits. “I’m afraid of what M would do to me.”

      Edison smiled. “You should be. I’m running ads in three more newspapers now.”

      “Still no takers?”

      “No one’s that masochistic.”

      She merely laughed. “You’re going to wind up keeping him.”

      She was right, of course. And standing with her on the crowded sidewalk, in the moonlight, on a perfect spring night, Edison felt better than he had in a long time. There was something else he hadn’t anticipated: that, quite simply, he’d be so smitten with Selena Silverwood. As she leaned against the door of her car, his eyes captured hers again. Surely she wasn’t planning to deny the energy coursing between them and go home? “So, you really think I’ll wind up with M?”

      “I’ve got a sixth sense about these things.”

      “Sure you didn’t read my dossier?”

      “You keep asking me that.”

      And maybe with cause. For the briefest second, Edison could swear fear and guilt flashed in her eyes. But under the streetlamps, it was too dark to read something as complex as emotions in a woman’s eyes. Still, what if she was stealing secrets? What if what was between them was wiping out his common sense?

      He glanced at her car. Nothing flashy, just a black compact. If she was ripping off IBI, she wasn’t spending the money. When he’d checked to see if her bank balance was in line with her salary, he’d found it was.

      Taking a step, he glided his hands under the shawl and up her arms until he was cupping bare shoulders. Slowly, he rubbed deep circles with his thumbs, heat from the touch jolting him. Leaning forward, so she’d feel his breath on her cheek, he huskily whispered, “Going home’s a mistake.”

      She eased back a fraction. “Why?”

      Maybe she was looking for reassurances about how much he’d enjoyed dinner and her company. Instead of giving them, he ran a finger under the shoulder strap of her dress and said, “Because you came here in a dress that looks like I’ve already torn it off you.” And because, despite his niggling doubts, the CIIC and Eleanor had gotten her all wrong. Selena Silverwood was innocent.

      She was also fascinating. Outwardly shy, she was inwardly on fire with fantasies, and he wanted her.

      She was smiling. “A man has his limits, huh?”

      “You’re definitely pushing my envelope.” He’d prove her innocent, too. As soon as he could, he’d break into her apartment and get the original diary. As he’d told Eleanor, handwriting was very revealing, and Selena’s would tell him everything he needed to know.

      As he brought their bodies flush, unseen bands tightened around his chest. He registered the tension in her thighs, a quiver of muscle and female heat, and when she shivered, he knew damn well it had nothing to do with the spring chill. Brushing a tendril of autumnal hair from her cheek, he realized that it, just like the shawl and her skin, was silken beyond belief. “You look undecided, Selena.”

      “I didn’t know there was a decision to

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