The Elliotts: Bedroom Secrets: Under Deepest Cover

Her lips were rose-petal soft, and as open and giving as a rose in full bloom, too. Bryan’s energy collided and melded with Lucy’s as their vibrations became one, breathing and heartbeats in sync, until he wasn’t sure where he ended and she began.

His body, which had been tuned to Lucy’s station almost from the moment they met, leaped to life with a craving so keen it was painful.

She tasted faintly of the wine she’d been drinking, and he tasted more deeply, coaxing her with his tongue to open even more. She did without hesitation. Again the utter trust she showed blew him away.

It was that trust that finally dragged him to his senses. He could not take advantage of this situation. He’d gotten Lucy into her current position and had promised to protect her. She was depending on him for everything—food, clothing, shelter. To abuse his position was unconscionable.

He pulled back again, and this time he put his hands on her bare arms and gently pushed her away as he broke the kiss.

“We shouldn’t do this.”

She blinked a couple of times, and he wondered if he imagined the hurt look in her eyes. But in the span of another heartbeat, she smiled mischievously. “Why not? We’re supposed to be smitten. I was just playing the part.”

“Honey, if that was acting, you deserve an Academy Award.”

“I’m very talented,” she agreed, leaving him to wonder what exactly she meant by that. A talented actress? Or talented in other ways?

As they turned toward the staircase, Lucy boldly put her hand on his butt and squeezed. “Very talented.”

So, no ambiguity there. She’d practically issued an engraved invitation that she was open to making love.

Regrettably, it was one invitation he was going to have to decline. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t think about it—which he did, through the remainder of dessert and after-dinner coffee, through the farewell hugs and promises to drive carefully, and throughout the drive home.

He was as primed as a sixteen-year-old on his first car date—and unfortunately about as likely to get lucky. Every time he glanced over at her, her blond hair swirling about her face from the breeze coming through the moon roof, her eyes drowsy from good food and wine and pure exhaustion, he wanted to come out of his skin.

He escorted her to the elevator in his building, careful not to touch her. “I’ll be up in a few minutes,” he said. “I need to check on things at the restaurant.”

She glanced at her watch. “Isn’t the restaurant closed?”

“Uh, right. I need to be sure things are ready for tomorrow.” Which was a silly reply, because Lucy knew Stash took care of the day-to-day concerns. But it was the best he could come up with. He couldn’t possibly go up to his apartment with her until he had his libido under control. In his current state, she had only to hint at seduction and he would be at her mercy. Seeing as how he didn’t know what she had in mind, he thought it would be safer to keep his distance.

“All right. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow. Oh, and Lucy, you did great tonight. Posing as Lindsay, I mean. I don’t think anyone in my family suspects a thing.”

“I’m not so sure about that, but thanks.”

He gave the verbal command that would send the elevator up to his loft, then stepped out and let the doors close between them.

He used his key to get into the darkened restaurant. What he needed was to burn off excess energy, and whipping something up in the kitchen ought to do the trick, he thought. Something decadent, something with chocolate and bourbon, the best substitutes for sex he could think of.

Maeve had given him his love for fine food. When his brother and cousins were outside playing and he couldn’t join in because of his heart ailment, Maeve would take him into the kitchen. He would pick out a recipe from her many boxes and cookbooks, and together they would cook. He learned to associate the heady smells of yeast and chocolate and toasted almonds with happy times, and to this day puttering in the kitchen could take the edge off when he was tense, or when he had to figure something out.

His plan was to dream up a new dessert and play around with the ingredients while he put some serious thought to how to track down Stungun—and either rescue him, find out who killed him—or bring him to justice if he was the traitor.

Instead, his thoughts turned again and again to Lucy—how she’d looked on the beach with the wind in her hair and her clothes molded against her body, the strength in her stance and the vulnerability in her face, her intelligence and bravery.

Soon he had three different sauces on the stove and he was going to work on some heavy cream with the KitchenAid mixer. An orange cake was in the oven—not one of these fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth cakes, but something with some substance. He didn’t yet know what the end product would be, but he planned to eat the whole thing himself, until his appetites were subdued—or he was too sick to even think about making love to Lucy. Only then could he return to his apartment.

Lucy lay in her bed in one of her slinky new nighties, trying her best to find sleep. But she couldn’t help thinking about the kiss on the beach.

That kiss had been no acting job, on her part or Bryan’s. She’d tasted the naked desire in the kiss, sharp as a knife and strong as a tidal wave. She’d felt the answering call in herself, a yearning so strong she couldn’t deny it. She’d floated on air the rest of the long evening at The Tides, unbothered now by the Elliotts’ noisy bickering, not nervous about carrying off her role as Lindsay Morgan. She’d played her part well—really well, apparently, given what was happening between herself and Bryan.

The only question left was, would they act on the waves of desire coursing between them?

She knew she wanted to, and she’d let Bryan know her feelings in no uncertain terms. But she still wasn’t sure what he wanted. He hadn’t said a word about it during the silent drive home.

Now, as the minutes clicked by on her bedside clock, it became more and more evident that he wouldn’t come to her. He was staying away on purpose, trying to avoid any awkward good-night scenes.

She knew that for him to make love to her would cross an ethical boundary, and she respected Bryan’s wish not to mix his professional life with his personal.

But how often did two people resonate the way she and Bryan did? How did one simply turn one’s back on those feelings?

She couldn’t do it.

When more than an hour had passed, Lucy’s frustrations turned to worry. What was keeping him? What could he possibly have to check on at the restaurant that would take this long? Had something happened to him?

When she couldn’t stand not knowing any longer, Lucy got out of bed and threw on a pair of warmup pants and a T-shirt. Hardly clothing designed for seduction, but seduction was far from her mind now. She put on her glasses—a new, more stylish pair with lightweight lenses Bryan had insisted on when they’d ordered her contacts—and headed for the elevator.

She could get out of Bryan’s apartment, but unless she found him, she couldn’t get back in. So she took a few dollars with her and Scarlet’s phone number, in case she got locked out. Then she got in the elevator and headed down to the restaurant level.

The restaurant had been dark when they’d arrived home, but she could see a light coming from somewhere now. She tried the door. It was locked, so she banged loudly.

At first no one came, and Lucy envisioned the worst—Bryan lying on the floor in a pool of blood, helpless to answer her knock. But finally she saw a shadowy figure approaching. Apprehension seized her, followed quickly by a rush of relief when the figure resolved into Bryan’s familiar form.

He turned the dead bolt and opened the door. “Lucy, what are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about you when you didn’t come back.” She realized how stupid that sounded. She was worried about a superspy, so she was coming downstairs to rescue him?

He smiled indulgently at her. “Thank you for worrying. And I’m sorry, but I got caught up—”

“What is that smell?” she demanded, cutting him off. She yanked the door open wide enough that she could slide inside past Bryan. The smell coming from the kitchen drew her like the pied piper’s music.

“It’s just a … dessert.”

“After all the food we ate at your grandparents’ house, you were hungry?” But even as she said that, her own stomach growled, reacting to the commingled scents. Whatever was cooking, she wanted some of it.

“Cooking helps me think,” he said.

She zeroed in on the tall cake sitting on a cooling rack. “Orange, that’s what I smell.”

“Right. It’s an orange pound cake.”

“And chocolate. And … bourbon?”

“You have a good nose.”

“What is this dessert?” she asked, intrigued.