Love by Association

“Was it Dr. Albertson? I could see her advocating for a women’s shelter. She’d be perfect for it actually.”

“Albertson?” Frowning, Chantel shook her head. “No, it was...Montoya, or Martin. Something like that.”

“I’m not even sure Dr. Albertson is still around.”

“You never heard from her after that night?”

“Once we signed the papers, I told Julie that we weren’t to speak with anyone who had anything to do with the incident. I didn’t want to risk the other side claiming that we were breaking the agreement.”

“Better safe than sorry,” she said. Itching to call Wayne. She had a name!

“I was already sorry,” Colin said. “I just wanted to keep Julie safe.” He looked over at her. “You’re so serious all of a sudden. Didn’t you have a good time tonight?” His smile sent her pulse racing again. Just when she had herself under control.

“I had a great time,” she said before she could check herself. She couldn’t have him thinking that they’d had a failed date. “Truly.” She allowed herself to meet his gaze as he briefly turned his head. “More than I’ve enjoyed myself in a long time.”

His clearly self-satisfied grin told her she’d missed another land mine.

All of the investigating in the world wasn’t going to reach fruition if she lost her cover before she had her answers.

Content to be fully on alert at the library committee meeting the next day, when she could see Leslie without raising suspicion, Chantel tried to relax.

But she kept feeling those fingers threaded through hers. A foreign object integrating with part of her body. Her very lonely body...

“I enjoyed myself tonight, too.” Colin’s voice, soft and deep, fell into the quiet intimacy of his luxury sedan. It was just a little after ten, but there were very few cars on the road, very few headlights coming at them, illuminating his features.

Or hers.

“I’m glad.”

She could hide in the darkness. Pretend, just for a few minutes, that she was on a real date.

That she was allowed to enjoy the man at her side.

A man who was so different from anyone she’d ever known. Compelling in a way she’d never experienced and couldn’t explain.

At least, not to her satisfaction.

“You want to know the best part of the whole night?” he asked, glancing her way before returning his attention to the road.

She did. Badly. And she didn’t. Unless it didn’t have anything to do with her. And then she did. And she didn’t. “Yes.”

“Knowing you were there.”

Yeah, she hadn’t wanted to know that.

And she had.

“That’s a new one for me,” he continued, as though he’d already determined not to give her a chance to respond.

Saving her from herself. Not that he’d know that.

“I’m the guy who’s always free to come and go. Who answers to no one. I’ve often been told and pretty much believed that I’m the envy of just about every other guy in attendance.”

He would be again. Soon.

“But tonight I understood something. I’m not the lucky one. The guy with a woman who is looking for him while he’s looking for her is the lucky one. The guy who has someone in the room who cares that he’s there...”

He could be taking a lot for granted. Chantel needed that to be the case. But she feared that it wasn’t.

“You bought a bottle of wine from that last guy,” she said, sounding more like the lowly cop she was than some society beauty. But she kept thinking about that wine.

How Colin had looked at her when the vintner had told him that if he wanted to drink it that night, it would be good warm.

How that look had leaked a pool of desire between her legs that wasn’t dissipating.

“I’m hoping to share it with you.”

Throat dry, she ran her tongue along her lower lip. Saw him glance her way in time to catch the act. And wondered if his penis was growing in proportion to the wildness coursing through her.

“Where?”

They were heading toward her resort.

“Your choice. The beach. Or your room.”

Oh, God. He wanted to have sex with her. Not that she hadn’t already figured that one out. She wanted to have sex with him, too.

Something told her it would be the most incredible sex she’d ever had. Way better than any she’d fantasized about having before meeting him.

She was working. Working. Working.

“I told you, Colin, I’m...not here for long.”

“You said until you finish your book.”

“Right.”

“How far along are you?”

What if he asked to see it? Or the laptop upon which she was supposedly writing it? She’d play the author-confidentiality card. And if that didn’t exist, then the author-paranoia one.