His face was implacable. He would leave when it suited him, and not before. And she had no one but herself to blame for inviting him in.
Connor placed Edna gently on the ground. He got up and wandered over to her desk, studying the photos and cards pinned to the corkboard. The travel itinerary and the printed-out Mueller e-mail lay on the desk in plain view. He picked them up and examined them. 'Going someplace?'
'Just a work thing.'
He frowned. 'Didn't you say you lost your job?'
'I work for myself now. I've started my own consulting business.'
'And you're getting by?' His gaze swept the tiny, wretched room.
'I'm not supporting myself with my business yet,' she said stiffly. 'I'm temping to make ends meet. But I have high hopes.'
He held the e-mail up to the light and read it.
'Excuse me, Connor, but those are my private papers, and I did not invite you to look at them.'
He ignored her, his gaze fixed on the page. 'So Claude is delighted to meet with you at last, huh?' he said softly. 'Who is this Claude?'
'None of your business. Put those down.
He glanced up, and took in the steaming mug in her hand. His eyes went right back to the e-mail. 'I take it black,' he said absently.
'Put those papers down, Connor.' She tried to make her voice steely and commanding. It just sounded scared.
'So old Claude feels like he knows you already. Isn't that sweet.' He laid the papers on her desk, and walked to the table, staring at her with narrowed eyes. 'So, this Claude. You've never met him?'
She set his coffee down in front of him. 'He's a client of mine. Not that it's any of your business.'
'Art appraisal?'
'Authentication,' she corrected. 'Mr. Mueller recently developed an interest in Iron Age Celtic artifacts, which are my specialty.'
He sipped his coffee, frowning. 'How recently?'
'I've never discussed that with him,' she said. 'It's not—'
'What do you know about this guy, Erin?'
She bristled at the challenge in his voice. 'Everything I need to know. He treats me like a professional. He pays well, and on time.'
'But you've never met him?' His eyes probed her, merciless.
'I've met members of his administrative staff,' she said. 'He runs a charitable foundation called the Quicksilver Fund.'
'So why haven't you met him yet?' he persisted. 'Because he's always had other pressing engagements,' she retorted. 'He's a busy man.'
'Is he now,' Connor said. 'Isn't that interesting.' Coffee sloshed over the table as she slammed down her mug. 'What the hell are you insinuating, Connor?'
'Do you know anyone personally who has met this guy?' She pressed her lips together. 'I know people whose arts organizations have received grants from him. That's enough for me.'
'No, it's not enough. You can't go on this trip, Erin.' She jerked onto her feet, jarring the table painfully with her thigh. 'The hell I can't! I am hanging on by my fingernails, Connor. That client is the best thing that's happened to me in the last six months! I will not jeopardize my business just because you are paranoid!'
'Erin, Novak is out there somewhere,' Connor said. 'I've been hunting him for years. I know his smell, and I'm smelling it now. He lives to fuck people up. You're Ed Riggs's daughter. You were in his sights. He won't forget you. Count on it.' Erin sank down into her chair. 'Mueller can't possibly have anything to do with Novak,' she said coldly. 'Novak has been in a high-security prison ever since he was released from the hospital. Mueller started hiring me four months ago. We made plans to meet on two other occasions. Once in San Diego and once in Santa Fe.'
'But he never showed up?'
She lifted her chin. 'He had unexpected business.'
'I just bet he did,' Connor said. 'I need to check this guy out.'
'Don't you dare!' she flared. 'Don't even think about messing with the last good thing I've got going. Everything else in my life has gone straight to hell. Don't you think you've done enough?'
Connor's mouth tightened to a grim line. He put down his cup, stood up, and headed for the door. His limp was just a barely perceptible, hitching stiffness in his leg. And it still broke her heart.
'Connor,' she said. 'Wait.'
He pushed the door open, and waited, motionless.
'I'm sorry I said that.' She got up and took a step toward him. 'I know it's not your fault. It's been… a really awful time.'
'Yeah.' He turned and looked at her. 'I know what you mean.'
It was true. He did know how bad it was. She saw it in his eyes. He'd been betrayed and set up to die. He'd lost his partner, Jesse. He'd lost months of his life in a coma, suffered the shattered leg, the burns.
Connor had lost far more than she in this awful business.
An impulse from deep inside kept her feet moving until she stood right in front of him. His scent was a mix of soap and tobacco, resiny and sweet. Pine, wood smoke, and rainstorms. She stared straight up into his face, like she'd always wanted to do, and breathed him in. She drank in all the details: the sheen of beard stubble glinting metallic gold in the light from the corridor outside. The shadows beneath his brilliant eyes, the sharp line of his jutting cheekbones. How was it possible for a mouth to be so stern, and yet so sensual?
And his piercing eyes saw right into her soul.
She lost herself in it. She wanted to touch his face, to trail her fingers over every masculine detail, to feel the warmth of his skin. She wanted to press herself against his lean, solid bulk. She wished she had something to feed him, whether he was hungry or not.
Connor reached behind himself and shoved the door shut without breaking eye contact. She needed so badly for someone to know how lonely and lost she felt. Her mother was adrift in despair. Most of her friends were avoiding her. Not out of unkindness so much as sheer embarrassment, she suspected. But that didn't help the loneliness.
Connor saw it all, and it didn't embarrass him. His gaze didn't shy away. She didn't shy away, either, when he reached for her.
His touch was so careful and delicate, she could barely believe it was happening. Her eyes welled up. He smoothed away the tears that spilled over with a brush of his thumb, and folded her into his arms.
He pressed her face against the canvas of his coat. His hands stroked the length of her spine as if she were made of blown glass. He tucked her head under his chin. His breath warmed the top of her head.
She squeezed her eyes shut. He'd hugged her before, at her graduation party, at holiday gatherings, but not like this. Quick, nonsexual, brotherly hugs, but even so her heart had almost exploded out of her chest, it beat so fast and hard. His broad frame felt harder than she remembered, his muscles like tempered steel.
He'd been concentrated into the pure, potent essence of himself.
She wondered if the way she felt about him was written all over her face. He held her so carefully, vibrating with tension. Maybe he was afraid of hurting her feelings, or that she would misunderstand his friendly gesture and demand something he didn't want to give. All those years of romantic fantasies, all that heat, all that pent-up hunger, he had to feel it. Dad had said that he was psychic.
He'd seen everything: how lonely she felt, how needy. He stroked her hair, as if he were petting a wild animal that might bolt, or bite.
She didn't want careful, or gentle. She wanted him to push her onto the narrow futon cot, to pin her down with his big, strong body and give her something else to think about. Something hot and scary and wonderful. She could scream, she wanted it so bad. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck, pull him closer, and just gobble him up.
God, how could he
That thought stung her. It gave her the strength to jerk away. She dug in her pocket for a Kleenex. 'Sorry about that,' she mumbled.
