“Not careful enough.” Ethan peeled off his turtleneck and tossed it on top of his blazer. It was quickly followed by his belt.

She didn’t ask why, but did her best to ignore the expanse of chest rippling as he stretched before sinking to the couch beside her.

She kept her gaze locked to his face. “What did you think of the two men arguing over which one of them was going to win the bid?”

Ethan stretched his arm along the back of the couch, only an inch from where her bare shoulder leaned against it. “I think neither was as interesting as the American woman.”

“In what way?”

“She’s filled with rage and her partner has no clue.”

“Rage?” Beth had heard disgust, even mockery, but not rage in the other woman’s voice.

“She’s good at hiding it, but it’s there. If she’s not a professional, she’s next to it.”

Her heart gave a funny twinge at Ethan’s obvious admiration for the other woman. “A professional agent?”

“Yes.”

“But that shouldn’t come as a surprise. I’m sure a lot of Prescott’s buyers are agents working for governments or dishonest organizations.”

“But she’s not the buyer. The Arab is. She’s working with him, but I don’t buy it’s because their interests coincide. I think it’s telling that she waited to give him her warning until after the man had talked to the Russian.”

Beth pleated the fabric of her skirt between her fingers, trying not to reach out and touch the bare chest in front of her. “You think she wanted to hear what was said?”

“Yes.”

“Then why point out the dangers of the conversation at all?”

“To keep the Arab off balance.” Again that note of admiration in her voice.

“Do you think she’s one of our own?”

Ethan’s hand slid down so his thumb made contact with her shoulder. “We’d know if another agency was targeting Prescott. At least I think we would, but I’ve got a feeling about her.”

He wasn’t caressing her, it was a simple point of contact. A small point of contact. And yet her insides were liquefying and her breath was coming faster. She should pull away, but she didn’t want to. Which was bad. Very, very bad.

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “You once told me that your instincts never mislead you.”

His gaze was fixed on her mouth. “They don’t.”

“Then we’ve got to assume something is going on here that we don’t know about.”

His eyes moved to meet hers. “I’ve got a friend I can call and find out what he knows. He’s got connections in Washington that run on a different path than mine.”

“We can have Alan check with his sources at the FBI.”

“Hotwire has sources in the Bureau. There’s no need to bother Hyatt.” The tone of his voice said he’d rather eat his boots than contact the other agent. Was he jealous?

“Is Hotwire a fellow Texan?”

“Actually, no. He’s from Georgia. An ex-special forces, then ex-mercenary. He does some work for official channels in an unofficial capacity. He also runs a security company with his wife and a friend of his. I’ll call him tomorrow and ask him to check into it for me.”

“I don’t think you got a lot of comments on your report cards in school that said things like, ‘plays well with others.’”

His brows drew together in confusion. “Your point?”

She shrugged, rubbing her shoulder along his thumb and dangerously multiplying her body’s reaction to him. “I’m surprised you’re going to an outsider for help.”

“He’s a friend.”

“Wow, I didn’t think you had friends.”

He didn’t look confused now. He looked offended. “What would you call my fellow agents?”

“Coworkers.”

“They’re my friends.”

“If you say so.”

“What are you trying to say here?”

She wasn’t sure why she was saying anything at all, except maybe she wanted that label for herself and needed it to be real. “You don’t run ops with the same partner twice in a row. You do your extreme sports with the others, but last year, not one of them commented when you came to work on your birthday.”

He rolled his eyes, his expression saying her logic was not impressing him. “They don’t know my birthday.”

“Exactly. You aren’t close with any of them. Does this other friend know your birthday?”

“His wife does.” Ethan grimaced. “Queenie ratted me out.”

“Your great-uncle’s paramour?”

“Paramour, what kind of word is that?”

“One that seems to fit a woman who was dating your eighty-something-year-old uncle when he died.”

“I see. And what do you call yourself in relation to me?” His hand turned and cupped her shoulder.

The movement should have been casual, but she felt branded. She sucked in air.

“I don’t know.” She was more than a coworker, but less than a lover. Especially since the no sex rule she’d instigated. “Your friend?”

“You said I don’t have any.”

“Maybe I was being harsh.”

His brow rose. “You, harsh?”

“I’m not, usually.”

“I know.” The words felt like a caress. “I also know what I’d like to call you.”

“What?”

“My woman.”

“Your lover, you mean?”

“That, too.”

“I thought the sex was too intense for you.” She thought she’d been too intense for him.

“I’m going crazy not touching you.”

“You touch me all the time.”

“For the sake of possible watchers. I don’t take advantage.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, damn it, Beth. I don’t.” He jerked his hand away and sat back. “I’m a good agent. The best. I cover every angle, but I don’t take advantage of women. In any way.”

Chapter 17

Beth felt bereft without the warmth of his hand connected to her, but there were unresolved things about the night roiling around inside her. She wanted him and the more they were together, the more the wanting grew until it was an aching need that reached more deeply than physical desire.

It clawed at her very soul.

But she had enough instincts of self-preservation left to know she couldn’t give in to it if certain things were true.

“I have a very good sense of smell.”

“What?” he asked.

“I grew up learning to judge a woman’s place in the social strata by the perfume she wore.”

“That’s a handy trick. Your mom teach you?”

“Yes. My dad encouraged her. He was proud that I could tell so much about people by their scents.”

“Not all women wear perfume and a lot of men don’t wear cologne.”

“I graduated to learning to recognize almost everything. Dad made a game out of it, teaching me to identify other types of scents and what they might mean as well. We used to call it the Sherlock Holmes game. The smell of mothballs on a designer suit that said it wasn’t new or worn often. The fragrance of certain spices that linger after a meal on people can tell you where they’ve eaten, or even what they eat usually and can reveal a lot about their culture and background.”

“That’s very cool.”

“You think?”

“Yes.”

“It’s come in handy a time or two.”

“And you are bringing it up now because?”

“I could smell Miss Fournier’s perfume all over you.”

“All over me?”

“Yes. You were making love to her, weren’t you?”

Ethan reached down and laced his fingers through her hand, stopping her from playing with the chiffon. He rubbed gently over the back of her hand with his thumb. “Tell me why we went tonight.”

“To learn what we could. So, you’re saying you were using seduction to get information out of her.” She tried to tug her hand away, but he wouldn’t let go.

“No. We also went to plant listening devices, remember?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how putting a bug down her bra is going to help us find out what Prescott is up to.”

He laughed. “You’ve got an acerbic tongue when you want to, Sunshine. I didn’t touch her bra. I touched her throat.” He brushed his fingertip lightly over a spot on Beth’s neck. “Specifically, here. With the correct amount of pressure exerted, you can cause a short blackout in your opponent.”