Lie in the Moment Page 4

  “Part of me does wish you were serious,” he said in a low voice.

  Maura dragged her gaze back to his, met those cool blue eyes, and felt her mouth go dry. She wet her lips. “Let’s say we get there, and I change my mind. How would you convince me to stay?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t?” Maura wished her voice hadn’t come out sounding quite so disappointed.

  Roland’s eyes flickered. Calculating, figuring out how to play her. But what does he really want? Me in his bed? Or me in his power? Or something else entirely? Maura didn’t think she was going to get an honest response from him, no matter what he said.

  “I don’t usually play games, Maura. I want you, and you want me. Simple.”

  Maura snorted. Roland Chandler was the least simple person she’d ever met in her life, and she was fairly certain games were his specialty. “How about this, then? I’m telling you that I’m going to come to your place, and we’re going to take off our clothes, and we’re going to fuck. I’ll worry about whether I’m serious.”

  His lips twitched. “You make it sound so appealing. Like putting together IKEA furniture or exterminating rodents.”

  A chuckle escaped her before she could call it back. She didn’t want to be amused by him, damn it. She wanted to leave him slavering in a pile of worn-out sexual conquest while she maintained her distance. Sure. Because men slaver over you all the time. She wasn’t even sure what “slaver” meant, but it sounded like something a crazy perp would do when denied his prey.

  She let herself look at him, at the strong jaw already deeply shadowed with stubble, the high cheekbones and the deep-set eyes. He looked like a soulful man, not the trickster she knew him to be. Still, he was beautiful. The thought of stripping naked in front of him, of having him naked in front of her, was so incredible that she almost couldn’t imagine it. Roland Chandler. Naked. She bet he looked as sculpted and perfect as a Greek god. She couldn’t see him settling for anything less.

  “Marginally more appealing than assembling IKEA furniture,” she said slowly. And if I can get you to let down your guard, maybe you’ll tell me something.

  “Hmmm. Marginally. I’ll have to see what I can do about that.”

  Maura let out a huff of breath. He was just trying to freak her out. Well, she was going to outmanipulate Roland Chandler. He might consider her unsophisticated, but he didn’t know everything. He’d probably only had elegant restrained sex or freaky gold-digging-slut sex. Honest, sweaty sex would probably be a novelty to him. She wiped her suddenly damp palms on her thighs.

  They waited in charged silence, considering each other over their drinks, until Chris returned with the pizzas.

  “Here you go. I’ll tell Jessie you came by.” He set the stack of white boxes squarely between them, as if he were trying to silently separate the two of them from each other.

  “Thanks, Chris,” Roland told him.

  Roland was staring at her as he spoke, his fingers toying with the top of his wineglass. Maura glared back.

  “Sure,” Chris said slowly, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “We’ll see you soon. Jessie should be back tomorrow . . .” he finished, his voice trailing off until the word “tomorrow” ended on a sort of sigh.

  “Great.” Roland stood, lifting his wine and downing the remainder of the dark red liquid in one long swallow. His throat worked, and Maura had a sudden image of him on his knees between her legs. She felt her lips part on a gasp.

  He set the wineglass down and picked up the pizza boxes. Holding them braced against his hip with one arm, he raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Are you coming?”

  THEY WALKED IN silence back to Accendo. The smell of the pizzas tucked under his arm and the wine they’d drunk surrounded them as they prowled together across the snow-covered streets. She was as alert as he was, her eyes probing the dark, aware of the people who surrounded them in a way that most women weren’t. She was a cop, with cop instincts, even if she looked like a teenager in her shiny purple coat.

  Roland couldn’t help but glance down at the top of her head on occasion, at the part in her hair, dulled to deep brown by the yellow light of the streetlights. It had gleamed shiny red in the light of the restaurant. He wanted to see it spread over his pillows, his stomach, across his thighs. He wanted her. How far was she going to take this charade? He was curious enough to find out. He just hoped it didn’t worsen his chances of getting her to help him access Keenan’s letters.

  He knew it was a ploy. He knew it, but the thought distracted him anyway. Maura O’Halloran, naked in my bed. Would the soft hair between her legs be as fiery red as the hair on her head?

  “What are you thinking about?” she demanded as they walked up the short flight of stairs that led to the main entrance of his offices.

  “Your hair,” he answered truthfully.

  She lifted a hand to touch the shiny red mass that hung to her shoulders. “My hair? Why?”

  “I want to see it spread over my pillow.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Yes, oh,” he agreed, and used his thumb to unlock the front doors to the building.

  “Biometric locks? Smart,” she admitted.

  Roland had installed them after a hacker working for Keenan had stolen some of the code for a new software program he’d created for the U.S. government. The hacker had gotten access to the building and installed a keylogger to grab passwords. Now the locks didn’t work after certain hours without prior authorization unless you were Roland, Nick, or Milton. Even Blake couldn’t access the building, not from lack of trust, but because he didn’t want Keenan to try and use her as a tool.

  “Thanks.” He opened the door for her, balancing the pizzas on one hip.

  With a graceful slide past him, even in her bulky down coat, she trailed a spicy scent that made him think of poppies and good whiskey. Such a contradiction, bright and tender-looking on the outside, dangerous underneath.

  He led her to the executive elevator and punched in a code to fetch it back down to the main lobby level. Large windows let in the blue light from the night-tinted snow. They stared at each other while the elevator whirred its way down to them.

  “Smells good,” she said into the cavernous room, inhaling the scent of the food deeply, her chest rising and falling. She had pert, round little breasts. He hoped that she had as many freckles on those soft globes as she did on her face. There was something magical about those tiny spots, something that made him want to steal them from her and keep them.

  Idiocy. They were freckles, pure and simple. He’d certainly dated women with freckles in his lifetime.

  The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened, revealing the rich wood paneling, shiny steel frame, and marble floors inlaid in gold with an elaborate scrolled “A.” He saw her eyes widen for a moment, but she kept her face under control otherwise, moving to the side and searching for a button to push.

  He stepped in beside her.

  “Where are the buttons?”

  “Elevator, executive offices, please.” He kept his face straight, but only with effort. She looked appalled.

  A purring female replied, her accent crisp and British. “Executive offices. Of course, Mr. Chandler.” The elevator began to rise smoothly.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she blurted out.

  He chuckled; he couldn’t help himself. “It was Milton’s idea. It’s actually secure—voice verification, but Milton thought it would be fun. We installed it last month.”

  “The magician,” she said, almost like she was taking mental notes. “I can see him wanting a Star Trek elevator.”

  The elevator opened to the executive lobby, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Faneuil Hall. Automatic glass doors separated the waiting area from the long hallway that held his office and those of Milton and Nick.

  He led the way, still carrying the pizzas, and she followed silently. Yet another biometric lock let him in, and
he walked to the far side, where the conference table spanned the length of the room, right next to more full-length windows. Small lights near the floor turned on automatically as they passed.

  He set the pizzas on the table, along with Milton’s deck of cards from the bar, and removed his jacket. She was standing in the middle of the room, looking around curiously.

  “So this is the office of the great and powerful Roland Chandler.”

  Tossing his coat and jacket over the back of one of the executive leather office chairs, he said, “That’s right, Dorothy. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink? Coke? Water? Scotch?”

  “Do you have wine?” Her cheeks were flushed as she stripped off her lavender jacket and scarf and tossed them onto the nearby sofa.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought that Zach stocked a decent red in Roland’s personal break room. If not, there was likely wine in Milton’s office.

  “I’ll check.” Going to a hidden door in the paneling, he pressed gently, releasing the latch. The panel swung open, revealing a small kitchen and dining area complete with stainless-steel appliances. A seventeenth-century Dutch Baroque painting of a table covered with lobster, ham, and succulent fruits took up the far wall, complementing the slate countertops and sleek wood cabinets. A sizable floral arrangement in an antique Chinese vase sat in the center of the island that separated the dining area from the kitchen.

  He located a decent red in the wine refrigerator and pulled down two wineglasses from a hanging rack.

  He heard a muffled noise and turned to find that Maura had followed him into the kitchen. She had taken off her blazer and pants, leaving her in her blouse, which was a vibrant blue color that complemented her hair, the shirt hanging to mid-thigh. She was barefoot, her toes painted with glittery blue polish.

  She has freckles on her lower thighs, where the sun probably kisses them in the summer.

  “You’re staring,” she said softly, a tiny smile of satisfaction curling the corner of her lip.

  “I like looking at beautiful things,” he said simply. Sometimes the truth was the most powerful seduction tool a man possessed.

  She turned to look at the painting, softly lit by spotlights, the richness of color and texture so well done that the food looked good enough to eat off the wall. “I can see that. Tell me,” she said, as she pulled out a stainless-steel barstool and took a seat, “why do you have a kitchen in your office?”

  Roland realized that he’d been standing frozen, the wine bottle open in his hand. Well, damn. It needed to breathe anyway, almost as much as he did.

  Carefully moving the vase of flowers aside so that he could see her clearly, he set the bottle in the center of the island. He poured her a glass while she watched, her skin golden in the lamps hanging above the center island like glass teardrops.

  “I have a kitchen,” he said finally, setting the glass in front of her, “because I’m here more often than anywhere else. There’s a full bathroom as well. And we often have very long meetings. It’s best to have facilities on hand.”

  She took a sip of wine and gave a hum of appreciation. “Nice.” She ran a finger over the rim of the glass. “You bring women here often?”

  Dangerous waters. “Not often, no.” He took a long sip of his wine, trying to decide how to handle her. She seemed inclined to take the lead, but he couldn’t quite get a read on her. Unpredictable people were much more difficult to handle.

  They stared at each other for a moment, eyeing each other over their wineglasses. A fine tension was invading his muscles; his dick swelled and throbbed beneath his pants. She was so very, very lovely.

  “You play poker?” Roland asked, knowing that she did.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I thought it might be fun.” He really thought that she didn’t do this very often, didn’t sleep with men she didn’t know. If she felt empowered, in control, it might allay her fears.

  She was studying him, reading him, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she might suspect just how much he was attempting to manipulate her.

  “I’m starving,” she said inexplicably, and hopped down from the stool, padding across the tile barefoot, her short but curvy legs flashing beneath the tail of her shirt.

  Roland followed, carrying both his glass and the bottle of wine. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she, for all her inexperience, seemed to know exactly what she was doing.

  I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, Maura thought in panic as she walked past the conference table to look out the window. She didn’t let it show, couldn’t let it show, but the hidden kitchen with a stunning work of art, the luxurious furnishings, and the gorgeous man were overwhelming her senses, making her feel bathed in richness, in decadence. She wanted to roll on the carpet, so soft and lush beneath her feet; it felt like powdery beach sand. She wanted to strip off her clothes and let him run his fingers over her, touch every corner and crevice.

  And he wanted to play poker. Of course. This was a game. A give and take. She wished she knew exactly what he was playing for.

  “I forgot plates,” he said from behind her. His voice had lowered to a purr, and he slid his hands into the pockets of his pants, staring at her with a heavy-lidded gaze that made her clench her legs together. His shirt was undone, and the muscles of his stomach looked like waves had carved them into rock. He set the wine bottle down on the conference table.

  In answer, she walked over to him and picked up a slice of pizza, taking a huge bite. Oh myyyyyy. Her eyes closed in ecstasy. She unconsciously rubbed one foot over the other as she chewed.

  He made a strange noise and her eyes flew open. He was staring at her, wineglass held at his side.

  “Sure. Poker,” she murmured, licking her lips. “Let’s do that.” Maybe it would distract her from imagining what he looked like completely naked. It seemed important to think of something else so she didn’t lose her cool and attack him. Yeah, Maura O’Halloran, seductress, so turned on by a man’s bare chest that she throws herself on his lap.

  She pulled out one of the enormous leather chairs and took a seat. The chairs were so big that her feet barely touched the floor. He was still standing, looking down at her, his gaze on her lap. Spreading her legs—just enough to let him know that she was aware of his regard—she raised an expectant eyebrow, picking up her pizza and taking another huge bite. Flavor exploded in her mouth: rich, herbed sauce, sausage and peppers, and a soft crust with a perfect crisp to the outside. “Damn,” she sighed. “You were right. This is good pizza.”

  He bent down and took a bite out of her slice.

  He chewed, and she turned her head to watch his throat work, wanting to lean to the side and take a nip of her own.

  When he finished chewing, he turned to look at her. “I bet that hurt to say.”

  “What?” Was that her voice? All breathy and soft? Get a grip, Maura.

  “ ‘You were right.’ ”

  “Oh.” Maura snorted. “Well, normally I wouldn’t stroke that massive ego of yours, but some truths can’t be denied.” She took another large bite, letting the flavors settle on her taste buds.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, amused about something, and she rolled her eyes. He was probably thinking that she could stroke something else massive instead. She would argue, but, though he undoubtedly had an excellent tailor, no amount of clever sewing could hide the erection he’d been sporting. Remembering that made her instinctively glance toward his lap. Yup, still there.

  Looking up at him through her lashes, she said, “Why don’t you take off that shirt?”

  “Not yet.” His eyes twinkled at her, and she was certain he had something naughty in mind.

  “A quick peek, then,” she suggested.

  He pulled out the chair next to hers and turned it so that he was facing her. “Be my guest,” he said, and gestured to his open shirt.

  Setting her pizza back in the box, she dusted off her hands and reached for the lapels. “I mig
ht get you dirty,” she whispered.

  “A man can hope,” he said with feeling, making her chuckle. She tugged open the shirt on both sides and let out a long sigh.

  Maura knew that she shouldn’t be enjoying herself so much, but Roland Chandler sitting across from her in nothing but his pants was pure eye candy. Damn, but the man must work out constantly. Many of the younger cops at the precinct had excellent bodies—Matt, her last boyfriend, had been one of them—but she thought Roland might be able to take them all. It seemed strange for a businessman like him to take so much interest in working out. She didn’t think it was just to look good; he didn’t flaunt it enough for that to be the reason.

  “Very nice,” she said sincerely, and released him. Letting the shirt fall closed before picking up her wine and taking a long sip. Suddenly she was thirsty as hell.

  He picked up a piece of pizza and began eating, keeping his eyes on her the whole time.

  Maura looked around the room while she composed herself. Could he tell that her panties were wet? She didn’t think so. Her eyes caught on a painting of what looked like a café with a pool table, yellow floors, and red walls. Everyone in the painting looked plastered or up to something. “Is that a van Gogh?”

  He finished his slice in record time and produced a napkin out of nowhere. One minute—no napkin. The next minute—napkin. She pretended not to notice the magic trick, blinking at him expectantly. He produced another napkin and handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said dryly, wiping her fingers.

  Smiling, he picked up the deck of cards, which he began shuffling expertly. His hands moved faster than her eyes could follow and the cards seemed to blur into colorful washes of movement through the air.

  “Yes, it is a van Gogh,” he said simply, eyeing her reaction.

  She shook her head. Nope. She did not fit in with this life. Not even a little.