Rafe Sinclair's Revenge. Gayle Wilson

six years that would be possible.

      “Someone at the agency passed along a security alert. They think Jorgensen may still be alive.”

      She tried to decide from his tone what he felt about that. As always, it was impossible to read anything from what he’d said. Not unless he wanted her to.

      “Griff thought you should be made aware of the possibility,” he continued.

      Griff thought you should be made aware…

      “So why didn’t he call me?”

      “I assume because he doesn’t know how.”

      “You did.”

      There was no answer. In the dimness she watched as he brought the glass to his lips and took a long swallow of her whiskey. She wondered, feeling slightly vindictive, if he needed it.

      “So how did you know how to find me?”

      The more important question was, of course, why would you still know how to find me?

      “I know how your mind works.”

      She thought about that for maybe ten seconds. “That’s not an answer.”

      “I trained you.”

      “Don’t you think I might have learned anything after you left?”

      There was a small movement at the corner of his mouth. “Probably not.”

      She resisted the urge to tell him to go to hell. At least she had learned when he was deliberately goading her.

      “Okay, so now I’m aware that the company thinks Jorgensen could be alive,” she said. “Anything else?”

      “I like your house.”

      “A little place in the suburbs. Isn’t that what we all dreamed of?”

      “Is it? What you dreamed of, I mean.”

      You’re what I dreamed of. As much as she hated admitting that, she could no more have stopped the thought from forming than she could have stopped herself from entering this room once she had known he was here.

      “I guess that would have depended on which day you asked me,” she said.

      “How about today?”

      Inexplicably the tightness in her throat was back. She couldn’t think of a single sufficiently cutting thing to say to him.

      “I have to put my groceries away,” she said instead, the suggestion that he should leave so she could get on with it obvious.

      He let the silence lengthen a moment before he broke it.

      “They’re wrong, but don’t take any chances. This may be someone copycatting Jorgensen’s agenda. Which might mean they are also targeting his enemies.”

      “Then why should he be interested in me? I didn’t have anything to do with Jorgensen.”

      “I did. That would have been enough for him. Whoever this is—”

      “Couldn’t have found me,” she broke in. “Not if Griff couldn’t. And if you’re so concerned, why take a chance on leading him to me?”

      “I wasn’t followed.” He was obviously amused by the idea.

      That wasn’t based on arrogance, but experience, and as such, she accepted it. Actually she hadn’t been worried about Rafe leading him—whoever he might be—to her. She was more curious about why he had come, especially in person. Despite the excuse he had just offered, there must be something more to this visit.

      Wishful thinking? She denied that idea, too, as soon as it was born. She had a perfect right to be curious about why Rafe Sinclair would all of a sudden show up on her doorstep after an absence of nearly six years.

      “So what are you doing now?” she asked. “Working for Griff?”

      “You know about the Phoenix?”

      “Rumors,” she said, choosing the word with care. She didn’t want her feelings about that to be evident.

      “They invited you to join.”

      They hadn’t, but since he didn’t seem to know they hadn’t, she couldn’t see any point in telling him.

      “Did you?” she countered.

      He laughed. The sound, low and pleasant and so damned familiar, evoked more memories.

      “I think I’m too old to play hero. Somewhere along the way it all seemed to lose its charm.”

      Somewhere along the way. And she knew exactly where that had been.

      “I’ll let you get back to your groceries,” he said.

      In spite of the fact that she had made that suggestion only seconds ago, perversely she had discovered she wasn’t ready for him to leave. Not yet ready to let him walk out of her life for perhaps another six years. Perhaps forever.

      That would be the smart thing to do, of course. Just let him walk away. Where Rafe Sinclair was concerned, however, she had never managed to do the smart thing. Why start now?

      “Have you eaten?”

      Even in the dimness she was aware that his eyes widened. He recovered quickly, but no one could completely control that kind of involuntary physiological response. That he had reacted to the invitation at all was promising.

      Promising of what? she wondered, disgusted with her near-Pavlovian response to his every action.

      “Today?”

      “Dinner,” she said patiently.

      “Is that what’s in the sack?”

      “It could be.”

      “And you’re suggesting that we sit down and have dinner together?”

      “It isn’t all that complicated. I’m going to fix something to eat for dinner. Do you want to join me?” she asked, still feigning patience.

      That same movement she noticed before touched the corner of his mouth. “Actually, it might be better if I waited until after dark to leave. Since you’re concerned about security.”

      “I’m not concerned about security. I just wondered why you aren’t.”

      “I told you. I wasn’t followed.”

      “Then there’s no reason to wait until after dark to leave, is there?”

      This time he laughed. And again that small frisson of sexual reaction stirred deep within her lower body.

      “You’re a damned ungracious hostess, Elizabeth. Whatever happened to Southern hospitality?”

      “I don’t know. I’m not Southern.”

      “I swear there’s a trace of an accent.”

      “Hardly,” she said dismissively. “Are you staying or not?”

      She could tell he was fighting another smile, which made her regret her impulsive invitation. Maybe he would refuse.

      “Of course I am. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”

      Chapter Two

      “You never told me what you’re doing now,” she said, lifting her wineglass to rest the globe against her cheek.

      It was something he had seen her do a hundred times. One of a dozen gestures that had been achingly familiar during the few short hours they had spent together.

      He couldn’t explain why he’d accepted her invitation to dinner. No more than he imagined she could have explained why she’d issued it.

      Curiosity, perhaps. A longing to recapture something