The Night In Question. Harper Allen

one who should be admiring her artwork, taking her to kindergarten, tucking her in at night. I don’t want to hear how well another woman is fulfilling my role, Max—I want my daughter back.” She held his gaze stonily. “How are you going to do that for me, when you don’t even have the backing of the Agency?”

      She pushed her chair back from the table. “So you finally believe I didn’t do it. Big deal. Am I supposed to be grateful that you don’t think I’m a black widow spider anymore?”

      She kept her tone deliberately flat. It wasn’t hard, she thought tightly. Prison had taught her how to hide her real thoughts behind a mask of indifference, but even without that training she doubted whether there would have been any inflection in her voice. She didn’t care what Max Ross thought of her, she told herself. In fact, she didn’t even know why she’d come back here to his house when he’d caught up to her at the bus stop.

      “No, Julia, you’re not supposed to be grateful.” A muscle moved in his jaw. “But maybe you could set aside that chip on your shoulder long enough to see that I want to help you.”

      “The only way you can help me is to make the last two years go away. That’s not about to happen.” She smiled thinly at him. “Nothing’s changed from this afternoon just because the agent who ripped my life apart now wishes he could paste it back together again. It’s too bad you didn’t have this change of heart before you built your airtight case against me, but you didn’t. Now it’s too late.”

      She started to get up from the table, but a heavy warmth at her knee stopped her. Looking down, she saw Boomer had planted himself solidly beside her, and was looking up at his master expectantly.

      “Sorry.” Max took in the situation at a glance. “It’s time for his heart medicine and his biscuit, and he’s capable of sitting there all night until he gets them. I’ll shut him in the living room in a minute.”

      Frustration tightened her lips, but as Max turned to the cupboard and took down a bottle of pills and a bag of dog treats she let her hand drop to the old Lab’s glossy head. His ears felt like worn velvet under her fingers, and unexpectedly she felt the edginess inside her ease a little. She shrugged, speaking before she thought.

      “He’s not really bothering me. I used to have a golden retriever when I was a little girl.”

      Immediately she regretted revealing even that much of herself to the big man in front of her. This isn’t show-and-tell, Tennant, she told herself harshly. Ross isn’t interested in your childhood, and even if he were, you’re not interested in sharing it with him. Why don’t you just step over his damn dog and get out of here?

      But somehow she couldn’t. The Labrador’s tail beat once, slowly, against the floor, and when she began to take her hand away from his head he laid his muzzle on her knee and looked soulfully up at her. She gave in and resumed stroking the silky ears.

      “Lady.” Max looked over his shoulder at her as he tipped a capsule into his palm. “Isn’t that what her name was? You got her for Christmas when you were six?”

      Her hand stilled. She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s right. How did you know?”

      His face was expressionless, but as he bent to Boomer and deftly slipped the capsule down the dog’s throat she thought she saw a flash of apology behind the green gaze. He palmed the biscuit in front of the salt-and-pepper muzzle and Boomer took it with more enthusiasm than he had the pill.

      “I read the psychological profile on you.” Straightening to his full height, he turned to the sink and washed his hands before drying them on a nearby dishtowel. He faced her, and if there had been any apology in his gaze before, it was no longer visible. “It was comprehensive.”

      Boomer had settled down on the floor with difficulty to crunch his biscuit. This time when Julia stood she was able to step over him without disturbing him, and she did, her legs feeling suddenly shaky.

      She should have been used to it by now, she thought, tamping down the spark of dull outrage that threatened to flare inside her. She should have been used to having her whole life and personality laid out for any stranger to comb over, looking for some clue as to why Julia Tennant, née Weston, with her cosseted, albeit somewhat unconventional upbringing, should have strayed so far from the norm of human behavior as she had. She’d read op-ed pieces in the papers that had laid the blame for her actions on everything from her mother’s peripatetic lifestyle to what one writer had called the “Grace Kelly syndrome”—society’s adulation of the kind of cool blond beauty she’d once been told she possessed.

      She’d reminded herself that the authors of those articles hadn’t known her. But this was different.

      She was in the man’s home, for God’s sake. She was only inches away from him. She felt suddenly as if she was standing there without any clothes on, powerless to prevent him from looking his fill of her.

      Prison had taught her to keep her mouth shut. But she wasn’t in prison anymore. The spark inside her ignited into a cold flame.

      “It must have made for some interesting bedtime reading.” She allowed a note of husky amusement to creep into her voice and widened her eyes at him. “Is it still tucked away in a drawer somewhere to pull out on those restless nights when you can’t fall asleep? Did it feed a fantasy or two?”

      His mouth tightened. He shook his head. “I told you, Julia—you weren’t my fantasy. Learning everything I could about you was part of the job.”

      Leaning back against the counter, he crossed his forearms over his chest and met her eyes. “Maybe we should get this straight right now. Even if we hadn’t met under these circumstances, you’re not my type. I don’t go for high-maintenance blondes who were born clutching a charge card. Sure, when I first saw you I realized you were probably the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, but you’re a little too rich for my blood, honey. I live in the real world.”

      “I didn’t think you were considering taking me home to meet Mom and Pop, Ross.” Julia returned his gaze steadily. “That’s why I used the term fantasy. And no matter how hard you try to deny it, I know you indulged once in a while.” Her smile was cynical. “What exactly are you hoping this will lead to?”

      She saw the flash of anger, quickly veiled, in his eyes and knew her arrow had found its mark. But the next moment he proved that his aim was at least as good as hers.

      “The same thing you want it to lead to, Julia.” Casually he pushed himself from the counter he’d been leaning against and took a step toward her. In the less-than-spacious room that one step brought him close enough to touch her, but he merely unfolded his arms and let them hang by his sides, his manner relaxed. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe all this hostility between us is a front for something else. Why don’t we test your theory?”

      The suit jacket he’d been wearing earlier had been thrown over the back of a nearby chair, and he’d rolled back the cuffs of the plain white shirt he was wearing. Against the skin of his wrist glinted the steel of a utilitarian watch. Everything about him was unobtrusive, as she’d noted before, Julia thought. Everything about him was almost boringly ordinary. She should have been able to let her gaze sweep over and by him without feeling the slightest twinge of interest, and for one moment, she almost made it.

      Then her eyes met his, and suddenly it seemed as if the air around them had thickened, making it hard for her to breathe.

      Ordinary? she thought faintly. How had she gotten that impression? Maybe feature by feature there was nothing about him that grabbed attention. The dark brown hair was a little too long to conform to current style, a little too short to be sexily shaggy. The even features were bluntly masculine, but not memorable. He was tall, but not more than an inch or two over six feet, and although his shoulders were broad enough to strain the seams of the white shirt, they didn’t have the obsessive muscularity of a bodybuilder.

      And none of that was important, because emanating from him like an almost physical force was an aura of pure maleness.

      An insane