Dare Me (4 page)

He had spent a portion of the day coordinating the efforts
of the other teams at the other locations and checking in with the commandos
inserted into the area where the terrorists were last reported to be operating,
but otherwise, he’d had nothing to do all day but figure out how to seduce Macy
in the most efficient, and yet, most pleasurable way.

She reached for her wine. “I hope your plan doesn’t depend
on getting me drunk.  I’ve developed a much stronger constitution against the
effects of alcohol after living in France.”

He topped off his own glass, then returned the crisp
Chardonnay to the table. “Then either we’ll both be drunk or neither of us
will.  But I draw the line at drugging you.  My obsession with you does have
limits.”

She snorted gently with laughter, holding the glass
carefully by the stem, swirling the golden liquid just beneath her nose so she
could inhale the exquisite aromas from the fine French wine.  “So you say. 
You’re jeopardizing a mission to lure me into bed, Dante.”

“I’m jeopardizing nothing.  You conducted your searches
today without interference, didn’t you?  Completed two rooms with intense
precision, by my estimation.  And you do have to eat, whether I’m here or not.”

She tore a piece of rustic French bread from the loaf in the
center of the table and dipped a corner in the remaining Bienville sauce.  “I
also have to sleep.”

He sipped his wine and chuckled.  “You forget how well I
know you, Macy.  When you’re on a mission, you rarely sleep more than an hour
or two at a time.  You caught a catnap between rooms today.  I watched you.”

With an intense gaze, he leaned forward, catching the
momentary pinkening in the apples of her cheeks.  “Are you aware that you
snore?”

She slid the glass into place, not the least bit ruffled by
his comment.  Okay, so he was exaggerating.  She didn’t snore…exactly.  But she
did make tiny little noises while dreaming, the kind that enticed a man to
consider all the sweet possibilities of what might be going on in her resting
subconscious.  He could only hope that she was reliving some liaison of theirs
from their past—though he knew she’d never admit something so revealing—or so
intimate.

She popped the last of the bread in her mouth, chewed,
swallowed and pierced him with an unshaken stare.  “What’s next?”

“A salad with tasso ham—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Her gaze skewered him, but not without a hint of humor.

Nine years had changed Macy, something he hadn’t wanted to
acknowledge before now.  She wasn’t the same bright-eyed, excitable agent she’d
been before, beating everyone to the briefing room in the mornings,
volunteering for extra assignments, amassing more experience in a few years
than most agents did in decades.  Now that she was at the top of the food
chain, she wasn’t quite so intense or so focused on proving herself that she
couldn’t laugh with her colleagues or take the natural ribbing offered by
operatives who’d spent more time in the trenches than she had.

No, this Macy took her time, savored her wine and her food
and from what he’d read in briefing reports, only raised her hand for
assignments that appealed to her expertise.  This Macy had the ability to laugh
at herself, not take every situation with the utmost seriousness, even when
gravity might have been warranted.  This Macy provided a whole new challenge—one
entirely more suited for the man that nine years without her had forced him to
become.

“What do you want to happen next?” he asked.

She lifted her napkin from her lap, tossed it on the table,
took one last swig from her wine and stood.  Sensing an attack, Dante scooted
his chair back.  He had a clear agenda for tonight, but figured a moment’s
deviation wouldn’t affect the final outcome—not when she seemed so intent on
proving some point.

As he expected, she swung a leg over him and landed on his
lap.  She speared her fingers through his hair and smashed her mouth down on
his for a hard, hungry, explosive kiss.

The flavors nearly knocked the sense right out of him. 
Garlic and spice from the appetizer, woodsy undertones of oak from the wine and
the innately sweet and addictive flavor that belonged to Macy and Macy alone. 
Despite his plans for a slow, drawn-out and carefully orchestrated seduction,
he couldn’t help but surrender to her assault, if only for a moment.

He slid his hands around her back.  Her muscles, tense and
bunched, did not loosen beneath his touch.  Even her tongue seemed intent on
winning a war rather than participating in a fair exchange of thrust and
parry.  The realization forced him to tear her off him and curse his moment of
pure male weakness.

She kicked her leg over him again and stood up straight, her
eyes blazing.  She swiped her wrist over her lips before she spoke.

“What’s wrong, Burke?  Too hot for you?”

He straightened his shirt and retrieved his fallen napkin
from the floor.  “Just the opposite.  Too cold.”

She stepped back, her balance tentative and her eyes glazed
with an emotion that could have either been anger or lust.  With Macy, it was
sometimes hard to tell.

“You didn’t specify how I was supposed to react to you,” she
said.  “I just assumed you wanted your sex hot and heavy and fast.  That’s how
we’ve always been, you and me.”

She slowly reached out and touched his shoulder, and he had
to exert all his self-control not to recoil.  He’d underestimated her.  She
could weave the web of mind games just as well as he—except that his motivation
would keep him on top.  She might try to turn the tables on him, but he wasn’t
about to allow her enough room to complete the spin.

He snatched her hand in one quick grab, then turned her
wrist and placed a soft kiss on the sensitive skin near her pulse.  Then,
standing, he led her back around to her chair, seated her again and then
cleared the plates away.

“Things have changed, Macy.  I’ve changed.  Nothing will be
as it was before, if I have my way.  Which I will, of course.”

He retrieved the second course, complete with a new bottle
of wine to complement the lightly dressed salad.  He had five courses planned,
each more delicious than the last, each paired with a fine wine that he’d pour
with elegance and patience and attention to sensual detail.  Some he’d cooked
himself.  Others, he’d ordered from trusted chefs in the French Quarter. 
Despite her attempt to take over the seduction, she’d failed.  He wouldn’t
allow her the upper hand.

Without a word, she picked up her fork and sampled the salad
and just as he expected, the piquant combination of ingredients knocked her
anger away.  He uncorked the wine and after placing new glasses in front of
them, poured the Pinot Grigio he’d discovered last year in Venice.  By the end
of the meal, Macy’s senses would be so primed, the idea of jumping him in order
to do the deed and be done for the night would be the farthest thing from her
mind.

* * *

Macy watched Dante carefully stack the dishes in the sink
while she finished off the last of the brandy he’d served to complement the
delicious
crème brûlée
.  She’d had many five-star meals in
her world-wide explorations and this one definitely landed in the top ten—not
so much for the quality of the food, which had been superb, but because never
in her life had she expected such attention and personal service from a man
like Dante Burke.

She knew what he was up to.  Didn’t take a rocket scientist
to figure out his
modus operandi
.  But at the moment, sated with her
fill of exquisite food and even more delectable wines and spirits, she hardly
cared.  If that meant surrender, so be it.  At this point, she had nothing to
lose but another hour’s sleep.

He dried his hands on a dishtowel and gestured toward the
parlor.  “Anything else you’d like from the kitchen?”

She stood, noting the extra pull around the button and
zipper area of her jeans.  “Maybe my sweats?”

His grin was pure sin.  “No sweats, but I did arrange a
change of wardrobe for you.”

Eyebrow quirked, she followed him into the parlor, which
glowed with a wide array of candles.  She had no idea when he’d lit them—they’d
hardly melted—then guessed he’d simply put in a request to one of the
half-dozen or so agents she’d seen stationed around the grounds.  Though he’d
banished all Arm agents from the premises while she worked, the house was his
to do with as he wished, including rearranging the furniture to execute a sweet
seduction.

He’d cleared the space of all coffee tables and end tables. 
The marvelous antique mirrors, kaleidoscopic Tiffany lampshades and cut crystal
vases caught and reflected the firelight so that the room nearly buzzed with
flickers of flame.  The aroma of beeswax permeated the room with a honeyed
perfume that became heady, thanks to the wine.  He strolled to the opposite
corner of the room and flicked a switch, piping music into the space.  She
didn’t recognize the artist, but the sultry sounds of saxophone jazz slipped
into her consciousness and washed away the last of her resistance.

“This is quite the atmosphere you’ve created,” she said.

His smile barely curved his generous lips, but made his gray
eyes sparkle like polished obsidian, dark and glossy.  “You deserve the best.”

She glanced over at a delicate oriental screen in the corner,
one she knew hadn’t been in the room when she’d searched earlier.  “Nice
addition.”

“Glad you like it.  If you slip behind, you’ll find the more
comfortable clothing I’ve arranged.”

She bit her tongue in making fun of the whole “why don’t you
slip into something more comfortable” cliché and decided just to go with the
flow.  The truth was, Dante had sufficiently enticed her.  His seduction had
worked.  She couldn’t help but wonder if the spark that had once burned them
with its intensity still existed between them.  But even if the fire remained,
she knew the heat couldn’t scorch her again.  She’d have to care about their
future like she once had—and that simply wasn’t the case.

Behind the screen, she found a lovely pitcher filled with
rose-scented water, a porcelain basin, a delicate towel and, draped on a
padded, satin hanger, an exquisite gown in breathtaking sapphire blue.  With
long sleeves and no ornamentation beyond a simple diamond broach that would
likely sit just between her breasts, the dress was nearly demure in style. 
Nearly, but not quite.

With a grin, Macy whipped her t-shirt over her head and shed
her jeans, which she kicked out of the way.  She was game.  If the man wanted
to torture himself with what he could never truly have, who was she to argue? 
In fact, if torture was what he wanted, she’d happily oblige.

She washed and dressed quickly, loving how the fabric fell
in soft waves over her body while the rosewater enhanced the femininity as it
absorbed into her skin.

When she emerged from behind the screen, Dante’s eyes
widened in unhampered appreciation.  He licked his lips and even with his
ingrained subtlety of motion, she couldn’t help but feel a buzz of awareness
that persisted long after he spoke.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You knew that,” she shot back.

“I don’t recall us taking much time in the past for the
aesthetics.”

She squared her shoulders.  “I wore sexy nighties for you
all the time.”

“Which I removed in three seconds flat.”

Macy fingered the diamond broach nestled low between her breasts. 
Surprisingly, the pin held the entire ensemble together.  Once he removed the
jewelry, the entire robe would fall away.  “This won’t take you half as long.”

He crossed the room slowly, his hand extended toward hers,
his eyes dark with such a combination of desire and restraint that Macy felt
certain the man might soon explode.  Instead, he pulled her gently into his
arms and began to sway to the lazy, luxurious rhythm of the music.

“I don’t intend to undress you tonight.”

“You said we would make love here.  That was the deal.”  She
dismissed the disappointed sound she thought she’d heard in her voice.  She’d
pushed herself to the limit.  So had he.  Clearly, she was nearly on the brink
of exhaustion.

He tugged her closer, wrapping her hand in his and giving
her little choice but join him in the dance.  “We are making love.  In ways we
never have before.”

“Aren’t there any good games on?”

Dante glanced over his shoulder, not the least surprised
that Sean Devlin had bypassed all of Dante’s security and entered the office
unannounced, dressed in sweats that looked like they might not have been washed—ever—with
a cutoff T-shirt and a Chicago White Sox baseball cap, worn backwards.  For all
his horrid fashion sense, Devlin had once been the best all-around agent the
Arm had ever employed, even if he’d only been in the service of US Intelligence
for just over two years.  Better than Macy.  Better than Dante.  Had he stuck
around, Sean likely would have surpassed his mentor and taken over as Chief.

Luckily for Dante’s career, Sean hadn’t been programmed with
a stick-to-anything strand in his genetic code.  But while the two men no
longer worked together, they had remained friends.  Cheating death together had
created a life-long bond.

“The game I’m watching is fascinating,” Dante answered,
gesturing his old friend inside.

Situated above Bogdanov’s garage in a room built by the Arm,
the surveillance center allowed Dante an unhampered view of Macy as she
searched the arboretum.  For over three hours, he’d observed how cleverly she’d
ignored the plants, knowing their ever-changeable nature would likely provide
no clues to the counter-code.  She’d used ultrasound and radar technology to
explore the soil and when the technical search didn’t satisfy her, she dug in
the dirt herself.

She’d counted and looked for patterns in the hand-painted
floor tiles and with attention to detail that would have made his eyes cross. 
She’d examined every weave in the antique wicker furniture, every shadow or
beam of light cast by the dim bulbs.  Nothing in the room, from the light
fixtures to the crevices in the wall went unnoticed or untouched.