Cursed (Decorah Security #21) - Rebecca York Page 0,27

be, given the hand that fate had dealt him. But once he’d folded her against himself, everything he’d known about discipline had fled his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She took a step back, and he saw she was doing the same thing he was—struggling to compose herself.

When she spoke, her voice was high and shaky. “There’s no point in assigning blame—to either one of us.” She stopped and cleared her throat. “The point is, we have to work together. I have to live here. And we need to keep things on a professional level.”

“Yes,” he agreed, relieved that she wasn’t telling him she was going to call a cab and bail out.

She was speaking again, and he tried to focus on the words through the humming in his brain. “Then I’ll go off and e-mail my office and let them know that I’m on the job.” She started to walk away, then turned. “I need the network password.”

“Yes right.” He strode to his desk, pulled out a pen and paper and wrote down some letters and numbers before handing her the sheet.

When he held out his hand, she was careful not to touch him as she reached for the paper.

After she started for the door again, he breathed out a little sigh, needing to be alone in the aftermath of the hot, desperate kiss.

When she paused at the door, his fist clenched. It didn’t ease his tension to hear her say, “And I need to think about why you’re having trouble giving me complete answers to my questions.”

Probably she’d thrown that at him to cover her embarrassment before she made her hasty exit.

With a jerky motion, he took several steps toward the serenity of the garden. The landscape he’d created always soothed him. Not today. He had cooked up a reason for asking her to come here and work for him. Well, not exactly cooked up. What he’d told her was true—as far as it went. Unfortunately, she wasn’t taking his explanations at face value. She kept digging for more information. Information that he wasn’t willing to spit out.

With a muttered curse, he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about answering her pointed questions. He wanted to think about the kiss. To relive every tantalizing detail.

Yes. The kiss. That was easier.

Morgan had ended it. But while it had lasted, it had been glorious.

He’d felt an instant connection to her. And it must be the same for her—judging from the heat they’d generated.

He sighed, leaning more firmly against the French door because his legs felt unsteady.

He thought about how her lips had felt against his. Her tongue. Her breasts pressed to his chest.

When he started getting hard again, he made a rough noise, then struggled to cut off the sensations assaulting his body. The intimate contact had made his head spin. It had been a mistake, and he’d better keep his hands off her until they got to know each other better. Then maybe he’d have the guts to tell her the real reason why he’d hired her.

He stifled a sharp laugh. Or maybe not. It had seemed like a great idea at the time. Now he couldn’t help thinking he’d been kidding himself all along when he’d asked her here.

Pushing away from the woodwork, he headed down the hall to his office and closed the door. The computer was already on, and all he had to do was touch the mouse to make the screen spring to life.

He would spend a few hours checking his credit card records. That should cool him off pretty well.

He had every intention of checking his bank statement. Instead he opened the Morgan Kirkland file and began reading over all the information he’d collected on her.

Morgan Kirkland, age thirty. Marital status: widow. He didn’t like that part. He would have preferred her to have been unmarried. But he wasn’t old-fashioned enough to think she needed to be a virgin. Besides, he didn’t have his choice about that—or anything else.

He’d started looking up information on private investigators seven months ago—then rejected each one. But the moment he’d found Decorah Security, something had felt different. Eagerly, he’d accessed their staff of agents. As soon as he’d read the name Morgan Kirkland, he’d known she was the right one.

She wasn’t pictured, of course. None of the agents had been, since they often worked undercover. But he had excellent Web skills, and he’d traced her back to her yearbook photo at Penn State. Seeing her picture had made