Keeper of the Shadows - By Alexandra Sokoloff Page 0,41

retort.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” he continued, and damn him, he would not stop looking at her with those eyes, those green, green eyes....

“Well, I’m fine, obviously, so you can stop now.”

He shook his head. “You never quit, do you? Walking right in to see Darius.”

“This is my job,” she flung back at him.

“You don’t have to do it all by yourself every second, do you? This isn’t something you should be nosing around in alone.”

Safer than doing it with you, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

“Barrie, there’s more to it than you think there is—and more to whoever is behind it.”

“That’s really not something you have to be concerned about,” she began coolly, but he tightened his grip on her arms.

“But I am concerned,” he said roughly. “That should be obvious by now.”

“I just don’t understand why—”

“Yes, you do,” he said, and pulled her to him to kiss her. Her mouth opened under his, and she felt arousal coil through her like a snake. His hands moved on her waist, his legs were hard against hers, and her whole body flashed back to him kissing her the night before, a sense memory of his hands on her. And her skin, her limbs, her blood, responded in the same way, right there in the garage.

I am in such trouble, she thought. I am gone.... And then there were no thoughts at all, just an aching, delicious desire.

When he finally lifted his head from hers, she felt as if the whole garage was spinning. They stood in the concrete dimness, both breathing hard.

“Tonight,” he said, his voice a low and intoxicating murmur, his hands caressing her waist. “Not business, a date. Just us. I’ll pick you up after work. Seven o’clock.”

“Okay,” she said with absolutely no control over her responses. He bent and kissed her again, this time backing her against the side of the car, and she could feel his legs and his throbbing sex and the garage spiraled as her legs shook underneath her.

Then he stepped back, took her key and opened the car door for her. “Seven,” he reminded her.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

He shut the door on her, closing her inside, and she sat in a limp daze...watching as he turned and slowly walked down the aisle of parked cars, and she suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be trying to get into DJ’s premiere that night but all she could think was Seven? How am I going to last the whole day?

And then she felt a twinge.

After work? Did he just say “after work”?

Mick had the same schedule she did, the night shift. So, what work was he talking about?

She sat up, suddenly alert again, and stared out the windshield.

Halfway down the aisle, Mick was stopped beside the Bentley. He zapped the door open and lowered himself into the elegant car.

Not even valet parked, she thought, which made her even more sure he had been following her. And that’s way too much car for a journalist, she told herself grimly, and started her engine.

Then she followed him out of the garage.

The Bentley rolled out onto the street, smooth as glass, and she turned after it, trailing it crosstown, west on Wilshire, always hanging back, concealing her little Peugeot behind larger vehicles.

Mick drove the car like an L.A. native, switching lanes often and gliding around slower cars to time the lights perfectly. Barrie prided herself on her driving but had to admit a grudging respect; he wasn’t just driving well, he understood the traffic. And having to admit it just pissed her off.

In Westwood he turned abruptly into the parking garage of a tall office building. She made the turn into the garage herself, and as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw the Bentley stopped at the valet station. Mick was just handing over his keys to an attendant. As she watched, Mick said something to the valet, who laughed and nodded. Mick tapped the man’s arm in a familiar gesture, and the valet gave him a little half salute. Her eyes narrowed. That valet knows him.

She watched as Mick pushed through the inner glass doors toward the elevators, then sped up to the valet station and let the next valet take her keys. As he handed over her ticket, she asked him, “Who was that man with the Bentley?”

The valet didn’t have to ask who she meant. “Mr. Stuart.”

Barrie felt a surge of cold shock, but outwardly she did no more