A Game of Chance by Linda Howard

who put on the best show were often the ones with the most to hide. He should know—he was an expert at hiding the black secrets of his soul.
    He wondered briefly what it said about him that he was willing to sleep with her as part of his plan to gain her trust, but maybe it was better not to think about it. Someone had to be willing to work in the muck, to do things from which ordinary people would shrink, just to protect those ordinary people. Sex was… just sex. Part of the job. He could even divorce his emotions to the point that he actually looked forward to the task.
    Task? Who was he kidding? He couldn't wait to slide into her. She intrigued him, with her toned, tight body and the twinkle that so often lit her clear grey eyes, as if she was often amused at both herself and the world around her. He was fascinated by her eyes, by the white striations that made her eyes look almost faceted, like the palest of blue diamonds. Most people thought of grey eyes as a pale blue, but when he was close to her, he could see that they were, very definitely, brilliantly grey. But most of all he was intrigued by her expression, which was so open and good-humoured she could almost trademark the term "Miss Congeniality." How could she look like that, as sweet as apple pie, when she was working hand in glove with the most-wanted terrorist in his files?
    Part of him, the biggest part, despised her for what she was. The animal core of him, however, was excited by the dangerous edge of the game he was playing, by the challenge of getting her into bed with him and convincing her to trust him. When he was inside her, he wouldn't be thinking about the hundreds of innocent people her father had killed, only about the linking of their bodies. He wouldn't let himself think of anything else, lest he give himself away with some nuance of expression that women were so good at reading. No, he would make love to her as if he had found his soul mate, because that was the only way he could be certain of fooling her.
    But he was good at that, at making a woman feel as if he desired her more than anything else in the world. He knew just how to make her aware of him, how to push hard without panicking her—which brought him back to the fact that she had totally ignored his first opening. He smiled slightly to himself. Did she really think that would work?
    "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
    She actually jumped, as if she had been lost in her thoughts. "What?"
    "Dinner. Tonight. After you deliver your package."
    "Oh. But—I'm supposed to deliver it at nine. It'll be late, and—"
    "And you'll be alone, and I'll be alone, and you have to eat. I promise not to bite. I may lick, but I won't bite."
    She surprised him by bursting into laughter.
    Of all the reactions he had anticipated, laughter wasn't one of them. Still, her laugh was so free and genuine, her head tilted back against the seat, that he found himself smiling in response.
    "'I may lick, but I won't bite.' That was good. I'll have to remember it," she said, chuckling.
    After a moment, when she said nothing else, he realized that she was ignoring him again. He shook his head. "Does that work with most men?"
    "Does what work?"
    "Ignoring them when they ask you out. Do they slink away with their tails tucked between their legs?"
    "Not that I've ever noticed." She grinned. "You make me sound like a femme fatale, breaking hearts left and right."
    "You probably are. We guys are tough, though. We can be bleeding to death on the inside and we'll put up such a good front that no one ever knows." He smiled at her. "Have dinner with me."
    "You're persistent, aren't you?"
    "You still haven't answered me."
    "All right—no. There, I've answered you."
    "Wrong answer. Try again." More gently, he said, "I know you're tired, and with the time difference, nine o'clock is really midnight to you. It's just a meal, Sunny, not an evening of dancing. That can wait until our second date."
    She laughed again.