Don't Tempt Me by Barbara Delinsky Page A

the far reaches of desire were a mystery still. Where would it take her if she gave it free rein?
    Where indeed , she scoffed. Desire would lead to physical involvement and in turn to an emotional quagmire from which she might be unable to free herself. That was what she’d avoided all these years. She wouldn’t let history repeat itself. Certainly the forfeit of sensual gratification was well worth her peace of mind.
    Pushing away from the door and walking to the sofa to deposit her bags, she turned out of habit to the telephone pad by the refrigerator.
    â€œEverything quiet here, Justine. Am off to work. See you in the morning. Susan.”
    The notes rarely said more, yet they were always appreciated, as was Susan herself. A nurse, she worked the night shift. It was a perfect setup for them both—sharing the apartment in passing, so to speak. They got along famously, though the time they spent together was limited.
At times Justine wished it was greater; now, however, she was glad to be alone.
    Changing into a long, white terry robe, she helped herself to a tall glass of iced water, then sank into the sofa. Through it all her thoughts were of Sloane. He had taken her by storm, to say the least. Her defenses had never been crushed as decisively as they had been on this one eventful day. Day . She stopped herself in amazement, then corrected herself. Less than half a day! And in that less than half a day! she’d been shaken to the core by a depth of desire she hadn’t known she possessed.
    Would she see Sloane again? The chances were good that their paths would cross at the firm. But after hours—would he seek her out? Would there be a repeat of that soul-reaching kiss? A tremor of excitement coursed through her at the memory of it. His hands had cupped her shoulders and drawn her closer—was this the fox pinioning his victim? If so, she was an easy mark, willing prey for the marauder.
    A shiver passed through her in reaction to the image. Thank goodness Susan was not here, she mused. The utterly vulnerable Justine O’Neill who sat now on the oatmeal-hued upholstery, flushed and warm in the aftermath of passion, was a far cry from that other Justine who so capably and with such dignity could conduct her legal affairs day after day. Oh, Susan Bovary had seen her in a bad time or two, but nothing, she smirked ruefully, could rival her present state of light-headed agitation!
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    â€œDid you know that the fox does most of his hunting between dusk and dawn?”
    â€œNo, John, I didn’t. Any other gems you would like to pass on?”
    â€œThat’s it for now, babe,” he said over the interoffice line. “Just thought I’d give you something to think about.”

    Picturing his smug smile, Justine was grateful that he could not see her expression. It had been a bad morning, and with a minimum of sleep the night before she was not quite up to par in the good-humor department.
    â€œYou can’t believe how much I appreciate that,” she murmured facetiously.
    â€œAh, ah, sarcasm will get you nowhere. Tough morning, Justine? You sound tired.”
    â€œVery perceptive.” She pushed aside a scramble of curls to rub her forehead, where the dull pain of a headache had begun to throb. “It’s been one of those days I’d like to forget. Court appearances put in last-minute conflict by delays, uncooperative and impatient witnesses, crotchety judges—the list goes on and on. I have every intention”—she smiled at the prospect—“of going home and submerging these weary bones in a very warm and bubbly bath—and staying there until the water turns cold.”
    John spoke up in a mockery of astonishment. “Justine —I never took you for the bubble bath type. A quick and efficient shower seems more your style. You surprise me!”
    In truth she surprised herself. John’s surmise was apt; she had always preferred the