Don't Tempt Me by Barbara Delinsky Page B

shower. Tonight, however, would be different. She wanted to feel warm, relaxed, and pampered. She wanted to feel soft and scented. She wanted, she realized with a jolt, to feel feminine.
    â€œIt’s part of the mystique, my friend. And,” she retorted smoothly, “the sooner I get done with this work, the sooner I can get out of here and indulge. Capiche ?”
    â€œI got ya! Go to it!”
    With a sigh she did, but it was tough going from the start, a dire continuation of the morning’s frustration. No one she phoned was in and every form she completed lacked some vital bit of information which she could not lay her hands on in the instant. Of the no less than six calls she received in an hour, five involved either complaint or criticism. An evening of pure relaxation had become an
absolute necessity by the time she neatened her desk at six thirty.
    â€œSo you’re still here?”
    Justine’s head flew up to find none other than the cause of her sleeplessness last night. Sloane hadn’t been far from her thoughts all day, an undercurrent of mystery which only served to aggravate her steadily fraying nerves. Now, she steeled herself against his subtle command.
    â€œJust about finished,” she spoke brusquely. “It’s been an awful day. I’m very happy to see it end.”
    Sensing his approach, she continued to pack folders into her case as though she were alone.
    â€œThat bad?” he asked quietly.
    â€œThat bad.” One more folder. The Ryder case. Where was it?
    â€œHave them often?”
    â€œNot very.” Impatient fingers flew to the file cabinet behind the desk, yanked out a drawer, then dug into the R’s. Regan. Rollins. Rohmer. Ryan. No Ryder. Where was it? Check again. Rollins. Rohmer. Ryan. No Ryder.
    â€œTry S .”
    â€œIt’s Ryder. It doesn’t begin with S .”
    â€œLook under S anyway.”
    With a grimace of disgust she flipped to the first S . Ryder. An apologetic smile teased her lips as she shook her head, then she lowered her head to rest on the top of the cabinet. “How did you know?”
    His voice was much closer. “It’s a common mistake in the rush of filing. Last R —first S . It’s done all the time.”
    Red-blond waves rippled down her back as Justine tilted her head up in supplication. “Why me? Why today?” Then she groaned as she bowed her head again. “I have such a headache.” Her soft whisper was muted, self-directed, yet he heard it.
    The gentle hand that moved beneath the thick fall of her hair to knead her neck brought instant relief, as did the
voice which flowed like a rich and mellow Burgundy wine. “You look exhausted. Just try to relax and we’ll get that headache under control. Remember, it’s all in the mind.”
    â€œHmmm, a mindache …” she played beneath her breath, suddenly giddy.
    â€œNo, my dear, a cure for your headache!” Once again the nonimitation, drawled deeply.
    It was enough. Eyes closed, she followed his instructions, relaxing beneath his touch until he finally withdrew it.
    â€œBetter?” he asked, dark eyes beaming energy into her.
    â€œUmmm, better.”
    â€œReady for dinner?”
    â€œOnly if it’s light.”
    â€œYou count calories?”
    â€œAlways.”
    â€œNever splurge?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œNever?”
    She shook her head, her green eyes locked into the dark and beckoning depths of his.
    â€œ Never? ”
    â€œWell …” she relented at last, “ almost never.”
    His smile melted the last of her tension like a magic wand, hovering over her, making everything right. To her astonishment, she felt suddenly refreshed.
    â€œCome on, Justine. Let’s go. I’m starved.” With firm command the large hand closed warmly over hers. Thoughts of an evening of leisurely bathing were fast forgotten.
    Dinner was at a small French restaurant in the