Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(30)

He handed her the glass. Candlelight sparkled on her rings and bracelets, off the cut crystal tumbler, the amber swirl of liquid, the bright awareness in her eyes. She lifted the glass to her lips.

He dragged his eyes away. He was sweating, for the love of God. His collar tight, his face hot. This was absurd.

He stared down at her hands and nodded at their glittering load. “A one-woman arsenal, I assume?”

Her lips curved. His lungs suddenly stopped working, his heart speeding up. Her smile was a weapon in itself, spiced with danger and challenge, hinting at unheard-of delights. “I enjoy the feeling of a secret advantage,” she said. “It is the spirit behind all of my designs.”

“They are beautiful,” he conceded. “Complimenti. Forgive me if this is an invasive question, but do you never create a beautiful thing just for beauty’s sake alone?”

She sipped, her eyelashes mysteriously lowered. “Never. And besides, dangerous secrets are beautiful. Don’t you think?”

He thought about that. “They can be, I suppose,” he said dubiously. “It depends on the secret. And your point of view.”

She smiled. “And what is your point of view, Mr. Janos?”

He lifted his glass to her in a silent toast. “That of a man whose lone secret weapon was confiscated by your security staff,” he said.

“Ah. That.” She tilted her head to the side, amusement gleaming in her eyes. “Did the boys alarm you? They are very protective. Touchingly so. But I hardly consider you defenseless.”

“No?” He swirled the liquor in his glass and inhaled the rich, complex smell of it. “With such deadly beauty, so many dangerous secrets massed against me?”

“No. The way you move says it all,” she said. “Shaking your hand confirmed it. The enlarged knuckle joints and the calluses on your first and second finger are those of an experienced judoka. And your hands are electric, Mr. Janos. You are accustomed to channeling vital energy with them. You are an experienced martial artist with a high level of interdisciplinary training.”

He was startled into a split second of blankness, but rallied quickly. “I do enjoy martial arts for exercise and recreation,” he said. “And I belong to a martial arts club near my home in Rome. But I would not presume to call myself a master. And I miss my knife.”

“Your knife, I think, is overkill.”

He injected a calculated hint of seduction into his smile. “I like overkill,” he said softly, letting let his gaze drop to the tangle of complicated jewelry at her cleavage. “And so do you, I think.”

She conceded this with a brief nod.

“I am tempted to procure some of your dangerous secrets for myself,” he said. “To combat my male insecurity.”

“Bullshit,” she said softly. “You do not have a single insecure bone in your body, Mr. Janos.”

He blinked. “Ah. Thank you…I think.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said. “It was not a compliment, just an observation. And in any case, I do not design jewelry for men. Ever. It is against all my principles.” Her smile turned predatory.

He knew when to back off. “Of course. I was surprised at your security procedures. Was all this elaborate choreography necessary?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Who knows? I never do. Hence my caution.” Her smile widened. “Welcome to my world.”

“I am honored, to have penetrated even the outermost defences.”

Her eyes flickered. “Che galantuomo,” she murmured. “Erin told me about your old world charm.”

“I try to please,” he said. “Are you immune to charm, Ms. Steele?”

Her smile tightened. “We shall see, hmm?”

He had evidently overstepped his bounds by flirting with her. Val Janos allowed himself to be cowed.

“Excuse me for getting straight to business, but would you show me the torque that you showed to Erin?” she asked. “Before we begin, it makes sense to verify that it really is one of my designs.”

“Of course.” He opened his case and lay the flat black leather case on the conference table. Steele flicked it open and gazed down at it.

Her head was inches beneath his face. The mingled scents of her perfume and her hair gel tickled his nose. The coils of her hair were gleaming and slick as varnished mahogany, gelled sternly into submission. No wisps allowed. Part of her armor.

But he had seen her without it. He had already seen the thick, disheveled braid swinging down her back as she played with the child. He had seen it wet and loose, clinging to her neck, to her slender, naked back and shoulders. The damage was done.

She looked up, rocking him with the sudden, blazing force of her eyes. “The provenance?”

He looked politely regretful. “As is often the case in my business, the piece came to me by unofficial channels. I bought it from a woman in Rome who had received it from a mysterious foreigner in Prague on a mad weekend love affair—after which she could never contact him again. He evidently gave her a false name and cell number. She sold the piece to me out of pique. The card was with it. I recognized your name, since I’ve dealt with some of your pieces before. I have received many offers already. The price rises daily, you will be gratified to know.”

“I see.” She stared down at the torque, a tiny dent marring the smooth skin between her perfect brows. “Were you aware that the last known owner of this piece died three weeks ago in Paris? She fell to her death from a penthouse terrace. Thirty-four stories.”