Free Storm Warning by Toni Anderson Page A

needed sleep, not kisses. God save her from men and hormones.

Chapter Five
    Ben stared at the door Sorcha Logan closed, squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead on the table. Using guile and seduction to obtain information was one thing, banging her was quite another.
    It was not a line he could cross.
    Hissing through clenched teeth did nothing to relieve the pressure that gripped his chest, nor the strain against his zipper. He’d been within an inch of laying one on her. An inch from blowing his career for the sake of a quick and easy screw. What was he thinking?
    Ben smacked his fist down on the desk and even that didn’t convince him he’d made the right decision.
    The sound of the shower captured his attention, and God help him, all he could do was stare at the bathroom door. Jesus. Now he got to picture her naked.
    He put his hand over his face. Was it the thought of immediate sex that scrambled his brain? Or her sad eyes? Better yet, her do-me lips?
    He jammed his fingertips against his temples. This was the perfect opportunity to investigate and get closer to her. Remember? That was why he’d invited her here. Not for sex.
    He shifted uncomfortably and wished…what? That he was screwing her? Screwing his career?
    One of the things he’d always prided himself on was his self-control. He was a loner. He didn’t need sex. He’d didn’t need relationships. He sure as hell didn’t need this complicated attraction to a woman who might have caused a bloodbath that killed his best friend and marred a perfect law-enforcement career.
    He closed his eyes. There was a thump in the shower followed by a curse. Why the hell had she been the one to rescue him? And who’d pushed him in the harbor in the first place?
    Did they know he was DEA?
    And how had anyone in Scotland or Santayana’s compound known Jacob was DEA? That was one question that jabbed at Ben’s conscience. Had he inadvertently given Jacob away? Was it his fault that Jacob, surveillance geek—who’d never even entered Santayana’s mansion before that fateful day—had ended up riddled with hot lead?
    Ben didn’t know.
    Questions bombarded his brain until he wanted to hit something in frustration. Desperate for a distraction, he looked around the small living room. Spotted the bag of clothes he’d propped beside the front door. Sorcha’s gear.
    Crouching besides the bag, he pulled out her long black cardigan and delved into the pockets. Found a small red wallet.
    Rifling quickly through her bank cards, he noted there were no foreign cards. A British driving license, an Australian driving license. But no car.
    Nuts.
    Delving into the back pockets of the wallet he pulled out a couple of passport-sized photos. Sorcha with sun-bleached hair and some guy with a big stupid grin on his face. Probably the Australian loser.
    Okay. Nothing.
    He fingered the photographs for another second. Put the wallet back, searched deeper through the bag and came up with a Filofax. A small blue leather one. He flipped the diary to thisweek and went through the entries. Nothing except school schedules. He froze, the sinking of his stomach colliding with the sound of the shower turning off.
    Damn. Tomorrow she was going out to the Isle of May to check up on her research project.
    Double damn. He stuffed the diary into her bag and moved back to his chair beside the window. Sat staring at the moonlight bleeding across the ocean as sweat glued the clothes to his back. Tomorrow, he was going to have to do a little phobia desensitization work. ’Cos it looked like he was going on a boat ride.
    ***
    The bastard hadn’t drowned.
    Unadulterated fear had been the only emotion to slip past the American’s impenetrable guard as he’d stared at the water. But he hadn’t drowned.
    Sorcha had gone and saved the guy.
    Shadows flared in his vision as he tried to contain his agitation. He was being forced to take risks he never usually took, and he still hadn’t found those