Free Dangerous Ladies by Christina Dodd

his jacket pocket, he waited.
    “For tonight, I would like to sleep with you,” she said.
    Roberto’s hand clenched into a fist inside his pocket, and the flare of excitement lit again. Not FBI. Not unless they’d significantly changed their tactics.
    “I have my reasons. I don’t expect you to inquire about them. But I need . . . a night . . . a man . . . I need you . I’ve never done this before, so you don’t need to worry about wearing a number or being a
notch on my belt. You don’t have to worry that I intend any kind of entrapment. My purpose is solely for my own pleasure. And yours, of course, I hope.” She waited for a response with a stillness that betrayed fierce emotions tumbling beneath the surface.
    Not FBI.
    A groupie?
    Possible.
    The first spy placed by the Fosseras?
    A theory worthy of note.
    Or perhaps she was a gift from fate to offset the ruin of his good name.
    She grew discomfited by his silence. Looking down, she searched out her shoes and donned them one at a time. “But before I continue, perhaps I should ask whether you’re interested.”
    “Interested?” There wasn’t a straight man in Chicago who wouldn’t give his right arm to stand where Roberto was standing now. The crackle of the flames and the faint sound of her breathing broke the silence in the library. He strolled toward her, and when she lifted her head and shook the golden strands of hair away from her face, he smiled with all his charm. Lifting his hand, he let it hover an inch away from her chin. “May I?”
    He had thought she would relax toward him. Instead, like a spinster schoolteacher allowing a liberty, she gave a stiff nod.
    Ah. Not experienced. Not a groupie.
    She smelled good, like a flower that bloomed in the night. Like a woman with secrets. Slowly he slid his fingers under her chin toward her right ear, taking pleasure in that first, all-important contact with her skin. The texture was as velvety as it looked, and warm with the heat of the fire and the heat of her need. He touched her earring, a gorgeous sapphire, then caressed her lobe, tucking her hair back. Like a cat, she turned her cheek into his hand.
    A sensuous creature who liked to be stroked.
    She watched him from the most amazing cornflower-blue eyes, her expression solemn, as if he were her teacher and she an earnest
student. She had a way about her that nourished his ego—an ego his mother regularly told him needed no feeding.
    Leaning over, he kissed her lightly, a brief brush of the lips. He wanted the slightest taste, an exchange of breath, to see if they were compatible . . . and with that, he wanted more. He pressed his finger on her full lower lip. “Are you worried that your lipstick will smear?”
    “The makeup artist promised that when all the rest of me has turned to dust, the lipstick and the mascara will be left.”
    He grinned. She was funny.
    But she didn’t grin back. She was stating a fact. She pressed her hand to his chest—a touch firm with determination. “I would like a kiss. A real kiss. I want to know if it will be as good as I think, or if good sex is a myth fostered by movies and fed by loneliness.”
    A deliberate challenge? Perhaps. And perhaps she was ingenuous. Certainly love had cheated her somehow.
    He still grinned as he leaned toward her again and gave her what she wanted. Lips parted, tongues meeting, sliding . . . for the first time in years, a mere kiss took the world away. He closed his eyes to better savor the taste of her—champagne first, then as he explored, her own flavor. Sweet brown sugar melted on uncertain yearning. Cool cream poured over warm desire.
    She was like a grand cru wine from the vineyards of Bordeaux—expensive and worth every sip.
    He forgot deliberation. He forgot restraint. He pulled her close, crushing the delicate material of her dress, craving the slide of silk against her bare skin. His other hand slid beneath the nape of her neck to hold her in place. He bent her back,