I have to be careful, she thought. Very, very careful.
"Ready for target practice?" he asked behind her.
She groaned and straightened. What on earth had she gotten herself into?
Later that night, after a stop at the hardware store where she purchased their entire stock of hook and eye latches and spent a couple of hours installing them-except on the window in the second bathroom, which was high and small and she wanted to see if he could get in that way-she tried on the boxes of clothes that had been delivered.
Everything had a designer label. The underwear
sets were silk, the hosiery was gossamer. Each pair of shoes had to have cost upward of two hundred dollars, and there were over a dozen pairs. There were cocktail dresses, evening gowns, smart little suits that showed more leg than she normally revealed; shorts, camp shirts, lacy camisoles, jeans, cashmere sweater sets, skirts. And there was the jewelry: pearl earrings and a matching necklace, a web of small diamonds that hung on an illusion chain, gold bracelets and chains, and an enormous, breathtakingly lovely black opal pendant with matching earrings. She carefully put the opal set back in its box and reached for a yellow diamond solitaire ring.
The phone rang. She stretched to reach the receiver, holding the ring in her hand. "Hello." "Have you looked at the clothes yet?" "I'm going through them now." Funny how he didn't need to identify himself, she thought. Though she had never talked to him on the phone before, she recognized his voice immediately. "Do they fit?" "Most of them."
"I'll have that taken care of tomorrow. Have you gotten to the opal pendant yet?"
"I just put it away. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." There was a touch of awe in her voice.
"There's a transmitter behind the stone, hidden between the prongs of the set. Be careful and don't jostle it. See you in the morning."
The phone clicked as he hung up. Slowly she
replaced the receiver. His last words could be taken as a warning, considering his penchant for breaking into her house. She smiled, thinking of that small bathroom window.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Medina. I'll definitely see you."
Chapter Eleven
>
Bingo," John said softly, and hung up the phone. Ronsard had taken the bait. The message had gone to a computer in Brussels, as per his instructions; the message had then been relayed to a computer in Toronto, which he had accessed using a calling card. Calling cards were untraceable, assuming Ronsard would even make the effort. He wouldn't expect Temple's name and number to pop up on caller ID, or for the number to be traceable.
Now he had to finesse the timing. First he had to bring Niema to Ronsard's notice and see if she was invited to the villa. If not, he would have to adjust his plan. But if Niema bagged the invitation, he didn't want to arrive at the villa until after she was already there.
Niema. As much as he had enjoyed these past few days with her, she was driving him crazy. Teasing her, touching her during her self-defense "lessons"-he had to have lost his mind to subject himself to such torture. But she delighted him on so many levels, he couldn't bring himself to stop. She was so quick to learn, and so competitive she automatically rose to any challenge. He had quietly laughed to himself that morning while he showered in her guest bath, knowing she had raced full out in an effort to beat him back to the house-after already running for over an hour.
She was aware of him now, where she never had been before. She hadn't had a clue, in Iran, how much he had envied Dallas. But he had seen her watching him when he took off his T-shirt, seen the effort she made not to stare. It was still too soon to make a move, though, so he'd had to fiercely concentrate to keep from getting an erection every time he got close to her. She had just today fully realized her attraction to him, so she was nowhere ready for him to do anything about it.
It wasn't as if they had just met and begun seeing each other. Under those circumstances, he would have felt free to move at his own pace, or at least as free as he ever felt with a woman. But they had baggage in common, the two of them; the manner of Dallas's death was something that both linked them and stood between them. No other man had been able to scale that wall because no other man had been able to understand it; he was the one who had been in that cold, dirty little hut with her, the one who watched her white, still face as she listened to her husband's last words, saw the screaming in her eyes. He was the one who held her when she at last was able to cry.
And he was the one who was going to break down that barrier of disinterest she had installed between herself and the male sex. He could do it because he understood her, because he knew that beneath her ladylike exterior beat the heart of an adventuress. He could give her the excitement she needed, both professionally and personally. God, the way she had come alive these past few days! She literally glowed. It took all his willpower not to grab her and let her know exactly how he felt.
But there was a time for that, and it wasn't now. She still wasn't comfortable with the idea of wanting anyone who wasn't Dallas, in general, and him in particular. But she would be; he would see to it.
Restlessly he got up and paced the room, automatically avoiding the window. He couldn't remember any woman's response being so important to him, not even Venetia's.
He stopped and stared sightlessly at the unremarkable framed print on the wall. After what had happened with Venetia, maybe he didn't deserve Niema. And maybe Niema wouldn't want anything to do with him, if she knew about Venetia. Maybe, hell; it was almost guaranteed. If he were honorable, he'd tell her about his dead wife.
His mouth quirked in a humorless smile. If he were honorable, he wouldn't have done a lot of the things he'd done in his life. He wanted Niema, wanted her with an intensity that continually took him off guard. And he was going to have her.