Simon Says...

She looked at him then, truly looked at him. As if seeing something in him she hadn’t seen before.

“What?” he asked, warily knowing he shouldn’t.

“In my field, it pays to be a good reader of people.”

“And?”

She tilted her head just slightly. “While, on the surface, it might be quite plausible that you’re some kind of international criminal, a closer look tells me that you’re no ruthless thief.”

“I’ve threatened you with a gun, bound and gagged you.”

“You have kind eyes.”

He should have laughed at that. Outright. Instead he found himself simply looking at her. Perhaps into her. So innocent, and yet, not really. Not when it came to knowing things that others never took the time to notice. Dangerously innocent, his Sophie Maplethorpe.

“Ruthless thieves are supposed to have soulless eyes. Yours are warm, and they crinkle at the corners. You smile often.” She smiled a little herself at that. “Ruthless thieves probably don’t.”

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting her to say, but it wasn’t that, and her simply stated assessment took him somewhat aback. He felt oddly exposed. “I’m sure there are plenty of thieves, ruthless and otherwise, who can fake all kinds of appearances.”

“You’re probably right. You were quite … efficient with those electrical cords.” She sighed, just a little, but the coinciding tug it elicited inside him had him straightening and striding across the room.

He needed some space between them. Moreso, he needed to get his equilibrium back, and swiftly. “So—”

“Still,” she interrupted, “I was thinking that maybe you should just tell me why you’re here. You already know I’m a sucker for a sob story, or I wouldn’t have been in your room in the first place. Maybe I’ll want to help you, blackmail not required.”

“You think I came here for a kindly reason, then, is that it? A mission to match the eyes, as it were.”

She lifted her shoulder, then winced when it tugged at the cord on her wrists. So, in addition to becoming a thief, he was officially a cad of the first order. He could honestly say that this was his first time tying up a woman in his hotel room—for any reason—and it wasn’t a proud moment, seeing her there, like that.

“Have you ever used your gun?”

“What?” If she’d simply be consistent for more than five minutes, maybe he’d get a handle on this situation, on her, but she was dashedly quixotic. “I believe I did, earlier.”

“I don’t mean waving it around. Have you ever shot … anything?”

“I wasn’t waving it about, I was aiming it. At you.”

She shivered. “Yes, I haven’t forgotten that part. But that’s not what I asked.”

“If you’re trying to insinuate that because I haven’t shot at anything, that I’m somehow a kinder, gentler thief—”

“Recovery specialist,” she corrected him, the barest hint of mockery in her voice.

“The use of a firearm is hardly an accurate measure of the man wielding it. And why in bloody hell are we having this conversation?” He stalked to the other corner of the room, opened the bar fridge, then realized it was far too early in the day for a drink, and slapped it shut again. “We have business to attend. No more tomfoolery.”

“No, we wouldn’t want any more of that.”

He raked a hand through his hair, swore under his breath, then walked back to the bed and forced himself to sit calmly on the edge, his knees inches now from hers. How was it she could so frustrate him … and yet all he could think, even now, when he looked at her, was how she’d look bound to the bedposts instead of that chair. Writhing, those too-soft curves of hers, straining against—”We need to discuss the plan,” he said, abruptly.

“The plan,” she repeated, unfazed by his harsh tone.

“The … recovery plan.”

“Ah.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t throw the gun away, you know.”

“I doubted I’d be that lucky.”

He wanted nothing more than to kiss that too-knowing look right off her face. Would serve her right, possibly even shock her into some much needed silence. Her feminine wiles seemed to be the only weapon she didn’t realize she had.