Don't Tempt Me Read Free Page B

“You won’t tell anyone?” She shook her head and furrowed her brow in sign of sincerity. “All right then. And … you won’t laugh?”
    â€œSloane …” she warned softly.
    â€œI … talk in my sleep … .”
    Having expected something cataclysmic, Justine’s shoulders drooped. Lips curling down in dismay, she chided him. “Is that all ?”
    â€œ All ?” He feigned astonishment. “It’s terrible. Entire monologues spilled out in the middle of the night. Trade secrets. Confidential information. Personal brainstorms. Everything! It’s terrible!”
    â€œOnly if you aren’t careful about your bedmate!” she quipped, then instantly wished she hadn’t. “I mean,” she went on quickly, “if there’s just anybody around at night …” Realizing that she was making things worse, she stilled.
    â€œPrecisely.”
    It was one word, yet the gleam in his eye spoke volumes. Justine bit her lip to stem further blunder. Her toe felt fine now, free of pain yet tingling beneath the hand that continued to hold it. As the seconds passed, the tingling spread upward, through her body, lodging in the knot at her throat. Her eyes linked with his in helpless captivity. Finally, she forced herself to speak.
    â€œMy foot is much better. Thank you.” At her hint he
put the injured appendage gently to the carpet and straightened. If his height had struck her when he stood with the group of lawyers, now it was positively towering. Defensively, she looked down at her desk. “And thank you for returning the notebook. You were right. I would have needed it at some point, and I might very well not have realized where it was.”
    â€œI doubt that,” he breathed softly. “But I’d better be getting back to the conference room. Wouldn’t want to keep your friends waiting.”
    Justine admired the broad sweep of his back as he made for the door with long, leisurely strides. “Thank you again.”
    He turned briefly, cocked his head, and smiled. “My pleasure.” Then he was gone, leaving her at last to a solitude which she needed badly.
    But her solitude was limited by the presence of the telephone. As if on cue, a soft buzzer rang and the light on the console lit.
    Her tapered finger pressed the appropriate button. “Yes, Angie?”
    â€œMrs. Connely on 78 for you, Ms. O’Neill.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll take it now.”
    With a flick of her finger Sloane Harper was temporarily forgotten. “Mrs. Connely? Justine O’Neill, here. What can I do for you?”
    A high-pitched voice crackled over the line. “Oh, thank goodness you’re in, Ms. O’Neil! I don’t know what to do. It all happened so quickly—”
    â€œSlow down, Mrs. Connely. Try to relax. Now, what seems to be the problem?”
    â€œHe came in the middle of the night. We must have been sleeping. I didn’t hear a thing. I guess he used his own key—”
    â€œI thought you were going to have the locks changed
last week?” Justine interrupted, hiding the frustration which suddenly surged through her.
    â€œI was … but I didn’t get around to it. I was so busy … with the children and all … that I guess I forgot.”
    â€œForgot?”
    Setbacks were part of the game, Justine reminded herself quickly. Clients like this distraught woman expected instantaneous results from their lawyers yet were often not willing to make an effort themselves. Stifling her annoyance, Justine probed further.
    â€œOkay now, tell me what happened. Exactly what did he do?”
    â€œHe took everything! My silver. My credit cards. Our bankbooks. Even the fur jacket he gave me last year.”
    As her client talked, Justine grabbed a pad of paper, cradling the receiver between jaw and shoulder as she quickly jotted down some notes. “Anything