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a large family!” Once again she regretted her spontaneity the instant her shocked ears heard her words.
    His dark eyes were even darker in the confines of the car, his expression unfathomable. The only thing that was clear was his thorough, ongoing survey of her features, as he one by one traced her sculpted lines, illuminated by the very same light which threw his own face into shadow.
    â€œSo you do know something about me, then.” She could only imagine the eyebrow that arched suspiciously.
    â€œNot really,” she countered quickly. “I simply assumed …” Very available, John had said, though that bit of knowledge and its source would remain her own secret. “I mean, no rings or anything …”
    â€œMost men don’t wear rings, wedding or otherwise. I notice that you wear none yourself.” Moving too quickly for Justine to anticipate him, he took her left hand in his, caressing her slender fingers with a most subtle, nearly imperceptible motion.
    Humor was, once more, her chosen out. “The last ring I wore”—she grinned sheepishly—“was a beautiful pearl one that had originally belonged to my grandmother. Unfortunately, a bee stung me on that knuckle. When the whole finger swelled, the ring cut off its circulation.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you take the ring off first?” Sloane frowned at the simplicity of the solution.
    â€œ That was the operable question at the time. I … just … didn’t think of it. Until it was too late.”
    â€œThe finger—?” To her dismay, he held hers more tightly.
    â€œOh, the finger stayed, obviously.” She forced a chuckle. “It was the ring which had to go. Cut off. In a doctor’s office. By a very efficient little tool. No problem … but I haven’t worn a ring since.”
    The smile she had expected from him never came. Rather, he grew more serious. “You are the master of disaster, aren’t you?” At Justine’s guilty shrug he continued pointedly. “But that’s avoiding the central issue. Are you married?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDivorced?”
    â€œNo.”
    He paused for a moment, contemplating other possibilities. “Engaged?”
    â€œNo.”
    His gaze narrowed. “Living with—”
    â€œNo!” Justine held her breath, a challenge in light of its
sudden irregularity. She was cornered once more, helpless in a prison of Sloane’s supreme command. In the small car in the dim garage the same potent force reached out to her as had stunned her earlier that day. It was bizarre, yet vital; its identity was unknown. As it threatened to engulf her, she struggled to hold her own.
    â€œI feel as though I’m on the witness stand,” she quipped weakly.
    â€œNot the witness stand, Justine,” he spoke gently, melting the last of her resistance. “You’re in my car—my small car—and I simply want to know where I stand. I may appear to be without scruples when it comes to luring top personnel into my organization, but I’ve never stolen another man’s woman.”
    An instant’s small spark of rebellion flared in her, charging her spontaneous reaction. “I’m no man’s woman, Sloane. I never have been, and I never will be. I’m my own person—it has to be that way.” Breathless, she stopped. Even in the dark, his faint smirk bemused her.
    â€œIs that so?” he asked, seemingly delighted. But at what? Was it the gist of her vow that amused him—or the challenge it posed?
    As Justine pondered the choice, she felt him lean closer, slowly, subtly. His face was inches above hers, his gaze searching hers in the dimness. For a moment of breathtaking anticipation she thought he would kiss her. And, in that same hypnotic moment, she knew she would not resist. Her pulse gathered speed in its race through her veins, preparing her for an experience that was not