Moonrise by Anne Stuart

hand over her mouth, shoved her up against the door, and held her there, in the stillness of the darkened house, as he listened for sounds of intruders.
    There was no one there now. He knew it, with a sureness he could never explain but had saved his life countless times. The place was empty, safe.
    And then Annie quivered.
    He looked down at her. Her wide blue eyes were staring up at him, and the anger that had burned there was gone. She looked shocked, dazed, vulnerable, and he knew it had nothing to do with death and her father, and everything to do with his body pressing up against hers in the small, dark hallway.
    She felt hot, strong, alive against him, and he found he had this crazy urge to move his mouth down to the side of her neck, to press it against her, to taste her skin. He wanted to feel her breasts, wanted to pull her T-shirt up and feel her hot skin against his. Damn, he wanted her.
    He released her, backing away before she could feel his immediate response. Clancy said he never used to think with his cock. Clancy didn’t know that times had changed.
    “What are we doing here?” she demanded in a shaky voice.
    “Waiting for someone.” He moved away, scouting out the tidy layout of the little bungalow. It was an old building, modeled after an English cottage, all multipaned windows and trailing rose bushes. He could smell the scent of roses in the air, and it gave him a sharp pang. The Sutherland house in Georgetown was surrounded by roses. There had been a vase of pink, fragrant ones in Win’s study after the memorial service.
    “Carew. Why? Do you think he knows who killed my father?”
    “Probably. But he’s not likely to volunteer that information.”
    Small living room, flowered wallpaper, chintz slipcovers, he noted. Working fireplace that would be perfect for hiding a bug. Alcove dining room and beyond that a small kitchen. He moved toward it, tossing his answer back over his shoulder.
    “The man who killed your father doesn’t matter,” he said, pushing the swinging door inward. The kitchen hadn’t been remodeled since the house was built, sometime in the twenties or thirties. He wondered whether Annie could cook.
    “That’s a matter of opinion.” She was right behind him, too close, and if he backed uphe’d run into her. He didn’t want that to happen. “You still haven’t told me what you expect to get from Carew.”
    He turned, his arm brushing against her breast. “A cease-fire. Maybe some information, though I doubt he’ll be all that helpful. What I need from him is a promise to call off the dogs. To give me a week, two at the most, to find out …”
    “To find out what?”
    “To find out why your father was marked for death,” he said finally.
    “And you think Carew knows why?”
    “He might. Since he was the one who gave the orders.”
    She stared at him, speechless in shock. “You knew that, and you did nothing about it?” she demanded, suddenly furious. “You heartless bastard, how could you let him get away with it …?”
    She made the mistake of touching him, as he knew she would. She caught his arms, trying to shake him in her rage, but he simply twisted his hands around hers, imprisoning her wrists. Making no effort to crush the fragile bones, as he could so easily. Simply holding her there, a prisoner. Enjoying it, damn his soul.
    “Why do you think I was in Mexico, Annie?” he asked gently. “Carew wouldn’t tell me adamned thing. I tried to kill the little prick. Twice. The second time no one really believed it was an accident, and I knew I wouldn’t get a third chance for a while. And that they’d get me first.”
    “You said you were a bureaucrat. A pencil pusher. An accountant, for God’s sake. You don’t try to murder someone.”
    “I said I was an accountant for the CIA. For a small, obscure branch of it, and you’d better thank God it is obscure. You don’t want to know about it.”
    “It was my father’s work, wasn’t it? I want to