Kenz," Arnold Li called from out in the hall, "gentleman here to see you."
Kenzie, on an overseas call, put a hand over the receiver. "Oh, tell Charley to cool his heels!" she snapped, not bothering to turn around. "You know how long it took me to get through to Miskolctapolca, Hungary?"
Then, uncovering the receiver, she segued right back into the conversation, her voice bright, smooth, professional. As if the interruption had never occurred.
"I really appreciate you taking the time for this, Professor Tindemans. I hate bothering you during your cure ... I'm so glad you understand, sir ... Yes, I'll keep an eye peeled for your fax ... Of course I'll convey your regards to Mr. Spotts the next time I speak to him! I know he'll be delighted ... You've been most helpful, Professor ... I hope you enjoy the cure, and please accept my apologies for the intrusion ... Thank you, Professor Tindemans!"
She hung up the phone with a flourish. Rolled back her chair. Flung both fists triumphantly into the air and crowed: "Yes!"
" 'Yes'?" Zandra inquired in puzzlement. "Darling, what is it? I mean, one would think your team had won the World Cup."
"Naw. Only the next best thing." Kenzie sighed happily, folded her arms behind her head, and smiled at the precarious skyscrapers of books and catalogues on her desk. "What a lovely, lovely gentleman. So gallant. And Zandra?"
"Yes?"
"You can stop researching the Holbein."
"Stop? What do you mean, stop?" Zandra objected, more puzzled than ever. "You know we can't. This has priority."
"Not anymore. I followed a hunch and hit paydirt. You see, Mr. Spotts once told me that Professor Tindemans is to Holbein what E. K. Waterhouse is to Reynolds. Well, not only was he right, but—would you believe—Professor Tindemans actually studied our very painting back in 1939?"
"He did? Oh, Kenzie, super!"
"Mmm-hmmm. All I had to do was track him down from Brussels to
Hungary, where he's at some remote spa which has—now get this— naturally radioactive grottos."
"Radioactive!" Zandra gave a shudder. "But how awful. What is it—an underground Chernobyl?"
"Sounds it, but it's supposed to have curative powers for asthma or something. At any rate, he's calling his assistant in Belgium, who'll fax us the pertinent pages of his new treatise. It's scheduled for publication this fall, and is on German artists in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. And—are you ready for this?—it includes our Holbein's provenance from A to Z! So voila! Current ownership and smuggling issues aside, our part of the work's complete."
"Gosh, Kenzie. Well done. You are the miracle worker, and all in one morning!"
"Mmm-hmmm. All we have to do now is sit back and wait for the fax. Then, keeping Bambi out of the loop, we'll distribute copies of it to Mr. Fairey and our legal department, and drop the entire case into the laps of those—" Her voice turned smugly sarcastic "—super pricks of detection, Charles Ferraro and Hannes Hockert."
"Kenzie!" Zandra hissed in a whispered attempt to shush her. "Your visitor!"
Kenzie blinked. My visitor? Who—? She had already forgotten. Then a mental lightbulb clicked on and shone brightly. She thought, Oh, shit. Charley. Well, so what if he overheard me? He is a bastard, and if the shoe fits ...
She spun her chair around.
But it wasn't Charley—
Everything inside her came to a dead stop, then slowly rearranged itself. She drew a sharp breath and swallowed.
—it was Hannes Hockert.
Kenzie's scrutiny started with the soles of his brown Bruno Magli boots and traveled ever-so-slowly up his silk and wool trousers, cut full and loose to accentuate his slim waist and narrow hips. Ditto the double- breasted jacket of matching lignite brown with its subtle, almost iridescent weave of taupe, which he wore open and to great effect.
No constricting nine-to-five uniform this. No, siree. And definitely not cheap. Kenzie knew an Armani suit when she saw one.
Kenzie's heartbeat kept increasing as she stared at him, at the masculine beauty of his face. Dear God. How could she possibly have forgotten his drop-dead good looks? He really was so beautiful, this bright blond Viking of a man, that it was impossible to tear her eyes away from him, just as it was impossible to retract her stinging barb.
Not that it had made any difference. That much was clear from the intensity of his gaze.
She stared at him.
He stared at her.
Time itself was suddenly meaningless. Both of them were in a world of their own.
Zandra, attuned to the sexually charged chemistry, looked on with growing interest, as did Arnold, who hovered just outside the door. Grinning, he gave Kenzie a thumbs-up.
But the signal didn't register; neither she nor Hannes were aware of their audience. All they had eyes for was each other.
"Good morning, Kenzie," he greeted softly, finally breaking the silence.
Kenzie forced herself to speak. "Hans," she acknowledged, her voice trembly and barely audible.
"It has been a long time, Kenzie."
"Yes," she whispered, still holding his gaze, "it has."
Three months, she thought. That's how long it's been since I told him—him!—to take a hike! Christ, I need to get my head examined! What single girl in her right mind would chase away a hunk like him?
"Then you don't mind my dropping by like this?" he asked. "Unannounced? Without an appointment?" The smile emanating from his lips and eyes was warm and embracing, so utterly enveloping that it made her go weak all over.
"So ... what brings you to ... to my neck of the woods?" she murmured, thinking: I must pull myself together. For Chrissake, I'm an adult—not some young twit with a schoolgirl crush!
He drew a few steps closer. "There are several reasons, Kenzie," he said quietly.
She was silent, unable to wrest her eyes from his.
"Business," he murmured. "And pleasure."
He leaned casually against her desk and folded his arms.
"You see, Kenzie, I'm a great believer in combining the two."
Kenzie, conscious of her hands fidgeting in her lap like some trapped, high-strung animal, forced herself to still them, and struggled to regain at least a semblance of professional decorum.
"Why ..." She had to clear her throat. "Why don't we stick to business?" she suggested in a tightly gartered voice.
"If you like. Yes." He inclined his head in acquiescence. "Why not? That sounds reasonable enough. And we are both reasonable people, are we not, Kenzie? Reasonable and . . . well, perhaps a bit impulsive?"
She remained silent, not trusting herself to speak.
And then he smiled again.
To the casual observer it was a public smile, the crowning touch of Continental politeness and old-world charm, while to its recipient it sent a different and altogether very private message.
For Kenzie, it spelled memories, promises, passion, bed.
And, under the bright wash of the overhead fluorescents, she became aware of something else. His pale bluish eyes weren't really a matched set. Rather, each was a slightly different shade, the right iris a hint bluer, and the left a tad greener, an irregularity which she found compellingly intriguing and—banish the thought!—terribly sexy.
"Now then." He rubbed his chin. "To get business out of the way ..."
She waited.
"What can I tell you besides what you've already probably guessed? That yes, this is an official call on behalf of Interpol regarding the Holbein. And yes, it's at the specific request of the Federal Republic of Germany and the U.S. Department of State. As to whether I'm empowered to use all necessary resources to help the courts resolve the issue of ownership—yes again."
He spread his hands, palms outward, and grinned.
"And there you have it," he said. "In a nutshell, of course."
Kenzie's expression had not changed. The soughing of hot air from the heating duct was the only sound in the room at the moment, other than the rustling of paper coming from Zandra's desk.
"That's not to mean that you need any assistance," Hannes added. He turned up his smile to its most devastating wattage. "From overhearing you, it seems you have everything well under control. However, I'd be delighted if you'd drop this case—"
He leaned over her gently in order to whisper in her ear.
"—and anything else you'd like—into my lap."
The come-on was unmistakable, and Kenzie's face colored with the heat blooming under her skin. With a massive effort, she tore her eyes from his, made a quarter-turn on the swivel of her chair, and pretended to busy herself at her desk.
Her emotions were in turmoil.
Why was it that men were suddenly dropping into her lap? For three long months she had been celibate; had not even dated anyone. Now all of a sudden, her cup runneth over.
Last night had brought Charley.
Today—Hannes.
And she wanted him, dammit! That was the worst part.
Only one snag. His temporary partner—Charley.
She sighed to herself. The last thing she needed was having the two of them fighting over her. Or—God forbid!—exchanging bedtime stories and locker-room jokes about her behind her back.
So . . .
To rebuff or not to rebuff? That was the question. And the time to decide was now. Before things got out of hand.
"Here is my work number, Kenzie," Hannes said. "You can reach me there during the day. If I'm not in, just leave a message."
She turned her face a little, watching him slip a hand inside his suit jacket, watching him extract one of those wafer-thin, black calf business card holders. The expensive kind, with a rounded gold corner set with a teeny sapphire cabochon.
Kenzie felt a surge of irrational jealousy.
Obviously an overpriced gift from some girlfriend, she thought bitingly. Men never buy those kinds of things for themselves.
And that decided her. The hell with prudence. She had as much a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of pleasure as the next person.
So Hannes and Charley were working together. So what?
Last night had been a moment of weakness, a mere hormonal accident. It wasn't as if she intended to take up with Charley again. Nor did she owe him her fidelity. In fact, she didn't owe him a goddamn thing!
She looked on as Hannes performed that one-handed trick of flipping out a business card and holding it between the middle and index fingers— the while-collar version of striking a match with one hand.
"I wrote my home phone number on the back, Kenzie," he said softly.
She reached out to take it, but was unprepared for what happened next.
The card was like an extension of his body. The instant she touched it, a powerful electric current jolted through her.
Unbidden, her mind flashed back to that rain-slashed night last October, when his tongue had fluttered delicately against her naked flesh and she had offered him her treasure, that soft, moist sanctum between her thighs.
He held onto the card a moment before letting go.
And that was when she realized it.
I've missed him, she thought in amazement. Goddammit! I've really missed him!
She swallowed to lubricate her throat. "You . . . you said there were several reasons you dropped by," she reminded him softly.
He smiled. "Well, one other."
She raised her winged brows.
"I would like to take you to dinner this evening. If you are free, that is?"
Dinner, she thought to herself. That's harmless enough. It isn't as though I'm committing myself to anything.
"Yes," she whispered. "I ... I think I'd like that. Only I don't eat red meat, so—"
"No problem," he assured her. "I know just the place. I'll pick you up at seven?"
She nodded hypnotically. "Seven's fine," she said thickly.
"And if the fax arrives in time, you'll bring me a copy?"
She nodded dreamily.
"Well, I'd better fly." His teeth flashed brilliantly again. "I'll see you this evening," he said.
And he was gone.
"Well, well, well," observed Zandra archly. "Darling, he's divine. When it rains it certainly pours—seems your dry spell's over and a monsoon's begun. How ever do you do it? Well, never mind. I'm off to lunch—"
But Kenzie didn't hear a word. She was smiling drowsily into space, anticipating the pleasant evening ahead.
Hannes, she thought. Hot damn!