“Thank you.” Her head fell forward and I began undoing her dress.

We were quiet as I worked the buttons from their loops. I stole glances of her profile in the mirror and fought the urge to lift up her skirt, cup her bottom. Maybe bend her over the loveseat tucked into a corner of the room….

“Quinn.”

I blinked, found her watching me in the mirror.

“Yes?”

She turned to face me, holding the top of her dress to her chest to keep it from falling to the floor. Her eyes moved between mine, then she said. “I don’t like you how exploit my weaknesses.”

I frowned, watching her. I hoped she’d continue without me having to ask her to explain. But she didn’t, so I asked, “I exploit your weaknesses?”

“Yes, you do, Quinn. You know I’m easy to distract, and so, when you don’t want me to ask you questions about a topic or probe too deeply, you distract me.”

“Janie…you hide your underwear in my suitcase so I will think you wear black lace panties all day.”

“So? What does that have to do with anything?”

“You do the same thing.”

She frowned at me. Her frown was thoughtful, not troubled. I could see her analyzing my words.

Finally, she nodded. “Okay. You’ve got me there. But can I ask a favor?”

“Anything.” My attention moved from her face to the sagging dress she was clutching to her chest. I fit my hands in hers and lifted them away, and the gown crumpled to the floor.

This made me smile.

“When I ask you about a topic that is important and that might impact my desire to continue our relationship, you need to tell me the truth and not distract me.”

I frowned again, but quickly wiped all expression from my face. “I promise.”

Holding her hands, I helped her step out of the circle of the dress and released her so that she could bend to pick it up. I balled my hands into fists instead of grabbing her from behind—because I sensed this conversation hadn’t reached its conclusion—and sat on the edge of the bed.

I would wait until she came to me. Or, I would wait until I could wait no longer.

Janie hung up the gown. Then, facing me, she loitered in the doorway of the closet. “Are you aware of the research that says our willingness to trust can be altered by the application of oxytocin?”

She was stunning—long legs, the dramatic slope of her waist, the soft, ample curves of her br**sts, which were basically spilling out of the bustier. Fiery red hair framed her porcelain shoulders and face. Her amber eyes were wide and watchful, earnest.

“No,” I said, drinking in this vision of her. “I’m not.”

“Oxytocin is sometimes called the bonding hormone and is released during pregnancy as well as when a woman breastfeeds. Interestingly, a recent study showed genital tract stimulation also results in increased oxytocin immediately after orgasm.”

I swallowed, but tried to keep my expression blank. Janie had learned early in our relationship to cite peer reviewed research relating to sexuality if she wanted to get me hot. It always worked.

It was working now.

“Interesting.” It was interesting. I licked my lips, let my eyes wander over the curves of her body, now highlighted by the red and black bustier, and framed by her thigh-high stockings.

Janie twisted her hair into a loose braid and slowly crossed the room to stand in front of me. “Quinn, do you think I trust you so much simply because you’ve given me so many orgasms?”

My eyes flickered to hers and found them serious, questioning.

“I hope that’s not the reason,” I answered soberly, but couldn’t stop myself any longer. I needed to touch her. I reached for her waist and pulled her forward so that she was standing between my legs.

“Quinn, I need to talk to you. We need to talk.” Her hands settled on my shoulders for balance.

I fingered one of the straps on her corset that held her stockings in place. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to talk about the private accounts.”

I stared unseeingly at her lace-clad stomach. The room went completely silent, and I held my breath. I absurdly wished that we were back in the tower of London and she was tied to the rack.

The last time I was scared was when Janie showed up at one of my vacant apartments and found me shirtless and barefoot with her bitch sister—the same bitch sister who pissed all over my shoes then stuck a lit cigarette into my shirt necessitating the removal of both articles of clothing. I then ran after Janie and into her apartment just seconds before three men with guns broke down the door.

I’d been scared of losing her, and now, that visceral fear was hitting me again, gnawing my insides. But this time her crazy sister wasn’t to blame. I was.

My chest felt tight. I needed a drink. More than that, I needed a minute to think.

I set her away and stood from the bed, crossed to the wet-bar and reached for the first available bottle.

“Quinn?” Her voice behind me was tentative, uncertain. I didn’t like how it sounded.

“Do you want something to drink?” I poured myself two shots in a single tumbler then glanced at the label; it was scotch.

“No. Thank you.” She crossed the room and stood by my side. I felt her eyes on me. Instead of returning her gaze, I kept mine fastened to the glass.

She glanced from me to the tumbler. “Are you going to answer me?”

“You haven’t asked a question.”

“Will you please tell me about the private accounts?”

“No.”

“No?”

I nodded then swallowed half of the scotch.

“Quinn….” She hesitated, then covered my hand with hers. “Please talk to me about this.”

I huffed a laugh—felt the bitterness of it through the burn of alcohol coating my throat. “Janie, it’s really better if you don’t know.”

“I don’t like that answer.”

I cut my eyes to hers, and whatever she saw in my expression made her flinch, which made me curse.

I turned to face her, rested my hip against the sidebar, and tried to ignore the fact that she was wearing nothing but a black and red lacy bustier with matching panties, and thigh-highs.

Tried and failed.

Faced with temptation, I kept my arms crossed over my chest so I wouldn’t touch her, and gritted my teeth. I needed focus.

“Why the sudden interest?” I wasn’t going to lie, but I didn’t want to tell Janie more than she wanted or needed to know.

“Why the evasion?” She lifted her chin as she countered my question. She was sexy as f**k when we battled wits, and I felt a primal urge to bite the tops of her br**sts. Then she added, “You’re hiding something from me, which feels really close to technical honesty.”

We exchanged stares, my jaw still ticking. Unable to help myself, I lifted my hand to her shoulder and traced the line of her collarbone with my thumb down to the slope of her chest.

“You’re right. I am.”

“Why? Don’t you trust me?”

I did trust her. If it came down to it, I would tell her everything and hope she could see past the man I used to be to the man I was trying to become. Part of me reasoned that the entire conversation was irrelevant since I was ending my association with those people.

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I shifted a step closer. She was forced to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

I said, “We’re getting married.”

“Yes. We are.” She lifted her hands to my chest, placed her right palm flat over my heart, and gripped the front of my shirt with her left. “And that’s why I need you to trust me, completely. History and classical fiction are polluted with story after story, example after example of the downfall of relationships because one or both parties didn’t speak openly, or hid a secret that didn’t need to be hidden. In fact, I am given to understand that the majority of popular fiction revolves around avoidable misunderstandings as a central theme. I can name ten instances of related Greek tragedies.”

“Please don’t.”

“I will, if you don’t start talking.”

My hands were on her waist, and I abruptly realized that my grip was likely bordering on painful and had already crossed the line to aggressive. I forced myself to loosen my fingers, but pulled her more completely against me and turned her so her back was to the bar.

I briefly considered using my tie to bind her wrists and my belt to immobilize her feet. If she couldn’t leave me, if she were physically incapable, I would breathe easier.

These thoughts I filed away under crazy and desperate.

Instead, I mentally prepared for her reaction to the truth. I didn’t know how else to be other than evasive or blunt.

With my heart in my throat, I said, “I use the intelligence I gather while I provide security to persuade wealthy and powerful people. I use the information to persuade them to make good decisions.”

Janie’s eyes narrowed and stared straight ahead; she lost focus as she internalized and examined my statement. She was silent for several long seconds, and I moved my knee between her legs to press my torso more completely against hers. I thought about re-examining the crazy and desperate file.

At length her eyes flickered back to mine. “You blackmail them.”