“That’s Iraq?”
He nodded. “It is. I had to hide my care packages before I was mobbed.”
“I had to hide it as well.”
“How come?”
Her lips lifted in an odd smile. “I went to a Swiss boarding school. If I’d gotten caught with a box, I would’ve been expelled,” she said. “But not before I was shamed in front of the entire student body.”
“Hell, that’s child abuse.”
Kensey blinked at him. “I was kidding. They wouldn’t have—”
“I meant depriving you of mac and cheese.”
She bumped him with her shoulder.
“Damn Europeans.” Logan stole a kiss. “What do they know about cheese?”
Her laugh lit her green eyes. When he leaned in for another kiss, she caught his jaw and redirected him to the well-stocked shelves. “Food first,” she said.
“First?” He grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
She just shook her head, her hair floating around her shoulders in a sexy, tousled blond cloud, a smile teasing the corners of her lips.
Boarding school didn’t surprise him. In fact, maybe that was where she’d learned that cool composure. He could easily see her living in a fancy Manhattan apartment surrounded by priceless art. She wore minimal jewelry, a Rolex watch and sometimes earrings. Diamond studs. He’d bet his own modest Tribeca walk-up those rocks were the real thing.
Yet she wasn’t standoffish. It was easy talking to her, and the sex had been off the charts, but he shouldn’t expect anything. He could hope they ended up in bed again. Food first implied they might. This was just an interlude. It would have been different if they’d gotten dressed, but he was almost certain that robes meant the sex wasn’t over.
“There’s quinoa,” she said. “That’s only fifteen minutes.”
“Too long.”
“Pizza delivery?”
“Wait just a minute,” he said, reaching for the red-and-blue box of Cap’n Crunch. “I haven’t had this in years.”
She laughed. “And I thought you were a big bad soldier man.”
“Who’s liberal about his food choices. There’s also some Raisin Bran, if you’re into that kind of—”
“Oh, my God. Frosted Flakes.” She plowed in front of him to get the box, and when she turned around, grinning, he knew they had a special connection. At least when it came to food. And sex. The rest? He didn’t need to know. They only had a few days.
She brought the milk, he found the bowls and the spoons, and they sat opposite each other at the small kitchen table.
“So,” he said, halfway through his first bowl of cereal. “Boarding school, huh? Is that where they make you walk with books on your head to teach you good posture?”
Kensey lowered her spoon. “Are you joking?” she asked, staring, waiting. “Seriously. I can’t tell.”
“Hey, most of the time I can’t figure out what’s going on in that head of yours, either.”
She didn’t comment. Just shifted her gaze and ate another spoonful of cereal.
Well, hell, Logan wasn’t looking to kill the mood. “Yes, I was joking. Where are you from? I mean, are your folks American? European?”
“My mother is French. I was born in New York. When I wasn’t in school I bounced back and forth between France and Manhattan. According to Sam, you’re from the city, as well.”
“Yep, but not the fancy part. I live in Tribeca. My office is in Brooklyn.” He could almost see the walls going up around her. So, she didn’t like talking about her family. That was okay. “Is this your first security conference?”
She looked up, nodding. “I’ve wanted to attend for a couple of years but there always seemed to be a conflict.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Fine art is a specialty, although a lot of the same kinds of security procedures are used to protect antiquities, high-end jewelry, valuable books...those sorts of things. I like keeping up with the latest tech.”
“Is that the responsibility of a curator?” He poured some more Crunch, then topped up his milk. “I don’t know much about fine art. Or what a curator does.”
“I don’t decide on the security features, but I make recommendations. A lot of what I’ll be doing now that I’m a freelancer is helping private collectors protect their art. There are storage concerns, lighting...a lot goes into preserving art. I’m also in charge of moving pieces, whether it’s been sold or being loaned out to a museum. For example, after I get back to New York, I’m taking a van Gogh to Vienna.”
“For...?”
“A private client.”
“Right,” he said. “Of course. You think you’ll like freelancing better than staying with one collection?”
“Not necessarily. But it does give me more freedom.”
“That’s worth a hell of a lot,” he said.
They ate for a bit, both of them crunching their way to satiety. Logan had never had a problem with silence, generally preferred it. But something was still bothering him. “I was wondering. What made you ask about black ops?”
Kensey didn’t look up right away, but he saw the blush creeping up her throat. “I guess I should stick to what I know.” She shrugged and the robe slipped off her left shoulder, exposing the swell of her breast. She tugged the thick fabric back in place. “I was checking out the different booths and listening to the reps promoting their weapons collections. It was kind of funny, really. Every time they lowered their voice you knew they were going to tout their brand as being the number one choice for black ops.”
Logan smiled. “And did people believe them?”
She seemed to give it some thought. “You know...I think half of them did. They seemed impressed.”
“Do you carry?”
She blinked. “A gun? No,” she said, shaking her head and pulling the front of her robe together. “When I escort a piece I usually have at least one armed guard with me, though, usually two.”
“So, why the interest in the gun booths?”
“I’m considering buying a small pistol.” She put down her spoon and narrowed her gaze. “It feels like you’re grilling me. Did I blunder into something? Are you black ops?”
He watched her lean forward slightly, her eyes bright with interest and maybe excitement. If she was acting, she was doing a hell of a good job. Under the table her bare toes brushed his, and damned if that didn’t send his thoughts straight to sex. Her naked. Flushed with arousal. Panting beneath him. “No, I’m not black ops.”
“Oh.” She leaned back. “To be honest, I’m not sure what black ops is. Or how it differs from special ops or covert ops.”
“Who knows if there’s any such thing as black ops. It’s probably nothing but a way for Hollywood to make war and espionage look glamorous.”
“You must hate that. I’m guessing any soldier who has seen combat would be offended.”
“What makes you think I saw combat?” He swallowed his last mouthful and the lump that her words had brought to his throat. She’d looked so fierce in defense of him and his brothers in arms. He smiled. “Maybe I was a cook.”
Kensey laughed. “I doubt your group or team, whatever you call it, would’ve been happy with mac and cheese and cold cereal.” Tilting her head to the side, she studied him for a moment. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who would shy away from the action. So yes, I’m thinking you saw your share of combat.”
That was an understatement.
Logan decided he’d overreacted to her black ops remark and relaxed. And not because she’d been ready to defend him. When her robe had slipped off her shoulder and distracted him, she hadn’t used the opportunity to avoid his questions. She’d immediately covered up. Anyway, he’d been out of the field too long to be looking back at shadows. These days he was an ordinary Joe. And he was pretty sure Kensey was exactly who she claimed to be—a curator who’d attended a Swiss boarding school so she could learn all about the finer things in life.
And damn she was hot.
If he had anything to say about it, there was going to be a lot more sex tonight.
* * *
KENSEY WATCHED LOGAN watch her. She had stumbled earlier in the evening. That was putting it kindly. He had played her and she’d stupidly struck back with the unfortunate black ops mention. And now he wasn’t sure if he could trust her.
“You know what?” she said. “You and any other soldier who’s fought have every right to be insulted by someone trivializing military service for monetary gain. Tomorrow, if I’m near any of those weapons’ booths, I’m going to point out how disrespectful they’re being.”
Logan laughed. “You’re just trying to get me to kiss you.”
“No, I’m not,” she said. The thing was she meant it. She had never thought about it before, but now that she had... “What?” He had the oddest look on his face. “Getting you to kiss me is easy. All I’d have to do is—” Struggling to come up with something quick and clever, she waved a hand.
“Drop your robe?” The hopeful puppy dog eyes were adorable.