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“Don’t. I’m not offended.” Morgan dismissed his upcoming apology. Interlacing her fingers, she rested her hands on the table and regarded him intently. “I’m not going to analyze you. I don’t know you well enough. Plus, I’m not a therapist. But I go to one often enough to understand the fundamentals of human behavior. So here’s my take on your paparazzo stint. You were sixteen when your parents split up. Your foundation was rocked. Risk became more palatable, since there was less you could count on. Anticipation was infinitely more appealing than complacency. So you went with it. The adrenaline rush felt great, growing in intensity after each assignment. So you kept on going, pushing the boundaries more each time, to up the ante and heighten the rush. It worked. It still does, even though you’ve changed the direction your assignments take. It’s still exciting, still dangerous, still a major adrenaline rush. Am I warm?”
“Hot.” Lane propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, which, of its own accord, tightened into a fist. He could feel his blood pumping, the same way it had the other night at the Shores’. There was something about this woman that made all his senses come alive. She went from disarming him and making him want to comfort her, to challenging him and pissing him off, to exciting him and making him want to bury himself inside her until neither of them could breathe.
The last part was what was driving him crazy right now.
“Thrill seeking is like sex,” he muttered, his voice barely audible above the piano. “Pushing the boundaries, upping the ante—it all heightens the rush, and intensifies the pleasure.”
She got his meaning, loud and clear. Color stained her cheekbones, but she didn’t avert her gaze. “The rush. The pleasure. What about the risk?”
“It’s worth it.”
“Maybe. If the experience is as incredible as you claim.” A heated glint lit her eyes. “Still, I’m a pretty grounded woman. I like to have a clear picture of my odds before I plunge in.”
“And how do you manage to get that clear picture?”
“This, coming from a master photographer?”
“Yes. This, coming from a master photographer.”
There wasn’t an iota of teasing in his tone. He was dead serious.
She answered in kind, responding to his fervor with her own. “By taking my time. By letting the excitement build. If thrill seeking is like sex, then anticipation is like foreplay. It has its own rewards. It’s also an adrenaline rush unto itself. Plus, waiting has other merits, like reaching a modicum of certainty.”
“Ah. Looking for something stable and secure.”
“No, just something that feels right. Life is tenuous. Who knows what’s stable? And security—that’s never a guarantee. But feeling good mentally is just as important as feeling good physically. And when you feel both at the same time, well, it doesn’t get any better than that.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Do that. In fact, try it. You might reach new levels of pleasure that surpr
ise even you.”
She let her words hang in the air for a moment, until the tension was drawn so tight, it felt like it might snap.
Exhaling on a wispy sigh, Morgan reached forward, picking up the serving fork and spearing the lamb chops, placing a few on each of their plates. “Let’s eat these before they get cold,” she murmured.
“Right.” Lane was still staring at her heatedly, making no attempt to disguise what he wanted. And it wasn’t the lamb chops.
“There you go.” As she felt his scrutiny, Morgan’s hand trembled ever so slightly as she handed him a plate. “Equal portions.” She sat back, her lashes lifting so she could meet his gaze head-on.
“Enjoy,” she urged softly. “Savor every bite. Oh, and never let it be said I didn’t meet you halfway.”
TWELVE
The early lunch crowd was already congregating at Lenny’s when Monty crossed Delancey Street, strode down to the middle of the block, and pushed open the glass door.
He was greeted by the enticing smell of hot pastrami and potato knishes, and the familiar shouts of orders being called across the counter and the whoosh of razor-sharp knives slicing repeatedly through deli meat that was then placed on platters or between slices of Jewish rye.
There were still some things in life you could count on. Lenny’s deli was one of them.
Monty shrugged out of his parka and glanced around the restaurant, glad they’d set up this meeting for noon. By twelve-thirty, the place would be a madhouse. He wouldn’t be able to hear himself think, much less update Arthur Shore on the murder investigation.
“Hey, Monty!” Lenny bellowed his name, waving and gesturing for him to wait a minute. Without missing a beat, he continued entering numbers into the cash register while handing over a hefty shopping bag bulging with food to one of his customers. Simultaneously, he beckoned at Anya, his stout, buxom, lightning-quick waitress who’d come over from Russia, settled in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, and worked the past twenty years at his deli.
“Anya,” Lenny instructed. “Set up a table. In the back. For three…no, four. I want enough space so I can pull up a chair and join them.”
“Okay, okay.” Anya held up the tray she was carrying, which was filled to the brim with ready-to-be-served platters. “Right after I deliver these.” She headed over to table three, distributed the entire order, then sashayed off to do her boss’s bidding.
