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“Yeah, I can see that.” A nostalgic smile. “I really enjoy watching Jonah’s sense of excitement and discovery. Maybe it sounds melodramatic, but it feels like yesterday that I was his age. It’s gratifying to live vicariously through him, and to remember when things were new and unspoiled.”
Lane was surprised by the raw emotion in the congressman’s tone. “Don’t relegate yourself to a rocking chair just yet,” he informed him. “You’re in the best physical shape I’ve ever seen.”
“I wasn’t talking about skiing. I was talking about life.” Abruptly, Arthur slid down, leaned his head back. “Enough philosophizing. Let’s grab a forty-five-minute nap. We both need it. Especially you. Trust me, you won’t earn points by falling asleep in your entrée.”
FALLING ASLEEP WAS the furthest thing from Lane’s mind as he sat across the table from Morgan.
She looked strained, there was no doubt about it. Her features were drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. Facts were facts. The events of the past week had taken their toll on her.
Still, she looked gorgeous, emanating that sexy combination of soft femininity and cut-to-the-chase dynamo that he’d found a major turn-on from day one. Her body was the kind that made heads turn, and the way her sweater V’d just to the top of her cleavage made it almost impossible for him to tear his eyes off her. On the other hand, she solved the problem for him just by being herself. Because if he didn’t keep his mind on their conversation and off her breasts, he’d never be a worthy sparring partner. Her pointed quips and personal insights were razor sharp and dead on. She kept him on his toes, challenged him at every turn—and he felt as pumped as he had on the ski slopes.
Maybe more.
Besides the excitement, there was an easy banter here, one he found unique and refreshing. And he respected her lack of pretense, the passion of her conviction, and the heartfelt sensitivity that underscored their more serious discussions.
Plus, he wanted her more than he could ever remember wanting a woman.
“So,” Morgan commented, abandoning her Greek salad and leaning forward, fingers interlaced, to regard Lane with great curiosity and interest. “From the brief overview you gave me, it sounds like you and Arthur blazed new trails in the San Juan Mountains.”
“We did.” Lane put down the cheeseburger he’d been chomping on, his eyes glittering with excitement as he attempted to recount the experience for her. “It’s hard to describe the feeling. The scenery was breathtaking. There wasn’t a mark on the snow, that’s how pristine it was. And the sharp drops, the speed, the skill it took to master the experience—it was awesome.”
Morgan absorbed every nuance of his reaction. “You really love it, don’t you? The adrenaline rush, the risk—all of it.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Don’t you ever get frightened? Feel vulnerable, mortal?”
“I suppose I would, if I let my mind go there. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t think at all. I just live in the moment.”
“It must be amazing to have that ability. I don’t.”
“I know. Then again, you have your reasons.”
“We’ve certainly led very different lives,” she agreed. “Your parents divorced. That’s never easy. But they were still alive, in your life. Plus, you were sixteen, old enough to understand, and to cope. With me, I was a child. I was totally alone. I’ve never really gotten over that feeling. So, yes, in my case, security trumps all.”
“You’re very aware of who you are. That’s a huge plus in life.”
A grimace. “You’d be surprised what seventeen years of therapy will do for you.”
“Now it’s time to learn all you can be.”
Morgan’s brows arched. “Are you psychologically assessing me?”
Lane gave her a lopsided grin. “Hey, you’re not the only one who’s good at reading people. We just do it in different ways. Mine’s through a camera lens.”
Visibly intrigued, Morgan contemplated that analogy. “I never thought of it that way. But you’re right. A photographer has to be able to read people. And one who’s as sought after as you, a veritable expert in his field, has to have really fine-tuned instincts.”
“See? We’re not so different after all.” A very pointed pause. “Except in the ways that matter—the good ways.”
“We’re different in lots of ways,” Morgan amended, but the color tingeing her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes told Lane that they were coming from the same place. “Some of those ways are setting off loud warning bells in my head, telling me to run in the opposite direction.”
“And is your head listening?”
“No.” More of that arousing candor. “Those good ways you’re talking about have it hands down.”
“I’m glad.” Lane reached across the table, took her hand. “Cards on the table,” he said quietly, his thumb tracing her palm. “You think I’m a player. Maybe by your definition I am. But, Morgan…” He paused, feeling the tiny quiver that ran through her hand and sent white-heat shooting through him. “I’m not playing this time.”
“I know.” Her fingers slid between his, interlacing their hands in a way that was wildly erotic. “You’re not playing. And I’m not playing it safe. Sounds like a plan.”
