Excerpt of The Informationist by Taylor Stevens
(Page 9 of 9)
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Experience predicated that he, like most men after a few drinks and
faced with a beautiful woman showing interest, would be unable to help
himself. Getting him into bed was beside the point; the challenge was
in possession, to crawl inside his head so deeply that he wouldn't want
her out.
She replied in French and in the small talk listened for his personality,
filtering options through his answers. When the pieces became a
composite whole, she would shift into characteristics that would most
easily enchant - whatever the particular role necessitated in order to
acquire the end goal. Bimbo, coquette, siren - name it and become it.
His answers were unexpected and made her laugh, not the laugh of
an actress but one that was genuine, real. And that he carried his own
streak of adrenaline hunger didn't hurt.
Discovering that work had taken her to Morocco, he flashed a teasing
smile and switched from French to Arabic: "Hal tatakalam al-Arabia?"
She grinned and whispered, "Tabaan."
Their conversation undulated, it swelled and lingered. His personality
was beyond what she'd anticipated - closer to her own than any distraction
she'd yet sought out. Perhaps this hunt would be the easiest of
all. No games, no roles, just a sanitized version of who she really was.
Desiring more privacy than the bar and lounge provided, Munroe
said, "You want to find the Jacuzzi with me?"
"I'd love to," he said, "but I don't have a bathing suit."
She moved closer to his ear. "Neither do I, but if you wear your
underwear and act like you own the place, nobody will ever notice."
He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, spontaneous and alive. He gulped
down the remainder of his drink and placed the glass on the bar counter.
"I think I like you, Lady Munroe." He stood. "Where is this Jacuzzi?"
The hot tub was situated in an alcove away from the main pool, and
when they'd found it, Munroe shed her clothes and slid into the foaming
water. Noah studied her for a moment and then, without breaking eye
contact, draped his shirt over a nearby pool chair and slid in beside her.
"These," he said, tracing his finger along one of the many white slivers
etched into her body. "Are the scars also part of your job?"
She began to say something, then hesitated and stopped. "Those,"
she said finally, "are a story for another time." It wasn't the usual bullshit
about car accidents and glass, and it avoided a truth she had no desire
to relive.
Excerpted from The Informationist
by Taylor Stevens. Copyright © 2011 by Taylor Stevens.
Excerpted by permission of Crown. All rights
reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted
without permission in writing from the publisher.
