Summer Games by Elizabeth Lowell

obstacles, blind turns. Next to them Raine seemed frail, overmatched, like a candle burning against overpowering midnight.
    “Dev’s only drawback is that he won’t tolerate strange men handling him,” she said.
    “Or riding him?”
    “Every man who tries ends up on the floor.”
    A parking attendant trotted over, eager to get his hands on the Pantera. He opened doors, handed over a claim check, and eased into the car.
    “What about you?” Cord asked, as his car started off with an unnecessary growl. “Does he try to unload you?”
    “Dev has never dumped me intentionally. But I’ve hit the floor more than once out of my own stupidity.”
    “Somehow I can’t picture you being stupid.” He ran his fingertip from the softness of her earlobe to the pulse accelerating in her throat. “Taken by surprise, yes. Next to treachery, surprise is the best way to take a highly fortified position.”
    Surprised, she stared up at him and felt like a castle whose keys had just been handed over to a strange knight.
    Off-balance. Again.

Chapter 6
    As Raine should have expected, the restaurant Cord chose was a surprise. She had assumed an Oriental restaurant would have the usual mock-Asian decor—red tassels and wall hangings from Taiwan. But the Year of the Rainbow was decorated with Continental restraint and richness: heavy linen and crystal, bone china and sterling silver napkin holders. It took her a moment to realize why the place settings still managed to look odd.
    There was no silverware on the table.
    The menu was also a surprise. It was printed in ideographs with French translations. At least, she assumed the French was a translation. She couldn’t read ideographs. The only price appeared at the very bottom of the menu. The figure assured her that the food was either marvelous or served on solid gold plates.
    Perhaps both.
    She wondered how Cord managed to afford elegant clothes, transportation, and restaurants. What she had heard of his background didn’t suggest inherited wealth. And while people who worked for the government at the highest levels were paid well, they weren’t paid that well. Most diplomats had to supplement their salaries with personal wealth just to be able to entertain on the scale their jobs required. The United States might be one of the richest countries on earth, but its diplomatic budgets were bare bones.
    When Raine looked up from the menu, Cord was watching her openly. His ice-blue eyes were unusually vivid in the candlelight. His thick black hair gleamed with vitality. He was very close to her, because he had chosen to sit at a right angle to her rather than across the table.
    “If you like haute cuisine after the French manner,” he said, “order from the right side of the menu. If you’re feeling adventurous—or would trust me to order for you—go to the left side. And don’t worry about the lack of silverware. They’ll bring the proper tools to eat whatever you choose.”
    He watched while she read the French side of the menu with a speed and attention that suggested utter familiarity with the language and cuisine. He would have expected no less from a Chandler-Smith.
    Yet in so many ways she continued to surprise him. Open one moment, wary the next, and aware of him every single instant.
    Just as he was aware of her. He watched her with a barely leashed intensity, fascinated by the candlelight that shimmered and slid over the chestnut coils of her hair. When a wisp of hair floated forward, tickling the corner of her mouth, he tucked the silky tendril back in place. As he removed his hand, his fingertip traced the rim of her ear.
    She gave him a startled look, followed by an almost shy smile that made him wish they were alone in a fortress, the doors locked and bolted against the world outside.
    As though she knew what he was thinking, she cleared her throat and turned to the left side of the menu. “I’m feeling adventurous.”
    “Not trusting?” he asked with a wounded