shoes with their crisscrossed chains and funky zippered fastening, which punked things up and took the look from “wow” to “wow, it’s Cara.”
No, he wasn’t complaining at all. In fact, he wasn’t saying anything, because he didn’t have the words.
She glided over, heels tapping unerringly on the cobblestones without a wobble, as if some feminine magic were at work. She carried the gleaming white shoulder bag he’d insisted on despite the saleslady’s objections that it was too big for evening wear. When she got up close to him, he caught her light, flowery scent and saw that she’d put on makeup, had somehow been carrying it with her even though they’d had no hint of the gala. Magic again. As she drew near, her eyes warmed and a smile grew. “Thank you.”
The drool, it seemed, was a sufficient compliment.
He wanted to give her more, though. Going for the inner pocket of his tux, he pulled out the long, narrow box that held the necklace that had caught his eye… and suddenly felt awkward as hell standing there, holding it while her eyes got big.
Too late, he heard the mental warning sirens and recognized the inner what the hell are you doing? He was supposed to be proving to her that they could work together without the personal stuff getting in the way. Not dressing them up in clothes out of their shared vision and handing over bling. He concentrated on breathing, trying to get his tongue unstuck from his epiglottis. This didn’t have to be a big deal. It was just funny money, he told himself, and it wasn’t like he could put the box away and pretend it hadn’t happened. So he would give it to her and try not to make this into more than it needed to be.
He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to pull that off, though.
“I don’t know what this is or what it’s supposed to mean,” he said, holding out the box. “I just know I needed to get it. How about we call it a peace offering, or a symbol of our new working relationship, or some such shit. Anyway…” Taking a deep breath, he flipped open the lid. “It reminded me of you.”
The single strand of sparkling black gems drew the eye down to the central stone, which was a clear, pure white that shimmered and glowed when the light hit it. It was sleek, sophisticated, and dramatic as hell.
“Oh,” she breathed, reaching for it and then pulling her hand back as if afraid to touch, instead putting her hand over her mouth.
Some of the nerves smoothed out inside him. Okay, good. This was good. He could do this precisely because it was Cara, and because she deserved to have someone do something for her now and then, rather than the other way around. More, he had a feeling from the way she inhaled and squared her shoulders that she was being careful not to read too much into the gesture.
“Let me,” he said, not realizing until after the words were out there that he had said the same thing when he’d gone down on her in the cave. But he’d meant it then and he meant it now. She gave and gave to everyone else, and deserved to have someone give back to her for a change. And if he was playing with fire, he could handle himself. Had been for a long time now.
Her eyes were steady on his for a moment; then she turned away and presented him with her back, which was bare down to nearly her waist. Her spine was straight and proud, the curve of her neck elegant, the soft skin behind her ear terrifyingly vulnerable. He wanted badly to touch her, thought from the rhythm of her breathing that she wanted it too.
“I’m not wearing my gun,” she said, but although she had probably been going for a conversational tone, it came out breathy and suggestive. Or maybe that was because his brain immediately supplied the detail that she also wasn’t wearing a bra.
He cleared his throat. “Stay close to me. We’re better off shielding up and getting the hell out if there’s any trouble.”
“Okay.” The word was soft, as if she were agreeing to more than just the plan. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.
He fumbled a little with the box and the way it held the necklace in place, then lifted the glittering strand free and draped it around her front, absurdly conscious of the way his own breathing hitched as she bent her head forward so her coiled hair would stay free of the clasp. The moment suddenly seemed very intimate, as if this were something he should be doing in a bedroom, not a cobbled courtyard, with a couple of people pretending not to watch from one of the cafe tables nearby.
Her skin was soft and warm, her bone structure impossibly delicate. It took him far too long to slide the clasp’s little tongue into its little receiver, in an act that he told himself not to read too much into—not that he wasn’t already stiff and uncomfortable inside the tux trousers, and sorely tempted to reach down there and readjust.
By the time the mechanism clicked into place, he was breathing hard and sweating. He backed away fast, holding out his hands in a gesture of nope, didn’t touch anything, more to reassure himself than her. “Okay, you’re good.”
She took a deep breath and turned back to him, eyes bright with emotion. “Thank you,” she said simply. Easing up on her tiptoes, she got a gentle grip on one of his lapels and tugged him down so she could kiss his cheek.
The gesture was as simple as her words—a pure thank-you that didn’t ask anything more of him, didn’t seek or give promises. And for the first time in his life, he wished there were questions and promises, wished there were something more. But there was only gratitude in her eyes when she settled back and took a moment to smooth his lapel back down, stroking the place over his heart, and there was nothing more than polite inquiry when she chirped, “Ready?”
No. “Yep.” What was she thinking right now? When they were younger, he’d almost always been able to read her thoughts from her face, except when they were wagering. That was one of the things that had made her so damn tough to beat at the patolli: her ability to bluff. Was she bluffing now, or had she really managed to set aside her feelings and frustrations and put him back in the friend zone?
Never mind that—what was he thinking? He couldn’t give her what she needed, yet he wanted her to want him. “Selfish” didn’t even begin to cover it.
Unaware of his inner morass, she said brightly, “Well, then, the gala awaits us.” She took his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Was she already playing the role of his ditzy arm candy, or did she really not feel the heat crackling in the air around them? His skin was tight, his magic revving a sharp spark in his blood and a deep ache in his wrist, beneath his marks. Frustration snapped at his heels, thinning the control he’d kept on himself all day as he’d watched her bask in the simple one-piece bathing suit the saleslady had chosen for her, or sat beside her as she drove the boat with reckless enthusiasm, winding up the motor past redline now and then, and laughing at the slap of the wind in their faces, the feeling of freedom. He’d wanted her then and told himself to keep his hands to himself. He wanted her now even more… and the sight of her wearing the sparkling black collar he’d chosen for her sliced right through that self-control and had him reaching for her before he was even aware of having made the decision. He caught the back of her neck and felt the necklace brush the side of his hand as he drew her close.
And then he took her mouth in a kiss that had his pulse going from zero to a buck twenty in no time flat.
Their first two kisses had been her idea, and things in the cave had happened partly because of the magic… but this kiss was his. He slanted his lips across hers and took, levered her mouth open and claimed. And when her surprised gasp trailed off on a moan of surrender, he didn’t back off and give her a moment to catch up; he moved in and took more.
Then she murmured and crowded closer, blossoming open into the kiss, and he stopped being aware of anything beyond the woman in his arms and the heat they made together. Some warrior part of him was still monitoring the world, ever vigilant, but the rest of him was lost in the kiss. They twined together, seeking and tasting. The texture of her dress reminded him not to rip and tear, not even to wrinkle, as they had a job yet to do. But that constraint only added to the sharp excitement as he ran his hands gently down her body and then back up again, grazing the sides of her hips, ribs, and breasts and wringing a moan from her.
The sound startled him. He tore his lips free and pressed his brow to hers. He was breathing hard, laboring to suck in enough oxygen to keep him on his feet, but that battle was nothing compared to the one inside his skull. “You should slap me for that,” he said, his voice raspy. “Hell, punch me. Shoot me, even. I frigging deserve it.”
