Rubber utility mats lined the floor. One wall held a treadmill, a Smith machine, and a metal rack stacked with free weights, arranged by size. No wonder her ass was a wicked bounce of muscle. He imagined her bent over and the inviting space her firm cheeks would create between her thighs.
Heat pierced through his body, contracting his muscles and leaving little room for patience. Fuck, the wait felt like a hundred searing needles, but he relished it, wanting her beneath his skin.
His bulk filled the doorway, legs spread wide, arms loose at his sides, confident he could draw the gun before she could wedge a hidden weapon from that tight dress. While he waited for her to look up, he drank in her features. The regal curves of her face. The tiny slope of her nose. The way her lips naturally tipped upward despite the tension around her mouth. But why the hell had she changed her clothes?
The overhead light reflected off the blond curtain of her hair. The color seemed...wrong, too pale for her honey-light skin. It fell over her face as she stared at the floor, a paradox of insecure beauty.
He tilted his head. Of course, he knew very little about her, but he was missing something crucial, a fragile facet beneath the pristine makeup and trained physique.
He rolled the toothpick with his tongue. “Why do you bleach your hair?”
Golden-brown eyes connected with his, blinking furiously, so deliciously nervous. “It’s...” She huffed. “None of your business.”
Slowly, cautiously, he slid back the hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt. Her breathing quickened as her gaze skimmed his exposed biceps, his face, and lingered on the scar that divided his cheek. She looked away, her shoulders curling around her ears.
He knew the effect he had on women. Whether it was their fascination with big, scary men with scars or their complete dismissal of danger, he only needed to flash a smile to lure them in. Amber was no different, despite the self-berating that was likely occurring in her flustered mind.
Short breaths rattled her lips. Her knees squeezed together, and her fingers entwined beneath her perky tits, pressing against the knuckles of the opposite hand.
Watching her battle her distress felt a little like foreplay. For every tremble across her skin, his mouth moistened, his pulse purred, and the nerve-endings in his fingers stirred and tingled. His body fed from the energy clashing between them, rushing blood below his waist and hardening him for a fight between her uptight thighs.
She glanced down, and her breath caught.
He followed her gaze, past the discomfort straining his jeans, to his socked feet. He flexed his toes. “What?”
“Where are your shoes?”
Her disregard for his arousal was a shocker. No matter. He’d prepared for this line of questioning. “By the front door.”
Her nose scrunched in a naively erotic way. “Why are you wearing gloves?”
“Same reason my shoes are by the door.” He lifted a shoulder, deliberately vague, letting her squirm.
Her lips pressed together, and her chest heaved. “I don’t understand.”
“Your house is obscenely clean.” Which had fuck-all to do with covering his fingerprints and softening his footsteps. He caught her eyes and winked. “So I put on my driving gloves and left my shoes.”
“Driving gloves haven’t been fashionable since the sixties.”
“My ‘65 Mustang might be dated, too, but it’s bad-ass.
He savored the little nuances of her floundering expression. The skin tightening over arches of her cheekbones. The vertical lines between her eyebrows. The bounce in her gaze, ping-ponging everywhere but in his direction. And finally, her wavering sigh.
Got her. Earlier, when his arms were locked around her, she might’ve sensed his cruelty. But now that she’d let him in, she would be fighting that intuition, convincing herself he wouldn’t bother with conversation if he intended to harm her. Lucky for him, she didn’t know how he operated.
He held up his gloved fingers, wiggling them. “You should thank me. You don’t know where my hands have been.”
Her nose twitched again, her eyes fixed on the packages beneath his arm. “Um...thanks?” She squared her shoulders and dragged her gaze to his, the display of courage ten times more forced than her voice. “My mail?”
As he crossed the room, she rose like an animated mannequin, a vision of posed glamour, an artist’s illusion. He stopped a few feet away, mesmerized by the unnatural yet graceful way she held herself, until she raised a stiff arm and gestured for the packages.
He handed them over and nodded at the sheaths behind her. “Should I worry about where the knives are?”
“Probably.” She turned toward the bench and removed the bottles of dye, arranging them in a neat little line with the labels facing her.
“Your vagueness isn’t very friendly.”
She sighed. “I don’t forge blades. I make things from leather and sell them online.”
Her only source of income? That would explain her financial problems and her urgency to ship this project.
She unscrewed the first bottle, and the plasticky smell of chemicals singed the air. “You can sit on the stool while I finish and tell me the real reason you were on my porch.”
Perceptive little thing. Bossy, too. He let it go and sat, facing her backside as she worked. “When was the last time you left the house?”
Her shoulders bunched. “Thirty minutes ago.”
“Before that.”
“None—”
“Of my business?” He stretched his legs out in front of him and angled his head to watch the glorious flex of her ass. “Do you know your neighbors?”
Her hands paused; then she blotted a rag with brown stain. “No, so I won’t be able to answer questions about your old friends.”
The six months he’d spent watching her house, he hadn’t seen a twitch in the shades. “Gonna go out on a limb here and say you’ve never even seen your neighbors.”
Her hip cocked out as if she’d lost her balance, but her hands continued to work the
