Читать книгу Never Say Never Again - Tori Carrington - Страница 7

CONNOR MCCOY CAUGHT A glimpse of himself in the mirror and nearly choked. Yes, he recalled agreeing to be his youngest brother David’s best man, though he still couldn’t quite figure that one out. Yes, he remembered putting the tuxedo on, every agonizing moment of the ordeal, from fastening the cummerbund to nearly strangling himself with the bow tie. But as he walked through David’s bedroom to get his brother’s wallet, he was startled by his own reflection in the mirror above the dresser.

The guy looking back at him was a stranger, as was just about everyone in his life right now. He puffed his chest out, and turned his head slightly, considering the dark-haired guy in his late thirties looking back at him. Not bad, if he did say so himself. He never spent much time grooming, which explained his startled reaction to spotting his own reflection. He made a monthly visit to the Manchester barber for a trim to the close-cropped cut he’d taken to back at the U.S. Marshal’s Service Training Academy in Glynco, Georgia, over a decade ago. A supply of good, ol’ Ivory soap, deodorant, shaving cream, a straight edge razor and a bottle of aspirin were the total contents of his medicine cabinet at his apartment. Completely low maintenance. Unlike some people he could name but wouldn’t. His gaze dropped to the dresser in front of him and he frowned, eyeing the variety of colognes there. He picked one up. Sex Bomb?

“What’s the holdup?” David asked, popping his head in the doorway.

Connor held up the bottle. “Do you really wear this stuff?”

His younger brother entered the room then leaned against the doorjamb. “Every chance I get. Drives the women crazy.” He winked.

Connor put the bottle down, nearly knocking the rest of them over as he did so. “I think I’ll pass.”

David collected his wallet from the night table on the other side of the bed. Connor watched him, trying to pinpoint some sort of visible difference. Aside from the monkey suit he wore, he looked the same. His hair was a little neater, maybe, but that was about it. For all intents and purposes, David McCoy was the same smart-ass kid he’d always been.

Why, then, the sudden need to get married?

Connor cleared his throat. “Are you nervous?”

“Who? Me?” David said, jabbing his thumb into his chest. “Hell, yeah, I’m nervous.”

Connor relaxed. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to talk his brother out of making the biggest mistake of his life. Where there were nerves, there were good, solid reasons.

David slipped his wallet into his back pocket, then straightened his tuxedo jacket. “After all, it’s not every day a man has to stand in front of half the D.C. law enforcement community and profess his love for a fellow police officer.” He grinned.

Connor grimaced.

His brother whacked him in the stomach. “What’s the matter, Con? You’re looking a little green there. Don’t tell me you’re nervous?”

“Me? Hell, no.” He stiffened. “I just want to make sure that…you know, that you’re doing the right thing here.”

“Are you kidding? Oh, I’m definitely doing the right thing. Marrying Kelli Hatfield’s the smartest thing I’ll have done in my life up ’til this point.” He smoothed down the front of his shirt, his expression slanting toward the serious. He slowly shook his head. “You know, I thought I had it all figured out before. Life. Career. Love. Then came Kelli and she…well, she proved I didn’t know diddly.”

This wasn’t going anything like the way Connor had planned. He took a deep breath and fought the urge to shake his own head in disbelief and pity for the youngest of the McCoy clan.

“Do you know what that’s like?”

Connor snapped his head up. “What?”

“You know…loving someone. Falling in love with someone. Meeting that one person who makes the whole world look different. Like opening your eyes for the first time.”

Oh, boy, was his brother really in sorry shape. “I like the way the world looks right now.”

David laughed. “I knew you’d say that.” He slapped his hand across Connor’s shoulders, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “I hope I’m around when it happens to you, big bro. Now that’s going to be something to sell tickets to.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t go reserving a forum just yet, David. Because you’d lose every stinking cent you’d put down.”

David waggled a finger at him. “You just watch and see if it doesn’t happen to you.”

“Never.” He checked each of his cuff links and sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere talking to his brother now. And if they didn’t get out of there soon, he was afraid David would put on a teapot to boil and suggest they reminisce about old times. “You ready?”

“For the past thirty years of my life.”

Connor cringed, thinking that out of the four weddings he’d attended in the past year, this one was going to be the most nauseating yet.

SIX HOURS LATER, OUTSIDE the swanky downtown D.C. hotel, the warm spring sun was setting, birds were singing, cherry blossoms were blossoming. Inside, in a lavishly laid-out ballroom, under artfully painted ceilings and curving archways, a dark cloud hunched around Connor McCoy’s shoulders, threatening to unleash a storm he wasn’t sure he knew how to deal with.

He leaned against the bar and eyed the happy couple across the hall as they engaged in the traditional first dance of the night. David’s blond head angled closer to his bride’s ear, murmuring something that made Kelli blush then turn into his kiss. The sight was so intimate, so private, Connor couldn’t help but feel like he was somehow intruding on the moment, despite the very public display, even though two hundred others looked on with him.

He swore under his breath then turned away.

Who’d have thought that one year could make so much of a difference? Twelve months? Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days? He sure wouldn’t have guessed at the same time last year that he would be standing at David’s wedding reception, the only McCoy male still single.

“You look like an accident waiting to happen,” Sean said coming to stand next to him.

Connor’s grimace deepened. Well, okay, he was the second single McCoy male left. Pops was the first. Though he’d never really considered Pops just a male. He was a widower. His father. Not exactly prime bachelor meat up for grabs to the first bidder.

He looked down at his suit. “This is the fourth time I’ve had to rent a tux in a year. The rental-shop girl asked if maybe I wanted to buy the sucker. How do you expect me to look?” He tugged on the sleeves of the jacket, feeling as if the material had somehow grown snugger since he’d had it on earlier that day. Leave it to David to schedule his wedding ceremony at noon, his reception at seven, making him have to wear the suit not once, but twice in the same day.

Sean ordered a brew, then straightened the lapels of his own tailored suit. With his white hair neatly combed, his shoulders wide, he was, in fact, looking very much like an older bachelor up for auction. He said, “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was expecting you to look happy for your brothers, maybe? Proud?”

Connor nearly choked on his own beer. “Proud?”

Pops grinned, though his gray eyes were watchful. “Yeah. I know I’m biased, but I think our boys have picked themselves a great bunch of women. Don’t you think?”

Connor glanced away. There was something about the way his father had said “our boys” that made his stomach twist tighter than it already was. On the dance floor petite Michelle was pulling gangly Jake onto the parquet floor next to Mel and Marc, who were dancing as if they were the newlyweds instead of new parents.

Speaking of which…

Connor scanned the surrounding tables where draped linens and colorful flower arrangements competed with guests’ apparel. There. There she was. He spotted Melanie’s mother Wilhemenia. She wore a navy-blue dress that reached up to her neck and down to midcalf. But despite the severe clothing, her face was softer than he’d ever seen it as she held up little Sean Jonathon McCoy, named for Sean, and Mel’s late father, Jonathon. Wilhemenia’s lips moved as she said something to the infant, then she pressed her mouth against his temple.

Connor’s gaze moved to his nephew. Three months old. He could still remember when David was that age. And now David was married.

Where did the time go? And why did he have the unsettling feeling that it was passing him by?

Sean cleared his throat. “Certainly you didn’t expect your brothers to stay single, did you?”

Connor blinked at him. It took him a moment to register what his father had said. He shrugged. “Sure, why not? What’s wrong with being single?”

“Nothing. But I think the applicable question here is what’s the matter with being married?”

Connor narrowed his eyes, his gaze again trailing to Wilhemenia Weber. “Are we talking about you here, Pops? Because if we are—”

“No, we’re not talking about me, here. We’re talking about your brothers.” He drew in a deep breath then slowly let it out. “You…well, you’ve made it quite clear on where you stand on my being involved with a woman, so I’m not interested in revisiting that topic—especially since this is the first time you’ve done more than grunt at me in months.”

“I don’t grunt.”

“Whatever you say.” His father’s grin caught him off guard. Connor found himself grinning back.

“Yes, well, I learned it from the best.”

“That you have. And one of these days you and I are going to have a long talk about that.”

“Pardon me. Connor?”

At the sound of the female voice, Connor swung around so fast, his beer nearly sloshed over the side of his glass. He found himself staring at one of the purple-clad bridesmaids. The cute one with the blond hair and the impish smile that looked all of twelve. And came to about his navel standing on the tip of her toes.

“Would you care to dance?” she asked.

Dance? Him? He’d never even set foot on a dance floor, much less danced on one. And he had no intention of starting now. “No.”

The young woman darted away without so much as another peep.

Pops cringed next to him. “You were a bit abrupt, don’t you think?”

Maybe he had been, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his father. “Nope. I’ve found it’s the only way to be. Try being nice and women think you’re playing hard to get. Put them off, hoping they’ll take the hint, and they come back.” He watched the pretty young blonde hurry to rejoin the rest of the wedding party, then shrugged. “Give her five minutes. She’ll get over it.”

Pops stared at him in a way Connor couldn’t decipher and didn’t particularly like. “What?” he finally asked, inexplicably irritated.

Sean shook his head. “Oh, nothing.” He gestured with his glass toward the dance floor. “You know, for David’s sake, you could maybe pretend that you’re having a good time.”

“I’ve never been very good at pretending.”

“No, that you haven’t.” He put his glass down. “You don’t mind if I have a little fun for the both of us then, do you?”

Before Connor could answer, he watched his father head toward the dance floor and cut in on the bride and groom. Kelli laughed as he said something to her, then he swept her away from David like Fred Astaire on a bad dance day.

Connor turned back toward the bar. For a minute there he’d been afraid Pops meant to ask Mel’s mom, Wilhemenia, to dance. He was curious at the mixture of relief and disappointment that his father hadn’t.

Someone put a full wineglass on the bar next to him. “I’d like to exchange this for a glass of beer, please.”

He glanced over to find Kelli’s friend—what was her name?—standing beside him. He drew a complete and utter blank on her first name as he noticed the way the light from the chandeliers set her short, red hair on fire.

She thanked the tender for the beer then leaned against the bar next to him. “Looks like you’re having about as good a time as I am.”

Connor forced himself to take a sip from his glass. Bronte. That was her name. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he had momentarily forgotten it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her enough times in the past few months, what with her being Kelli’s best friend and all.

He shifted from one booted foot to the other. Who was he kidding? His memory of her and her name went back farther than that cop bar where David and Kelli had first met. A lot farther. He remembered Bronte O’Brien from George Washington University, second year.

One recollection in particular sprung forth. Although he’d noticed her in the lecture hall before, on this day she’d taken the seat in front of him. It had been exam time, just after spring break. He hadn’t had much time to study because he’d spent his vacation looking after David, who had come down with a nasty virus. The night before his brother had been sicker than a dog. Connor had spent hours holding a bucket up at the side of his bed and keeping a cool rag on his head. Still, he’d fully intended to pass the exam. He’d been twenty-five and it had taken him longer than most to make it to college, and that had made him determined to make each moment count. He had passed the exam—just barely. He’d been so obsessed with the way the ends of Bronte O’Brien’s short hair curled against the back of her freckled neck that he’d been marked wrong on questions he could have answered in his sleep.

He took a long pull from his glass, moving past the memory and to the present. So long as she was standing next to him, and wasn’t making a pest out of herself, he supposed some sort of small talk was warranted, something he’d never been particularly good at. But at least in their case they had shared interests. More specifically, the witness she’d placed into the witness protection program two months ago. A witness that was giving Connor his fair share of sleepless nights with her ceaseless demands for expensive items not included in the program’s limited budget.

He cleared his throat. “Congratulations on convincing Melissa Robbins to testify.”

Bronte appeared not to hear him at first. She twisted her lips, then glanced away. “I’m not sure if I’m deserving of congratulations yet. She’s a reluctant witness at best. And her ex-boyfriend, Leonid Pryka, is a formidable target.” She looked him full in the face. “Does that mean you’re in charge of her protection?”

“Yeah.”

Connor supposed that, on the surface, you couldn’t find two people more different from each other. Where Bronte appeared at home in her sophisticated clothes and surroundings, he was counting the minutes until he could get out of there and out of his monkey suit.

But they did share something in common: their involvement in the justice system, though he found it ironic that even in that regard their roles were completely different.

As an attorney in the Transnational/Major Crimes Section of the U.S. attorney’s office, Bronte O’Brien put together cases against criminals to take to trial, which sometimes required protection for key witnesses she unearthed. And as a deputy U.S. marshal in Witness Security and Protection, also known as WitSec, that’s where he came in. He made sure those witnesses were kept safe and sound and delivered in time for trial.

In this particular case, Bronte had convinced Melissa Robbins to testify against her ex-boyfriend, Leonid Pryka, a once small-time importer who had become big time with noted speed, making local and federal law enforcement very interested in just how, exactly, he had come by his seemingly instant wealth. They suspected that illegal arms and possibly weapons of mass destruction might be the import of choice. And apparently the U.S. attorney’s office felt that Pryka’s spurned girlfriend was the witness that could help them finally prove it.

Connor’s current assignment was to keep Melissa Robbins safe. Well, at least from outsiders. Protecting himself and the other marshals from her incessant, aggravating, irrational demands was something else entirely.

He squinted at Bronte, wondering if she knew exactly how…impossible her witness was. It wasn’t that he doubted Bronte’s capabilities. He made a point of knowing what was going on in the U.S. attorney’s office. You couldn’t fully protect a witness unless you knew who and what you were protecting her from. And he’d long since become aware that Bronte’s conviction rate was high. If she thought Robbins could deliver the goods on Pryka, then she could. It was as simple as that.

But as far as witnesses went, high-maintenance Melissa Robbins was one of the most difficult targets he’d had to protect in all his years with WitSec—second only to a schizophrenic mob accountant who had convinced himself that the marshals protecting him had been bought. Norman Becknal had escaped their custody no fewer than four times.

Connor would count himself lucky if Melissa Robbins tried to do the same.

“I suppose I can be thankful for that,” Bronte finally said. “I mean, your being in charge of Robbins’s protection. At least I can be reasonably assured that she’ll be…available when the case comes up for trial next month.”

Connor grimaced. That was if he and his men didn’t end up whacking the woman themselves.

Bronte fingered a simple silver earring on her left lobe. Connor watched the absent movement, inexplicably fascinated.

It wasn’t the overt things about women that got to him. Height, hair color, breast size—none of that made one iota of difference to him. It was the small things that threatened to do him in. The way they wrinkled their noses when they talked. How they told a story, including details he’d overlook but ultimately made the tale more interesting. The way they toyed with tiny, shimmering earrings….

“What?” Bronte made a funny face. “Don’t tell me. I have rice or something stuck in my eyebrow.”

Connor couldn’t help a smile. “No. Your…eyebrows are just fine.” As was everything else about the outgoing college student turned savvy junior U.S. attorney.

He snapped upright, moving from his startlingly relaxed position.

He’d be well-served to remember what else he knew about Bronte O’Brien. Particularly that she went through men faster than a shopaholic could max out a new credit card. He narrowed his eyes. Funny, he hadn’t seen her with anyone lately, though. Not at the bar when he’d first crossed paths with her again outside the district courthouse. Not during her occasional visits out to the McCoy place with Kelli.

Not that he’d been paying close attention, mind you. The last thing on his mind was women.

Bronte pushed from the bar and visibly straightened her shoulders, jolting him from his thoughts and making him realize he’d been staring. “Okay, after that thorough inspection, I know something is wrong. It’s my makeup, isn’t it? I forgot to put mascara on one eye. No, wait. My blush doesn’t match my lipstick.”

Connor looked down at his glass, fighting a half smile. “I’d be the last person to notice either thing.”

She considered him warily. “Then why are you staring at me?”

He shrugged. Why was he staring at her? He already knew that such steady attention only garnered unwanted interest. And while he wasn’t opposed to bedding the occasional female every now and again, Bronte wasn’t going to be one of them. “Just thinking.”

“Uh-huh…you were just…thinking.”

He put his glass on the bar. “Something wrong with that?”

“I don’t know. Depends on what you were thinking.”

He fastened his gaze on her face. But rather than the flirtatious look he expected, he instead found she wore a guardedly curious expression. Was that because she wasn’t attracted to him? Found his company…wanting?

He frowned. What was he thinking? He didn’t want her to be attracted to him any more than he wanted to be attracted to her. And he wasn’t. He was merely appreciating her beauty, that’s all. He wasn’t any more attracted to her than he was to any of his sisters-in-law. So what if he noticed the way her breasts pressed against the thin fabric of her dress? How the slit up the side of her ankle-length skirt flashed glimpses of her long legs when she walked? How pale freckles peppered every visible inch of her skin? He’d notice the same thing about any other female within the vicinity. He was a man, after all. It didn’t necessarily mean he was attracted to her.

“I was just thinking,” he began, searching for an explanation that would keep him safely out of reach, yet make some sort of sense. “You went to G.W.U., didn’t you?”

Her instant answering smile yanked on something inside his chest. He told himself it was relief. “I’m surprised you remember.”

His brows budged upward. Her response indicated she had some memory of him being there as well. “I have to say I’m surprised you do too.”

She looked down at her glass. “Yeah, well, it’s hard to forget a guy who would be taller than me even when I’m in high heels. There aren’t many out there.”

“I remember noticing your height too—and that red hair,” he said.

She leaned back against the bar. “I have to give you credit. You’re the first guy I’ve met who hasn’t asked me inside of a minute if I’ve ever modeled.”

“That’s because I know you’re with the U.S. attorney’s office.”

Her laugh was mature, deep and throaty.

“I could say that you’re the first woman at this wedding who hasn’t asked me to dance inside of a minute.”

Bronte O’Brien looked at strapping Connor McCoy from beneath her lashes, trying to figure out if he was trying to make small talk, or if he was just plain conceited. Oh, she could imagine that lots of women asked him to dance. That wasn’t the problem. In a room full of men dressed to the nines, he was the one who stuck out, tempted women’s attention with that clean-shaven, good-guy look and brooding expression. He was the type of guy a woman spotted and instantly a flashing alarm went off: Grade-A heartbreak ahead.

Well, at least that’s how she saw him. Other women might be inclined to try to tempt him from his commitment-phobic ways. Of course she’d passed that masochistic phase years ago, thank God. The simple truth was, no woman could change a man like Connor. The more she’d try, the more he would resist. Until finally she’d be forced to walk away—or worse, he would send her packing and she’d be left to make fast friends with a carton of tissues.

Anyway, her problem wasn’t being attracted to commitment-phobic guys. In fact, it was the complete opposite. She’d settle for one who wasn’t already married.

She frowned into her beer, forgetting for a moment why Connor was staring at her. The she realized he was waiting for some sort of response. “Did it cross your mind that I didn’t ask you to dance because I’m not interested in dancing with you?” Her smile took some of the bite out of her words, then grew genuine when he smiled back. “Okay, that’s not really the reason. I didn’t ask you to dance because I don’t dance.” She shrugged, wondering why she’d volunteered that little piece of trivia from the life and times of Bronte O’Brien. Still, no matter how many years went by, or how many men she dated, the memories from her wallflower days tagged along on her heels like a long piece of unnoticed toilet paper. Until events like these reminded her. Speaking of which… She looked down at her shoes just to make sure she wasn’t trailing any t.p. The way today was going, she wouldn’t be surprised to find an entire roll hanging on. “I don’t know. I guess it’s one of the drawbacks of having a foot on the guys in school. For some reason, they never ask girls taller than they are to dance.”

His eyes darkened with something shared and elemental, throwing her for a second. “I bet they regret their actions now.”

She laughed. “I doubt it.”

She caught herself staring into those same eyes, now tinted with enigmatic shadows. She’d come across Connor several times in the past few months and he’d never given her the time of day, much less made an effort to talk to her. There was something different about him tonight, though. Something almost…human.

She forced herself to turn and watch the people on the dance floor, realizing she probably sounded like she was looking for a pity dance. She slanted him a covert look, relieved to find he was staring out on the dance floor much as she was. She let out a quiet, shaky breath. She should have known better. Through Kelli’s dealings with the McCoy family of rebels-without-a-clue, she’d learned that while they had to be the best-looking bunch of men on the eastern seaboard, they weren’t exactly the brightest when it came to women. Kelli, herself, had nearly halted her wedding plans at least three times because of some stupid stunt or other that David had pulled both on and off the job.

Her gaze was drawn to the good-looking couple, swaying to a slow, sultry song about lost loves, and her own heart gave a gentle squeeze.

This whole night had been harder on her than she would have ever imagined it would be. It was more than the loss of her heel before the ceremony that an application of Wilhemenia Weber’s quick glue had fixed; the spot of brisket drippings on her dark dress she hid with the strategic placement of her gauzy wrap; the fact that, aside from Kelli and Connor, she didn’t know anyone in the large room. No, what really bothered her was that she’d caught herself looking at the happy couple in a way that could be nothing but envious. Wishing it were her on that dance floor leading off the celebration with Thomas Jenkins, the man she had planned to marry. The only man who had tempted her to glimpse past her dedication to her career, made her think that maybe there was something else out there, perhaps even a white picket fence and two-point-two children. Enough to become engaged to him. At least until nine months ago, when she’d discovered he’d never had any intention of marrying her. Because he was already married.

A mixture of sadness, regret and guilt gathered in her chest, making it almost impossible to breathe as she caught herself looking at her left hand for the engagement ring that used to be there.

She tried to shake off the unwanted feelings and focus her thoughts on the man next to her, warning herself not to focus too intently. Taking on another man to get over the one before was the mode of operation the old Bronte would have employed—a mode she’d long ago chucked out the window.

“They make a cute couple, don’t they?” she quietly asked Connor.

David dipped his new wife then took a whack in the arm for his efforts once Kelli had her feet back under her. “I guess.”

She wondered at the tension that suddenly emanated from Connor. Did he object to Kelli’s marrying his youngest brother? She found it impossible to believe that anyone would object, but she knew only too well that what she believed and what was really the truth often were two completely different things. “She loves him, you know,” she felt the need to point out.

He nodded slowly. “I know.”

“And he loves her.”

“I know.” He squinted at her, as if trying to figure out her motives.

“Then why the long face?”

He appeared suddenly uncomfortable, an emotion she would never have attributed to him. Ever. She knew her reasons for not wanting to be here, in this hall, watching two people so obviously in love with each other, but what were his?

“Would you believe me if I said I hate these things?” he asked, putting his beer bottle on the bar.

Now that she could understand. “Yes, I would.”

“Then I hate these things.”

She tilted her head to the side, considering him. “I guess that’ll do. For now.” She placed her beer next to his, then straightened the swath of gauzy material that had been resting in the curve of her elbows. “What’s say we blow this joint for a while? Take a walk or something? I could do with some fresh air.”

She slowly turned and began walking toward the doorway. She didn’t know what she expected, but she was surprised when she glanced over her shoulder to find Connor following her.

CONNOR WASN’T CERTAIN WHY he’d instantly accepted Bronte’s offer of a walk. Maybe it was the straightforward way she’d made the suggestion. Perhaps because she hadn’t tucked her hand in his elbow in a possessive manner that some women thought brooked no argument. But the moment they stepped outside the stuffy, overdecorated hotel, he was glad he had listened to the voice that had prodded him to follow her. Almost instantly, he felt the cloud squeezing his shoulders dissipate. Immediately, his muscles relaxed. He no longer had to be the proud big brother. Pretend he was happy with events when he clearly wasn’t.

Over the U.S. Treasury building across the way, the sun was setting. He realized Bronte had continued walking and followed again—this time across the street and into the park there. He hung back slightly as she leaned against a bench and slipped off first one, then the other, of her shoes. Her feet, like the rest of her, were long, slender and well-shaped, her toenails painted bright, scarlet red, contrasting against the dark navy-blue of her dress. The low-heeled pumps swinging from her fingers, she continued on, deeper into the park, away from the traffic on the street. Away from the hotel and the celebrating people inside.

She took a deep breath. He found his gaze drawn to the scooped neckline of her bridesmaid’s dress. The gentle curve of flesh there expanded, revealing a few more freckles he felt the desire to explore with his fingertips. “I can’t tell you how great it is to take a breath and not have your senses overwhelmed by somebody else’s perfume,” she said.

“Hmm?” Connor tore his gaze away from the top of her breasts. It was then he realized that he didn’t detect any immediately recognizable perfume coming from her. At least not of the store-bought variety. She smelled vaguely of something soft, somewhat like a white flower he’d picked once and taken home to his mother, who had been pregnant with David at the time. Just a couple years or so before she died.

“Connor McCoy, are you staring at my breasts?”

He grinned and slowly budged his gaze up to her face, half hidden in shadow. “Yes, I guess I am.” He cleared his throat and noticed the small orbs pressing against the shiny fabric. “And either you’re suddenly cold, or they’re staring back at me.”

Her burst of laughter surprised him and when he looked up he found the same startled expression on her face. “Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Good. Because it’s the first time I’ve said it.”

His gaze locked with hers. A strong undercurrent of exactly what he’d been trying to ignore flowed between them like a tangling web. Attraction. Full, strong, elemental attraction. He followed the line of her cheek down to her lips, finding the top one fuller than the bottom, unpainted, the natural dusky shade unbearably appealing.

“What would you say if I told you I wanted to grab you and kiss you?” he asked.