Marilyn Pappano - Criminal Deception

But he had to credit Josh with picking the right magazine to send his message. No one who knew him would give it a second thought. It was the sort of thing people expected to find in his house.

“You’re more ambitious than I am. I love the mountains, but riding a bike up and down one…” Settling back in her chair, she fanned her face languorously. “Makes me weak just to think about it.”

She was so gorgeous, relaxed, her curls shifting lightly in the breeze, so strong. She’d never seemed less weak in all the time he’d known her. He, on the other hand, was feeling pretty damn helpless. All he wanted to do was look at her, touch her, kiss her, make love to her. Forever.

“It’s going up the mountain that’s tough.” His voice was husky, scratchy. “Coming down’s just a matter of holding on.”

“What if you lose control?”

“You don’t let that happen.”

“But what if you do?”

They weren’t talking about bikes and mountains anymore. What would happen when they lost control? Who would be first to recover? Who would have the most to recover from? He wasn’t looking to get his heart broken, but if he was going to spend the next few years regretting something, better that it be something he did than something he didn’t do.

He’d already spent a long time regretting that he didn’t kiss her that night in Josh’s kitchen.

He made a stab at a smile. “Then you hold on tight while you look for a soft place to fall.”

She held his gaze a long time, but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

The waitress delivered their food, and they did the small-talk chatter that reminded him of too many first dates, when they were way past that stage. After clearing the table, the waitress offered coffee.

They declined, and ten minutes later, after refusing Liz’s offer to pay, he was putting his wallet back in his hip pocket as he followed her through the restaurant to the door. It was a brief but most enjoyable journey. That ass, those legs, damn, those shoes…He wanted to make love to her while she wore those and nothing else.

And he was going to. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but definitely soon. It was either that or go totally freaking insane.

The night was cool as they strolled the sidewalk that curved around to the road, but Liz, in her sleeveless dress, didn’t seem to mind. Hot-blooded , Josh had described her.

Even thinking of his brother wasn’t enough to cool the need pulsing through him. As they approached the intersection, he took her hand. The first time it had been more of a claiming act, letting the smart-mouthed kid know she was with him. This time he did it because he needed to touch her. Because it felt good. Because, hell, she was with him.

“Thank you for dinner.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye-a blur of olive skin, black curls, red dress. “You’re welcome.”

“Can I buy you a drink someplace?”

He did look at her then, her eyes intense, expectant and cautious, before checking his watch. “No, thanks. But I’ll teach you how to make a killer cup of coffee if you’d like.” It was five after nine, and Raven was always gone by five till. Only the usual night-lights showed in the shop, offering them privacy as well as the best coffee in town.

Some women could be seduced by fine food, others by fine wine or cheap booze. Liz, he was pretty sure, could be seduced by fine coffee. He damn well knew he could be.

She smiled, and the caution faded from her gaze. “I would like that very much.”

They jaywalked through the square at a diagonal, coming out in front of the shop. He unlocked the door, then locked up again behind them. Still holding her hand, he led her behind the counter, then through the door into the storeroom, switching on only the light above the corner counter.

The space was small and cramped, but he could find anything he needed in no time. Dropping his hand, Liz turned in a circle, taking in his desk and file cabinet, sofa, cupboards and storage shelves. Everything there was recycled, reusable or came from renewable resources. “I expected great big bins of coffee. Where is it?”

“I get deliveries from a roastery in Augusta every day or two. Coffee starts to deteriorate right after it’s roasted. That’s why the mass-produced stuff on the grocery shelves doesn’t taste so hot. For the best coffee, you need fresh-roasted single-estate high-grown Arabica beans-” he held up the foil bag he’d opened that morning “-a burr grinder, cold filtered water and a machine. At home I usually use a French press, but because I don’t have a burner here to boil the water, I use an electric machine. It’s almost as good and very simple.” He beckoned to her. “Come here.”

Liz went to stand beside him, her perfume a sweet and spicy counterpoint to the beans’ rich, earthy aroma. He pulled her closer and wrapped her fingers around the measuring cup. “The ideal ratio is considered fifty-five grams of ground coffee to a liter of cold filtered water, but we’re doing only one cup and, like everything else, coffee has to be adjusted to your personal preferences.” He gestured to the sink on the right. “I’m going to show you my preferences.”

She turned on the faucet, filled the eight-ounce cup and carefully emptied it into the reservoir at the top of the coffee maker. Next came the grinder. “You grind it fresh for every cup?”

“Always.”

She took the foil-lined bag, unfastened it and drew a deep breath. “Mmm. Wonderful.” With her eyes closed, the dreamy expression on her face and the huskiness of her voice, she looked and sounded wonderful. She made him ache, but sometimes hurting felt good. “Is this single-estate, high-grown Arabica?”

“It is. It comes from El Salvador and is a blend of two very old Arabicas-Bourbon and Typica. The cafétos , or coffee trees, are grown at a thousand meters or higher on shade-covered hills. That makes the bean smaller.” He moved to stand behind her. “Denser.” Close enough now to smell the faint fragrance of her perfume. “Sweeter.”

Close enough that all she had to do was lean back an inch, maybe two, to bring their bodies together. Close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her. The need.

She drew another breath, a trying-to-regain-control sort of breath. “So I pour the beans in here?”

“Hmm.”

“How much?”

He brushed his mouth against her hair and awareness rippled between them. “Just a few. Until I tell you to stop.”

Her hand trembled as she raised the bag over the grinder. She shook out the beans, two or three at a time, enough for three cups before he remembered to say stop. “That’s enough. Now pulse the beans.”

She lowered her hand to the base of the machine, but did nothing until he covered it with his own hand, guiding her index finger to the button, pressing it. The rattle of beans against burr was harsh, but it didn’t distract him. Like Pavlov’s dog, the sound of the coffee grinder never failed to make him eager for a taste, and tonight was no exception. Except it wasn’t Topéca Manzano he wanted to taste.

How had it gotten so warm in here? Liz wondered. The temperature must have risen by at least ten degrees in the past few minutes. Her body was hot. Her skin was damp. Even her hair was feeling the heat. She wanted to strip off her clothes, to strip off Joe’s, to get even hotter.

But all in good time…and this coffee-making lesson was definitely a good time.

He shifted until they were touching, his arms around her, his focus still-at least, partly-on the lesson. “You want to break up most of the bean so that more of it’s exposed to the brewing process. But if you grind it too fine, it’ll wash through the filter.” His mouth was near her ear now, soft rough sounds and warm breaths that made her shiver despite the fever burning through her.