Jessica Andersen - Magic Unchained

He emerged sometime later and settled down to wait in the pretty cobbled courtyard that the marina maintained for its guests. Pulling out his phone, he cleared a few texts and skimmed through the e-mails, finding nothing critical. He was just starting to type a reply to the forward an old wreck-diving buddy had sent him—bad joke, even worse picture—when movement from the ladies’ locker room caught his attention.

He looked up and saw Cara. He froze.

And he stared.

The snow-white gown shimmered with the movement of beads and unidentifiable glittery things that picked up the light and dipped and clung to her curves. One of her shoulders was covered, the other bare, and the subtle contrast between the gleaming white and the cream of her skin made him want to touch and taste, as did the severe perfection of her twisted-up hair with its zigzag stripe, and how it was softened by a couple of curled sections that fell free to cover the earpiece she wore to match the one he had on. The skirt had seemed longer when the saleslady had held it up, but he wasn’t complaining about the way it hit Cara midthigh, showing off legs that seemed far longer than her diminutive size would suggest; nor was he complaining about the narrow silver 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 café 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.