Ava Gray - Skin Game

He seemed to have a thing for layered scents. Somewhere along the way, she’d picked up a bath set steeply discounted, and it had matching gel, lotion, and shampoo, all basic coconut. Nobody had ever reacted to it like Rey, though.

A quick shower seemed to be in order, not a cold one, though. She made sure to apply the lotion everywhere and let it sink into her skin. Then she dressed in clean jeans and a fresh tank top. No bra. That was a delicious cruelty. Kyra pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail.

In fifteen minutes, he tapped on the adjoining door, scrupulously polite. “Can I come over now?”

“Sure.” She unlocked the door and he stepped through, black hair still damp. His black T-shirt clung to his chest, revealing muscles that made Kyra want to dig her fingers into them. His skin still carried that bronze glow, which she knew to be natural, now. He was unfairly delicious, a real test to her self-discipline.

He offered a lazy smile, a frisson of awareness sparking between them. “Do I pass inspection, sergeant?”

There was no point in being anything but honest. “You know you curl my toes. What do you want on your pizza?”

“I don’t usually eat it.”

That astonished her. “Really? How come?”

“When I was growing up, I rarely had a home-cooked meal,” he told her. “But I ate a lot of pizza. So whenever I can, I do my own cooking.”

Kyra pondered that, nonplussed. “What kind of stuff do you make?”

His obsidian gaze went to the tiny kitchenette at the far side of the room. She hadn’t particularly wanted to pay ten bucks extra for a kitchen, but the clerk claimed only the mini-suites came with connecting doors. And maybe that was true. This kind of room was probably good for families on vacation.

“I make a great chicken picatta. I also do salmon with red pepper sauce. Angus and bleu cheese salad—”

“Holy shit, that’s real food.” Her mouth watered. “If we went to the grocery store instead of ordering out, would you mind cooking? I can help,” she added, thinking he might take it wrong. “I’m sure I can chop stuff.” She’d never tried, mind. In her experience, food came two ways, delivery or takeout.

Before answering, Rey went to check out the kitchen, counting pots and pans or something. The kitchenette consisted of a tiny two-burner stove, sink, microwave, and half-size oven. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a fridge so small that wasn’t also half again as short like a dorm unit.

“I can work in here,” he said finally. “Chicken piccata would be easiest. The recipe doesn’t require a lot of sophisticated equipment.”

Kyra grinned, anticipating her first home-cooked meal in . . . well, she couldn’t remember, actually. Her dad didn’t cook. She’d never learned. It seemed pointless when she never stayed in the same place, certainly never had a kitchen for very long. In Vegas, she’d rented a place for the long con, but she never actually bought food or anything. From the moment she started the game, Serrano was always taking her out somewhere.

“Let’s go shopping.”

He smiled back. “Men all over the world just shuddered without knowing why.”

“Funny. C’mon.” She grabbed her bag and room key, then reached for his hand, towing him toward the door.

God, how weird it was to touch without an agenda. She’d grabbed his arm without even thinking about it. Rey might be the only person in the world with whom she could do it. With him, she could wrestle, tickle, snuggle, anything she wanted, and it didn’t have to be factored into her day’s work. Touching him didn’t create a gridlock in her brain that resulted in painful feedback. Once her ability kicked in, she’d stopped receiving even casual hugs from her dad; she hadn’t realized until this moment how much she missed it.

Rey went easily enough. He thought she didn’t notice him watching the lot from the balcony like a hawk, but she remembered his wariness about the biker. She hadn’t forgotten the guy, either. It was possible Serrano had sent someone after her. Kyra wasn’t sure how Mr. Kawasaki had tracked her down, but she’d bet on herself in a fight. All she needed was one point of contact, and then she’d turn whatever skill the guy had against him. She’d done it more times than she could count.

“Let me ask Maria about where we can find a market nearby,” Rey said as they climbed down the stairs.

He ducked into the office and Kyra watched them through the glass. The clerk leaned on the counter while talking to him, saying with her body language that she’d be open to any invitation Rey might offer. A jolt of pure rage startled her. She wanted to stomp into the building and drag him out of there, snarling all the while.

She shook her head to clear it. “Well, that was weird.”

“What was?” Rey asked, stepping outside.

“Nothing.”

“When a woman says nothing, she means everything.”

“I get grumpy when I’m hungry.” Kyra would be boiled in oil before she’d admit to a spurt of possessiveness. That feeling ran counter to everything she stood for.

“Then let’s get you fed.”

Everything that followed seemed very surreal. Rey drove them to an upscale little supermarket called Whole Foods, where he picked his ingredients with the utmost care. Sometimes it felt as if she didn’t know him at all, particularly when he spent five minutes examining the asparagus, which she’d never seen uncooked in bunches before. They looked like tiny spears.

“Organic, naturally produced,” she read aloud. “So you’re into healthy stuff.”

“When I can be. Whenever it makes sense.”

Well, that was a weird quality in a drifter. Maybe he was more like those hippie types who didn’t work and wanted to grow all their own food. That had always seemed like a contradiction to Kyra. If you didn’t work, how could you afford to buy the land to grow stuff on? But she’d met a few people in her travels who just planted gardens in vacant lots, regardless of who owned the property. She wouldn’t put Rey in that category, however. He wasn’t the idealistic type.

Finally, they had a cart full of exotic ingredients, like capers and heirloom tomatoes. She couldn’t believe he needed so much stuff to make one meal. The clerk at the register looked at the ingredients and said, “Somebody’s making chicken piccata.”

Damn, could everyone cook but her? She pondered that on the drive back. Kyra carried her half of the bags, eager to see how this worked. There wasn’t space for both of them so he dismissed her offer to help.

She watched in awe as he pounded the chicken thin and dipped it in flour. He made some sauce to pour over it and then he served it with grilled asparagus. She’d never eaten so well in her life, not even at any of the fancy restaurants Serrano took her.

Doing the dishes seemed like the least she could do, so she washed up in the tiny kitchenette. Afterward, Kyra moaned a little, rubbing her stomach. She unfastened the button on her jeans, which had to be the least sexy thing in the world.

“That was . . . amazing. Thank you.”

He watched her lounge against the headboard with hooded eyes. “I should be thanking you. I haven’t cooked for anyone that appreciated me in a long time.”

“You could get a job doing that. Seriously.”

“We already discussed how I don’t like working for someone else.”

She agreed, “So we did. Let’s see what’s on.”

It was much later than she’d realized, and the food made her sleepy. Rey found something to watch, not on pay-per-view, and settled down on the bed beside her. Cars chased each other and then exploded; gunshots rang out. Men cussed. By the time it ended, she was dozing.

“Kyra,” he whispered.