Wendy Etherington - A Breath Away

The answer seemed too simple to be correct—he didn’t trust the NSA.

Smart man.

Whatever his reasoning, he’d cleverly hooked her. She didn’t like violence coming anywhere near Lucas, and if protecting Tremaine meant protecting her cousin, she’d bite her tongue and do it. Plus, despite her urge to scoff at the pretty boy’s troubles, she was reluctantly intrigued about the legendary thief.

So, it seemed she and Tremaine were stuck with each other. She doubted they would get along—she’d heard too much about his tendency to follow only the rules that were convenient for him. In her mind, rules existed for a good reason—convenient or not.

His light-fingered past didn’t win him any points with her, either. Even if he’d been a very good thief.

Could you use good and light-fingered in the same sentence without sounding ridiculous?

Not in her book.

She used her cell phone to call her partner, Frank, and her best guards to her side. They’d all be on planes in the morning. She didn’t see any point in their coming sooner, since their client was MIA, and she preferred facing him alone at the moment.

If she decided to kill him, she could always bury his body and not involve her business in the crime.

Snooping-wise, she got very little that she didn’t already know. He’d left his luggage—purposefully, she was sure—so she found shaving cream, shampoo, condoms and a spicy, exotic cologne that would no doubt suit him. His wardrobe consisted of custom-made suits in charcoal and black and Italian loafers with tassels.

Art magazines and a highbrow novel encompassed his printed collection. And though she took great delight in gliding a razor blade down all the seams of his expensive leather bags to check for hidden compartments, she found nothing of interest.

If he was arrogant, at least he wasn’t stupid.

At dinnertime, she sampled from the fruit basket on the coffee table. Late into the night, she flipped around the TV channels and found nothing that could hold her interest for more than a moment or two.

Nearly all her clients begged for her services. She’d worked for rock stars needing protection from overzealous fans, wealthy businessmen who wanted to protect their assets from thieves. Even politicians, who always seemed dogged by threats and stalkers, called her and her team every election year.

They all did what she said without question, either out of fear for themselves or their families. They relied on her expertise.

No one had ever been so cocky as to order her services through a third party, then not even bother to show up for his purchase. She was sure the contrast wasn’t lost on Tremaine.

At l:00 a.m., she locked the guest-bedroom door, showered, re-dressed, then lay on top of the bed. She might as well get some rest if her client was going to continue to ignore her.

In a fitful sleep, she dreamed about her parents. They stood behind their ancient walnut bar at Beau’s, their arms crossed over their chests, their faces set with disappointment. Guilt washed over her. She wanted to tell them she hadn’t failed them. She wanted to explain she was sorry she hadn’t been there to protect them….

Then she was hugging Lucas. She lay her head against his chest and delighted in the beat of his heart, realizing there was still one person in the world who loved her unconditionally, who shared her blood. She relaxed, letting the feeling of security wash through her.

His lips whispered over her cheek. “I need your help,” he said softly.

In less than a second, she realized she was no longer dreaming. There were indeed lips against her cheek. Warm, soft, persuasive lips attached to a warm, hard, male body. Neither of which belonged to her cousin.

Though training and instincts screamed danger, she paused to breathe in the scent of a spicy, exotic cologne and a faint smell of whiskey and realized the rumors about her new client must be true.

He was very good with his hands.

By the moonlight streaming through the window, she could see he lay on his side, pressed against her, his lips sending shivers of delight skating down her spine, his clever fingers gliding up her stomach. Under her shirt. That simple touch ignited sensual sparks inside her, creating a longing she fought to ignore.

Did he intend to disarm her before seducing her? Somehow, she doubted he’d bother.

“Move your hand up another inch, Tremaine, and you’ll lose it.”

With a quick flip, she’d straddled him and pressed her Beretta to the center of his forehead.

The rogue had the nerve to smile. “My, my, Ms. Broussard. Is this how you greet all your clients?”

“Only the ones who pick the lock to my bedroom.”

“You could hardly call that thing on the door a lock.”

No doubt she could have gotten past it herself, but what infuriated her was that she hadn’t heard him. He’d come through the outer door, crossed the living room, opened the bedroom door, crossed that room, then slid into bed with her before she’d been aware. Normally, she’d have heard him when he put the key card in the exterior door lock. Either she was really tired, or he was even more skilled than she’d imagined.

She also wasn’t crazy about the way she’d responded to his touch. For a moment she’d relished the contact with him and wanted more. Staring down into his sculpted face, his silvery eyes glittering back at her, his jet-black hair gleaming almost blue in the low light, she wanted him still. His innate sensuality was even more potent in person than in pictures, though some part of her managed to recognize that an attraction to her client was a weakness she couldn’t afford.

More aggravated at herself than him, she holstered her pistol. “Is there a particular reason you’re in bed with me?”

“It’s my bed.”

“It’s the wrong bed. This is the guest room.”

He grinned. “My mistake.”

“I’m sure. Where the hell have you been?”

“On an errand of mercy.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Pictures don’t do you justice, Agent Broussard.”

“That’s former Agent Broussard, and I’ll have to return the compliment.” Her body still hummed from the feel of his fingers. Men—especially male clients—didn’t overwhelm her. They didn’t affect her personally.

He braced his hands at her waist. “We could continue what we started.”

To her surprise, Jade was tempted. She held nearly everyone at a distance, so she rarely took the time to indulge in sex. She was definitely aware of the hard ridge of male flesh pressed intimately between her legs. She already knew his hands promised magic.

Their physical attraction was as obvious in the room as the bed they were lying on. Her stomach fluttered with need. Her fingers tingled. All she had to do was lean down, press her lips to his…

“Bad idea,” she said, jerking back.

As she climbed off him, his eyes darkened with seemingly genuine regret. “Perhaps another time.”

She didn’t comment and glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 4:00 a.m. It was time to get back to business. “You want to tell me who shot you and why?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

“Why do you need me? Why don’t you trot back to Washington and let the NSA deal with this?”

He rolled off the bed and gained his feet with a grace that she was certain had gotten him through more than one second-story window undetected and unscathed. “I’ll tell you everything over coffee.”

Somehow I doubt that.

Watching him stride from the room, Jade’s gaze slid down his lean body, covered in tailored black pants and a black ribbed turtleneck, and wondered if he’d really given up his former profession.

How many people had he made a fool of in his murky past? How many beds had he crawled into? Was his present just as devious? She knew that less than half of the rumors about her were accurate. Was it the same for him? What was his real story?