Jeanne Adams - Dark and Deadly

She finally moved, turning into the guest room. Before the door closed, he heard her response.

“Good night, Sir Paul.”

He hadn’t slept. Big surprise. Paul woke up feeling like he was on the last day of a four-day drinking binge, without the benefit of the fun party beforehand. His empty stomach was already clenching at the thought of seeing Torie again. A recipe for instant indigestion.

He groaned, and slapped the alarm again. Lurching to his feet, he headed for the shower.

Feeling only marginally better, he dressed for work and listened for Torie. He heard the water running and presumed she was showering as well.

“No. Do NOT go there,” he told his reflection. But the image of Torie, wet and soapy, in his guest shower wouldn’t be denied. He felt the sweat begin to bead on his forehead.

Great. He was either sick or crazy.

He’d put money on crazy.

Doors opened and shut, and he waited long enough for her to not be in the hall when he made a break for the kitchen. He couldn’t face running into her in the hallway where they’d kissed last night, fresh from a shower.

“Nonotgoingthere,” he growled under his breath as he slapped the coffee machine. It spluttered as the last of the coffee ran into the carafe.

He poured a mug for himself, threw a bagel in the toaster, and wondered if he should ask her about breakfast. Did she eat breakfast?

He had no idea. She used to, when they were in school. The protein girl, Todd had called her, always ready for eggs and bacon. Wincing at the memory of his friend, Paul got out another mug.

“Just going to knock and ask about coffee,” he lectured his raging hormones. “Christ, Jameson, you are not seventeen. Cut it out.”

He tapped a knuckle on the door. “Torie? You decent? How do you take your coffee?”

She didn’t answer. He frowned, leaning in toward the door to try and catch any response.

“Torie?”

Now he was worried. Decent or not, he was going in.

He knocked one more time for form’s sake, and twisted the knob. He’d only opened it an inch when she spoke.

“I’m okay, just…”

He knew that quaver. She was crying. Damn it. Steeling his nerves, reminding himself to be professional, he walked in.

She was sitting on the side of the bed, her cell phone cupped in between her hands. He could see the scroll of a text message. Her head was bowed, her loose hair camouflaging her expression.

“Really, I’m fine.”

“You are not. You’re crying.” He sat down on the bed, making sure there was at least a foot, maybe more, between them.

Torie raised her face, and he could see the streaks of her tears. Her mascara must be waterproof. Why that would matter, he couldn’t say, but her gorgeous eyes were reddened and as he watched, a tear escaped to run down her cheek.

“What is it, Torie? It’s not Pam, is it? Or your cousin?”

She shook her head.

“The dog? Bear?”

She half-laughed, half-sobbed. “No, they’re all okay.”

“But you’re not. Please, tell me. Maybe I can help.” He wanted to scoot closer, to touch her. He held back because if he touched her now, when she was upset and vulnerable, and something happened…He’d never forgive himself for screwing it up again.

“I don’t think so, but thanks,” she looked at the ceiling, and he decided she was doing it to keep from crying. Unfortunately, all it did was expose the long line of her throat, which directed his gaze straight to her gorgeous—

“Really. I want to.” Oh, I want to. “Help, that is.”

She looked at him, her smile forced. She held up the phone. “I was supposed to go back into the office today. I got an email from my boss. Seems like the HR team and the firm’s principals decided I needed administrative leave. The phones have been ringing off the hook you see, from the press. They figure it’ll die down if I take a week or so off.” She pushed off the mattress, went to stand by the window.

For a moment, all he could focus on was the way she moved, all grace and flow. Then, in the light from the window, he could see the outline of her back, the curve of her waist through the lightweight shirt she’d put on. It was one that they’d picked up from the Suites, slightly wrinkled from being tossed off its hanger, thrown to the floor.

Paul shook off the haze of physical need, drilling in on what she’d said.

“I beg your pardon, but they did what? ”

She laughed, half-turned, and Paul nearly groaned. The shirt was still opaque, but he could see the curve of her breast, and the snug fit of equally wrinkled pants was killing him.

“They put me on paid administrative leave for two weeks. I guess they don’t want a murder suspect cluttering up the office.”

“Torie, no.” He rose, went to her. He couldn’t help it. The naked pain on her face, every line of her posture told him what a deep wound it was to be slapped down professionally for something over which she had no control. He wanted to tell her she had nothing to worry about, but he couldn’t. Not until she was cleared.

“They don’t believe I’m guilty, you understand.” She failed miserably at the intended sarcasm. “They just think it’s for the best. ” She outlined the last words with her fingers making quotations in the air.

“Well, we both hate that, don’t we? Anyone thinking they know what’s best?”

She stared at him for a heartbeat, then laughed. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

He wanted to distract her, change the subject. Without thinking of the implications, he asked, “So how did you sleep?”

The answer spread over her face in a blush. Awww, crap.

“That bad, huh? Was it the bed?”

“No.”

He looked into her eyes and saw something kindle, hot and wild. It might be his imagination, but she was looking at him. Really looking at him, for once.

Torie dropped her gaze, then crossed her arms over her chest. Unfortunately, not before he saw that she was aroused.

“Do I smell coffee?”

It was impossible to resist. That glimpse of fire, the sight of her pebbled nipples erect, and her breasts straining the buttons of her shirt. He knew it was wrong. It broke all the rules, everything he’d kept to for more than ten years.

He didn’t care.

He took a step toward her, let his hand slide under her hair as it had the previous night. She froze, but didn’t retreat.

A good sign.

“Torie?”

“Paul, this is a mistake. We both know it. We can’t go there again.”

“Is it a mistake? Torie? Was it?”

She turned her head, and her hair slid onto his arm, lay like gold on the starched blue of his shirt. He was going to need a new shirt before he headed to the office.

He smiled at the thought.

“Paul?”

“Come here,” he urged, gently tugging her toward him. She eased in, not rushing, but not actually reluctant. “Let me hold you.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured, lowering his head to look into her eyes, using the other hand to tuck her wayward hair behind one ear. “We should. We have every right to, no barriers this time, Torie. Whatever else there is, or isn’t, there’s always been this.”

The kiss was slow, soft, exploratory.

Then she leaned into him, and the tight control he’d managed to keep the previous night shattered irrevocably. He captured her mouth, let himself taste her, fully and deeply. He could have kissed her for hours, maybe days.

The brush of her breasts on his arms, her hands gripping his waist, all of it was almost unbearably erotic. When she dug into the fabric, holding on, it pulled his trousers snug and he groaned at the pressure.

“Let me touch you,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure why, but the quiet was mesmerizing. He wanted to take things slowly, softly. He tugged the shirt from her pants, letting his hands slide up the soft skin of her back. When she arched like a cat, pulling away from his mouth, he actually moaned. Here was her elegant neck to feast on, to explore.