Page 53 of Mile High Mystery

“Does everything look okay?” she asked.

“Sure. It’s fine.” He moved into the living room and sat on the sofa. “What’s up?”

“I have to be back in Houston Monday.”

Was that hurt or anger—or both—in his eyes? He didn’t try to hide the emotions, merely shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“The sheriff’s department has agreed to run regular patrols, and if you see anything suspicious, they’ll respond right away.”

“I’m not sorry because I won’t have a personal bodyguard anymore. I’m sorry because somehow, as awful as the past couple of weeks have been, you’ve made them bearable. Some parts of them have been good, even.”

The kiss they had shared was good. She sat on the edge of the sofa, close but not touching. “I won’t forget you, Zach.”

“Yeah, you will. You’ll always have another case. Another witness.”

“You’re not just another witness.” He was Zach. Camille’s brother. The man she had fallen for before they even met.

He didn’t look away, his gaze challenging.

“I care about you, is that what you want me to say?” she asked.

“If that’s true, why are you holding back?” he asked.

The problem was she wasn’t holding back. Not the way she was supposed to, not letting herself get involved with people who were part of the cases she worked. “My problem is I can never be what I’m supposed to be,” she said. “I’m not supposed to become friends with the witnesses or victims I interview. I’m not supposed to let my emotions get in the way of my objectivity. I’m not supposed to care. But I always care.” She clenched her hands into fists. “I cared about Camille. She was my friend, and I miss her. And now I care about you.”

He pulled her close, arms wrapped around her. “I know.” When he looked into her eyes, she was sure he didn’t see the cold FBI agent her bosses wanted her to be, but the warm woman whose feelings dictated her actions every bit as much as the evidence in a case.

She was growing warmer by the minute. She touched the tip of one finger to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not supposed to get involved with people who are part of my cases,” she said. “I’m not supposed to be attracted to them.”

He shifted, fitting her more firmly between his legs, the ridge of his erection pressed into her stomach. “You’re not?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“I’m not.” She raised up on her toes and replaced the finger on his mouth with her lips. “But I’m not a robot. I feel so much. I want you so much.”

He moved his head just enough to cover her lips with his, his fingers buried in her hair, caressing the back of her neck, their bodies pressed together from chest to knee. He tasted of salt and beer, his lips so full and soft, his tongue warm and sensuous.

He broke the kiss and looked at her so long without speaking that her stomach fluttered with nerves. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That it’s not wrong to care. And it isn’t wrong to feel. And that professionalism is sometimes overrated.”

Eyes still locked to hers, he slid one hand to her waist, then over the curve of her hip, down her thigh to the hem of her skirt. He pushed up the fabric, and she gasped at the heat of his palm on her bare skin. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, lips close to her ear.

She shifted to look into his eyes again. “No.”

He smiled, a lazy, sensuous expression that made her want to tear off his shirt. Instead, she settled for sliding her hand up under the fabric and across his taut stomach, his muscles contracting at her touch. “Do you want me to stop?” she asked, teasing.

“Not now. Not ever.” He kissed her again, and she arched to him and hooked one leg around his thigh. He cupped her bottom, and she ground against him, while his mouth continued to prove that she only thought she had been kissed before. These were kisses she felt in every part of her. Was it possible, she wondered, to orgasm from a kiss?

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable,” he said.

She nodded, and he led her to his bedroom. They were still moving toward the bed when he began to undress her, undoing buttons and lowering zippers with a minimum of fumbling. He peeled back her blouse and pressed his lips to the hollow of her shoulder, and she let out a sigh that was almost a purr and hooked one leg around his thigh to draw him closer.

He urged the blouse off her shoulders and down her arms, momentarily pinning her before she wriggled out. She popped the catch of her bra and cast it aside, then stepped back when he reached for her and took hold of the tab of his zipper. “You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she said.

For a big man, he moved quickly, and within seconds stood before her, naked in the glow of a single bedside lamp. He looked powerful, muscular and hairy chested. He might have been intimidating, but she felt safe with him. She wanted to touch every part of him and to feel him touch her.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked.

In answer, he opened the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a foil packet. She smiled and moved into his arms.

---