Page 100 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
She grinned, bouncing in her seat, singing along.
When most people danced in their seat, they looked like they needed a bathroom. Somehow, she made it look effortless. Graceful. Sexy. Hell, even the way she ate peanut butter straight from the jar was mesmerizing.
She glanced over and saw him watching.
“Come on,” she said. “You love this song.”
Ryan chucked his apple core out the window. “I hate this song.”
She sighed and twisted the dial. Static hissed before “Islands in the Stream” crackled through the speakers. She turned to him expectantly.
He shook his head. “Nope.”
Her mouth dropped open like he’d just confessed to drowning kittens for sport. “Seriously? You’re from freaking Tennessee. How can you not love Dolly?”
He shrugged, and she rolled her eyes, twisting the dial again. “You’re a hard man to please.”
His gaze flicked to her bare legs, stretched out on the dash.Not true.
“You remember our deal, right?” he said. “That when you’re safe, settled someplace new, you’ll look into getting qualified for that dance therapy thing?”
Jessica swallowed and nodded. But something flickered in her eyes—hesitation, uncertainty. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she felt the same stomach-drop at the idea of her leaving. Of putting distance between them.
She gave up on the radio and tilted her seat back, arms resting behind her head. Her hair was down again, spilling around her in a soft pink veil. His gaze traced her, lingering on the delicate undersides of her arms, the curve of her breasts, the long line of her legs.
The way she stretched out, completely at ease, was so effortlessly sensual it hit him like a gut punch. He pictured her lying on his bed like that. Naked. Waiting for him.
His mouth went dry.
“You should keep your eyes on the road, Marshal,” she murmured.
Their eyes met. Her expression told him she knew exactly what he was thinking. Exactly how much he wanted her.
Did that mean she wanted him too?
Then her gaze flicked past him, widening.
“Ryan,the road!”
His stomach plunged. He tore his gaze away, just in time to see?—
“Shit.”
He slammed on the brakes.
* * *
The water was up to Roach’s knees, soaking the bottoms of his jeans and his shoes. He waded across the shop floor toward the Ford Interceptor. Under his feet, he could feel things crunching. Glass, broken plastic from the vehicle’s headlights, sunken items from the shelves.
Outside, the sky was alarmingly blue. And it was so quiet. He’d gotten so used to the constant drum of rain on the roof that he’d almost forgotten there was such a thing as silence.
But it wasn’t completely silent. Far off, he heard a chopper. People would come by soon to survey the damage and look for anyone who’d been stranded by the floodwaters.
He yanked open the door of the SUV and climbed in, trying to shake the water out of his shoes as he did. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life.
Twisting in his seat, he pulled his SIG out of his waistband and checked it was still dry. He placed it on his lap. Then he took out the woman’s phone and smiled at the little arrow. And threw the vehicle into reverse.
THIRTY-THREE
