Page 55 of The San Marco Heist

I should have done it for him and left it at that. “Level one is holding hands. Two is a hand on my waist, back, or shoulder.”

“Or your hand on my waist, back, or—”

“Level three is a kiss to exposed skin.” A tingle ran up my hand from where he’d kissed it at the pub.

“Does that include everything your dress is exposing?” A smirk tinged his voice, and the heat inside me grew. His lips at the base of my spine. Up my sides. On the sensitive skin at the hollow of my shoulder.

Don’t take the bait. “Level four is hands to any non-genital area of the body not yet allowed. Five is mouth to mouth.”

He hummed aloud, the video still playing. “What’s level six? You’ve never told me that one.”

“Groin.” I spun, just about ready to hurl my water bottle at him. “Specifically, my knee into yours.”

His bow tie was a mess. “You say the most romantic things, Eloise, my love. I assume we’re going in at level three?”

“Level two.” I had to go over there and fix the tie for him. I didn’t want to do that.Oh yes, you do.

He feigned a pout. “So the whole experience with the architect soured our relationship somewhat? You’re upset with me for not coming to your rescue?”

“More like I’m not the PDA kind of woman.”

He picked up one of his cuff links, gold with black enamel to match my cuff bracelet. “And if you need CPR? Do I need to clear us for level four before that? Or let—”

“Shut up, Malcolm!” I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t deal with his jokes or his sexy-as-sin self standing there in the hotel room with me. We had a job to focus on. Goddamn London and their ban on plastic water bottles. Throwing a glass one would make a fucking mess. “I swear, I should have hired some shmuck off the street to help us! Someone who’d see this as something other than a joke!”

“A joke?” The teasing smirk rapidly evolved into a curled lip. “After everything with your mother on Thursday? Last night at the pub? And the day we spent together? You honestly think that’s all this is to me?”

“Everything out of your mouth is designed to drive me up a fucking wall!”

His head fell backward, and he shook his fists at the ceiling. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“The best at what? Pissing me off? Throwing me off my game? What are you, secretly working for those clowns who took Emmett?”

“Really?” He dropped the cuff link and yanked off his bow tie, throwing it to the ground. “How dare you.”

“How dareI? Seriously? It’s my brother whose life’s at stake here!”

He began unbuttoning his shirt, stalking toward me.

“What are you doing?” I hadn’t questioned for a second if I was safe alone with him. Should I have?

“You want to know the truth?” He pulled out the hem of his shirt. His eyes were on fire, an intensity taking over his being so complete I felt it in my gut. “You want to know why I wouldn’t join you for a massage like the adorable married couple we are?”

I stepped back, bumping into the fridge.

“Here.” He undid the last buttons and ripped the shirt off, exposing ridiculously chiseled abs and strong pecs and the faintest smattering of hair. And oh my god, how dare he look like that?

My throat ran dry, and a shiver exploded up my arms.

Malcolm Sharpe was even more gorgeous half-naked.

“Does this look like a joke to you?” He turned and I gasped, nearly dropping the bottle to the floor. Sickly black and green bruises covered his left side and back, with one large white bandage over his kidneys.

My knees went weak, and I flailed for the counter, dropping the bottle onto it, barely keeping it upright. “What’s that?”

“What do you think it is?” He turned back to me, unclothed from the waist up, so close I could feel his heat.

My hand reached for him—completely against my better judgment.

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