Staying Cool (4 page)

"So, despite Igor's recent visit, you're not going to leave this alone, are you?"

"He's my brother." Said as if there was no more to be said.

He nodded. "Then we better get to it."

"
We?
" Her eyes widened, and she took a couple of steps toward him. "Wait just a damn minute. I told you all this so you'd... go away."

"And go away I will. When the job's done."

"No!" This time, her head shaking neared the violent zone. "It's not your job, has nothing to do with you.
Just go.
Let me do what I have to do." Staring at him, she narrowed her gaze, and lifted her chin. "I know what I'm doing, Patrick. I'm trained for it."

"Yeah, the kind of training that has you playing the hooker card. You want to tell me how far you planned on taking that little act?"

Ah, she had a blush or two in her.
Good to know.

When she didn't answer, he followed her lead and stepped closer to her. Mere inches apart now, he said, "It's
we
, me, or the boys in blue. Take your pick."

While her eyes fired a volley of hot curses, her mouth softened to speechless, which suited him. Because a mouth not talking had other good uses. And he, being the imbecile he was, decided to take advantage of one of them.

Oh, but you'll be hating yourself in the morning...

Chapter 5

Patrick went on testosterone-fueled autopilot, gripped Gina's shoulders, and pulled her to him. Chest to chest. The scent of tart lemon with something fine and flowery beyond its sharp edge drifted around him.

He closed his eyes, took the scent of her in deep. Absorbed her.

The past year eroded, slid away. All the anger, the pain, the goddamn awfulness of her disappearing on him turned to smoke. One whiff of citrus, two soft shoulders under his hands, and a pair of sparking eyes glaring into his, and nothing else mattered. She was here. Now.

He wasn't about to let her go. No harm, no foul in just one kiss.

His gaze fixed on her parted lips. He lowered his head, then paused, his mouth a breath away from hers—that old quivering in his chest. Then... a lurch of uncertainty. She might pull away.

She didn't. Instead, she took his face in her hands, glared into his eyes, and cursed him.

"Damn you, Patrick Byrne. Damn you!"

And pulled his mouth to hers.

His chest emptied of air. His legs, ignoring the fact they'd been running five miles a day for six years, went weak as old Guinness. Her kiss, like a lick from a blast furnace, blew him apart. He lifted his head, ran his hands through her awful yellow hair—registered it didn't feel the same—and said, "God, I've missed you. Why did—"

"Shush." She touched his mouth with her fingers and shook her head. "Not now. Not when we have something so much better to do."

"And what would that be?" Fool that he was, he couldn't help his smile. As if he didn't know where this was leading. As if he wasn't all for it. Whatever it was.

"If
we're
going after Coleman and Igor," she said, the edge of a tease in her voice, "maybe we should limber up. Do a few...
calisthenics
? You up for that?"

"You had me at 'damn you.'" He played the game, as if by rote, because it felt so right, so fuckin' right! And his dick, always up for some trouble, urged him on.

Go for it. Take her. Why not...

Gina took his hand and pulled him toward the hall—toward her bedroom. He didn't resist. Puppet on her string, he was.

Careful, Byrne. Watch it!

In her bedroom, she maneuvered him so his back was to her bed, undid his shirt's buttons, pulled it from his waistband, then gave him a shove. When he was sitting on the edge of the bed, she straddled him and pulled her top off and over her head.

That puppet string pulled taut, as did another part of his anatomy. This was crazy. He was crazy—going back for a second helping of heartache. This woman had told him lies, royally screwed him over. Something his fired-up-and-ready-to-go cock—notorious for its short-term memory—had conveniently forgotten.

* * *

Gina knew she was ten times a fool, but that knowledge didn't stop her. Every blood vessel in her body was a hot, flowing river, fed by streams of pure hormones.

Two things were at work here, her coolly analytical mind chirped: her near-death experience with Plinth Igor, and Patrick Byrne's Irish magic. Born in Galway, he'd been fourteen when he'd moved to the US. And his low voice still held the edge of Erin in its vowels. She loved the sound of it, the mist in it, and used to wheedle him into reading Yeats to her.

I bring you with reverent hands

The books of my numberless dreams...

He was a cop with a poet's soul, a love of words—and the body of David Beckham. A body she would use to forget Igor and Coleman, and to postpone the inevitable—dumping Patrick and getting on with her job, solo. The way she'd always rolled. The way it had to be.

She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

A year ago, she'd let herself get too involved with Patrick. Gotten in too deep—over her head. She'd remedied the problem the only way she knew how. The way she'd always handled it—she'd moved on.

She ignored the spasm of guilt that came as a side dish with that last thought. Patrick was a big boy. She had no doubt at all he'd broken his share of hearts. Most men who looked like him, moved like him, sounded like him—and made love like him—had. It was a given. Hell, he'd probably told a dozen women he loved them.

An all-too-familiar pain clamped her heart. Memories. Damn memories.

Late summer evening. Under a red canopy at an outdoor restaurant. The scent in the air whispering of rain. Laughter. A piano playing. A woman on the sidewalk outside a wrought iron fence, selling single roses, each with a sprig of baby's breath. Patrick, smiling at her, buying one—the purest white. Offering it to her. His smiling giving way to a grave sincerity. Their hands joining. His low voice saying, "I love you, Gina." Nothing more. Nothing asked of her. Only words. I love you, Gina...

Words that changed everything.

She gave her head a mental shake. No way would she do a second drive down that road. What was about to happen now was sex—quick and orgasmic—between two people who... cared for each other. Yes. Only sex. That was enough for any man. Enough for her.

Patrick's hands held her waist, anchored her to his lap. Shifting her closer, he wedged himself into the vee of her legs, his sex thrusting leisurely against her own building heat. Feeling her, letting her feel him. Her breath snagged in her throat. Her brain went crystal, all shiny and bright.

D
amn...

She'd forgotten how good it felt, how good
he
felt, the length of him pressed to where she needed him most. He was hard, hot, and ready, his breath searing her breast the moment before he took her nipple deep into his mouth. He suckled her hard, then easy and slow, using his tongue—in that special way he had.

Her breath left her body, left the damn room.

She drove her fingers through his black hair, kissed it.
Thick. Silky.
Scented with midnight sin.

Wanting more, she arched her back, pressed her breast to his hungry mouth. He groaned, switched to her other aching peak. Her head fell back, and her eyes closed against the darkness in the bedroom, against all but the sensation evoked by the man at her breast.

"Oh, God, Patrick, I've missed you. Missed this." And she had.
This was going to be fantastic, electric, then...

Her thought unfinished, he stopped, pulled back, and shook his head as if to clear it. His hands stilled on her waist.

"Patrick?"

He said nothing, rested his head between her breasts, and took a long breath. His words raspy and soft, he said, "This feels so goddamn good. So right." A pause. "So, why, I'm asking myself... why do I feel like such a dumb shit?"

Gina swallowed. "What are you talking about?"

More silence, then, "Nothing."

"Your pulling away from me isn't
nothing
. Tell me."

"Let it go. Okay?" He nuzzled her throat, kissed her there, his breath hot against her skin. Then he lifted her away and off his lap, setting her to stand in front of him and muttering a curse as he did so. She knew he wanted her; his body didn't lie.
What the hell...

Standing now, the lines of his face taut and reflective, he twisted his lips into a semblance of a smile. "I think our time would be better spent planning than fucking."

"You're saying no, to sex?"

He turned on his Irish. "Though it well might mean an end to mankind as we know it—that I am, darlin'. That I am." He picked up her top from the floor, held it out to her. Looking at her bare breasts, he let out a long sigh, before raising his gaze to the ceiling. "And would you cover up, please. I'm not aiming for the sainthood."

She took the top and let it dangle from her hand. "You're serious."

"Never more so." He started buttoning up his shirt. "Now get dressed. We need to find Igor."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they were in Patrick's old Ford, heading to Coleman's mansion. Patrick's plan was bold and risky: an old-fashioned break and enter—with Igor's help, voluntary or not.

"You're sure the big boy lives on the property?" He slanted her a glance.

"I'm sure. Coleman bought the place five years ago by amassing four developed half-acre lots and tearing down the houses. But he kept one—the one farthest from the main house—as security central. And for Igor."

"What about other staff?"

"Lots of them. Gone by eight. After that, it's lockdown."

"Yet no one else in the guardhouse?"

"You've seen Igor." She raised a brow. "You don't think he's enough?"

He half-smiled.

She frowned. "You know this plan of yours is crazy. What makes you think Igor hasn't reported in already?"

"Wake his boss from a sound sleep with the news he fucked up and you're still alive? I'm thinking there's a good chance that didn't happen."

"Odds? Fifty-fifty at best."

"Maybe so, but we'll find out soon enough—during our chat with Igor."

She looked out the window. "And won't that be fun."

"Did you call for backup?"

She nodded. "They wanted to know my plan."

"Did you tell them?"

"Only what they needed to know—pretty much the same as you told me."

"Trust me."

The truth was Patrick's quickly formulated plan—obviously an epiphany while he was making her hot enough to combust—was pretty damn good. The plan was lean, direct, and immediate. Even though it did rely heavily on the element of surprise and a
huge
dollop of luck, it worked for her.

What didn't work for her was what had happened back in her bedroom. Maybe he was right to pull away, but...
Forget it, Gina, now's not the time to think about what might have been. You've got a job to do.

Right.

She got back in the game. "How about I trust the luck of the Irish?"

"Good enough."

Chapter 6