Sensible,
schmensible
.
She wanted romance.
Again she sighed, allowed her gaze—now a slight frown— to climb up his long denim-clad legs to that place beneath his Adam's apple still tempting her so. "You dress like no engineering project consultant I know of."
"You know a lot of us engineering types, do you? To know what we should be wearing?" He uncrossed his arms, hooked his thumbs through two of his belt loops.
The move drew her attention the length of his torso, that long, strong, lean body that she ached to cuddle up to more than anything she'd wanted in a very long time. When had she grown so tired and so needy and so very enamored of this man?
"Obviously my education is lacking in the engineer's wardrobe department." This time she circled one fingertip around his topmost snap, there beneath that spot she was crazy to kiss. "You're welcome to enlighten me."
"Fieldwork," he said simply, as if he wasn't sure of his voice.
"Boots and jeans when on-site.
Suits and ties for the office."
"I see." She liked him in both, liked the urbane sophisticate with his debonair flare, that cool James Bond detachment, that hint of a smoldering fire.
But it was the clothes he wore today that got to her, that gave her hope. He could very well have been the boy next door she'd grown up with, building forts and selling lemonade and practicing the art of French kissing.
He seemed less out of her league, more approachable.
And so she approached, her finger moving to toy with the next button in the long row down. "So you're off into the field?
To consult on a project?
Would you like a sandwich for the road?"
"Actually, I'm just back," he said, his chest rising and falling more rapidly now. "I thought I'd stop in and see what you had to offer."
"Well," she began, dampening her pressed lips with the tip of her tongue. "The turkey is always fresh, and I just set out a new Cajun baked ham and a roast beef seasoned with sea salt."
"Hmm."
He widened his stance, adjusted his weight, balanced on both feet. "I was thinking of something sweeter."
"I don't believe that for a minute,
Shaughnessey
. You never order dessert," she replied, certain that she would soon be unable to breathe, having lifted her gaze to meet his.
The twelve-by-twelve cinder block room shrank to the size of a matchbox. It didn't matter that they were surrounded by industrial steel shelving and metal lockers and enough ketchup to paint the town red. All she knew was that bad boy look in Tripp
Shaughnessey's
eyes.
Forget the fairy tales. He was Tarzan, she was Jane, and the heat of the jungle seethed.
"Oh, I don't know." His voice was low, a raspy whisper, rough and achingly raw. "I could go for a mouthful of cake right about now."
When he set his hands at her hip bones, she let him pull her forward, inching closer with tiny, sliding, baby steps until their bodies were flush. Her fingers returned to the first snap she'd toyed with, the first in the long row down . . . and
pop.
"I have key lime cheesecake."
Pop.
Her heart blipped in her chest like a target on a radar screen.
"Italian cream cake."
Pop.
She curled her toes in her shoes. "Fudge pecan pie."
Pop.
Her fingers shook.
"Butter brownies and chocolate chip cookies."
Pop.
Her lungs deflated.
She pulled the tails of his shirt from his waistband and pressed eight fingertips to the first ridge of muscle delineating his abs. "Do any of those sound good?"
"I'm not so big on sugar."
She resisted letting her fingers drift lower to see if he was big on her. Instead, she tested the resilience of skin and muscle from his abs upward, stopping only when she reached his collarbone. Then, her index fingers found and measured that sexy little indentation she'd dreamed of kissing.
Frowning, she tapped him there. "Lean down a minute. You've got something right here . . ."
He did. And she did. And he tasted like heaven.
Tripp
froze,
an ice cube under assault from a blowtorch. Oh, Glory. Hot barely began to describe her. And it sure as hell didn't make a dent in explaining the temperature of her mouth.
He flexed his fingers at her hips where he held her, loving the give of her flesh, the nicely rounded curves that filled his hands with no poking from protruding bones.
He'd come in here to surprise her, to tease her, to steal a kiss or two or three. Yet he was the one now scrambling to recover. The one wondering if recovering was what he wanted to do.
He cleared his throat and swallowed. As expected, Glory lifted her head, and he asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
Her eyes grew sleepy, dreamy, and she nodded. "I did, yes,
thanks
."
She dropped her gaze to his chest, slid her palms from his
pecs
to his shoulders. He slid his hands from her hips around to cup her fine rump and handfuls of thick khaki skirt.
A smile stole along the edges of her mouth. He took it as encouragement and tugged her forward into the cradle of his lower body. "Hope you don't mind. Just making sure you're comfortable."
She wiggled a bit. "What about you?"
Oh, he was hard and beginning to ache and thinking it had been a long time since he'd found relief with a woman who tickled his fancy and not just his— "I'm good.
Comfy.
Still thinking about dessert."
"Well, I do have a special recipe. One I rarely share." She kneaded his shoulders beneath his shirt.
Her hands . . . he groaned, liking that "rarely" part a lot more than made sense.
"Yeah?
What might that be?"
"It's fairly rich.
Definitely sweet."
Her fingertips drifted to his armpits, down the underside of his arms until his sleeves caused resistance. "I'd call
it.
. . intense. The way it feels when a lemon torte hits your tongue."
He knew the feeling. A sizzling burst of too much too soon, which quickly gave way to wanting more. With Glory, he wanted more. He wanted to linger.
How many licks did it take to get to the center
—
"Tripp?"
"Glory?"
"You've changed your mind, haven't you?"
Her question was spoken softly, hesitantly, as if she were bracing for rejection when he'd given her no reason to. He had no intention of turning her down or of letting her down.
He just wasn't sure this was the time or the place.
"Are you kidding?" He shook his head to reassure her, gathered up more of her short skirt's fabric until his fingertips brushed the flesh beneath. He had a hell of a time swallowing his responding groan. "I was just thinking it might be nice to start with an appetizer."
"I think that's what we're doing," she said, looking up at him then from beneath a fringe of jet black lashes.
He chuckled. He liked that he hadn't scared her away. It was always a matter of balance, of taking his time as he tested the waters.
He gave a playful smack of his lips. "I'm not so sure.
I'm not tasting
anything here."
Her roaming fingers found the edges of his shirt, closed around the fabric, used his collar as a handle to pull his head down and press her mouth to his.
Three
She'd known by looking at his mouth that he'd be a wonderful kisser. She'd listened when he'd talked, watched the way he'd held his lips when considering what he wanted to order.
She'd known, but she hadn't known at all, because he kissed like Tripp and like no one else at all.
He was gently demanding, his hands having moved from her bottom to her head, the heels of his palms at her cheeks, his fingers threading into her hair as he held her.
Held her and kissed her as if she were the only woman in the world he wanted to kiss, the only one who mattered.
She loved the daffodil tingles sweeping through her body, loved the feel of his lips.
The soft searching, the sweet nudging press as he urged her mouth open and slipped his tongue inside.
She released his shirt collar, moved her palms to his chest,
enjoyed
the dusting of hair there that tickled. He was lean, possessed with the type of body that seemed to thrive on less sustenance than more. Of that she was certain because of how little he ordered; she had often wondered how much of what he bought and paid for he actually ate.
His ribs lay beneath the same sleek muscle that rippled over his abdomen. She touched him there, explored all she could reach of his bare skin, setting loose a feral growl that rose in a rumbling wave from his belly up his throat.
His kiss grew demanding, grew hungry, as if what he needed right now in this moment were things only she had to offer. If he only knew how much there was, how deep ran her longing to give . . .
"Oh, Glory," he pulled his mouth free to mumble. "You amaze me."
"Why's that?" she mumbled right back, her lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, over his chin. "I'm not so amazing, really."
He chuckled. "Oh, yes. You are. Especially the way you do that.
Right there."
"This?" she asked, her thumbs circling his navel like finely meshed gears. One clockwise, one
counter
, around and around and around.
He shuddered, clenched the muscles beneath her hands,
nuzzled
the skin under her jaw with his nose and his mouth, a little bit of teeth.
Heaven.
Pure heaven.
Absolute bliss.
She couldn't conceive of anything better even knowing how much of the unknown remained to be discovered.
She slipped a hand around Tripp's waist, found the doorknob, made sure he'd turned the lock all the way . . .
The Verizon telephone panel van pulled into the alley behind the sandwich shop having made a final circle of the long city block.
The six men inside each wore identical black warm-up suits, athletic shoes, leather gloves and ski masks. All logos and labels had been stripped from the clothing, rendering each item as generic as was possible.
Each man carried the same Beretta 9mm. The guns no longer bore traceable serial numbers. None of them had ever been fired. Not in a crime, nor for fingerprinting by any firearms manufacturer. Not a single ballistics marking existed in any database.
The van had been jacked while the service tech took his
lunch
break. He now lay blindfolded, gagged and trussed like a Butterball on the van's floor, but would be back on the clock in less than thirty minutes.
It would take the men half that long to get in and out of Brighton's though they'd been drilled to do it in less.
Danh
Vuong
wasn't the least bit worried about getting caught. He'd covered every base, taken every precaution. If anything came up, his men would adjust, improvise. They'd been drilled, too, to think on their feet.
No one working for Son Cam survived long without that particular skill, and
Danh
had been working for the man for close on twelve years now.
A dozen winters spent wearing Italian leather, cashmere and wool.
A dozen summers spent driving German luxury cars, riding in air-conditioned interiors behind bulletproof glass.
Danh
was a far cry and a continent away from the stowaway wharf rat
who'd
made his way to the Los Angeles harbor via container ship, who'd crossed the grand ole U.S. of A. using his wits, his brains, his two hands and his mouth in ways a ten-year-old boy should never have had to do.
New York City had been his destination. No other location existed. He had plans.
Big plans.
And the past that had brought him here was now a very small memory. One he'd locked away and left to wither and die.