Hot Pursuit

by Julie Ann Walker

  “That kiss. The kiss.”

  Ho-kay. So they were going to talk about it.

  “I wasn’t brushing it off. It’s just…what’s there to say, you know?” She tried to make her shrug look casual.

  “Indeed not.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you explain it to me.”

  She spread her hands. “It was the heat of the moment. And like you said, you haven’t gotten a little strange in a long time. Your adrenaline was high. I’d just placed myself in front of what might have been a bullet meant for you. It stands to reason you were grateful, overcome, and you’d have lip-locked anyone in that moment.”

  She tried to read his thoughts in his eyes, but he was being irritatingly stingy with them. Finally, he said, “You really believe that?”

  “Should I not? You’re the one who looked like you’d gotten your nuts caught in a vise after you kissed me. And if memory serves, you’re also the one who apologized and promised it wouldn’t happen again.”

  His eyes traveled over her face, past the curve of her cheek, alighting on her lips, which throbbed and opened as if his gaze were a physical touch. Then his scrutiny dipped lower, skimming down her chest and over the subtle slope of her breasts.

  She wasn’t mistaken. His nostrils flared. The hands curled loosely around his biceps clenched. Then he met her gaze head-on, and suddenly she felt filled with a delicious secret she had no business knowing.

  “Do you fancy it happening again?” he asked.

  There was a strange buzzing in her ears. Had someone opened a window and let a bee into the room? “Better question is, do you fancy it happening again?”

  “I asked you first, Emily.”

  “I asked you second, Christian.” She was never one to be outdone.

  He grunted, his expression telegraphing annoyance. “For once, would it be possible for us to carry on a conversation that didn’t sink to the level of six-year-olds?”

  Tall order. The man brought out her baser self. She was all emotion and impulse with him.

  “Maybe I’d want it to happen again,” she admitted. Hell, why was she admitting this? Oh yeah. With him, she liked playing with fire. “If only to prove that I have far more skill than that poor showing in the parking lot. You caught me off guard. I didn’t have time to demonstrate my oral expertise. And I’m not the kind of woman who likes the thought of not—”

  Her words died in her throat. She tried to resuscitate them, but his decidedly wicked smile obliterated any hope she had of getting the conversation back on track.

  He made everything so much worse when he pushed away from the doorframe and walked toward her. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to hold her ground. It was like being stalked by a sleek, dark panther. There was danger in every one of his muscles. Her instincts yelled for her to run.

  When he stopped in front of her, she had to tilt her chin up to look at him. It was either that or stumble back, which her pride refused to let her do. She pasted on an expression she hoped was full of bravado. Her quirked brow silently asked, What’s up?

  His hitched chin answered, You tell me.

  But she couldn’t tell him anything. Because she couldn’t think straight. Not with him so close. Not with that whorl of hair falling over his brow. Not with the scent of him—all warm wool, earthy aftershave, and that indefinable aroma that was healthy man—filling her head and making her dizzy.

  So slowly she could feel every crashing beat of her heart against her breastbone, he cupped her jaw and feathered his thumb over her bottom lip. Lightning crackled beneath her skin at the point of contact. Every muscle in her body forgot what it was made for and loosened. She stumbled toward him, grabbing his biceps for balance.

  He had removed his coat, but still wore his silk sweater. The fabric was mostly dry, thanks in large part to his immense body heat, and it fit him like a glove.

  As ZZ Top liked to say, Every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp-dressed man.

  Since she’d been born and raised in one of Chicago’s many working-class neighborhoods—where men usually wore work boots, hard hats, and coveralls—Emily figured she was more susceptible than most to the visual feast of a well-heeled gentleman. It was as if she’d spent her life looking at chickens, and suddenly she was faced with the stunning beauty of a peacock.

  Of their own accord, her eyes flitted to his mouth. He had the kind of lips that managed to look hard and soft at the same time. The kind of lips that scattered thoughts and obliterated resolve.

  Her voice was husky when she said, “So what happened to ‘That won’t happen again’?” She imitated his accent. Or at least she tried to. She could never get it just right.

  “Never let it be said that I’m the sort of bloke who doesn’t give a woman a fair shake. Here’s your chance to show me your oral expertise, darling.” The word darling sounded more like dahling.

  “Hit me with your best shot,” he added when she didn’t make a move. Simply stood there gaping up at him like an addlepated nitwit.

  “You stole that line from Pat Benatar,” she accused. But really she was stalling, and they both knew it. “And someone once told me that a girl worth kissing isn’t easily kissed.”

  “You think there’s anything easy when it comes to the two of us?”

  “No.” The word was a breathy exhale.

  His eyelids lowered to half-mast, but the look in his eyes was anything but lazy. It was hot. Hungry. Full of things she couldn’t have and therefore shouldn’t contemplate. The same look she’d caught a brief glimpse of in the truck.

  So she hadn’t been imagining things. Her blood heated and raced through her veins at the realization.

  She expected him to slam his mouth over the top of hers like before. But, no. Oh no. He took his time. He used the callused pad of his thumb on her bottom lip. Rubbed. Rubbed. Rubbed.

  Her eyes fell to that tempting indent in his chin. She couldn’t help herself; she reached up and pressed her finger to it. His skin was warm, his beard stubble scratchy.

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” she whispered.

  “Then you should have.” He used his thumb to open her mouth. Then slowly, so damn slowly, he bent toward her.

  His warm breath feathered over her lips. It still held the faintest lingering hints of the buttered croissants with strawberry jam he’d eaten that morning.

  Yes, he’d cooked a full English breakfast for the rest of them. But he’d satisfied himself with croissants because the man had a sweet tooth. Given the choice between sugar or protein, he chose sugar every time.

  “If you fancy me stopping,” he murmured, so close she could see the rings of gold circling his pupils, “now is the time to tell me.”

  Her voice was gone. All she could manage was a shake of her head.

  What was she doing? What the hell was she doing?

  He smiled. A flash of white teeth before his lips claimed hers with a gentle pressure that allowed her to settle in and get the feel of him.

  She’d been right. His lips were soft and hard. The skin like velvet. The insistence like steel.

  He nibbled on her lower lip, sucked it into his mouth so that her toes curled. Then he angled his head and fit his lips more securely over hers, his tongue a demand as it sought entry to her mouth. She didn’t hesitate, even though she knew she probably should. She opened to him, and he wasted no time sweeping inside.

  Sweet Jesus! The man could kiss! It was like he took the act as seriously as he took everything else in his life. There was such precision. Such expertise. Such…control.

  Her kneecaps disappeared. She figured she should put some serious effort toward finding them, but she couldn’t think much beyond the heat of his mouth on hers, his tongue inside. Tasting. Delving. Mapping and… Shit!

  It was happening again. She was so overcome by the fact that Christian Watson was kiss
ing her that she was standing there like a boneless, brainless moron. Which would never do. Especially since she’d just been talking big about her oral expertise.

  He may have started the kiss, but she was damn well determined to finish it, to show him she wasn’t all talk and no action.

  Her hands got lost in his hair as she went up on tiptoe and pressed herself against him. Her nipples had tightened into painful points, and she couldn’t decide if the pressure of his chest hurt or helped. She only knew she wanted to get closer. Sink deeper into his heat. His solidity. His maleness.

  Catching his tongue between her teeth, she sucked, giving him an idea of what it would be like if she had another of his body parts in her mouth. He must’ve had a good imagination because the noise he made in the back of his throat was so guttural and raw that her womb clenched.

  She suspected she could be in the middle of pruning the bushes or doing her taxes, and if he made that sound, she’d be close to coming on the spot.

  She didn’t know how long they stayed there. There was no concept of time. No end to her. No beginning to him. Just a mishmash of teeth and lips and tongues.

  She kissed him until she ran out of breath.

  Then she kissed him some more.

  All the while, that voice in her head screamed obscenities, called her every dirty name in the book. But her body had already switched sides, her uterus yelling that it wanted to have all his babies and pleading with that voice to give up and come to the Dark Side too.

  No. No. No!

  Sanity reasserted itself, and Emily ripped her mouth from his, stepping back on legs that were almost too shaky to hold her. She dropped her head, shielding her face with her hair. She couldn’t let him see how much he affected her. How much she wanted him.

  “I th-think that’s enough of a demonstration of my p-prowess,” she stuttered, wiping a hand over her tingling lips. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to rub the taste of him away or rub it in.

  He dragged in a heavy breath, then seemed to have to force it back out when he was done with it. She glanced at his face to find his gaze hot, heavy, and colored with frustration. He looked ready to blow up or implode. Like a beautiful, dark star.

  “I want you, Emily,” he blurted.

  Never accuse the man of beating around the bush. And the way he said her name made her feel like he was caressing her body with his strong, heavy hands. Which he had been, right before she remembered he was persona non grata and stepped out of his trance-inducing embrace.

  “I think you want me too,” he added.

  The sound of her heart’s furious pace was thunder in her ears. “B-but you don’t like me. You always pick fights with me.”

  A muscle ticked beneath his eye. “Who picks fights with whom?”

  Whom? Whom? Did people actually use that word?

  Still, he had a point. Since day one, she’d given him shit at every turn. Partly because it was fun. Partly because she loved it when he glowered at her so menacingly. Partly because, like she insisted to everyone else, someone had to keep his ego in check. But mostly because it was a way of engaging with him, of flirting and teasing and provoking him with their clothes on.

  “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “Chicken or egg. The point is, I irritate you to no end. In fact, if memory serves, you said I was as vexing as a housefly.”

  “You are as vexing as a housefly. I like it.”

  Oh, he had to stop saying things like that!

  “Which brings me around to something else you said,” she added, rushing ahead.

  “And what was that?”

  “That it’s been a really long time since you’ve been laid. And that your…” Her eyes drifted down to the fly of his jeans. Oh jeez. That was a mistake. She ripped her gaze back to his face. “Your…uh…”—she swallowed and motioned toward his package—“didn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “I lied.”

  Ho-kay. She had to sit down. It was either that or fall down. She wanted to blame her sudden dizziness on skipping lunch, but it had everything to do with Christian and the words coming out of his mouth.

  How her legs carried her the ten feet to the sofa, she would never know. But she thanked her lucky stars they did. Screw grace. She didn’t attempt any as she collapsed onto the cushions, grimacing when the leather couch squeaked in affront.

  After a brief hesitation, Christian settled into the chair across from her like all big, sturdy men did. Slowly. Confidently. Stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles.

  After a beat, when it became obvious she wasn’t going to be the one to get the ball rolling again, his mouth twisted wryly. “Record this day for posterity. I’ve rendered Emily Scott speechless.”

  His self-satisfied smirk was just the kick in the pants she needed. “Why did you lie?”

  “Pride.” He said the word without hesitation. “I didn’t think you felt the same for me, so I figured it was better if I kept how I felt about you on the DL.”

  “Don’t try to use ’hood-rat lingo. Just sounds silly.” Here he was giving her all kinds of truths, and she was lying through her teeth. Because honestly, that smooth baritone paired with that delicious accent sounded good, like an invitation to sin, no matter which words he used.

  “I’ll have you remember I’ve been living and working in Chicago for years now,” he said. “And given the shop”—that’s how they referred to BKI headquarters—“isn’t located in the nicest part of town, I think I’ve earned the right to adopt the lexicon.”

  “The shop is on the North Side. Which, as you know, doesn’t count as the ’hood.” She made the quote marks with her fingers.

  “Fine.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “I didn’t think you felt the same, so I figured it was better if I kept how I felt about you to myself. There. Is that better?”

  “You didn’t think I felt the same? Past tense? What changed your mind? Not that kiss.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the spot where they’d almost eaten each other alive. Goose bumps peppered her skin at the memory. “For all you know, that was just me putting on a show, proving I got chops when it comes to the ol’ tongue tango.”

  His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but for some reason, he refused to. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a decidedly singular way with words?”

  “Thanks to my South Side raising, yo.” She beat a fist against her chest and pursed her mouth into a duck face worthy of a selfie. “Ever watched an episode of Shameless? That pretty much sums it up.”

  “I thought Shameless was set in the Back of the Yards neighborhood. Aren’t you from Bridgeport?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Different zip, same attitude. And you’re doing it again. Christian Watsoning your way out of answering my question.”

  “Stop using my name as a verb.”

  “Stop skirting the issue. What changed your mind? What made you think I want you?”

  He regarded her for so long she began to think he was refusing to answer. Then he said, “I was thinking about how you were so quick to scramble off Angel when I came ’round the corner of the manor earlier. I was thinking about how you were so quick to tell me that finding the two of you in a tangle wasn’t what I thought it was. I was thinking that you wouldn’t have done either of those things unless you didn’t fancy me getting the wrong impression. And then I was thinking… Why wouldn’t she fancy me getting the wrong impression? Why would she care what I thought?”

  “And the answer you hit on was that I wanted you? That’s a pretty big assumption. Ever considered seeing a plastic surgeon to have your ego downsized?”

  The stare he fixed on her was so hard, so sharp, that she imagined herself pinned to a corkboard like a butterfly.

  “Am I wrong?” Challenge gleamed in his distracting, too-pretty eyes.

 
She considered lying. A lie was so much easier than the truth. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Maybe because she respected him too much. Maybe because he was putting himself out there, and she couldn’t bear the thought of trampling all over him. Whatever the reason, she heard herself say, “No. You aren’t wrong. But it doesn’t change anything. To use one of your phrases, that”—once again, she arced a thumb over her shoulder—“won’t happen again.”

  His eyes went from blazing fire to green ice. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t mix business with pleasure. Ever.”

  Chapter 12

  “What a load of cobblers,” Christian blurted.

  He was still reeling from the intensity of that kiss. Bloody hell, was he still reeling. And he would have fancied nothing better than to pull her off that settee and straight onto his lap to repeat the endeavor, but for reasons he felt forced to cry foul on, she was bound and determined to throw a wrench in the works.

  She didn’t mix business with pleasure? Ha! Since when?

  Her pale-pink lips flattened. “There you go again. Using phrases I don’t understand.”

  “It means bullshit. Rubbish. I know for a fact that you had something going with your boss back when you worked for the CIA.”

  Her chin jerked back so fast he was surprised she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You have been reading my file!” she accused.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Again, I overheard you talking to one of the women at BKI. You intimated that an ill-fated romantic relationship with your boss was the reason you quit the Company.”

  “Eavesdropper!” she accused.

  “Loud talker!” he shot back, leaning forward in his chair.

  He realized he was seconds away from jumping on top of her. Whether to punish her for the lie or simply because she was never so tempting as when her hackles were raised, he wasn’t sure. But since he prided himself on being a man of control, and since there was that itty-bitty rule about not touching a woman unless he was invited, he forced himself to sit back. There was nothing he could do to unclench his fists from the chair’s armrests, however.