by Vivi Andrews
When he’d touched her skin in the tank, it was like a bomb had gone off in her brain. She hadn’t been able to think. Even her survival instincts had self-combusted. After he fished her out, without the amplification of the water, the sting of his touch was bearable, but by no means pleasant. Then they’d nearly fallen. Acting on instinct, she’d clung to him, reached for him. For that fraction of a second it hadn’t been about defending herself, and everything changed.
It was like the world suddenly came into tune. The dissonant cacophony of his touch resolved into a poetry of sound. If not a symphony, at least a pure bell-like note with a simple beauty.
She’d been fighting this part of her psychic nature for so long, trying to smother the noise, but she’d never really listened. Had she handicapped herself?
“Ciara.” Nate said her name again with more urgency. “Are you okay?”
Okay? The tidal wave of emotion crashing down on her was a lot of things—hope, euphoria, fear that it would go away, regret that it had taken her so long to hear—but okay wasn’t one of them.
“Ciara!” A hint of panic tinged his voice.
“I’m fine. I’m—” So much better than fine. She didn’t have words in her vocabulary for how she felt. She was singing on the parade float in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, kissing Conrad Birdie on the Ed Sullivan Show in Bye Bye, Birdie, and coming out of the corner in Dirty Dancing all rolled into one.
Nate nodded curtly. “Good. Let’s get the hell out of here before you get arrested.” He moved down the ladder with surprising grace, landing awkwardly but recovering quickly. He reached up for her and Ciara scrambled down, one hand pinching the lapels of his jacket closed over her breasts.
“Can’t you wave your magic FBI wand and make the police go away?”
“Public nudity is frowned on, even for federal agents.” He grabbed the pile of her clothes and tossed them at her. Ciara caught them reflexively.
Before she could pull them on, he took her hand, snatched up his cane and rushed away from the scene of the crime. The feel of his fingers wrapped around hers sang through her blood, a sweet, unfamiliar thrill.
Together, they ducked behind a game booth, out of sight of the security guards she saw plowing through the crowd toward them. Nate pulled her behind him along the back of the booths, winding back toward the boardwalk.
“What the hell was that?” he snapped, without pausing.
“I was finding—”
“I know what you were doing. Could you have found a more public place to play naked psychic?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, where would you have preferred I play psychic? In the luxurious bath in that plush suite the FBI sprang for? You took me away from my private pool and dragged me here, accusing me of every felony you could think of. What was I supposed to do?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize doubting you was going to make you want to drown yourself in front of a cheering audience.”
“That apology would mean so much more if you weren’t yelling at me for doing exactly what you’ve been badgering me to do all week. I found the Heart of Monaco. Found. It.”
“And how was that going to help me if you were dead?”
They darted across the Boardwalk, ignoring the stares directed toward her bare legs, and through the doors into the casino at the Trump Taj Mahal. Nate stormed through the maze-like rows of slot machines and blackjack tables.
She hurried in his wake. “I’m not dead, thank you very much, and I wouldn’t have been in any danger at all if you hadn’t grabbed me.”
His hand dropped hers so quickly she lost a step, stumbling.
“Damn,” he swore, rubbing his palm on his pants as if she had cooties. “I keep forgetting not to touch you.”
Ciara grabbed his hand again, just because she could, seizing the chance to touch. “No. It’s okay now. Don’t ask me why, but it’s okay.”
He frowned, as if uncertain whether she was lying to him now or had been lying to him before. He nodded toward a door behind her. “Go put your clothes back on.”
“Then we’ll go to the Borgata, right? Get the necklace?”
Nate shook his head, bemused. “You really found it? You know…” He trailed off, shooting an icy glare over her shoulder.
Ciara turned and saw a man old enough to be her father, who looked like he hadn’t showered or stepped out of the casino in days, leering at her legs. Nate snarled at him until he ducked his head and returned to his addiction of choice, yanking down the lever on a slot machine.
Nate gave her a gentle shove toward the ladies’ room behind her. “Get dressed. Then we’ll talk.”
Ciara was standing in the stall, pulling her dress over her head, when she realized Nate had actually let her out of his sight. He hadn’t swept the bathroom to make sure there weren’t other exits or frisked her for a hidden cell phone. He’d just let her walk in here without so much as a second glance.
In the four days she’d known him, that was unprecedented.
Could Nate Smith actually believe her?
Ciara came out of the bathroom to find Nate leaning against a slot machine as he waited. He looked utterly relaxed, as if there hadn’t been even a flicker of doubt in his mind that she would return to him. Trust. It seemed to have burst open between them impossibly fast.
She didn’t know when she had started trusting him, a moment ago, a day ago, maybe a part of her had started trusting him the moment he rang her doorbell. But his trust of her seemed to hinge on that moment in the tank. Sure, she’d done it so he would believe her, but now she was suspicious of that instant faith.
Nate levered himself away from the slots. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” He started to reach for her hand again, then snatched his hand back. His eyes scanned her from her flip-flop bedecked toes all the way up to her still-damp hair, as if checking for war wounds.
Ciara rolled her eyes. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m—” Again words failed. This feeling, it was too much. “Come on. We’ve got a necklace to find.”
She grabbed his hand and dragged him behind her toward the street exit. Ciara felt like laughing, though she didn’t know why.
She wore his jacket over her dress—the shawl a casualty of her dunking—but as soon as they stepped out of the air-conditioning of the casino, she shrugged it off. The sun hit the skin of her arms and felt delicious. For once she was outside, surrounded by people and not worried about being brushed against.
Though maybe she should be worried. What if it was only Nate she could touch?
He hailed a taxi and ushered her into the backseat, careful as he had been all week not to touch her skin.
“The Borgata, please,” she told the driver.
Nate climbed in after her. “No,” he said, “let’s go back to the hotel. You can rest—”
“The Borgata,” she repeated, more firmly. No more invalid treatment. No more hiding.
There were a million things she’d never done. Too many things. A wild excitement pulsed through her veins. A thousand possibilities.
She could eat in a restaurant, dance in a club, go to a movie in a crowded theater where the schmuck next to her would steal her armrest. She could fly on a plane. Go to Egypt or Bermuda or Taiwan. She didn’t know why she should want to go to Taiwan unless she was picking up a few sweatshop workers, but the fact that she could changed everything. It changed her.
Nate wedged himself against the car door, as far away from her as he could get without leaping into oncoming traffic.
“What are you doing way over there?”
“Recovering from the heart attack you gave me on the pier,” he snapped. “And trying to figure out how to talk you into going back to the hotel and leaving the jewel thieves to the professionals.”
“I thought I was a suspect,” she purred, scooting across the bench seat toward him. “Don’t you want my confession?”
He leaned away, pressing into the door. “You aren’t a crook. I believe you. Now back off, b
efore you give yourself another seizure.”
Ciara kept her eyes locked on his, slowly shaking her head. “Nate, for the first time in the last decade, I can touch someone without feeling like someone dropped a cherry bomb into my brain. Do you honestly think I’m not going to take advantage of this for every second it lasts?” She reached out and laid her fingers along his jaw. She listened and the touch sang through her, a perfect pitch ringing sweetly, deep inside her rib cage.
She slid her fingers down, drawing them along the column of his throat, listening as the note shifted with his every breath. Her eyes fixed on his mouth, the delicious masculine curve of it.
Ten years. She hadn’t been kissed in ten years.
“Nate,” she whispered. Her upper body leaned forward of its own volition, closing the distance between them. She wet her lips.
“This is a bad idea. I don’t think—”
“Don’t think. It’s overrated.” Ciara’s eyelids lowered, but she watched him through her lashes, not wanting to miss a single detail of the kiss. She brushed her lips ever so softly over his, a fleeting whisper of a touch. His breath was warm on her lips. His stubble grazed her fingertips, the tantalizing spice of his aftershave teasing her nose. Ciara pressed a closed-mouth kiss full on his mouth and a chord struck in her soul. She placed one hand over his heart, feeling his strength through the thin cloth of his shirt. She wanted bare flesh under her fingers. She wanted to bathe in touch, skin to skin.
Nate kept his mouth closed, his head back. He was frozen against the door, as if afraid to touch her.
Or as if he didn’t want her touch.
Ciara drew back. Her eyes flew wide to find him watching her, his gaze steady and concerned.
“You don’t—” She hesitated. Crap. With her luck, he was probably gay. Just because he seemed like a big strong macho man and gaped at her naked girly bits whenever the opportunity presented itself didn’t mean he wasn’t batting for the other team. “You aren’t—” She couldn’t very well ask him what his sexual orientation was five seconds after she planted one on him.
God, her people skills sucked. That’s what happened when you lived in a freaking bubble for a decade and learned all of your social skills from the television and internet. Had she missed some signal?
He watched her. God, the way he watched her. It made her feel like she was edible, sweet and sinful, and he was hungry for some decadent indulgence. Would a gay man look at her like that?
But if he wasn’t gay, what the hell was he doing cowering beside the door like she was molesting him against his will. His body was eerily still, but his eyes raced over her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, an odd urgency running under the words.
Was she okay? She kissed him. He didn’t kiss her back. And now he was concerned that…what?
“That didn’t hurt you?” His voice was rough.
Ciara blinked, the pieces suddenly jolting into place. Of course. Mr. All-American was concerned for her well-being. His moral fortitude prevented him from enjoying a kiss if it might be hurting her. Damn moral fortitude. Why couldn’t he just take advantage of her like a normal man?
“I’m fine,” she assured him in a rush. “Great, actually. It feels amazing.”
“Good.”
Before she had time to react to that guttural growl, his hands were on her arms. He hauled her forward across his lap. His mouth crashed down on hers, urging her to open for him, and a symphony exploded inside her. Ciara threw her arms around his neck and held on tight. She parted her lips and his tongue slipped between them, a whip of heat unfurling in her stomach with each flick.
She didn’t remember kisses like this. She remembered the fumbling, groping, wide-open-mouthed attempts of her adolescence, before her curse hit. This was unlike any of those. This was skill and persuasion, seduction and heat. As a fiery concerto radiated out from her soul, a clenching warmth rose up from her toes, tingling along every nerve. Nate’s hands chased those tingles and multiplied them, tracing her curves through the thin barrier of her clothes.
He raised his head. His eyes searched hers as they clung together, both breathing rapidly. “Ciara?”
“More, Nate,” she whispered. “Please, touch me more.”
He groaned and crushed her to him, instantly obeying. His mouth slanted down on hers and she fell into sensation. She wanted to explore this, to venture into every corner of her capabilities. The Magellan of desire. The Ponce de León of irrepressible need.
“Ahem. The Borgata.”
Ciara broke away from Nate at the cabbie’s dry cough, her face flaming. From shut-in to exhibitionist nympho in four days flat. That had to be some kind of record.
Nate caught the cabbie’s eye and shared a smug grin. Just like a man. “How much do we owe you?” Even his voice was smug. So damned pleased with himself.
Though she supposed she couldn’t blame him. She was feeling pretty cat-who-caught-the-canary herself.
Chapter Seven—Get a Room
The Borgata Hotel and Casino towered above the Atlantic City marina, a glistening glass masterpiece. When the taxi pulled in front of the main entrance, a doorman rushed to open the door. Nate paid the cabbie and stepped out of the cab after Ciara, pressing a bill into the doorman’s hand.
Another casual touch. Doormen, taxi drivers, careless pedestrians bumping into one another. He’d never really given much thought to how many times a day he touched people, until Ciara. Now he couldn’t seem to think of anything else. All week he’d been haunted by the urge to touch her. Her smooth, pale skin had lured him in, but he’d kept his distance.
Then all of a sudden she’d done a one-eighty. Touch was not only allowed, she couldn’t seem to stop touching him. She made it impossible for him to keep his hands to himself.
Ciara twined their fingers together and bent her arm behind her back so she was cradled in the crook of his arm. “Let’s get a room.”
Nate laughed and guided her toward the opulent entrance. “We’re here on business, remember? A certain necklace?”
She smiled brightly at the doorman who swept aside the door to the lobby, but pitched her voice low, just for his ears. “How about a quickie? Just to take the edge off.”
Her throaty suggestion had him half hard at the prospect. She meant it too. He could see her sincerity in the wicked gleam in her eyes. Saying no just about killed him.
He groaned. “I’d like to keep my edge, thank you. While we’re grabbing a quickie, the thieves could be fencing the necklace.”
He paused at the border of the lobby, staring out over the sensory blitz of the casino. Up-lit columns and marble floors wound between rows of hundreds of slot machines and a line of empty blackjack tables. The necklace could be anywhere. Luckily he had a secret weapon. “So where is it?”
“A hotel safe.”
Shit. Nate swore. “If it’s in the hotel’s safe, we’ll need a warrant. Which means we need probable cause.”
Ciara shook her head, leaning her body against his from shoulders to knees. “Not the hotel safe. A hotel safe. One of the ones in a room. A pretty plush room, by the look of it. White living room furniture and a killer view over the marina.”
“What’s the room number?”
Ciara winced. “Yeah, sometimes the trace isn’t quite as precise as I might wish. I don’t know the room number. But I’m pretty sure it was the woman in pink’s room.”
Nate couldn’t help the skepticism that declaration induced. “The woman in pink,” he repeated.
“You can’t miss her,” Ciara assured him. “She’s probably a showgirl or something. Pink bustier and hot pants. Blonde with silver eyelashes. Pretty tall, I think, though I can’t really be sure. She’s distinctive.”
“So we’re supposed to wander around looking for a showgirl?”
“She’s definitely here,” Ciara insisted. “I saw the Borgata clear as day.”
Nate grimaced. A woman in a pink bustier was his best lead. And even if they found her
, he didn’t have a warrant, or even the means of producing a warrant. He couldn’t just go in, guns a’blazing, and steal back the necklace. That wasn’t how things worked in the real world.
He’d come to Atlantic City more to get Ciara to confess than to actually find the necklace. If the Heart of Monaco really was here, and she wasn’t a criminal, then he needed to call it in. He needed to find out from his boss what the procedure was regarding Ciara’s tips. How did they usually get warrants for her finds?
And he should probably let her get in touch with her boss to prove she wasn’t dead.
“If I get you to a bathtub, do you think you could get a better read? Maybe find the room number?”
“Maybe,” Ciara said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I can definitely try.”
Nate nodded, once, decisively. “Done.”
Twenty minutes later Nate unlocked the door to a Fiore suite with amenities described as a deep-soaking tub and shower for two. His credit card had taken a beating, but there was always the slim chance the FBI might reimburse him. Provided he didn’t get fired for running off to Atlantic City with an informant.
Ciara made a beeline for the bathroom and cooed in delight. “It’s amazing,” she called out to him as he dropped onto the king-sized bed.
Their things were still back at the other hotel, so his possessions were currently limited to the severely wrinkled suit he had on, a few credit cards, his cell phone and the small piece in his ankle holster. He hadn’t even worn his shoulder holster today, figuring he wouldn’t need it and it would be too damn hot. Now he missed its weight.
“Why don’t you see if you can find the necklace?” he called back to Ciara, digging into his pocket for his cell phone.
Ciara shouted something back to him, but he couldn’t make out the words over the sound of water rushing into the tub. When the door to the bathroom clicked shut, he figured whatever she said must have been in the affirmative.
Nate turned the cell phone over in his hands. He needed to call his superiors. Now that he knew Ciara wasn’t a crook. Or at least he thought he knew.
