Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(99)

“Got to sleep somewhere,” he said.

“There’s room on the couch,” she said. “If we take off the back cushions, it’s as wide as a single bed. Wide enough for both, if we’re friendly.”

“Friendly?” He looked up. “You know exactly what will happen if I lie down next to you.”

“Duh,” she said. “It’s only the one thing on earth that could possibly make me feel better right now.”

He looked down at his hands, flexing them convulsively, and gestured at himself. “You want this? Random whacks of coercion, the uncontrolled telekinesis, the shitty manners, the bad attitude? You want all that in your bed? In your body?”

“Yes,” she said, unhesitating.

He looked away, into the fire. “I saw the look on your face, after that fight in the forest,” he said. “The necks I broke, the throats I slit. The blood on my hands. It skeeved you out.”

“It was a shock,” she admitted. “But those people were coming after us. You did what you had to do. I just didn’t expect you to do it so, um . . . expertly. But I don’t fault you for that.”

He tried not to smile. “Generous of you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, impatiently. “I didn’t expect the theatrics. Hanging them in the trees. What was that about?”

“I was sending him a message,” Miles said. “That was how I phrased it. You f*ck with her, you go through me. And good luck with that.”

She nudged the fire with a stick. “Thank you for being my champion,” she said quietly. “Again.”

“You don’t have to thank me. You certainly don’t have to f*ck me. Not when I scare you and hurt you and piss you off.”

“I did my share of that today, too,” she admitted. “I’m sorry.”

He contemplated her in the firelight for a long, thoughtful moment. “Me, too,” he said, cautiously.

“I want you,” she said.

“I get that,” he replied. “I want you, too. All the time. But maybe we should chill for a while. With this weird psi bullshit coming down, I don’t know what I would be like, if I—”

“You’d be good,” she said. “You always are.”

He made a frustrated sound. “I don’t even know who I am right now.”

“I do,” she said softly. “Come here and let me remind you.”

They gazed at each other. The fire crackled. Miles shook himself. “Man, you are the ultimate temptress,” he muttered.

That made her shake with helpless giggles. Her? Hah. It was fun, though, to play the seductive siren. It straightened her spine. Made her chin go up and her tits stick out. All good things. Life affirming.

He scooped up the sleeping bag and flung it over the back of the couch. Progress. At some point, her smile had turned into a big, out-of-control grin, which was not an expression she was accustomed to feeling on her own face. He was smiling back and, oh, that gorgeous flash of white teeth, those sexy grooves in his cheeks.

“You’re the tempting one, in those crazy pants,” she said.

He laughed. “These? I almost opted to come out stark naked instead of wearing these. Didn’t know quite how you’d take that.”

“I would have been fine with it,” she said demurely. “But the pants do have their own quirky charm. What do they say to me? Hmm . . . a story out of the Arabian Nights, maybe?”

He shook his head, still grinning. “You’re reaching, Lara. You creative types. Talk about accentuating the positive.”

“We might as well,” she said.

He stood up. “The Arabian nights, hmm? What was that princess’s name, the one who enslaved the sultan with her stories?”

“Sheherezade,” Lara said. “But the sultan was a deranged, pathologically insecure headcase who murdered his brides the morning after the wedding night so they wouldn’t cheat on him.”

“Ouch,” Miles murmured. “Okay, so let’s make up our own story. One where the brave, enterprising Sheherezade takes control of her destiny, and gets away from the * sultan once and for all.”

“She’s rescued by the king of the forty thieves,” Lara said. “He sweeps her off on his black Arabian stallion, and they gallop through the desert on secret paths known only to the nomad tribes.”

“Wow. King of thieves, huh? So I’m an outlaw, now?”

“You’re pretty out there,” she murmured. “But I go for that.”

“Good,” Miles’ eyes were very bright. “So now that I have the sultan’s prize in my grasp, what do I do with her?”

She stood up and threw her hair back. “The question you should be asking yourself is, what will she do with you?” She laid her hand gently on his bare chest.

His eyes were hot with anticipation. “Will she tell me a story?” he asked. “It gets lonely and boring out here in the desert with just my bags of plundered gold and gems for company.”

She shook her head, tracing the curves and cuts of his muscular chest with her fingertips. “No way. She’s got something less cerebral in mind. More direct.” Her hands slid lower, under his waistband.

His breath got jerky and uneven. “I’m on it,” he said. “Princess.”