In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(19)

“This one happened last year,” he told her.

“Oh, I know.”

“You heard about that?”

She frowned. “Of course I heard about it! We all heard about it! Everyone was worried about you.”

Of course. Collective, friendly, fraternal concern, from everyone. Nothing specific. Nothing personal.

“I dreamed about you, in there,” he blurted. “When I was in Intensive Care. I used to wake up feeling like you’d been there.”

She looked away, reddening. He was embarrassed at himself.

Her fingers trailed over the scar, and he grabbed her fingertips, pulled them down. Tucked them inside the waistband of his pants.

Out of nowhere, Sveti started snorting with nervous giggles.

“I’m so glad that my grotesquely overdeveloped body is such a source of amusement to you,” he said. “I live to entertain.” He shoved his sweatpants off his hips.

That stopped her laughter dead. She stared, transfixed. Her gaze skittered away from his cock, which rose proudly from its bush of pubes, extended toward her. “Public service announcement,” he said. “Laughing uncontrollably at a guy’s tool is considered to be bad form.”

Another explosion of helpless laughter rocked her. “Petrie, you bastard,” she said, voice muffled. “Stop it.”

“Call me Sam. It’s inappropriate to call a naked man by his surname. And you’re behind.”

She dragged her gaze back up to his face. “Behind in what?”

“In the striptease. I have nothing left to give. Lose the dress, if you want it to survive this encounter.”

Her chin went up. “Do not threaten this dress,” she said. “I paid more than I could afford for this dress, and I need it for the gala party in Italy, after the conference. If you hurt my dress, you reimburse me.”

“The dress is safe if you hurry.”

She had a hell of a time with the zipper, but the corset bodice finally fell open, like a shell, and she dragged the skirt down over her hips.

She stepped out of it, naked in her glory. Holding herself so straight. The queen of everything.

Oh, shit. His eyes were fogging. He covered his ass, just barely, by picking up her dress, inhaling her scent. Tears soaked into the fabric. Maybe it would stain, like sea spray did. He draped it over the chair as soon as he dared. Reverently, as if it were a ceremonial vestment.

Let her wear his tear stains at her swank party in f*cking Italy. That seemed appropriate. Though he’d die before he would admit it.





CHAPTER 4

Sveti threw her shoulders back and held herself as tall as she could. Which wasn’t very.

Relax, relax, relax, was the directive blaring frantically in her mind, but how? He’d said it himself, she was a ten-ton weight, and he’d get sick to death of it soon enough. Any man with a functioning brain would. Probably before the night was out.

But before he realized the trouble he was getting himself into, she would goddamn well get. Some. Of. That. If it worked at all, of course, when they did the deed. It was already miraculous that she functioned as well as she did, with her baggage. But functional, as she defined it, did not include sexual function. Her bar was set somewhat lower.

To her, functional meant that she got through her days, she slept a few ragged hours at night, between nightmares and erotic Sam dreams. She worked, she had friends, she had her beloved adopted family. She was committed to her crusade, but she did not attract undue attention—that is, no breakdowns, freak-outs, or stints in the psych ward. Death threats from snakehead scum did not count.

She’d struggled with depression for a while, after Mama’s suicide, but she wasn’t an addict, like Sasha, nor did she dream of suicide herself. Suicide would mean that the scum-suckers had won, and she would never concede that victory to them. Never.

She had goals, dreams, ambitions. She learned fast, she worked hard. She had a lot to contribute. She did okay. She really did.

But fun? Hah. Fun was too much to ask.

She had high hopes for pleasure, though, after that tryst at the wedding. The charged encounter in Bruno’s home office was almost two years ago, but she remembered every detail. Only Sam had ever given her a clue what sexual pleasure could be. It would have been kinder if she’d never known at all, but now she did, so whatever. No going back.

She wanted more. At least a taste, which was all she could ever have, with the demons that stalked her. Considering the price she knew she was going to pay for this, it had better rock her world.

“I’m sorry I’m so . . .” Her voice trailed off. So what? So stiff, so tense, so shrinking? So clueless?

“Don’t be.” He pulled her hands to his lips and kissed them. His lips felt so hot, so soft. “You’re perfect. My personal ultimate wet dream.” He pressed her hands against his chest, over his heart. Her fingertips brushed the thickened skin of his scar. She could feel the quick, heavy throb of his heart, the crisp rasp of chest hair. A sheen of sweat. His nipples were taut against her palms. She wanted to nuzzle them, lick them. His hot, salty male scent filled her nose.

She cleared her throat, groping for words. Her English flitted away like a hummingbird in times of stress. “What . . . ah . . . do we do now?”

What a stupid question. They had sex. Duh. What else would they do, in this context? Play a game of f*cking chess?