Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(12)

And it was a good thing she needed both hands to cling to the ladder or else she might have started fanning herself. Then, as quickly as her synapses went offline, the ol’ gray matter rebooted itself and the first thought to spring into her head was, No man should look that good in a tank top. It’s just not fair.

Disgusted by her inability to control her libido whenever he was around, she went to resume her task of climbing the ladder when suddenly Rock looked up, his fascinating, multicolored eyes flashing in the beam of light and, just like that, she was struck dumb again.

Most people wouldn’t consider Rock a handsome man. Save for his tattoos, there was nothing about him that really stood out. At first glance, he had a plain, somewhat forgettable face. But there was just something about him. Something more than his dark brown hair with its auburn highlights, something more than his straight, unexceptional nose and thick, dark eyebrows. Maybe it was his high cheekbones or his square jawline. Or, more likely, it was his lips.

Holy cow, those lips were a thing of beauty. A perfect bow on top and a lush, plump pad on the bottom.

She’d had more than her fair share of fantasies about those lips. A few of which skittered through her sluggish brain right now.

“There a problem, chere?” he asked, breaking into her lurid thoughts, which only worked to remind her of the effect his voice always had on her peace of mind. She supposed it was her propensity for languages, for the tonal quality of words and inflection, that made Rock’s fluid baritone, especially when it was infused with the elongated vowels of the South, sound like the most delicious thing she’d ever heard.

She shivered and wished she could blame it on the coolness of the air after sunset. Unfortunately, the oppressive heat and humidity of the jungle hadn’t dissipated even one degree. So her shiver had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the fact that she was a goddamned lightbulb when it came to Rock; everything about him turned her on.

And even in the darkness she could see one of his eyebrows begin a steady march up his forehead. For a minute, she worried that perhaps her expression had given away her thoughts. Then she remembered he’d asked her something. What was it again?

Oh, yeah, he’d asked if there was a problem.

And her answer? Hell yes, there’s a problem!

The problem was that the one man on the entire planet she’d ever gone all goo-goo-gah-gah over also just happened to be the one man on the entire planet who would never return the sentiment. Of course, she couldn’t tell him that, so she satisfied herself with simply turning and resuming her upward trajectory. And, all the while she was climbing, she was reminding herself she’d come here to help him—to bring him back so the Knights could help him—not to jump his oh-so-delicious bones.

***

Don’t look at her butt, don’t look at her butt, just don’t look—

Dieu. He looked at her butt.

And how he’d confused her for a man, for even a nanosecond, he’d never know. Because Vanessa Cordero had that quintessential Latina build. Her small waist flared dramatically to curvy hips and a high, round ass.

Sir Mix-A-Lot was writing about her with, “little in the middle but she got much back,” because merde!

And when she reached the top of the ladder and hoisted herself onto the landing, effectively shielding her world-class booty from his hungry eyes, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive. Because even though he was now able to construct a thought that didn’t revolve around taking a bite out of each one of her ass cheeks, he knew it was only a matter of time before those ass cheeks would be warming his bed while he lay tossing and turning on a pallet on the floor.

He may never wash his sheets again…

“You need help with that pack?” She interrupted his prurient thoughts, her faux whisker-covered face appearing at the top of the ladder, which served as a reminder of something that’d been bugging the hell out of him.

He shook his head, and she moved back so he could pull himself onto the landing. Straightening, he blurted, “Why the disguise? If the CIA has given up hope that you guys knew where to find me, why’d you need to go dressin’ up like ol’ Cooter Brown?”

He watched her reach up to finger the tiny hairs still glued to her chin and cheeks. She grimaced and started yanking them off one patch at a time. “I wore the disguise just in case,” she told him, scrubbing her hands over her now hair-free face, scratching at a spot that still retained some glue. And, mon dieu, why did she have to be so damned beautiful? “Just because we think they’ve mostly given up doesn’t necessarily mean they have. You know the CIA. They’re nothing if not wily. So, I snuck out of San Jose a week ago as Ricardo Ramirez and have been in Santa Elena looking for you as Ricardo Ramirez ever since.”

“And you didn’t approach me at the cantina because…?”

“Are you that paranoid?” She fisted her hands on her hips. “Don’t you trust me? Do you really think I’ve come here to do anything more than help you?”

He shrugged out of his pack, leaning it against the wall of the tree house. He’d unpack later. For now, he needed a cold drink and an even colder shower. Of course, since air-conditioning and refrigeration weren’t really part of the whole Tarzan theme he had going, the odds of getting either were pretty much non-existent. Still, he could dream…and wish. Then again, there was a saying that went something like wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up faster…