Trust Me (Paris Nights #3)(49)

She leaned forward suddenly, straight up into him, and touched the tip of her tongue to where her finger had pressed.

He made a rough, wounded sound and sank his fingers into her butt.

She sat back a little. “They do almost taste golden,” she murmured, her voice sleepy and sexy. “Or like Hawaiian sea salt.”

“Lina,” he said helplessly. Don’t do this to me.

“You are so yummy.” She stroked and squeezed down his arms to his biceps. “I could taste you all over.”

“For f*ck’s sake.” He pulled her into him hard, so that his erection pressed against the seam of her jeans. His gaze went to her mouth. He wanted to devour that mouth so damn bad. Just kiss her and kiss her until she forgot her mouth had ever been f*cked by any other guy but him.

Oh, just give up and do it. You’re not Julia Roberts and she sure as hell isn’t some * millionaire.

He sank his hand into her hair, pulling her head back—

And the back door pushed open.

Jake shoved her backward straight off the counter, throwing himself the other direction, past a perpendicular counter that blocked him from an immediate line of fire, pulling his gun out and up and—

“It’s me!” someone yelled, panicked. “It’s only me!”

The man stood backlit in the door, only a silhouette with frizzy curly hair wisping around his head.

“Me, Amar!”

A hand caught him and yanked him out of the doorway. From out of Jake’s firing line, a voice called in French: “Sir, it’s the restaurant chef de partie, one of the initial victims. He has the new code, but we should have warned you.”

“Shit, yes, you should have.” Jake stood and put the safety back on his gun, tucking it at the small of his back and pulling the tail of his shirt over it.

“Is it okay for him to come in now?”

“Yes, damn it.” Jake vaulted over the counter on which Lina had been sitting when he shoved her off it.

She had scrambled to her knees, a rolling pin in one hand.

Jesus, was she going to take on terrorists with rolling pins now? “You okay?”

“Yes,” she lied. Her whole body was vibrating with tension. So much for that erotic bliss he’d been giving her.

“I mean, not hurt. By me.”

“Nothing broken.” She drew a deep breath and held it a second before she let it out, then another, clearly calming herself down.

Jake nodded and vaulted back over the counter to go to the door. In passing, he nodded apology to Amar, who looked as tense now as Lina did. He, too, must have flashbacked to the last violence in this restaurant kitchen.

Jake went past him to the police officers. “What the f*ck, guys?”

“Pardon,” one of them said. There were four of them in the street, Amar’s two and two of Lina’s. “We knew he wasn’t a threat. We forgot you didn’t.”

“That was f*cking careless,” Jake said. “Jesus, I could have broken Lina’s tailbone.”

The senior officer nodded, his face rather grim. They were professionals, and they knew they had screwed up. Like any man worth his salt, they apologized and accepted his right to be pissed.

Jake dropped his voice. “And what if she had been by herself? How do you think she would have felt? Just give her a head’s up, okay?”

The officers nodded.

Jake turned back to Lina. He paused long enough to shake Amar’s hand, giving him a firm grip, steadying. Amar squeezed tight a minute and then took a deep breath and released his hand, pulling himself up straight.

Jake went to Lina, who had come around to the other side of the counter, still holding her rolling pin, although lowered now. “I’m sorry,” he said low.

She held up a hand. “Yeah, no, it’s fine.” Her tone was brisk, tough. She did meet his eyes for a second. “Thanks.”

Thanks for shoving her off a counter unnecessarily? Damn it, he wanted to just pull her in and hold her. Hold her until her heartbeat calmed. Until the world seemed like a safe place again. He tugged a fallen curl, then squeezed her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she said firmly. She looked past him, and her face brightened. “Amar!”

“Adrien and Mikhail are coming, too,” Amar said as they kissed cheeks. “We thought we’d just…cook for a while.” A long, lean physical guy, he shrugged restlessly.

“Yeah.” Lina squeezed his shoulder just as Jake had squeezed hers, in a move that reminded Jake that though Lina looked smaller, she was one of the commanders here. It was up to her to lead her men through a tough time.

And they started cooking. After a while, she called the members of the pastry team, and most of them came in, and they all got raucous. Cooking. Pretending the restaurant was in full swing. Yelling jokes about their non-existent fussy clients at the empty tables. Offering Jake and the police officers outside something to eat in lieu of anyone else to tempt.

They finally Tweeted out that anyone who wanted to come by and get food could donate twenty euros to Syrian refugee relief—Lina’s call—and that went around the Internet like a wildfire on dry grass. The Tweet was sent so quickly and so casually—Jake didn’t even find out about it until after Lina hit send—and it quickly grew into one of the most powerful and influential political gestures made after the attacks.