The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(61)
“You are in big trouble,” a voice growls in my ear. My pulse beats so wildly, my head swims. I scrabble at the hand trapping my mouth and attempt to bite it at the same time. I am rewarded with another grunt and a slight lessening of the pressure. I squirm and wiggle, trying to get even a fraction of an inch of space to maneuver.
I was at a wedding once where a drunk bridesmaid accidentally drove her stiletto heel clear through another girl’s foot on the dance floor. I might not make it all the way through the arch of the foot beneath mine, but I’m hoping if I replicate the move, I’ll cause him enough pain that he lets me go.
I gather my strength, lift my foot, approximate the location of my captor’s limb, and do a quick countdown in my head. Three, two . . .
I catch the slightest scent of cinnamon.
“Matteo?” Only there’s a hand over my mouth, so it comes out “Mmm-mmm-ohmmmm?”
“Shhhh.” I recognize the voice this time. “I’m going to let go. Don’t scream, okay?”
I nod against his hand, and it drops from my mouth. He shifts me slightly to the side like we’re hugging, and we melt into the alcove together, my heart hammering for several reasons. Most pressing is definitely the footfalls I hear on the pavement maybe twenty feet to our left. What if they are looking specifically for this door? The other reason is definitely Matteo’s proximity. We’re pressed together from thigh to shoulder. It’s better than I imagined.
Matteo seems to have the same thought and shifts his body against me. My cheek presses against a hard material under his jacket. It’s Kevlar, unless I miss my mark. I love a man in uniform—well, costume. I’m thinking now of expanding that admiration into hot space-cop tropes. The point still stands that Matteo is in Kevlar, and here I am parading around in pleather. I’ve really misread the situation’s danger level.
Footfalls approach, and Matteo lifts his hand to his side. It’s hovering just above where I assume his holstered firearm is. I hold my breath as we watch the group of three men walk past the alcove without even a glance. They’re talking about their next delivery and joking quietly about mundane things. Drug smugglers wouldn’t be telling dirty jokes, would they? They’d be searching every nook and cranny for cops. I almost give a mirthless laugh; right now they’d definitely find one.
They continue along the street, and I can feel Matteo relax a little bit. He takes a half step back, allowing me to right myself from the uncomfortable angle I’ve been standing in pressed into the corner.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“I’m out here looking for you since I knew that you’d be here.” He doesn’t bat an eye. A foregone conclusion that I’d risk my own neck. “I should ask you the same question. Why are you here?” He sounds mad. I glance up at him, and his face is carefully blank. Professional Detective Kildaire at my service.
“I went for a pleasure stroll? At night? In a crime-infested neighborhood?”
“And what was your plan if you happened upon an unsavory character?”
“Who says I haven’t come across one? I had a plan.” He’s still basically blocking my body in the alcove, though I can’t hear anyone else. His nearness intoxicates me. I can’t control my breathing. I feel half-panicky, half-giddy, like I’m on the best and fastest ride at the carnival.
“You did bite me,” he says, his voice close to my ear. Less mad this time. I hear a faint tone of amusement.
“That was part one. This was part two.” I place the heel of my stiletto where I assume the arch of his foot is and jump half my weight onto it. “Only harder than that. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve seen a stiletto go straight through a foot.”
A strangled noise escapes his lips, half pain, half laugh. Matteo scoots back in surprise, eyes wide as he looks down at me. “Only you would use fashion as a weapon, Michael-Grace Martin. You are singularly the most infuriatingly fascinating person I’ve ever met.”
I chance a look up at his face because I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused. What I find there takes my breath away. He’s looking at me . . . really looking at me. I’m hyperaware of our close proximity, the darkness of the alcove, the racing of my heart, and the mere inches that separate our lips.
“You are compromising my case.” His voice is husky. I hardly hear his words because I’m too entranced by his five-o’clock shadow and the movement of his full bottom lip. Once the words do register, I’m not sure if he means I’m compromising him by our close proximity or the case by the fact that I’m chasing down criminals on my own when I should have been letting the police handle it.
He leans an inch closer, and I can sense the war within him. The inevitable gravitational pull our lips have against the sense that this is a very, very bad idea.
WWJD—What Would Janeway Do? She’d probably have a diplomatic answer. Screw her. Diplomacy is overrated. What would Han do? He’d kiss the girl. So that’s exactly what I do. I reach out, slide my hands up his jacket, twine them around his neck, run my fingers through the slight curls at his nape, and pull his lips to mine.
The world bursts into color as my lips meet his. He’s not hesitant to follow my lead. It goes beyond chaste first kiss. Instantaneously searing, the product of two people who have been dancing around this contact for weeks. I’ve never had one simple kiss undo me in milliseconds. His hand wraps around my waist and pulls me to him, firmly, possessively, the buckles on the Kevlar digging into my own chest. I want the vest off. I wish I felt his heart pounding against mine. I want more.