The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(83)

Four hours of stress had taken their toll. “It’s better than stripping down to distract her,” she hissed. “Think I didn’t notice that? Were you going to do a little Magic Mike number if she kept asking questions?” The water turned on in the bathroom.

“One of us had to talk, Pooky.”

“Do you think it’s going to help our case if she says, ‘Groom seems like a man-whore’?”

“I didn’t strip. I took off my sweater. And since you seemed to be struck mute, someone had to keep her occupied.”

“Look,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I got hung up on the fact that there was a federal agent in my house who got invited to dinner and a sleepover!”

“Lower your voice, she’s coming out.”

“Good night!” Bethany called.

“Good night!” they chorused merrily back, then resumed glaring. Spike, at least, was comfortable; she jumped onto the bed and curled up on a pillow, yawned and closed her eyes.

The radiator ticked on. “Bedtime, darling,” Tom said.

She was starting to hate that particular endearment, as he had never once used it with sincerity. That being said, he had a point. “Sure.” But she had to change into her pj’s. “Um, can you close your eyes?” she whispered.

“I have seen you naked, you realize.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not going to tonight.”

“Fine.” He pulled his shirt over his head, all predatory male grace, tossed it in the corner, then unbuttoned his pants.

Right. She should probably turn around.

And she would. Soon. Anytime now. Definitely by tomorrow.

That was quite a beautiful male body. A boxer’s body, arms curved with heavy muscle, broad chest lightly covered in hair, the hypnotic washboard abs. She remembered how it had felt to trail her fingers over that part of his anatomy, that night when she’d been a sex kitten, when she’d been so unlike herself.

Tom cocked an eyebrow, and she turned away, feeling her face ache with heat once more this night.

A second later, she heard the bedsprings creak. “Okay, close your eyes,” she whispered.

“Done.”

“Really?”

“Honor, for the love of God, would you just get into bed, please?”

She glanced back. He was sitting in bed, eyes closed, that beautiful, rippling torso begging for a thorough examination. His bruised eye and tattoos gave him an unbearably appealing bad-boy look, and his Saint Christopher medal somehow underscored his ridiculous sex appeal. Who would’ve thunk Honor Holland would have such a guy ordering her into bed, regardless of the circumstances?

She turned back and undressed, jacket, skirt and sweaty blouse going over the back of the chair. At least she wore nice underwear. Not that Tom would see, since he’d closed his eyes like a good boy. She unhooked her bra, pulling on her flannel pj’s as fast as she could.

When she turned around, Tom’s eyes were open, and he was looking steadily at her. No smile.

The air seemed to thicken, and Honor’s heart banged against her ribs.

Would that she was closer and could read the expression in his eyes. Or just kiss him.

“Come on, then,” he said, pulling back the covers.

She was never going to sleep tonight.

And she hadn’t been sleeping well since she moved in here. But now, she was vibrating with nervousness, tingling with awareness, tightening with lust and utterly terrified of being sent to jail, all at the same time.

About that lust, the eggs said, adjusting their binoculars to get a better look at Tom.

She went to the unoccupied side of the bed and slid in. “Good night,” she said, turning away from him.

Tom turned off the light and lay down on his back.

“We’ll have to offer her breakfast,” he murmured. “Think it’d kill you to be hospitable?”

Honor rolled over to face him, the light from the street allowing her to see his face in profile. “Tom,” she whispered, “what if we get caught?”

“We won’t, so long as you stop acting like a criminal, darling.”

“I can’t help it!”

“You said you knew all this before,” he pointed out, his voice quiet. “You’re the one who told me you were fine with the risks.”

“I know, but—”

A knock came on the door, and Honor jolted closer to Tom. “Yes?” they called in unison, his arms going around her.

Bethany opened the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said unconvincingly. “Oh, hi, Spikey-snooks! Are you all comfy there?”

Honor’s face was right up against Tom’s neck. It was a nice place to be. Or it would be, if she wasn’t in ventricular tachycardia. Thank you, Death in the E.R.

“Do you need anything, Bethany?” Tom asked.

“Um, I just wondered if I could get a glass of water.”

For God’s sake.

“Absolutely,” Tom said, starting to get out of bed, but Honor pulled him back.

“Help yourself,” she said. “Glasses are next to the sink.”

Bethany paused, then sighed. “Great. Sleep well.”

The door closed. “Water, my ass,” Honor whispered. “She just wanted to see you without your shirt.”