Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(44)

She was watching him now. She reached out and put her hand over his.

“You’re thinking about Sean, aren’t you?”

Sean. She thought he was thinking about his lost brother.

No, I’m thinking about how badly I want to get you out of those clothes.

“I’m thinking about you,” he said, only partly lying. “You ever considered getting a desk job?”

She looked startled. “No.”

He eyed her scar again. “You know, when I was thinking about you back here at home, I never pictured you getting pistol-whipped. It’s a tough image to get out of my head.”

Tough was an understatement. It was impossible. And he knew she hadn’t told him the full story. She’d told him she’d been beaten and taken hostage. Had she been sexually assaulted, too? The thought of it made him want to kill someone, the same way he’d felt when he’d sprinted up that stairwell and seen the blood trail.

She tipped her head to the side and looked at him. “You know, the FBI Academy—it’s really hard to get into. And the training itself is very rigorous. Not like BUD/S or anything, but it was challenging for me. It was the toughest thing I’ve ever done.” She sipped her drink and rested it on the bar. “So, no, I wouldn’t consider a desk job. What about you?”

“No,” he said without hesitation.

“Don’t want to stop chasing bad guys and jumping out of airplanes?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The bartender reappeared, which seemed to annoy Elizabeth. “Last call,” the woman chirped.

Elizabeth looked at him. “I should get back.”

Derek paid for the drinks and refused the money she tried to give him. Back in the parking lot, the air was like a sauna, but she kept his leather jacket on as she slid into the truck. She stared out the window as he pulled out. Obviously, his attempt at career advice had pissed her off. She’d shifted to defensive mode, and now it was going to be an uphill battle getting her to loosen up again.

She kept her attention directed out the window as he navigated the after-hours traffic.

“So where’s this file you have?”

She looked at him. “Which file?”

“Ameen’s picture.”

“Back at my hotel.” She paused. “You can drop me off there if you need it tonight.”

“I do.”

It was something. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he planned to find out. He got onto the freeway and buzzed the windows down as they drove, thinking maybe some fresh air would relax her.

Because, yes, she’d been right before—he had a one-track mind. And even though it had been a shit day and she was injured and tired and probably emotionally wasted, he was still dying to take her to bed.

While he was overseas, especially after she’d ignored his phone calls, the prospect of sleeping with her had seemed like a fantasy. She lived and worked in San Antonio. He lived and worked wherever Spec War Command sent him. But now she was here, right beside him, and he’d be damned if he was going to let her slip away again, not if there was even a chance in hell she’d say yes. He had no desire to spend another eleven months burning up with frustration.

The Home Suites parking lot was full, and he counted half a dozen dark sedans that had to belong to feds. He found a space not far from her room and noticed her glance around cautiously before she got out.

She slid a keycard from her purse and briskly opened the door. As she stepped inside, she shrugged out of his jacket and held it out to him.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Sure.”

He pulled the door shut behind him. The room smelled like her, probably her lotion or her perfume or something she’d put in her hair that morning. A rolling suitcase was parked beside the closet. A dark suit hung inside, along with several crisp white blouses. His gaze drifted to the white lace bra dangling from the door handle.

“It’s in here somewhere.” She rummaged through her computer bag. “Here.”

She crossed the room and handed him an eight-by-ten photograph. It was black-and-white, but at least it was recent compared with the last photo he’d seen. Derek studied the narrow nose, the strong chin, the prominent cheekbones. He took out his cell phone and snapped a picture of the picture.

“Plastic surgery?” He glanced up.

“We think so.”

He tucked his phone away and put the picture on the dresser. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stood there staring at each other, and the moment stretched out. He slid his hand around hers and pulled her closer. She tensed.

“Why are you gun-shy with me?”

She tipped her chin up. “I’m not.”

He kissed her, pulling her against him, and she resisted. For maybe a second. Then he felt her loosen and let go, and she was finally, finally, finally kissing him the way he’d wanted her to for months. Her arms came up around his neck, and he pulled her hips against him. She tasted better than he remembered, hot and sweet, and he hoped to hell she meant what she’d said, because he couldn’t stop right now if he wanted to. He slid his hands over her blouse and felt those soft curves he’d been dying to touch, and her fingers were in his hair now. He filled his palms with her breasts and rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, and she moaned into his mouth and pressed closer.