Up in Smoke (Crossing the Line, #2)(2)

He simply narrowed his eyes at her.

“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir. They took my favorite Ruger.” She pouted. “Has my initials painted in Wite-Out on the side and everything.”

Oh, I get it now. She’s crazy. “Why are you here?”

His abrupt question didn’t faze her. “Three o’clock meeting, same as you. Some people just don’t value punctuality.”

The way she smirked when she said it made him think she’d read his mind upon walking into the room. But that was impossible. Who the f*ck was this girl? A tempting weapons enthusiast who also happened to be perceptive? He needed to know more. Just enough to solve the formula she presented, so he could pack up his curiosity and store it away. “I wasn’t asking why you’re in this room. What landed you on this squad?”

She inspected her fingernails. “Ah. The old what are you in for conversation. I don’t want to play.” Her boots abruptly hit the ground. “Just kidding, I’m in. But you have to go first.”

“Nope.”

“Impasse,” she whispered, walking her fingers across the table. “I could guess why you’re here, but you’d dislike that more than simply telling me.”

Connor said nothing. He would dislike that. Guesswork had always been a source of irritation for him. He dealt only in facts. Again, he got the feeling this girl saw more than most people. The air of mayhem she wore like a second skin probably made people underestimate her. He wouldn’t be one of them.

“You have a military background. But you’re not there now, are you?” She leaned across the table and he caught a whiff of smoke. Not cigarette smoke. Like the strike of a match, or the lingering scent of incense. “It isn’t difficult math, soldier.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You don’t like trigger, baby, or soldier.” Her tongue lingered against her top lip. “If you don’t like any of my nicknames, better tell me your real one.”

Connor almost laughed. Almost. The nicknames had been her roundabout way of getting him to spill his name first. He’d nearly walked right into it. Why were they waging a battle over something so minor? When this meeting started, they would find out each other’s names anyway.

It was time to let this girl know he didn’t play games. At least not the kind that took place while fully clothed. As he leaned across the table, he watched her blue eyes widen and knew she had to be a blonde underneath that pink hair. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were light, her coloring fair. She’d look goddamn perfect against my black sheets…arms stretched over her head, unable to free herself. Not really wanting to get free at all.

“I never said I didn’t like you calling me baby.”

Dammit. Had he said that out loud? He’d decided not to show her any more interest. Once he made a decision, he stuck to it. Every time. He resented her for being the one to make him deviate. If she weren’t leaning so close, her small tits pressing against the front of her shirt, maybe he’d have kept his resolve. He’d always liked women with bouncy little tits, and he’d lay ten to one odds she wasn’t wearing a bra. “Maybe I just want to hear you call me that under different circumstances.”

When her confidence visibly wavered, Connor wanted to curse. These contradicting sides to her were only increasing his need to know more, and he did not want to get involved. Couldn’t afford to. Her chin went up a notch, and that show of fire amidst the uncertainty turned him on. “What circumstances would those be?”

Too soon. Too insane. He’d just met this girl. They’d be working together. He couldn’t sit here in the light of day and detail the many activities he’d like to perform with her. Even if he wanted to, just to see her reaction. To see if she wanted him, too. But what would he do if she did? Drag her onto the conference room table, tug her shirt up to her neck, and get a look at those tits? He’d have to get her back to his apartment if he did that, damn the meeting.

Change the subject. “Why do you smell like smoke?”

Her eyelashes shielded her eyes a second before they flashed wide, hitting him square in the chest with the force of their impact. “I set things on fire.”



Any other time, the expression on the hot, bearded ex-soldier’s face would have made Erin O’Dea dissolve into a fit of laughter. It wasn’t the usual response men gave her when she played the crazy card. Not at all. Maybe that was why she wasn’t laughing. This guy wasn’t typical. Didn’t fit her profile of what men should be like. They all wanted to get inside her until she performed her fun little reveal. Surprise, sweetheart. I’m a convicted arsonist. You might be next.

Cue haunted house cackle.

They never asked why she’d done it or questioned the circumstances, simply vanishing into a puff of smoke. Exactly as planned. This guy wasn’t vanishing, however. He hadn’t flinched, not once, and the trickle of relief in her chest pissed her off. The words “proceed with caution” flashed across her consciousness, sparking and flaming around the edges. This man would ask why and question the circumstances. Having only met him mere minutes ago, she shouldn’t be so certain of that fact, but it would be reckless to put him in the same category as other men who scared easily. His steady green eyes were so intent on her, she worried her mask might slip underneath the weight of them. She didn’t want him to be the first person to ask her why. She didn’t want anyone to ask her why. Her secrets were all she had. After you’d lived behind bars among hundreds of women with your privacy stripped clean away, you held on to what you could. You didn’t let it go for a pair of muscular biceps.