When She Dreams (Burning Cove #6)(51)

“I will never be happy working for someone else. I don’t take orders well.”

Sam’s mouth curved in the faint smile she was learning meant he was genuinely amused. “Or good advice.”

“Evidently you possess a similar character flaw,” she said. “It explains why you made the career-ending mistake of arresting that horrible man in L.A.”

“Chichester.”

“The reason I hired you instead of one of those other two private detectives in Adelina Beach was because you struck me as a man who could not be bought.”

“Not all cops are on the take, Maggie.”

“I know.” She smiled. “And not all those who are interested in dreams are con artists or the sadly deluded victims of con artists.”

“I don’t think you’re a fraud, and I don’t think you’re deluded,” Sam said.

“Really? What am I, then? Besides a client, I mean.”

“You’re a mystery.”

“You’re in the business of solving mysteries.”

“I find them interesting.”

“I think you need them,” she whispered.

“You may be right.” He took a step back, retreating into his room. “Get some sleep, Maggie. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.

He went still. “What kind of question is that?”

“The yes-or-no kind.”

“Yes.” He moved forward, crossing the threshold into her room. He brushed the side of her face with his knuckles. “I want to kiss you very much, but it would probably be a mistake.”

“I’m a mystery, and you like to solve mysteries.”

“That would be my excuse,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“That’s easy.” She flattened her palm against his chest. “Research.”

His eyes tightened ominously. “For your book.”

“There’s a romance at the heart of the story, you see,” she said.

“I’m sure you’ve already done some research on the subject. You did mention that you enjoy writing the sinning parts of the sin, suffer, and repent stories you sell to the confession magazines.”

“Yes, but thus far the results of my research have been extremely disappointing. Luckily for the sake of my confession-writing business, I have a very good imagination.”

“Don’t remind me.”

He covered her mouth with his own. She sensed his restraint and knew he intended to remain in full control of the kiss. That was fine by her. She was in control, too. This was their first embrace, after all, an experiment for both of them.

She did not see the storm coming until it struck. She possessed a vivid imagination and she knew how to dream, but nothing could have prepared her for the dizzying rush of sensation that swept through her. When she found herself caged, her back to the wall, Sam’s hands flattened on either side of her head, she knew she wasn’t the only one who had been caught off guard.

She gripped his shoulders and hung on for dear life as she tried to identify and label the fiery rush of sensations. She needed to remember every aspect of the kiss—she needed the words—but it was impossible to keep the emotional distance required to step back and observe. The kiss was fierce, hot, demanding. They were fighting each other for the embrace. When you found yourself in intimate hand-to-hand combat there was no choice but to be fully engaged.

Sam wrenched his mouth off hers and kissed the side of her throat.

“So soft,” he groaned.

He pried his hands away from the wall, gripped her waist, and pulled her tightly against him. After a moment he lifted her off her feet and out of her slippers.

She clenched his shoulders to steady herself. The laughter bubbled out of her.

“I’m not frigid,” she announced.

He stilled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Long story. Some other time.”

“Right. Some other time.”

His mouth came down on hers again. He carried her into the other room—his room—stood her on her feet beside the bed, and undid the sash of her robe. He eased the garment off her shoulders as if he were unveiling a priceless work of art.

She struggled with the front of his shirt. When she finally succeeded in getting it undone, she flattened her hands against his hard chest and threaded her fingers through the crisp hair she found there. His scent was a heady mix of shaving soap, sweat, and the raw essence of Sam Sage. It acted like a tonic on her senses.

He undid the small buttons that closed the front of her nightgown and pushed the silky fabric down over her hips. It pooled on the floor around her bare feet.

He paused long enough to yank the covers down to the foot of the bed, and then he picked her up and settled her on the sheets.

“Don’t go away,” he said.

He turned off the bedside lamp and disappeared into the bathroom. She heard him open a case of some kind—his shaving kit, she decided. When he returned he was nude except for his briefs. She watched him step out of those and sheathe his rigid erection in a prophylactic.

In the next moment he was on the bed beside her, gathering her into his arms. He slid one leg between hers and closed his hand gently over her breast.

“You smell so good,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I can’t get enough of you.”