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Flirting with Danger
Knowing sleep was impossible, Bailey dug through her bag and retrieved her robe.
The last thing she wanted to do was run into O’Neill wearing nothing but a T-shirt
and a smile.
She slipped into the white terry cloth and
looped the belt before quietly stepping into the hallway. She waited for her eyes to
adjust to the darkness and listened for a sign that O’Neill was awake, but the only
sound came from the gentle hum of the central air-conditioning unit. Recalling her steps
through the house only hours ago, the spacious living room was straight ahead. And
hopefully the kitchen and much needed, and rejuvenating, coffee.
Keeping close to the wall, she used her hands to
guide her, stepping carefully since she couldn’t remember if there had been anything
to impede her progress. Something soft and silky brushed against her hand. She jumped
back, a tight squeal of fear lodging in her throat before she recalled the tall, oblong
table with a silk flower arrangement. Willing her heart rate to return to normal, she
stepped around the table and continued toward the front of the house.
She reached the open area of the living room and
stopped. The drapes had been left open, allowing the pale, pre-dawn light to aid her in
gaining her bearings. In the semi-darkness, she made out the shapes of furniture and
spotted a lamp across the room. She turned, and saw the shadow of a man looming in front
of her.
A scream lodged in her throat when he reached
for her. Her feet tangled in her robe, and they fell to the floor, hard. Pain shot from
her hip, momentarily overshadowing her fear. Finding her voice, she cried out, hoping to
rouse O’Neill, and struggled against her attacker.
She tried to push him off her, but he was as
unmovable as a mountain. A large hand clamped over her lips when she opened her mouth to
scream so she bit down into the callused flesh.
Her attacker swore a blue streak.
"Dammit, Bailey."
Relief washed over her at the sound of
O’Neill’s rough, angry voice, and she sagged against the cold stone tiles.
"What are you doing sneaking around in the middle of the night?"
"I wasn’t sneaking around," she
told him, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room. The robe she’d thought would
provide modesty lay open, making her very conscious of his thick, muscled, denim-covered
thighs pressed against her bared ones. "I didn’t want to wake you."
She peered up at him, and expected an angry
glare in return. Instead, he watched her with an intensity that unnerved her. His face was
inches from hers, his warm breath fanning her cheek. If she turned her head slightly, only
a heartbeat would separate their lips. All she had to do was . . .
His gaze slid down the length of her,
encouraging her runaway fantasy. "What did you want?"
Her gaze slipped from his eyes to those lips
only inches from hers. He has such a nice mouth, she thought. "Coffee."
He eased himself off her and settled back on his
haunches. "Are you all right?" he asked gently.
"I think so. Just bruised," she said,
telling herself her skyrocketing pulse rate had nothing to do with the sudden husky,
lover-like softness of his voice, but the fright he’d given her. She dragged her gaze
back to his and away from those lips that had her curious about deep kisses and one surly
detective.
A frown drew his dark brows together.
"Where?"
She blinked, trying to focus on the conversation
and not that she’d actually considered kissing O’Neill. "My hip."
He pushed her robe further aside. "Let me
see," he said, when she tried to tug the terry cloth around her.
She sat and winced. "I’m fine."
He gave her a look that said he didn’t
believe her and ran his hand up the length of her thigh and over her hip. His palm was
rough, callused, and hot. Or was it just that her skin heated beneath his touch? She
didn’t know for certain, but the thought went right out of her mind when his hand
skimmed the lace edge of her panties. Her breath caught, and an odd stirring started in
her tummy and wove through her.
"Does that hurt?" he asked, as if he
hadn’t just tilted her world. He gently pressed his fingers against her skin, skin
that suddenly felt too tight for her body.
"I said I was fine." She scooted away
and stood, pulling her robe around her traitorous body. "Do you always tackle your
guests first thing in the morning?"
He stood and looked down at her. His expression
turned to granite. "You’re not a guest. You’re under my protection since
you don’t have the brains to stay out of trouble and let the police handle
this."
Now that was the O’Neill she understood.
The cranky one. And she would do well to remember that in the future and forget about
kisses and tender touches and resulting tummy flutters. |
