the dumb bastard drink.
Having peeled back one corner of the spread to reveal a bright white sheet—the Princess wouldn’t want to put her precious ass on any soiled linens, now, would she?—she sat with one leg tucked under her and did that vacant-stare thing again.
There was something forlorn and exhausted about her, poor thing. He was used to this lifestyle, but she wasn’t and never would be. Compassion reared its ugly head and he wanted to tell her that she should take a nap, that it would be a couple of hours before the cavalry rode in, but he wasn’t sure what the sight of Amara lying in a bed within touching distance would do to his limited reserves of self-control.
Besides.
He sort of liked her company. Sort of liked not being alone for once.
He’d be alone again soon enough, so there was plenty of time later for that.
Digging through the bag, he tried to remember what he’d been doing. What was he looking for? What was he about to do? Oh yeah—shower. That was it.
With his hands wrist-deep in his clothes, he couldn’tthink of the first damn thing he needed. How could he think when it was so much easier to stare at Amara?
Yeah, he hadn’t been so busy fighting professional killers that he’d failed to notice the fine details of Amara’s
Penthouse-worthy
body. And she’d flipped the light on and backlit every inch of herself. It wasn’t that he’d been trying to see everything, but Jesus—what was he supposed to do? Ignore those dark-tipped tits and shapely legs? Pretend he didn’t see the soft curve of her belly and enticing triangle between her thighs?
What was the point of that ridiculous sheer nightgown she’d been wearing? He’d seen Band-Aids that provided more coverage than that. Why not just go to bed nude?
Amara. In bed. Nude.
Now there was an image he wanted to back away from before he got hurt.
But … her face. He could watch it for days and never get bored, maybe weeks. It was all big eyes, cute nose and fantasy-come-to-life lush mouth. That mouth could do a guy some serious damage—if he was lucky.
And where’d all that hair come from? All that long, wavy, silky-sexy black hair. What was she thinking, hiding hair like that by piling it on top of her head? Although … on second thought, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. It didn’t stretch his imagination too much to imagine her sparking car accidents and/or riots by walking down the street in all her glory.
Her drop-dead looks. Yeah. That was the problem.
And yet … her beauty wasn’t the problem at all—wasn’t even a fraction of the problem. The problem was way more than he wanted to admit, ever.
As though she finally felt the hunger of his gaze on the top of her head, Amara looked up at him and he saw, to his pained surprise, that a new sheen of tears sparkled in her eyes and her bottom lip trembled.
Aw, fuck.
There was childlike hope in her expression.
“Is J-Mart really dead?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
He swallowed. Wet his dry lips. Wished he could die on the spot rather than cause that light in her eyes to go out. “Yes.”
She nodded, accepting the worst.
In the echoing silence, he ignored the crushing pain in his chest and turned back to his bag. Underwear. He needed underwear, deodorant and—
“What’s going to happen now, Jack?”
“Well …”
Extracting the kit with his toiletries, he tried to think. “For now, they’re sending someone—a team—to pick us up. They’ll figure out how to protect you—”
“They didn’t seem too enthusiastic about that, did they?”
“I plan to help them along with their enthusiasm level,” he said flatly.
“And you’re going to Cincinnati? To testify?”
Oh, shit. Had he said that? Out loud? Why couldn’t he remember that this woman was a sponge with a clever brain worthy of a CIA operative?
He said nothing, and she knew. She always knew.
“When can I go home?” she asked.
“Soon. I think.”
“When can you
Having peeled back one corner of the spread to reveal a bright white sheet—the Princess wouldn’t want to put her precious ass on any soiled linens, now, would she?—she sat with one leg tucked under her and did that vacant-stare thing again.
There was something forlorn and exhausted about her, poor thing. He was used to this lifestyle, but she wasn’t and never would be. Compassion reared its ugly head and he wanted to tell her that she should take a nap, that it would be a couple of hours before the cavalry rode in, but he wasn’t sure what the sight of Amara lying in a bed within touching distance would do to his limited reserves of self-control.
Besides.
He sort of liked her company. Sort of liked not being alone for once.
He’d be alone again soon enough, so there was plenty of time later for that.
Digging through the bag, he tried to remember what he’d been doing. What was he looking for? What was he about to do? Oh yeah—shower. That was it.
With his hands wrist-deep in his clothes, he couldn’tthink of the first damn thing he needed. How could he think when it was so much easier to stare at Amara?
Yeah, he hadn’t been so busy fighting professional killers that he’d failed to notice the fine details of Amara’s
Penthouse-worthy
body. And she’d flipped the light on and backlit every inch of herself. It wasn’t that he’d been trying to see everything, but Jesus—what was he supposed to do? Ignore those dark-tipped tits and shapely legs? Pretend he didn’t see the soft curve of her belly and enticing triangle between her thighs?
What was the point of that ridiculous sheer nightgown she’d been wearing? He’d seen Band-Aids that provided more coverage than that. Why not just go to bed nude?
Amara. In bed. Nude.
Now there was an image he wanted to back away from before he got hurt.
But … her face. He could watch it for days and never get bored, maybe weeks. It was all big eyes, cute nose and fantasy-come-to-life lush mouth. That mouth could do a guy some serious damage—if he was lucky.
And where’d all that hair come from? All that long, wavy, silky-sexy black hair. What was she thinking, hiding hair like that by piling it on top of her head? Although … on second thought, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. It didn’t stretch his imagination too much to imagine her sparking car accidents and/or riots by walking down the street in all her glory.
Her drop-dead looks. Yeah. That was the problem.
And yet … her beauty wasn’t the problem at all—wasn’t even a fraction of the problem. The problem was way more than he wanted to admit, ever.
As though she finally felt the hunger of his gaze on the top of her head, Amara looked up at him and he saw, to his pained surprise, that a new sheen of tears sparkled in her eyes and her bottom lip trembled.
Aw, fuck.
There was childlike hope in her expression.
“Is J-Mart really dead?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
He swallowed. Wet his dry lips. Wished he could die on the spot rather than cause that light in her eyes to go out. “Yes.”
She nodded, accepting the worst.
In the echoing silence, he ignored the crushing pain in his chest and turned back to his bag. Underwear. He needed underwear, deodorant and—
“What’s going to happen now, Jack?”
“Well …”
Extracting the kit with his toiletries, he tried to think. “For now, they’re sending someone—a team—to pick us up. They’ll figure out how to protect you—”
“They didn’t seem too enthusiastic about that, did they?”
“I plan to help them along with their enthusiasm level,” he said flatly.
“And you’re going to Cincinnati? To testify?”
Oh, shit. Had he said that? Out loud? Why couldn’t he remember that this woman was a sponge with a clever brain worthy of a CIA operative?
He said nothing, and she knew. She always knew.
“When can I go home?” she asked.
“Soon. I think.”
“When can you
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