breasts, the slight curve of her stomach. This woman wasn’t a toned cop or athlete.
Her head turned and her hair swung, thick and shiny, smelling of some light citrus scent, clean and fresh. He recognized it . . . lemon and ginger, little bottles handed out by an upscale hotel. He drew in the scent of her, wanting that exotic note that had teased him earlier that day, even opened his mouth as if his tongue could taste her. Yeah, he caught that fragrance that tantalized—woodsy, spicy, some perfume mixed with her own Clare scent that indicated she was different than her appearance. Lust speared straight to his groin.
“Clare,” he said, his voice thicker with desire. He made himself concentrate on the road, on driving, though his peripheral vision showed her breasts rising faster.
“Yes?” she asked, quiet, more vulnerable. That vulnerability called out to him now more than ever before . . . because he knew he was flawed so badly.
“I like you.” Hell, that sounded dumb.
ELEVEN
B UT SHE CHUCKLED; more, she smiled so her cheeks turned full, and he wanted to kiss them, though not as much as he wanted to taste the nape of her neck, discover her flavor there. His dick thickened and he welcomed the sweet torment.
“I like you, too,” she said.
“You’re special,” he said, and her expression closed down again.
“I don’t want to be special. I want to be normal.” Her voice turned crisp.
“Okay,” he said mildly. “But you’re rich.”
Her body relaxed into the seat, and the curve to her lips returned, her arms uncrossed. “Yes, that I am.”
“Feels good?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But?” He took the last turn down her street, a dimly lit residential neighborhood. Now he was glad Mrs. Flinton had insisted he see Clare to her door. It looked safe, but a little shabby.
Nearby a dog growled.
“I want to be useful.” Her jawline showed strong as he pulled up to a small rectangular house with white siding. The porch light lit a tiny concrete stoop.
“I’m not the type to like just sitting on my rear,” she said. “I want to
do
something.”
He turned off the ignition, unbuckled the seat belt, and angled himself toward her. “I know what you mean.” His own mouth flattened. “I’ve got enough disability and money to live on okay for the rest of my life.” That came out bitter. He didn’t care. If she hadn’t researched him earlier, she’d do that soon, and better she see the whole shitty story online than his having to tell her. “I want to do something with my life, too.”
She nodded, eyes serious. “But you’ve already found a job.”
“I guess.” More anger spilled out.
“Why aren’t you satisfied with it?” She tilted her head.
“It’s private work, being paid for, not serving the public, not helping folks who don’t have the money to pay.” That sounded too damn high-minded, but it was the way he felt. Emotions swirled around them. “If I’d been a police officer, I wouldn’t have listened to Mrs. Flinton; I could have gone after Whistler and arrested him. Not as if he isn’t going to try to con others. Better if he’s off the street.”
She blinked, then nodded slowly again. “I understand that.” She glanced between the seats toward his cane. “But you can’t work in the public sector anymore?”
“Not in the field.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
They gazed at each other. He leaned down, closer, closer; she clicked off her seat belt and moved toward him, saying nothing. Barking started outside the car, and a cold stream of air from the mountains moved through his window. Clare frowned and Zach began to lean back, and then her eyes fired and she put her hands on his shoulders, tilted her head for his kiss, met him halfway.
He’d meant just a brush to test her and the kick they might have between them, learn the texture of her lips, but her tongue swept over his mouth and he opened it and welcomed her in. Here was the fire that he’d
Her head turned and her hair swung, thick and shiny, smelling of some light citrus scent, clean and fresh. He recognized it . . . lemon and ginger, little bottles handed out by an upscale hotel. He drew in the scent of her, wanting that exotic note that had teased him earlier that day, even opened his mouth as if his tongue could taste her. Yeah, he caught that fragrance that tantalized—woodsy, spicy, some perfume mixed with her own Clare scent that indicated she was different than her appearance. Lust speared straight to his groin.
“Clare,” he said, his voice thicker with desire. He made himself concentrate on the road, on driving, though his peripheral vision showed her breasts rising faster.
“Yes?” she asked, quiet, more vulnerable. That vulnerability called out to him now more than ever before . . . because he knew he was flawed so badly.
“I like you.” Hell, that sounded dumb.
ELEVEN
B UT SHE CHUCKLED; more, she smiled so her cheeks turned full, and he wanted to kiss them, though not as much as he wanted to taste the nape of her neck, discover her flavor there. His dick thickened and he welcomed the sweet torment.
“I like you, too,” she said.
“You’re special,” he said, and her expression closed down again.
“I don’t want to be special. I want to be normal.” Her voice turned crisp.
“Okay,” he said mildly. “But you’re rich.”
Her body relaxed into the seat, and the curve to her lips returned, her arms uncrossed. “Yes, that I am.”
“Feels good?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But?” He took the last turn down her street, a dimly lit residential neighborhood. Now he was glad Mrs. Flinton had insisted he see Clare to her door. It looked safe, but a little shabby.
Nearby a dog growled.
“I want to be useful.” Her jawline showed strong as he pulled up to a small rectangular house with white siding. The porch light lit a tiny concrete stoop.
“I’m not the type to like just sitting on my rear,” she said. “I want to
do
something.”
He turned off the ignition, unbuckled the seat belt, and angled himself toward her. “I know what you mean.” His own mouth flattened. “I’ve got enough disability and money to live on okay for the rest of my life.” That came out bitter. He didn’t care. If she hadn’t researched him earlier, she’d do that soon, and better she see the whole shitty story online than his having to tell her. “I want to do something with my life, too.”
She nodded, eyes serious. “But you’ve already found a job.”
“I guess.” More anger spilled out.
“Why aren’t you satisfied with it?” She tilted her head.
“It’s private work, being paid for, not serving the public, not helping folks who don’t have the money to pay.” That sounded too damn high-minded, but it was the way he felt. Emotions swirled around them. “If I’d been a police officer, I wouldn’t have listened to Mrs. Flinton; I could have gone after Whistler and arrested him. Not as if he isn’t going to try to con others. Better if he’s off the street.”
She blinked, then nodded slowly again. “I understand that.” She glanced between the seats toward his cane. “But you can’t work in the public sector anymore?”
“Not in the field.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
They gazed at each other. He leaned down, closer, closer; she clicked off her seat belt and moved toward him, saying nothing. Barking started outside the car, and a cold stream of air from the mountains moved through his window. Clare frowned and Zach began to lean back, and then her eyes fired and she put her hands on his shoulders, tilted her head for his kiss, met him halfway.
He’d meant just a brush to test her and the kick they might have between them, learn the texture of her lips, but her tongue swept over his mouth and he opened it and welcomed her in. Here was the fire that he’d
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