“They blocked everything around it,” she explained. “I had to take the long way home.” She stopped, eyes soft.
“But as you can see, I am safe.”
“But if something should happen...”
“I'm always careful,” she assured him. “And I needed to finish the piece. I can't just stop. You know that.”
He did know, even though his own efforts had never attained the following that hers had. He did understand. He just wished that she did.
“You should not worry.” She pressed a hand against his cheek and kissed him.
“I must get out of these clothes. I have paint all over everything.”
He followed her to the upstairs bedroom. “You might have called.”
He saw the shrug of a slender shoulder and knew it fell on deaf ears. When she was working, she refused to stop for anything.
“You're finished, then?”
She untied the shoulder strap and stepped out of the designer overalls that accentuated every curve.
“It is finished.” She turned, the sheer peasant blouse she had worn underneath revealing more than it concealed, her breasts full, dark, her nipples erect.
She walked toward him then, smoothing back the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead...like a little boy.
“I thought we might go over to France, take a holiday,” he suggested. It had been a while since they'd had taken time together.
He wanted to touch her, but hesitated. She'd been working practically non-stop; she was probably tired. That was often the case. Instead, she surprised him, taking his hand and bringing it to her breast.
She was warm, the dark nipple pressing through the fabric against his palm as her other hand moved low at the opening to his trousers.
“Alyia...”
She pulled him down for another kiss, different this time, hungry, her tongue wrapping around his even as she unbuttoned the front of his pants, those slender fingers wrapping around his flesh, stroking him until he was fully aroused.
How many times had it started this way? A kiss, soft words, taking him to the edge only to plead that she was too tired.
But this was different. Tonight, she was different, her hands moving over him, impatient at the buttons of his shirt, pushing it back, her mouth skimming over him, nipping, taking him with her to the bed.
She sprawled across the satin coverlet, pulling him down to her, her dusky body like warm honey glowing before him. She arched as his mouth closed over her breast, pushing back the last of his clothes, then a slender hand moved low between them.
This too was part of it, her fingers stroking her own flesh, slipping inside, again and again until she was breathless beneath him. But this time she brought her hand up, eyes dark, and offered him a taste.
Everything was forgotten—the images on the screen, the tragedy of the evening, the chaos of another terrorist attack, even the hours he'd waited.
There was only her body, the taste of her, her slender legs wrapping around him.
CHAPTER
NINE
The smell of coffee was strong, sharp, the kind her brother used to say you could stand a spoon in.
Kris followed it, pushing her way up out of sleep, pushing back the chaos and sounds from the nightmare.
The world gradually righted itself in simple, familiar things—the sound of water running, the distant hum of the furnace, the gurgling of the coffee brewer. She slowly sat up, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
A coffee mug appeared in front of her. She took it, wrapping her hands around the stoneware mug.
