There it was. An old-fashioned leather-bound guest register sitting on a shelf. Apparently Mustard Shirt eschewed technology in deference to the tried and true. She grabbed the massive book, hauled it over the counter, and stood on the other side with her mouth hanging open.
What was she doing? She wasn’t a spy! She wasn’t a police officer! She had no jurisdiction, no right to question a witnesses or gather evidence or—
“Run!” Mark bellowed at her. The word was a cattle prod, shocking her into action.
In a flash she was out the door, the bell tinkling behind her. Once she was on the sidewalk, the sun beating down on her, the guest register clutched to her chest, she looked left and right, and she realized she hadn’t a clue where to go and—
Mark had her by the elbow and jerked her into a fast gallop up the block. Cobblestones were not meant for wedge sandals. That was a fact. But somehow she managed to keep up with him as one block turned into two. Two became three, and then she stopped counting.
Secondhand stores, sex shops, and tattoo parlors whizzed by on either side of the street in the seedy neighborhood. She was about to tell Mark they needed to stop so she could kick out of her sandals before she broke an ankle, but then he tugged her into a narrow alleyway.
Clotheslines crisscrossed the small space overhead. A rusted fire escape zigzagged up the side of the apartment block on the right. And the building on the left had plywood nailed over the windows and municipal flyers warning passersby that the space was condemned and to Keep Out! Despite that, the back door stood ajar.
Shoving the guest register into Mark’s arms, she slammed her hands onto her hips and glared as best as she could while trying to catch her breath. The alleyway smelled of wet concrete, fresh laundry, and ripe trash. “You’re a liar and a thief!” she accused.
His chocolaty eyes twinkled as he flashed her a diabolical grin. “You lack an appreciation for the distinctions of bad behavior. I’m an embellisher and an appropriator.”
“Appropriate?” She pointed to the stolen guest register. “Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?”
His grin grew even more mischievous. “You betcha.” It was a phrase she’d used that he’d taken a liking to. He’d been whipping it out whenever the occasion called for it.
“Great!” She tossed her hands in the air. “I’ll embroider that on a pillow for you. Mark Risa, master appropriator. Holy Scheisse! I can’t believe we did that!”
He chuckled and wound one arm around her waist, dragging her against him. Like always, the second she was in his arms, she turned into a big pile of mush. There’d been many more kisses since that initial kiss in the doorway during the rain shower. But so far Mark had slammed the door on more.
He said he didn’t want to complicate matters. He said it wasn’t professional to sleep with a coworker. He said a lot of things she thought were total bologna.
With her adrenaline pumping and the excitement of the theft and escape like a fire in her blood, she wound her arms around his neck, twisted her fingers in the softly curling hair at his nape. “Make love to me, Mark.”
The laughter died on his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his tan throat, and his warm breath smelled sweet as it brushed against her cheeks. “Sonya, you know why I—”
“I don’t care about complications. I don’t care if it’s professional or not. I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted another man.”
Damn her pride. It hadn’t gotten her anywhere with him, and her lips were so chapped from all the kissing that if she didn’t lay it on the line and tell him what she wanted, she’d have to start buying stock in ChapStick.
“God, woman.” He screwed his beautiful eyes shut. Sunlight beamed into the alley from overhead. She was struck once again at the sooty thickness of his lashes. “You have no idea how hard you’re making this for me.”
The devil had her biting her bottom lip and cupping the evidence of his desire. Where she’d gotten the guts to be so forward she had no idea. But the deed was done, so she figured she’d better follow it up with more brazenness.
“Au contraire, mon ami,” she whispered in French because she knew he loved it. “I know exactly how hard I’m making it.”
Hard and hot and…huge. Sweet mother of Jesus, he was a handful.
Mark sucked in a ragged breath. “Sonya…”
“Mark…” She went up on tiptoe and bit his bottom lip. “Please.”
He shivered, his big frame shaking as if an earthquake rolled through it. Then he kissed her. Kissed her with the kind of passion she’d come to expect from him, with the kind of expertise that curled her toes. But it was more than that. More than their bodies rubbing. More than their tongues and teeth teasing. More than wet suction and hungry heat.
His kiss made her feel like stardust. Shimmery and light. It was like they were transported out of their corporeal forms and sent zinging across the cosmos together.
When he finally released her, she was sad to come back to reality. She wanted to stay among the stars forever. Fly into his sun and be burned up by his passion. But then he smiled and said the four most beautiful words she’d ever heard. “Your place or mine?”
“Neither,” she told him. When he quirked a brow, she grabbed his hand and pulled him through the open door of the condemned building. “Both are too far away.”
“And the craziest part about all of this,” Angel’s raspy voice dragged Sonya from her reverie. She shifted uncomfortably because the passionate memory combined with having Angel beside her in an enclosed space—Angel, emitter of pheromones, destroyer of panties, and incredible filler-outer of Levi’s—meant her pump was primed. If she was any more raring to go, she’d be in the midst of orgasm. “Is that Lord Asad Grafton and Sharif Garane, that nasty Somali pirate who snatched Becky years ago, are related. Grafton is Sharif’s father.”
Sonya could hear Emily’s squawk of surprise through the phone, but whatever words she said after were too soft and tinny sounding to make out.
