It's the ghost impression of her body pressed flush against my back.
On the dirt bike, she had no choice but to hold on. Her thighs wrapped tight around my hips, gripping me with every sharp turn and violent surge of the throttle. Her chest flattened against my spine, the soft swell of her breasts burning through the thick layers of my tactical jacket.
She clung to me like I was her only anchor to the earth, her fingers digging fiercely into my stomach.
I'm trained to compartmentalize. To lock down the physical responses that compromise a mission.
Right now, that training is failing.
My blood runs hot. A dull ache settles low in my groin. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles stark white against the dark leather. I have to lock this down.
If I can't suppress the visceral, primal reaction her proximity drags out of me, surviving the next twenty-four hours in a confined space is going to be impossible.
I cut a glance across the center console.
Addy sits rigid in the passenger seat. The canvas messenger bag rests on her lap. Her hands are folded over it, protective and still. She hasn't asked a single question since we hit the highway.
No hysterics. No panic. Just cold, analytical processing.
Through the glass of a scope, from a mile and a half away, she was striking. A lone, fierce woman owning her isolation.
Up close, at arm's length, her profile is exquisite.
The sharp, clean line of her jaw. The sweep of her dark lashes. The stray strands of her braid framing a face that could bring a man to his knees. She's terrifyingly beautiful, and she has absolutely no idea the effect she's having on the air in this cab.
I force my eyes back to the road.
Thirty miles deep into the Bighorn Mountains, I ease off the accelerator. I hit the turn signal and drop the heavy truck off the paved highway onto a rutted, overgrown two-track trail. The thick canopy of lodgepole pines swallows the sunlight, plunging the truck into immediate shadow.
We crawl up the incline for two miles. The trail ends abruptly in a small clearing.
The cabin sits tucked against a sheer rock face. Rough-hewn logs. A tin roof. Built for hunters or men who need to disappear. It doesn't exist on any county plat map.
I kill the engine.
"We're here."
I open the door and step out into the mountain air. The temperature is dropping as the afternoon bleeds away. I walk to the tailgate and drop it with a metallic clang.
Addy climbs out of the passenger side. She doesn't hover by the door or seek shelter. She steps clear of the vehicle, assessing the tree line. Her hand rests near her hip, inches from her holstered Glock. She's an accountant who traces digital ghosts, but she has the situational awareness of a seasoned operator. It's another contradiction that tightens the knot in my gut.
I grab the dirt bike by the handlebars and the subframe.
The machine weighs three hundred pounds. I brace my boots against the dirt, engage my core, and haul the bike out of the truck bed.
After fifty hours holding a rigid prone position in the freezing cold, the lift is pure agony. The locked muscles in my back and shoulders tear in protest. A sharp pain lances down my spine, a warning from a body that has been pushed past its physical limit.
I don't wince. I don't let out a breath. I lock my jaw and guide the front tire down, letting the suspension absorb the impact.
I kick the stand down. My hands are trembling, but I force my fingers into tight fists to hide it. I can't afford to show her weakness. Not when I'm the only thing standing between her and a heavily armed syndicate.
When I turn around, Addy is watching me.
Her eyes are locked on my chest, tracking the rapid rise and fall of my breathing. The lift strained the fabric of my thermal shirt, pulling it tight across my shoulders. Her gaze trails down the line of my torso, dropping straight to the front of my tactical pants.
She goes perfectly still.
I'm semi-hard. The physical arousal from the dirt bike ride hasn't faded. Feeling her wrap her legs around my waist, herchest pressed to my spine for three miles, did catastrophic damage to my self-control. There is no way to hide the rigid strain against the fabric. I know exactly what she sees.
