Hero Under Cover. Suzanne Brockmann
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Taylor still watching her.
He was sitting in a chair by the door. He didn’t look tired despite the late hour. He didn’t look uncomfortable or put upon or…anything.
Christmas, he was making her nervous.
She thought about just breezing past him, out the door and up the stairs, but her conscience made her stop.
“There’s a spare bedroom upstairs,” she said. “You can sleep—”
But he was shaking his head. “No.”
“Oh,” she said. “I suppose you want to stay down here, to be near the safe—”
“The safe’s secure,” he said, pulling himself out of the chair in one graceful, fluid motion. “You’d need a crane to move it, and a ton of dynamite to get into it. If I sleep at all, it’s going to be in your bedroom.”
Annie stared at him, shocked. In her bedroom…But his words had been said matter of factly, expressionlessly, without any hint of sexual overtones. Either he had no idea of his physical appeal, or he was so confident, he didn’t doubt that any woman would be grateful to share her bed with him. “I don’t think so,” she said.
He raised one eyebrow, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. “I meant, on the floor.”
Annie willed herself not to blush. “You’d be much more comfortable in the guest room,” she said.
“But you would be much less safe,” he countered. “Your alarm system is nearly worthless—”
“I’ll be fine,” Annie protested. This was starting to get tiring. Why wouldn’t he just accept his defeat and sleep in the guest room?
He was blocking her way up the stairs, his arms crossed stubbornly in front of his chest. “Will you please let me do my job?”
“By all means,” she said. “Do your job. Just do it in the guest room tonight.”
He wasn’t going to move, so Annie pushed past him, starting toward the stairs.
But he caught her arm, stopping her. His fingers were long and strong, easily encircling her wrist. The heat from his hand penetrated the flannel of her pajamas.
Her heart was pounding from annoyance, Annie tried to convince herself, not from his touch. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.
“I am going to protect you,” he said. His face remained expressionless, but his eyes were like twin chips of volcanic glass.
He had pulled her in so close that she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Maybe so,” she said, and to her chagrin, her voice shook very slightly. “But who’s going to protect me from you?”
Pete dropped her arm immediately.
“I don’t know you from Adam,” Annie said, stepping back, away from him, rubbing her arm. “For all I know, you’re really the guy who’s been making the death threats. For all I know, you’ve done in the real Peter Taylor.”
“My picture’s on my ID, and my driver’s license.”
“Everyone knows picture IDs are easy to fake—” She broke off, staring in fascination at his necklace. She’d noticed earlier that he wore silver beads around his neck, but until now she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the necklace. It was clearly Navaho, with small coin-silver hollow beads, and five squash blossoms decorating the bottom half, along with a three-quarter circle design pendant, known as a naja.
Ignoring her trepidation, she took a step toward him, lifting the naja in her hand. “This is beautiful,” she said, glancing up at him before studying it more closely. Two tiny hands decorated the ends of the naja. “Navaho. It’s quite old, too, isn’t it?”
All of her anger, all of her uneasiness was instantly forgotten as she was caught up, examining the carefully worked silver. She looked at the necklace with real interest, real excitement sparking in her eyes.
Pete laughed, and Annie looked up at him in surprise. It was a rich, deep laugh complete with a grin that transformed his face. She had been right—with his face unfrozen, he was exceptionally handsome.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s Navaho.”
She was standing so close to him, mere inches away, holding the naja, but looking up at him. As he gazed into her wide blue eyes, he could feel the heat rising in him. What was it about her that made his body react so powerfully? He wanted to pull her into his arms, feel her body against his. He could imagine the way her lips would taste. Warm and sweet. Man, it would take so little effort….
Pete shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans to keep from touching her.
“Your belt buckle is Navaho, too,” she said. “And the ring on your hand, I think…I didn’t really get a good look at it.”
He pulled his right hand free from his pocket, glancing down at the thick silver-and-turquoise ring he wore on his third finger.
“Do you mind?” Annie asked, letting go of the pendant and taking his hand. She looked closely at the worn silver of the ring, at the delicate ornamentation. “This isn’t quite as old as the necklace,” she said. “But it’s beautiful.”
Her slender fingers were cool against the heat of his. She kept her nails cut short but well-groomed, and wore no jewelry on her hands.
“I thought you were a specialist in European metalworks,” he said. “How come you know so much about Native American jewelry?”
She turned his hand over, looking at the other side of the ring. “When I was a kid, I spent about six years at sites in Utah and Arizona, one year in Colorado. Out of all the places we ever lived, my favorite was the American Southwest. When I went to college, I even considered specializing in Native American archaeology.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, there were a lot of different reasons.” She looked down at his ring again. His hand was so big, it seemed to engulf both of hers. He had calluses on his palm, and two of his fingers had healing abrasions on the knuckles—as if he’d slammed his fist into a wall. Or a person, she realized. In his line of work, it could very well have been a person.
He was looking down at her, making no attempt to take his hand away. Their eyes met, and for the briefest of instants, Annie saw the deep heat of desire in his eyes. Fire seemed to slice through her as her body responded, and she dropped his hand, noticing with rather horrified amusement that he had let go of her with as much haste. What had he seen in her eyes, she wondered. Was her own attraction for him as apparent?
She looked away, taking a step back from him, once again heading for the stairs. “Good night,” she said, her voice sounding strange and breathless.
But he was in front of her, leading the way up to the second floor. “At the very least, I want to check out your room,” he said. “Make sure all the windows are locked—”
“I can do that,” Annie protested.
“Yeah, I know,” he said as he went into her bedroom. “But I have to see it for myself.”
The bed was still unmade from Annie’s afternoon nap, and she saw him glance at her bright blue and green patterned sheets before crossing to the bay windows on the other side of the big room.
He pulled back the curtains and looked at each window carefully, checking to see that the locks were secure and the alarm system was working.
Annie stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed in front of her as she watched his broad, strong back. With his conservatively short black hair, she wouldn’t have expected him to be wearing jeans with his tweed jacket, but somehow it didn’t look out of place. The jacket was well tailored, fitting his broad shoulders like a glove. His jeans were loose enough to be comfortable, yet managed to show off the long, muscular lengths of his legs.