I trace the bandage up under the sleeve of his T-shirt, and goose bumps pebble the skin under my fingertip as it moves toward his shoulder. “Have you been shot before?”

His breathing stalls altogether for a beat. “No,” he finally says, lowering his gaze. He blows out a sigh, lifting his eyes to mine again, and in them I see his struggle. He closes them in a slow blink as he backs away. His hand slides down my arm and he catches my fingers with his for just a second before letting go of me. “I have some reports. There are leftovers in the fridge. I probably won’t be up for dinner.” He turns and vanishes down the stairs, leaving me standing here staring after him.

I don’t see him for the rest of the night, but I hear his music waft up from downstairs. I sneak down at one point, just to make sure he hasn’t keeled over dead, and see him on the sofa with a laptop, so I leave him alone. I know he needs his space for a lot of reasons.

I forage in the fridge and find something to take back to my room for dinner, then flip on the TV, but there’s nothing except reruns of shows that were bad the first time around. When I’m done eating, I turn it off and change into my swimsuit. I’ve got to burn off some of this tension before it eats me alive.

Just after dark I skip down the path and glance back at the house. The living room lights are on, but Blake isn’t on the balcony. I’m surprised by the pang of disappointment, until I get nearer the bathhouse and realize the light is on in the man cave.

He’s working out.

I tiptoe to the window and cautiously peer in. He’s on the bench press wearing nothing but his white bandage and a pair of loose navy gym shorts. As I watch, he lowers the heavily weighted barbell to his chest, then hikes it back up. Muscles ripple under taut skin across his chest and up his arms as he presses the weight once, twice, three times, and he winces each time as the left side of the barbell lags behind.

I want to go in there and tell him to stop. He’s not ready for this. But, instead, I find myself pressed up against the window, watching.

God, he’s beautiful.

He rests the barbell on the rack and sits up, and I step away from the window before he sees me.

I reach for the doorknob but then back away as the fleeting image of what might happen if I walked into that room flits through my mind and makes my insides tingle. The memory of those sure, firm hands on my body sends a rush of adrenaline surging through my bloodstream, and more than anything, I want to feel that again. I reach for the knob again, imagining how this will go. Between the two of us there are so little clothes, it would only take seconds before we were totally naked. Not enough time for either of us to think—to change our minds.

I hear the clang of metal and know he’s on another set. If I walked in now, what would he do?

I imagine the taste of his sweat, the feel of his hard body as he crushed himself against me. Every muscle in my belly contracts at the image of him throwing me onto the sofa and what would happen next.

Suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a game anymore. It feels deeper. And scarier. Are we both still here only because we have to be? Or is it more that we want? Need?

But I can’t want what I want. Maybe when Ben is locked away for good . . . when I’m no longer Blake’s job. But not now.

I move quickly to the pool and dive in, then swim hard, trying to swim away the need to go into that bathhouse and follow through on my desires.

When my lungs burn and I can’t move another muscle, I finally stop and float on my back, staring up at the night sky. The city lights are too bright to see anything but the brightest stars, but I remember what it looked like at the cabin. But that brings back memories of other things that happened there: Blake’s strong hands on my body, his mouth devouring mine. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind. But just as I’m starting to relax, there’s a splash.

When I first feel Blake’s hands on my waist, I giggle and kick against him, trying to pull away. But when I stand at the shallow end of the pool and look into his face, I suddenly know we’re not playing a game.

He tugs me to him and stares into my eyes with scorching intensity. The heat of his body, pressed against mine, burns me alive. His lips part and a sound of pure need escapes from them as he trails his nose along my forehead and down my temple. His lips brush over my scar, and his ragged breath in my ear stalls for a second, as if he’s preparing to whisper something private.

I pulse with the need to know what it is. I lean closer, unable to fight the urge, and I can taste his breath.

His fingers find my face, caressing my scarred cheek, then scoop around the back of my neck.

I don’t even think. I just do what I’ve been dying to do for weeks. I stretch up onto my tiptoes and press myself against him. My lips brush over his and I take his lower lip between my teeth.

He groans as his hands tighten around me, one at my back and the other at my neck, and he pulls me against the curve of his body. His mouth moves hungrily on mine, his tongue tasting and owning.

Little flashes of lightning jolt through my insides and my heart strains against my rib cage. Every nerve ending is on fire with his touch, and every part of me hums.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him closer, deepening our kiss. He responds with a low groan deep in his chest, and I’d swear the water around us boils. He grabs my hips and lifts me onto him, and I wrap my legs around his cut torso, needing to be closer, to feel every inch of him pressed against me. He backs us toward the pool stairs and lays me across them, his mouth leaving mine and trailing down my jawline, my throat, and across my collarbone.

I feel a tug at my neck, and suddenly my bikini top is floating away on the surface of the water. His lips migrate lower and I arch up and moan when they close over my breast, swirling his tongue over my tight nipple.

I’m on fire, my whole body a live nerve ending. I ache all over and I can barely breathe. As he presses me against the stairs and moves his erection against my sweet spot, I come unglued.

I let out a sharp “Ahh!” and dig my heels into his back, pulling him harder against me. I don’t care anymore about what’s right or wrong. I want Blake more then I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, and I know he feels the same.

I lift a hand and trail the tip of my finger along the curves of his chest and down his ripped abs. Every muscle feels taut under my hands, steel under silk.

His mouth finds mine again, and he moves his erection against my sweet spot, finding a rhythm. As I climb to a place I’ve never been, I can’t believe he can do this to me right through our clothes. He takes my nipple into his mouth again and gives suck as he rubs himself faster against me, and holy God, I’ve never felt anything like this. I’m vaguely aware that I’m crying out, loudly, something between a moan and a sob. And a minute later, when I come for the first time in my life, I do sob, an animal cry that doesn’t even sound human.

I’m struggling to catch my breath as he scoops me up and carries me to the house. Despite his injury, he sweeps up the stairs to my room like I weigh nothing at all and lays me on my unmade bed. He lies next to me and I curl myself around him. I burrow into his warmth, and as much as I don’t want to miss a minute of this, I feel myself drowsy with contentment. The beat of his heart, the caress of his fingers over my back, the rhythm of his breath in my hair, lull me slowly into sleep.


I WAKE TO the smell of coffee. It takes me a minute to get my senses straightened out, but then I smile when I remember where I am . . . or more accurately, how I got here.

I roll, and when I find the other side of the bed empty, the smile fades off my face.

Coffee.

He’s in the kitchen.

I drag myself out of bed, still groggy, and slip my robe on over my bikini bottoms, then go to the kitchen. But Blake is nowhere.

I fill my Alcatraz mug and suck down half of it in one greedy gulp. When I hear Blake on the stairs, I can’t keep the grin from spreading over my face. I turn, but the person who crests the top step isn’t Blake. It’s Cooper.

He looks at me, his gaze cool.

I pull my robe tighter around me, suddenly feeling naked. “Is Blake . . . downstairs?”

“Special Agent Montgomery decided he needed some recovery time. He asked me to stand in, which means you’re graced with my company for the next few days.”

A tight band wraps around my chest and I can’t get a full breath. “Recovery time?” I picture him working out last night . . . and carrying me up the stairs.

But now he needs recovery time?

Cooper fixes me in a frosty stare. “He was shot, in case you forgot.”

“I know he was shot!” I snap, guilt and dread and fear spinning my emotions into a cyclone.

He moves past me into the kitchen. “At least he had the good sense to brew the coffee before he left.”

I move to the living room, sinking into the sofa. “Is he coming back?”

He flicks me a glance. “You tell me, Jezebel.”

I lean into the cushions and close my eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Cooper settles into the armchair and sets my full Alcatraz mug on the table in front of me. “Look, Blake is a good kid, and he’s a great agent. He has more potential than anyone I’ve seen come up through the ranks for a while. If you ever repeat this to anyone, I’ll deny it, but I think Special Agent in Charge Navarro screwed up bringing him in on this case. There’s no way this isn’t going to be personal for him. His emotions are all over the place. Add Jezebel,” he says with a flick of his wrist at me, “and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.”