James ripped open the bathroom door and Lana threw herself back against the wall, heart racing and eyes wide.
“You’re only twenty-six,” he announced. “And age has nothing to do with what turns you on.”
Lana straightened herself and sidled past him. “You always were good at math. Not so good with doors.” She made it halfway across the bedroom before he grasped her arm and spun her around.
His eyes roved over her body and stopped at the floor. “Lose the boots.”
“The boots stay. They’re part of the outfit.”
“You’re my old lady. You need to look the part.”
Lana’s heart slammed against her ribs. She hadn’t expected a confrontation over something as trivial as her attire. Putting their lives in danger…that she could understand. But boots? She loved her Zombie Stompers. Comfy. Flat soles. Easy to run. Although a tad warm for summer, they made her feel safe. And, right now, she needed safe.
She gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve done very short. I’ve done very tight. Rex said nothing about footwear and I need to know I can run if I have to. The only way these boots are coming off is if you pull them off. Try to remember. We’re pretending. I’m not really your girlfriend.”
“You were.”
“You didn’t want me,” she said, her voice small and tight. And that in a nutshell was the source of her heartache. No one had ever wanted her. Not her father, after her mother died. Not the relatives he begged to take her in. Not the kids in high school who had teased her mercilessly about her hair. Not Levi who had put on a show good enough to lure her to Seattle. Not even James.
James closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “Babe, I never stopped wanting you.”
A knot formed in her stomach. The man who’d broken her heart had no business being tender and sweet. Caught in a whirlwind of emotion, torn between fear and fire, she suddenly, desperately and inexplicably wanted him to rip the boots off her feet.
As if he could read her thoughts, he murmured, “I pull off your boots. You flip out. We kill what little there is left between us.”
Lana let out a soft sigh of disappointment. “Hard to kill something that’s already dead.”
He cupped her jaw with his hand and stroked a thumb over the apple of her cheek. “You still feel something for me, Lana.” His voice dropped to a sensual whisper. “What we had isn’t dead. I hear it in the hitch of your breath. I see it in the flush of your cheeks. I can taste your desire on my lips. And if I stripped you bare, and licked my way down your body, I would find you wet and ready for me.”
Her lips parted in a silent gasp and for an endless second she forgot to breathe. He was right. She was slick with need. He knew her body better than she did. But where did he get off talking to her that way? Crossing that line? Seeking an assurance he wasn’t prepared to give first? Did he think she would jump into bed with him for a bit of fun, only to watch him walk away again? Did he think forgiveness came cheap, with a side of fries?
She eased out of his grasp and grabbed her backpack, prefilled with surveillance equipment, disguises, snacks and her iPod—all the necessities for a stakeout.
“Leaving.”
James’s mouth opened, but before he could say anything, two men in coveralls appeared in the doorway. While they discussed the door replacement with James, Lana reached into her closet for a jacket and caught sight of her new black leather boots covered in a lattice of laces. The heel was high enough to make them dressy, but not so high as to prevent her from running in a bad situation. “Classy chic,” Jackie had called them. Definitely better with the dress. She kicked off her fug boots and pulled the buttery soft leather over her feet, dismissing the not-so-fleeting thought that the boots would make James happy.
After receiving assurances from the carpenters that her apartment would be locked tight when they finished the job, she followed James into the hallway. His gaze dropped to her boots and then snapped up to her face. His eyes softened.
“Babe—”
“Don’t.”
He didn’t. At least not in words. He brushed his lips gently over hers, so soft and sweet this time she couldn’t bear to pull away.
Chapter Seven
She changed her boots.
James grinned and cranked the throttle on his Harley Davidson Rocker. One of the benefits of the undercover assignment had been the opportunity to choose his own wheels and when he’d seen the sporty, vivid-black Rocker in the Harley Davidson showroom, he knew he’d found his bike. The hardcore chopper—low, long, sleek and chromed out—lacked the huge ape-hanger handlebars most of the other bikers favored, but suited his need for speed over style. For the first time, he was glad he had splurged on the hidden passenger cushion. Choppers were not known for a comfortable pillion ride.