Byron had a feeling Jane was her own worst enemy when it came to relaxing. She was the sort who planned things ten years in advance. He’d bet money she’d never stopped to smell even one rose.
True, he also had plans and machinations going on behind the scenes, but he made it a point to not only seize the day but enjoy the hell out of it. Probably because every sunrise could be his last. Might as well have a damn good time in the process.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Look, darlin’, I know your very first inclination is to say no, but you gotta get over it, or you won’t ever have any fun.”
He hated the way Jane instinctively backed away like he was going to pounce on her any moment. Byron wanted to, but it’d get him nowhere with her. Seducing Jane would be a slow and steady operation, and he’d have to use every trick of his trade to get it done.
“This is part of givin’ me a shot. I want a kiss.”
“But….”
“No buts, no excuses, no hedgin’. Do it and see what happens. This is included in the package. I’m a hell of a kisser, but you won’t know it ’til you try me out.”
Jane folded her arms across her chest. “Can’t we do this after dinner tonight? It’s how dates are supposed to go—dinner followed by a kiss.”
“We’ve already had dinner together. Stop stallin’.”
“Fine, but I’m kissing you, not the other way around.”
Jane licked her lips and took a step forward. She studied his mouth, her countenance fierce, like an Olympic diver about to take the plunge—so serious. If he weren't so intent on pushing her a bit, it would’ve been a hoot.
She curled her fingers into the lapels of his jacket and pulled his mouth down. Byron obligingly bent over. He kept his movements measured so as not to spook her. He got the sense she was ready to bolt out of the room at any second.
And then she mashed her mouth against his. It was artless and bewildering. She stood in the circle of his arms, stiff like an unyielding pine board.
When she was about to run away, he grasped her tight. He slipped an arm around her slim waist. Byron knew she liked a firm touch, so he reeled her in tight. He groaned as her breasts settled against his chest.
Jane relaxed, so he held her even more snugly, then tried another kiss. She moaned against his mouth, melting against him like warm chocolate. An answering warmth pooled in his belly. Byron devoured her mouth then, tasting her, getting to know her.
Good Lord, she’s sweet.
He could kiss her for hours. Foreplay was something he relished—the tease, the push and pull. Jane didn’t know it, but they’d been flirting for months. Squabbling was their foreplay, and every interaction fired his blood.
When she was limp in his embrace, he pulled back to study her—eyes at half mast, kiss-bruised mouth, short of breath. Oh, yes, she wanted him too, even if she was too damn stubborn to admit it.
“That was….”
“Yes?”
“Extraordinary.” And then she beamed, pretty as a peach.
“Thought so myself. Now then, you done fightin’ me? As I just demonstrated, we got chemistry. You gonna let go and see what happens?”
Jane nibbled her lower lip and frowned.
He could see the struggle going on behind the scenes, knew her brilliant mind was working out all the angles.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Byron couldn’t contain his grin as he offered his arm. “Come on, partner. Let’s take a trip to the crypt.”
Chapter Eleven
I can feel the bacteria swarming on me.
Over the years, Jane had logged a lot of time in the county morgue as she went over the evidence for her various cases. Given her OCD issues, corpses made her uneasy. Even being in this room made her want to run back to the hotel room and scrub the germs off herself.
The morgue wasn’t much to look at—pretty standard issue. It was located in the basement of the municipal building—green tile floor, cracked around the edges, a couple of industrial-sized stainless steel sinks. The walls and ceiling were made of white plaster. There was a drain in the center of the room, and the floor dipped, presumably so it could be hosed down. She didn’t like to dwell on what matter of innards and fluids had been swept away down there.
Two steel autopsy tables were situated near a long table, full of surgical instruments on trays. Fluorescent lights soaked the room in a sickly yellow hue. A body lay on the table nearest the door, covered by a starched white sheet.
Byron seemed unaffected by the smell of death, hosed down by industrial-strength bleach, or the presence of a sheeted body in the room. She imagined the mobster was no stranger to corpses, though the ones he saw were probably…fresher.