Blush(15)

Cruz kept his fingers tucked in the front pockets of his jeans. “I told you I wasn’t who you thought I was.”

Her gaze, frank and disconcertingly direct, came up to meet his. “Well, you did the job. You might as well get paid for it.”

From the way her nipple peaked beneath the cotton of her T-shirt, he wasn’t the only one thinking about what they’d done on the center island countertop. His dick lengthened on seeing that just the memory turned her on. “That was pleasure.” Concentrate, damn it. She’s the mark, nothing else. Her very naiveté was going to aid him in killing her. When the time came.

“But I’ll accept work.” He needed a few more days. Hell, he could afford the time, and the benefits to delaying killing her were worth the wait. He’d earn his money. But not quite yet.

“You left before I could—” she said coolly, tapping the edge of the envelope on her palm absently. What was she thinking about?

“Thank me,” he finished, keeping his smile to himself. “You were too exhausted to wake up for the next round.” He’d intentionally left her right there on the table, legs open, and cookies, pans, bar stools, and papers scattered on the floor where he’d swept them before playing with her.

Her eyes flashed with heat. “Yes, well, um . . .”

Cruz watched her search for the right words. He leaned his hip against the counter and spread his arms to rest his palms on the cool Formica countertop on either side of him. “I gather you hired out?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business last night.”

She pushed the envelope against his chest. “Well, then, take this, and we’ll be square.”

Cruz didn’t move to take it. And after a few seconds she dropped her hand and took a step back. Because she retreated, he advanced, stepping close enough for the sharp tips of her nipples to brush his chest, which set off a whole series of alarms through his nervous system. The smell of her skin, lush tuberose and a faint hint of something spicy, rose in a warm invisible cloud to twine around him. He saw the rapid rise of her pulse at the base of her throat and wanted to put his open mouth there to taste her again.

Standing so close, he could see the changing swirls of variegated blues in her widening eyes. He wanted to fill his hands with her again, feel the tight wet heat of her closing around him. Without volition, he bent his head, his lips hovering over hers, tasting her coffee-scented breath on the moist air between them. Her lashes fluttered as she angled her head to offer her mouth.

Cruz reached out to take the dish towel she’d slung over her shoulder before coming to open the front door. Her breathing stopped as he slowly slid it from her. Holding her gaze, he ran the dish towel over his wet hair. “I’d rather have steady work.”

“Um . . .” Her eyes were a little unfocused, but she recovered her equilibrium quickly. “Okay. What kind of work can you do?”

Bring you to multiple orgasms and have you beg for more. “Pretty much anything this house needs.” He’d worked enough construction jobs over the years; there was nothing she could throw at him that he couldn’t handle. And besides, it didn’t matter if he could or couldn’t do whatever she asked. She’d be dead by morning. “Just finished a major three-month remodel in Los Angeles.”

“For . . . ?”

“Aiden Cross. I’ll give you his number.” Which would be answered by voice mail.

“What kind of work did you do for him?”

“Remodeled his kitchen: custom cabinets, cement countertops, the whole nine yards. Converted a downstairs bedroom into an English-style pub, painted the whole place inside and out—” Cruz had recently done the remodel in his own French country farmhouse. He looked at the stack of wallpaper boxes piled in the corner. “I can handle anything you throw at me. What needs wallpapering?”

“Hallway, downstairs bath, and dining room. Do you have any experience installing—”

Keeping her under his watchful eye, having access to the house and any personal papers or shit he could find on her computer, might make this odd hesitancy he felt go away. He’d do the job he’d accepted a down payment on, then head off to Brazil, where he had a small house right on the beach. “Take me a week or so—”

An incredibly loud clap of thunder cut him off, causing Mia to flinch, and sent the dog skittering from beneath the table. In a blur of golden fur, Oso shot out of the kitchen and tore up the uncarpeted stairs. Frantically clicking nails indicated his terrified trajectory overhead.

“Stay put,” Cruz ordered. “I’ll get him.” And take a quick tour of the upstairs. And when she opened her mouth—he presumed to tell him it was her house—Cruz finished: “He won’t go to a stranger.” And jogged upstairs, leaving her in the kitchen.