The Darkest Corner (Gravediggers #1)(45)

His hands traced the subtle curve of her hips up to the slight indentation of her waist. She sucked in a breath as his fingers trailed higher, over her ribs and to the soft swell at the bottom of her breasts. She was small-boned and the curves she did have were slight and delicate. But there was no mistaking her for a boy.

He pushed the jacket from her shoulders and it fell to the bathroom floor. She wore a simple camisole beneath it, and he could see the tight beads of her nipples through the thin fabric.

"That's better," he said.

"That's my funeral jacket."

"We can bury it later." He bent to kiss her again, but her head snapped up. If he hadn't moved out of the way, she would've snapped his jaw closed.

"Funeral!" she said. "There's a viewing downstairs. I've got to go." She looked around and then noticed her jacket on the bathroom floor. The grimy, Sheetrock- and tile-covered bathroom floor.

"Oh, no. No, no, no." She picked up the ugly jacket between two fingers, shaking off the dust. "What have you done? You're complicating my life."

She turned and walked out of the bathroom and into her bedroom suite, muttering under her breath. He followed behind her and hoped she didn't look in the mirror. He'd mussed her hair and the side of her neck was red from where he'd kissed her.

"How am I complicating your life?" he asked, leaning against the door frame.

She was constant motion and energy, and he could've watched her all day. She disappeared farther into the closet and his brows rose as the silky shell she'd been wearing came flying out of the closet. She came out a few seconds later buttoning a black blouse with thin white pinstripes.

"What kind of funeral home director goes to a viewing without a jacket?" she said, her irritation obvious.

"I'll get you a new one," he told her. Her scowl could've melted a lesser man.

"Size four," she said. "Nothing fancy."

It was everything he could do to hold in a laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd just had . . . fun. Since his first day at the CIA fifteen years ago he'd had nothing but the weight of the world, literally, on his shoulders. There'd been no family he could share it with. No wife he could confide in. Only his own thoughts and the knowledge that if he didn't get the job done, then no one would.

"Try not to destroy anything else," she threw over her shoulder, heading toward the door.

"You never told me how I'm complicating your life. You like kissing me."

Tess turned back around. "Let's not get cocky," she said. "Of course I like kissing you. But the timing is bad. I'm leaving Last Stop. I've got other things on the horizon."

"Your grandmother will miss you."

"She can come visit. When did you learn to speak Russian?" she asked, changing the subject. She did that often. Talking with her was like following a tornado. "You answered me this morning when I swore at you."

"That's top secret information, and you've got other things on the horizon. Where are you going to go?"

"Maybe Austin or San Antonio. Somewhere with a population large enough for a steady business."



       
         
       
        

"That's morbid."

"Morbidity is my business," she said with a shrug. And then she looked at him oddly. "Yours too."

"You have no idea," he said. "Have dinner with me."

"I told you. I'm leaving."

"Okay, let's skip dinner and go straight to bed."

She laughed.

"No," she said, grinning, and she was gone back down the stairs almost before he could blink.

"Stop telling me no," he called after her, repeating her from earlier that day.

Her laughter followed her down the stairs.

Deacon felt a pang of remorse for what he was doing. There was no question he wanted her. He liked her. But he was pulling her into a game she'd never be able to escape. And she might very well hate him for it someday.

Suddenly, he wasn't sure he could stand to be hated by Tess Sherman.





CHAPTER NINE




Friday mornings gave Tess heartburn. Theodora had that effect on people.

The viewing the night before had gone off without a hitch, and no one had mentioned the fact that she wasn't wearing a jacket, though there'd be another opportunity to notice the following morning when they put Mrs. Schriever in the ground.

The rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, and since it was summer and they were in Texas, it meant stepping outside felt like being in one of those microwaveable steam-fresh bags.

She dressed in a pair of white capris and wore a loose linen shirt in light beige. She put on white sandals and slathered moisturizing sunscreen on her face. Her hair was its usual mass of curls, but it was a little more subdued today so she left it down.