Night Smoke by Nora Roberts Page A

gear.
    In seconds, it seemed, the engines were manned and screaming out the arched double doors.
    “It’s so fast,” Natalie said, ears still ringing, pulse still jumping. “They move so fast.”
    “Yeah.”
    “It’s exciting.” She pressed a hand to her speeding heart. “I didn’t realize. Do you miss it?” She looked up at him then, and her hand went limp.
    He was still holding her against him, and his eyes were dark and focused on hers. “Now and again.”
    “Well, it’s— I should go.”
    “Yeah. You should go.” But he shifted her until she was wrapped in both his arms. Maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction to the sirens, maybe it was the exotic and irresistible scent of her, but his blood was pumping.
    And he wanted to see, just once, if she tasted as good as she looked.
    “This is insane,” she managed to say. She knew what he intended to do. What she wanted him to do. “This has got to be wrong.”
    His lips curved, just a little. “What’s your point?” Then his mouth closed over hers.
    She didn’t push back. For nearly one heartbeat, she didn’t respond. In that instant she thought she’d been paralyzed, struck deaf, dumb and blind. Then, in a tidal wave, every sense flooded back, every nerve snapped, every pulse jolted.
    His mouth was hard, as his hands were, as his body was. She felt terrifyingly, gloriously, feminine pressed against him. A need she hadn’t been aware of exploded into bloom. Her briefcase hit the floor with a thud as she wrapped herself around him.
    He was no longer thinking “just once.” A man would starve to death after only one taste. A man would certainly beg for more. She was soft and strong and sinfully sweet, with a flavor that both tempted and tormented.
    Heat radiated between them as the wind whipped in through the open doors at their back. The clatter of street noises, horns and tires, sounded around them, along with her dazed, throaty moan.
    He pulled back once to look at her face, saw himself in the cloudy green of her eyes, and then his mouth crushed hers again.
    No, this wasn’t going to happen just once.
    She couldn’t breathe. No longer wanted to. His lips were moving against hers, forming words she could neither hear nor understand. For the first time in her memory, she could do nothing but feel. And the feelings came so fast, so sharp and strong, they left her in tatters.
    He pulled back again, staggered by what had ripped through him in so short a time. He was winded, weak, and the sensation infuriated as much as it baffled him. She only stood there, staring at him with a mixture of shock and hunger in her eyes.
    “Sorry,” he muttered, and hooked his thumbs in his pockets.
    “Sorry?” she repeated. She sucked in a deep breath, wondered if her head would ever stop spinning.
“Sorry?”
    “That’s right.” He couldn’t decide whether to curse her or himself. Damn it, his knees were weak. “That was out of line.”
    “Out of line.”
    She brushed her hair back from her face, furious to find her skin heated. He’d torn aside every defense, every line of control, and now he dared to apologize? Her chin snapped up, her shoulders straightened.
    “You’ve certainly got a way with words. Tell me, Inspector, do you paw all your suspects?”
    His eyes narrowed, kindled. “It was mutual pawing, and no, you’re the first.”
    “Lucky me.” Amazed, appalled, that she was very near tears, Natalie snatched up her briefcase. “I believe this concludes our meeting.”
    “Hold it.” Ryan played fair and cursed them both when she continued striding toward the doors. “I said, hold it.” He headed after her, and with one hand on her arm he spun her around.
    Her breath hissed out between clenched teeth. “I refuse to give in to the typical cliché of slapping you, but it’s costing me.”
    “I apologized.”
    “Stuff it.”
    Be reasonable, he cautioned himself. It was either that or kiss her again. “Look, Ms. Fletcher, you didn’t exactly