said her name sent a ripple of heat through her insides. Her chest, her belly.
Between her legs.
Her grip tightened. The tendons and muscle beneath her fingers flexed; so much corded strength.
He raised his other hand. Slowly, making no effort to disengage from her grasp, giving her every opportunity to dodge him, the tips of his fingers touched her cheek.
Callused. Roughened. Gentler than she expected. They burned a path down the line of her face. Across her jaw.
“Relax,” he said. Ordered, more like. His tone didn’t leave room to compromise. “I’m not your enemy.”
“You’re a witch,” she scoffed, but she couldn’t pull away. Couldn’t look away from the heat in his gaze. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Wells.”
“Yeah, I’m a witch.” The rough edges of his fingers grazed her lower lip. “So why haven’t you thrown me out yet?”
Because she wasn’t positive she had the clout. Because she wasn’t sure that the rest of her Mission was prepared for the political storm that would follow.
Her eyes narrowed as his fingertips traced the line of her throat. “You lie to me, Mr. Wells. You make a habit of it. I don’t like liars. I don’t like witches .” He skimmed under her jaw, as if he were seeing her through his touch. Memorizing the feel of her skin.
His other hand remained locked in hers, rock steady. Completely at ease.
His smile pulled one side of his sculpted mouth higher. Sexy. And too damned smug.
When he reversed the position of her hand and his, it twisted so fast Parker couldn’t react. Suddenly, her wrist flexed in his fingers, shackled in an unbreakable grip, and his other hand circled her throat.
Not like he had last night. Not in anger, or in a bid to hold her still. This was slow, deliberate. A symbol, she thought wildly, a point. But what? Why?
Her heart pounded. Why did the feel of his palm over her pulse send her body into meltdown?
“Only I noticed,” he said, lowering his face so that his breath wafted hot against her temple, “this thing that happens when I’m near you.” He inhaled deeply, which slid his chest against hers. Warm and hard and male. And bare .
She shuddered, caught in his spell.
Trapped by his assault.
“You’re wearing that perfume again. Do you know what that does to me?” His words should have made her snort in mockery of his arrogance.
But she couldn’t force it out of her too-dry throat. Instead, she gasped.
“When you’re turned on”—his mouth lowered to her ear, lips brushing her sensitive skin—“your scent changes. Subtle. Real subtle.”
It should have turned her off . It should have sent her into convulsions of laughter. It should have . . . Oh, God, it should have made her cringe.
Instead, as if he touched a flame to her body, need swamped her. Wild. Sexy.
She wasn’t any of those.
But he made her want to try.
Parker closed her eyes as his tongue darted out against the overly sensitive shell of her ear; a flick, a taste. She nearly jolted out of her skin.
As he leaned back, his chuckle filled her senses as deeply as the scent of him; musky and faintly tangy. Woodsy and man and lust.
He let her wrist go with a deliberate slide of his callused fingers against the inner skin of her arm.
Parker swayed as he pulled away.
Her fists clenched. Enough was goddamned enough!
“Sit your butt in that chair,” she said, every word tamped down to an arctic chill, “and stop playing games.”
This time, to her vast relief, he obeyed. Mostly. “No games,” he replied. “Just facts.” As he sat, the leather chair cushion creaked. Absurd counterpoint to his all-too-nonchalant drawl.
“Then give me some more facts,” she retorted. “Real ones. Which of my missionaries are working for you?”
“Me?” He grinned. “You give me too much credit.”
Her fingers twitched. Nearly curled into a fist before she forced them still by her side. “How many of my agents are mine?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what
Between her legs.
Her grip tightened. The tendons and muscle beneath her fingers flexed; so much corded strength.
He raised his other hand. Slowly, making no effort to disengage from her grasp, giving her every opportunity to dodge him, the tips of his fingers touched her cheek.
Callused. Roughened. Gentler than she expected. They burned a path down the line of her face. Across her jaw.
“Relax,” he said. Ordered, more like. His tone didn’t leave room to compromise. “I’m not your enemy.”
“You’re a witch,” she scoffed, but she couldn’t pull away. Couldn’t look away from the heat in his gaze. “Don’t patronize me, Mr. Wells.”
“Yeah, I’m a witch.” The rough edges of his fingers grazed her lower lip. “So why haven’t you thrown me out yet?”
Because she wasn’t positive she had the clout. Because she wasn’t sure that the rest of her Mission was prepared for the political storm that would follow.
Her eyes narrowed as his fingertips traced the line of her throat. “You lie to me, Mr. Wells. You make a habit of it. I don’t like liars. I don’t like witches .” He skimmed under her jaw, as if he were seeing her through his touch. Memorizing the feel of her skin.
His other hand remained locked in hers, rock steady. Completely at ease.
His smile pulled one side of his sculpted mouth higher. Sexy. And too damned smug.
When he reversed the position of her hand and his, it twisted so fast Parker couldn’t react. Suddenly, her wrist flexed in his fingers, shackled in an unbreakable grip, and his other hand circled her throat.
Not like he had last night. Not in anger, or in a bid to hold her still. This was slow, deliberate. A symbol, she thought wildly, a point. But what? Why?
Her heart pounded. Why did the feel of his palm over her pulse send her body into meltdown?
“Only I noticed,” he said, lowering his face so that his breath wafted hot against her temple, “this thing that happens when I’m near you.” He inhaled deeply, which slid his chest against hers. Warm and hard and male. And bare .
She shuddered, caught in his spell.
Trapped by his assault.
“You’re wearing that perfume again. Do you know what that does to me?” His words should have made her snort in mockery of his arrogance.
But she couldn’t force it out of her too-dry throat. Instead, she gasped.
“When you’re turned on”—his mouth lowered to her ear, lips brushing her sensitive skin—“your scent changes. Subtle. Real subtle.”
It should have turned her off . It should have sent her into convulsions of laughter. It should have . . . Oh, God, it should have made her cringe.
Instead, as if he touched a flame to her body, need swamped her. Wild. Sexy.
She wasn’t any of those.
But he made her want to try.
Parker closed her eyes as his tongue darted out against the overly sensitive shell of her ear; a flick, a taste. She nearly jolted out of her skin.
As he leaned back, his chuckle filled her senses as deeply as the scent of him; musky and faintly tangy. Woodsy and man and lust.
He let her wrist go with a deliberate slide of his callused fingers against the inner skin of her arm.
Parker swayed as he pulled away.
Her fists clenched. Enough was goddamned enough!
“Sit your butt in that chair,” she said, every word tamped down to an arctic chill, “and stop playing games.”
This time, to her vast relief, he obeyed. Mostly. “No games,” he replied. “Just facts.” As he sat, the leather chair cushion creaked. Absurd counterpoint to his all-too-nonchalant drawl.
“Then give me some more facts,” she retorted. “Real ones. Which of my missionaries are working for you?”
“Me?” He grinned. “You give me too much credit.”
Her fingers twitched. Nearly curled into a fist before she forced them still by her side. “How many of my agents are mine?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what
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