substantial, firm breasts move with each breath. If she was trying to hide, she'd failed. Maybe it was impossible to hide something so lovely.
Just then, Emma reached under the shiny fall of hair to rub the back of her neck and roll her head around.
Thomas peeked up to watch, and began to imagine what it would be like to cup her head in his hands when she did that, maybe while she writhed beneath him, moaning his name.
He needed to regain control of this conversation, which should not be a problem, since it was his forte.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a Secret Service agent or a spy or anything even remotely glamorous. I'm just a lawyer who specializes in human resources—your basic paper pusher."
Emma narrowed her eyes and Thomas could see the doubt behind the pretty blue irises—she wasn't falling for it. This woman was beautiful, sweet, funny, and smart as hell. Thomas was afraid he might be hyperventilating.
"Uh-huh. Just like it says on your new-patient questionnaire." She took a sip of coffee. "So, do you like your work?"
Thomas shrugged casually, trying not to picture the last few times he'd posed as a killer for hire. He tried not to see the pimply seventeen-year-old who gave him six dollars in change and a PlayStation II game to kill his chess team nemesis. Or the guy who needed his wife's fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy to buy a Camaro with a sunroof and drive his new girlfriend to Disney World. Or the housewife who got down on her knees in front of his chair and began to unzip his pants, saying she didn't have the money for a hired killer but knew another way she could pay him for his services.
Emma's question echoed in his ears—do I like my job? Sure he did—what's not to like? He prevented the loss of human life. He got scum off the street and behind bars. And the dozen or so people in the world who knew how he made a living told him he was at the top of his game.
"I absolutely love my job."
"And what do you like best about it?"
"The people," Thomas said. "I get to meet fascinating people."
"Of course." Emma took another sip and peered at Thomas over the rim of her cup, clearly amused. "So do you have your own company or do you work with a group?"
Thomas remembered that she was wearing shorts with that sweatshirt and that she had nice legs—not particularly long, but strong and smooth and shapely. No chicken legs on this woman. She said she rode horses—he could picture it. He could picture her riding a lot of things, like the front of his hips.
"A group. We all have our specialties."
"And what's your specialty, Thomas?" Her mouth quirked up provocatively.
He felt a warm tingle shoot through his extremities, hitch a ride along his spine, and settle with a thud in his groin. He had to struggle to recall the details of his standard cover story. "Uh, whatever the situation calls for, really. But mostly I deal with downsizing decisions."
"You axe people." It wasn't a question.
"So to speak."
Emma's eyebrows went up. "You're the guy they call in to do the boss's dirty work. A hired gun."
At that pronouncement, Thomas laughed outright, a sound that shocked him as much as it did Emma. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that. It was so loud it woke up Hairy, and the dog's pointy little face popped up over the edge of the table and he yawned.
"That's exactly right, Emma. I'm a hired gun."
She frowned at him. "God, that sounds perfectly awful. No wonder you're so grumpy. I'd be in a bad mood too if I had to do that for a living."
Thomas rubbed a hand over his mouth to wipe away his smile. "Yeah, I guess I'm a little rusty at being the life of the party. My best friend tells me that I've been about as much fun as nail fungus lately."
She laughed, reaching across the table to touch Thomas's fingers where they clasped his coffee cup. She stroked him.
Thomas stopped breathing. He stared down at his fingers under hers, his flesh changed yet unchanged,
Just then, Emma reached under the shiny fall of hair to rub the back of her neck and roll her head around.
Thomas peeked up to watch, and began to imagine what it would be like to cup her head in his hands when she did that, maybe while she writhed beneath him, moaning his name.
He needed to regain control of this conversation, which should not be a problem, since it was his forte.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a Secret Service agent or a spy or anything even remotely glamorous. I'm just a lawyer who specializes in human resources—your basic paper pusher."
Emma narrowed her eyes and Thomas could see the doubt behind the pretty blue irises—she wasn't falling for it. This woman was beautiful, sweet, funny, and smart as hell. Thomas was afraid he might be hyperventilating.
"Uh-huh. Just like it says on your new-patient questionnaire." She took a sip of coffee. "So, do you like your work?"
Thomas shrugged casually, trying not to picture the last few times he'd posed as a killer for hire. He tried not to see the pimply seventeen-year-old who gave him six dollars in change and a PlayStation II game to kill his chess team nemesis. Or the guy who needed his wife's fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy to buy a Camaro with a sunroof and drive his new girlfriend to Disney World. Or the housewife who got down on her knees in front of his chair and began to unzip his pants, saying she didn't have the money for a hired killer but knew another way she could pay him for his services.
Emma's question echoed in his ears—do I like my job? Sure he did—what's not to like? He prevented the loss of human life. He got scum off the street and behind bars. And the dozen or so people in the world who knew how he made a living told him he was at the top of his game.
"I absolutely love my job."
"And what do you like best about it?"
"The people," Thomas said. "I get to meet fascinating people."
"Of course." Emma took another sip and peered at Thomas over the rim of her cup, clearly amused. "So do you have your own company or do you work with a group?"
Thomas remembered that she was wearing shorts with that sweatshirt and that she had nice legs—not particularly long, but strong and smooth and shapely. No chicken legs on this woman. She said she rode horses—he could picture it. He could picture her riding a lot of things, like the front of his hips.
"A group. We all have our specialties."
"And what's your specialty, Thomas?" Her mouth quirked up provocatively.
He felt a warm tingle shoot through his extremities, hitch a ride along his spine, and settle with a thud in his groin. He had to struggle to recall the details of his standard cover story. "Uh, whatever the situation calls for, really. But mostly I deal with downsizing decisions."
"You axe people." It wasn't a question.
"So to speak."
Emma's eyebrows went up. "You're the guy they call in to do the boss's dirty work. A hired gun."
At that pronouncement, Thomas laughed outright, a sound that shocked him as much as it did Emma. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that. It was so loud it woke up Hairy, and the dog's pointy little face popped up over the edge of the table and he yawned.
"That's exactly right, Emma. I'm a hired gun."
She frowned at him. "God, that sounds perfectly awful. No wonder you're so grumpy. I'd be in a bad mood too if I had to do that for a living."
Thomas rubbed a hand over his mouth to wipe away his smile. "Yeah, I guess I'm a little rusty at being the life of the party. My best friend tells me that I've been about as much fun as nail fungus lately."
She laughed, reaching across the table to touch Thomas's fingers where they clasped his coffee cup. She stroked him.
Thomas stopped breathing. He stared down at his fingers under hers, his flesh changed yet unchanged,
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