There was that writing on her face again, telling him her thoughts. How was she supposed to keep anything secret? “What am I, your trained dog? Kiss on command?”
Blue flame flashed in his eyes. “One day, you’ll do it spontaneously without me asking.”
“Dream on.” They’d been having this particular fight for two months, almost since she’d met him. She’d come to the conclusion that giving him an easy capitulation would ruin some of his fun. Besides, she had kissed him spontaneously a time or two.
Witt wasn’t done. Raising a hand to her cheek, he crowded her, heating her up, letting her smell that lovely indefinable scent of aftershave that could never be duplicated on another man. She forgot all about the cold and the slush. She forgot all about Chicago, Cameron’s sister, and the nightmare on the plane.
“You’re gonna kiss me, Max. And not just a passionate kiss in the heat of the moment when you can’t seem to help yourself or because you think you have to placate me when I’m pissed.” His tone and the movement of his lips mesmerized her. “Oh no, you’re gonna give me all those little every day kisses, too. The hello and good-bye kisses, the pecks on the cheek when you’re in a hurry, the thank-you kisses, and the honey-do kisses. The kind of kisses we can do in front of my mother.”
She couldn’t speak. Her frozen tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes almost watered. Oh. My. God. He was asking for the moon. He made her want to give it to him.
She swallowed with difficulty.
His eyes followed the movement. “Does that scare you?”
She nodded, cleared her throat, then squeaked a “Yes.”
He dipped in, put his cheek next to hers where his hand had been, and whispered, “Good. ‘Cause it scares the crap outta me.”
He inched back, then said, “Get in the car,” in a voice that sounded as if he was asking her into his bed.
She grabbed his chin before he could get away and tugged him down until his breath feathered her lips. “Thank you for flying with me.” She pecked his mouth. “Thanks for buying me an egg-n-muffin in the airport.” This time she opened her mouth and stroked her tongue along the seam of his lips. “And thank you for not dumping me on my ass in the slush because I’m acting crappy.” She cupped the back of his head and kissed him hard. It wasn’t sexy or sensual, but he sighed nonetheless.
“What about making you come on the plane? Aren’t ya gonna thank me for that, too?” His words caressed her cheek as he held her hand between their bodies.
“You have to thank me. I know you did it to take your mind off flying.” But heck, that was okay with her.
He leaned back, his pelvis pressed to her abdomen. “Right. Did the trick, too.”
“Any time, Long. Any time.” Subliminal messages filled their banter. She’d give a little. He’d take a lot. Somewhere along the way, they’d both end up getting it all. At least she’d give it the old college try. She did wonder, though, what getting it all really meant. With Cameron, it had been a ring, five years of agony and ecstasy, and a gravestone in a cemetery she hadn’t visited in months because he wasn’t buried there.
Damn.
Witt stepped back, though her hand was still trapped in his. “While we’re driving, you can tell me your plan for finding your husband’s sister.”
Plan?
Deflated, both by his words and her thoughts, Max slithered into the leather seat. He believed in size and comfort where it counted, with seat warmers, thank God. Slamming her door, he paced to the driver’s side. No question of her doing the driving.
She didn’t say anything, hoped that by the time he maneuvered them out of the parking lot and onto the freeway he’d have forgotten the question.
He made a noise, then passed her a map, the folds creased the wrong way to block out their route marked in pink high-lighter.
She raised a brow, but didn’t ask the question.
“Pink’s easier to see than yellow,” he said, without even a crinkle to his lips.
“And you’re so macho that pink doesn’t take away from your masculinity.”
This time he did smile. “Exactly. Been thinking about getting a few pink shirts, too.” With one blunt finger, he tapped the map. “Navigate.”
Navigator? Her job? He did hate her driving. The trip to Lines would take a couple of hours, longer with the amount of traffic on the roads due to their morning arrival. What were the chances he wouldn’t bring up the plan again?
“Your plan?” he prompted
Damn. Guess the chances weren’t good. “I’ll start at the library and go through the newspapers.”
“Newspapers?” Eyes on the road and the morning commute traffic—which didn’t look one iota different from San Francisco—Witt frowned. “Do a search on the internet before we left?”
“No.”
“Ask your husband for details?”
“He has none.”