And because she’d been the first person of the female persuasion he’d had any interest in after his wife died, he’d convinced himself that was the reason he couldn’t get her out of his head. Because she was the first. And like firsts, she’d taken on this massive, larger-than-life importance in his mind just as first kisses, first loves, and firstborns tended to do.
Of course, now that she was here, standing in front of him, he had to admit the reason he hadn’t been able to forget her wasn’t because she’d been the bright, shiny beacon of hope he’d used to guide himself out of those last few feet of the gutter, but because he was drawn to something about her. Inevitably. Inexplicably. Like a honeybee to nectar. Like the tide to the moon. Like a goddamned moth to the flame.
“Brooklyn,” he whispered into the soft shell of her ear, feeling her shiver delicately against him, smelling the scent of rosewater that clung to her skin and hair. That smell had plagued him since the day they’d parted, lingering in his dreams at night.
“You remember.” Her voice was husky, hoarse. It went to his head like top-shelf whiskey. Making him dizzy. Making him burn.
“I couldn’t forget.”
That was God’s honest truth. He couldn’t forget her. No matter how hard he’d tried. And now she’d flown to the other half of the world to talk to him. Which had to mean she couldn’t forget him either, right? Did she think maybe there was something for them? Something between them? Something more than lust fueled by the madness and mayhem and adrenaline rush that had been Malaysia?
The idea filled him with dread and longing and hope—and more dread—as a million and one questions raced through his brain. But the one he asked when he pushed back to look into her warm, dark eyes was, “How in God’s name did you find me?”
A delightful flush rode high on her cheeks. He recognized it for exactly what it was. Awareness. Arousal. Whatever had been between them, whatever connection they’d made, was still there. And more than that, it’d grown during their long—too damn long—separation.
The realization had his heart beating so hard he could feel it in the fingertips he pressed against the plaster wall on either side of her head. In his toes encased in hiking boots. And…uh…other places. Yeah, definitely other places. One look at her, one smell of her, and his idiotic libido was throwing a kegger and streaking around like Frank the Tank in Old School.
“Well…I made a trip to Chicago,” she told him, licking her lips. The dart of her pink tongue nearly had him panting. He wanted so badly to kiss her, to suck that sweet tongue into his mouth until he was drunk on all things Penelope DePaul.
“And rolled up to the gates of Black Knights Inc., I presume?” he asked, brow raised.
She bobbed her chin. Her delightful chin. It needed nibbling on, didn’t it?
“So now the question becomes…just how the hell did you convince my lovely friends and coworkers to send you to me in the middle of a mission?”
She winced, and he barely resisted the urge to kiss the tip of her adorable nose. “First of all, I didn’t have to convince anyone of anything. I just asked. Nicely. You’d be amazed what asking nicely will get you.”
“Really?” He conjured up all the things he might ask her to do to him later. Nicely.
He pushed away from the wall and shoved his hands deep in his jacket pockets. It was either that or he was going to start molesting her right there on the street.
“Second of all, I didn’t know you were on a mission. And certainly not one as important as bringing in”—she lowered her voice to something barely above a whisper—“Winterfield.”
She unconsciously ran a finger over the tiny bump on the bridge of her nose. He’d learned early on that she only did it when she was nervous or frightened. And sometimes when she was really, really turned on. Why he found the little quirk so damned charming was anyone’s guess.
“And third of all, Becky said…” She trailed off. Blushed. And that had his eyebrow sliding up his forehead. Ass-kicking, gun-toting, former Secret Service Agent Penni DePaul blushing?
“What? What did Becky say?” He could only imagine. Rebecca “Rebel” Knight née Reichert was as brash and balls-out as the kick-ass motorcycles she designed from scratch.
Penni cleared her throat. He braced himself for the worst. “She said you were just down here twiddling your dick.”
He coughed. “Roger that. That sounds like Becky.”
And he supposed he shouldn’t be all that surprised his friends and teammates had jumped at the chance to send Penni his way. Until ten minutes ago, he hadn’t been up to much—to his everlasting dismay. And all those assholes back home had been pushing him to start living life again, to start seeing women again. They probably thought Penni’s arrival on their doorstep was a gift sent straight from heaven. A sign that maybe all their good-natured ribbing and nudging and heart-to-hearts had finally paid off.