“I had just finished a meeting. Investors on a project in Seattle. Coffee?”
“It’s a little late for coffee.”
He took three quick steps forward. “Who are you and what have you done to Delaney?” He pressed the back of his hand on my forehead as if checking for a fever.
The warmth and pressure of that contact pulled a small gasp from me.
He was smiling, gazing down at me, so close I could smell his cologne worn and thickened by a long day against his skin, but made all the better by his unique scent mixed into it.
His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter dancing in their depth.
“I’m right here,” I breathed.
The glint of humor shifted, grew into something else. Heat. Desire. Need.
His hand hovered, drawing fingers that gentled across my forehead, down my temple, then dragged along my jaw and slipped around to the base of my head. Fingers stroked my hair which was falling free from the hasty pony tail I’d put it in hours ago.
His gaze searched mine, asking.
I didn’t know what I answered, but he tipped his head, angling his mouth nearer, nearer mine. I kept my eyes open for as long as I could.
“Delaney,” he whispered, his breath warm across my lips.
I leaned, lifted, reached, just that fraction of an inch so that our mouths met.
Distantly, I felt his free hand slide around my waist. Distantly, I felt my hands skim across his ribs, my palms flattening on the wide, smooth planes of his back.
What I felt, what my whole world seemed to center on, where I began, where I ended, was that kiss.
Gentle at first, the kiss was warm, sweet. An embrace that sent a shiver across my skin.
Wild thoughts that this one, spare, aching touch would be all Ryder wanted to give trampled through me. And right on the heels of that was my logical mind yelling that this wasn’t what I wanted. Wasn’t what I’d said I wanted.
I wanted space. I wanted time.
Away from Ryder.
Didn’t I?
He’d dumped me. No, that wasn’t the worst part.
He’d left me. Walked away when I was bleeding, hurting, and vulnerable in a hospital room.
But even then, even when he had been telling me that he didn’t want to be with me, hadn’t he looked sad? Maybe even conflicted and torn up about his choice? Maybe that wasn’t what his heart wanted, it was what his mind wanted.
And he’d listened to his mind.
Just like I should be listening to mine.
Or not, my traitorous heart said.
Feel, my heart urged. Feel him.
Ryder shifted the angle of his mouth against mine, the tip of his tongue skimming gently at one corner of my mouth, then up, zinging warmth through me, dragging along the crease of my lips, asking for entrance, asking for me, asking for me to feel again.
I opened to him, a small sound slipping from my throat as his tongue plunged into my mouth, licking and tangling with my tongue, sucking, drawing me closer to him as he sank into me with promises of what we could be. What we could do.
Promises of us.
I lost myself to the sensations, a burring warmth building as his tongue, his mouth reminded me of what we had been together, how well our bodies had fit, how one touch from him struck a fire so deep within me, it burned my soul down to ashes, and somehow made it whole again.
I could lie to myself all I wanted. The real reason I didn’t want to be around Ryder wasn’t because I was angry at him for breaking up with me. Well, okay, yes, I was angry, but there was more.
I didn’t want to be around Ryder because when I was near him, I didn’t want to be anywhere except with him. When he was close to me, it felt as if a piece of my life snicked into place.
We might have only gone out on one date, but I’d known him my entire life. And he had known me. All the places where our years of friendship had planted roots had grown into something more. Something that friendship wasn’t enough to contain.
He shifted again, his hand dropping lower to my hip, then his palm pressing against my butt, pulling us hip-to-hip. My hands followed his lead, and I rubbed one palm over the smooth material of his slacks. I could feel his very physical reaction to that, to me.
He wanted me. He wanted us. His words might say one thing, but his body couldn’t lie.
And it was at that moment that my brain finally wrestled my heart to silence.
Ryder’s blood was on Sven. Ryder might be a murderer or an accomplice to murder.
I might be kissing a murderer.
Crap.
I stepped back, stepped away, my hands lifting from the heat of him, from the strength of him as I put several paces between us.
He stayed where he was, for a long, long pause, breathing. We were both busy just breathing. Then he slowly lifted his head and straightened his back and shoulders. I kept my gaze on his eyes, no, that was no good. His eyes were glassy with need, his pupils wide. Lips were no better, they were wet and slightly swollen from the kiss.
I didn’t dare look any lower. Ear. Ear should be safe.
So I stared at his ear. “We need to talk. You need to talk. This isn’t talking.”
He inhaled, held that breath. “Okay. We need to talk. Do you want to sit?”
Since my heart wanted me to do more than sit: specifically run into the bedroom and strip off all my clothes, and my mind also wanted me to run, out the door and as far away from Ryder as I could get, I thought sitting in the living room was a nice compromise.
I turned, blindly picked one of the chairs, sat there on the edge, hands gripping my thighs.
I stared at my knees, at my hands that were white-knuckled. Because I couldn’t touch him. Because I shouldn’t touch him.
Just breathe.
I had a job to do. There was no time for my private life, not here, not with a murder suspect. And if he was innocent, then I needed to know how his blood ended up on Sven. I needed to know what he knew.
If he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, he might know who had. I needed a clear head so I could watch his reactions to my questions and read if he was telling the truth or a lie. With my heart pounding loud as a freight train, I wouldn’t be able to hear his answers unless he shouted them.
Pull it together, Delaney. Do the job.
The clink of ice in a glass brought my head up. Ryder stood in front of the couch to one side of me, holding a glass of water. There was another glass in his hand. Looked like, smelled like whisky.
“Thought we could both use a drink.”
Great. He’d left the room long enough to pour drinks and I hadn’t even noticed. Losing my concentration in front of a possible murderer was every kind of stupid.
He smiled softly. “If you’d rather, I have some rhubarb juice in the fridge.”
Just like that, he was my friend again. Ryder Bailey. The man I’d never stopped loving.
“Liar.” I took the water. Sipped. It was good, cold, and helped clear my head. “You hate rhubarb.”