“No. You know I can’t let you do that.”
“Your mother taught you that you always have to walk a woman to her door?”
He laughed. “I’m FBI. I’ve seen too much.”
“I think I’ve seen too much, too, and in less than a week.” She frowned. “And now everyone knows that the thieves you caught the other night aren’t the killers.”
“True.”
“Maybe they’ll lay low.”
“I hope so. That will give us time to see if the guys we caught can help us figure out where at least one of them met the copycats, because the killers know too much. They didn’t only study what our guys were doing—they had some kind of inside information to be able to copy them so completely.”
Kieran shuddered lightly. “Thank God the original thieves were at the store the other day.”
He nodded, then walked her past the entry to the karaoke club and to her door, then up to her apartment. When she opened the door, he followed her in before she could close it.
“I’ll take a look around,” he told her.
“I had the double bolts on,” she said.
“Very sensible,” he assured her.
He noted that Kieran had a number of stuffed toys and collectible models on display; she was clearly an admirer of Julie’s work. There was a family crest on one wall, along with a Celtic cross. Other walls held a combination of photos and paintings of New York, the Rockies and Ireland.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He wasn’t sure what happened then. He would never be sure.
She was standing against the wall, watching him. Her hair was slightly tousled, a swath of deep fire-auburn falling across her forehead.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “You can’t—you can’t watch over me every second. I mean, I appreciate what you’ve done. Julie really needed help. I don’t. I’m strong. I can manage.”
Something in her words pushed all his buttons. He found himself directly in front of her, arms out, hands on either side of her head, almost yelling.
And he never yelled.
“What are you—a complete fool? You don’t need help. You’re so tough. Well, you’re an idiot. No one is safe against a determined killer.”
“Why would anyone want to kill me?” she demanded.
“I don’t know!” he said. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what? I don’t know why anyone would be after me.”
Their eyes met and locked.
“There’s something going on with you.”
There was something going on with her, all right. All he wanted to do was kiss her, hold her, get closer to her....
“Something...” she repeated.
And then, to his astonishment, she let out a little cry—maybe self-disgust?—and moved against him. He didn’t know if he kissed her first or she kissed him, but their lips met as she pressed her hands against his chest.
The kiss deepened and deepened, until at last he broke away. His breath came fast and strong; his voice was harsh as he said, “This is wrong on a thousand levels. You’re a witness, involved on a case I’m actively working.”
But he didn’t move away. He still had her pinned against the wall, leaning toward her, his face a tense mask of anguish.
*
Kieran could still feel the kiss, almost as if his lips continued to touch hers. His body was close enough to hers to send his heat swirling around her like invisible steam. She could see the tension in his muscles.
She knew all she had to do was nod. Say yes. Or say no.
And he would move.
She realized that on some level she had known from the first time they met, even in the middle of what might have been a deadly situation, that she wanted him. The last remaining iota of logic within her screamed that she needed to run.
But everything else screamed that she wanted this moment, this time together, no matter what was to come. The part of her aching to touch him, to feel him touch her, argued that she could handle this. She could handle the truth and the lies...and him.
She knew she was lying to herself, but it didn’t matter; none of it mattered. She reached out and touched his face, marveling at the planes and angles of his jaw. She met his eyes...chips of blue ice, she had once thought them. Now they were like blue fire, and when they touched her, she felt a slow burn inside, one that promised a blaze as strong and sweet as the soul could imagine.
“Wrong,” he murmured.
“Maybe,” she agreed.
But she moved closer to him, slipping her arms around him, pressing her lips to his.
For a moment he fought the urge to return the kiss.
But only for a moment.
And then he took over, his kiss powerful and sure, deliciously wet and deep, and she wondered if she would ever get enough of his mouth. No, she would never be sated....
She would always want more.
As she did now.
Wrong, he’d said.
It couldn’t be.