“He shouldn't have gotten distinctive tattoos at all,” I said. Being able to change the topic was giving me back my courage. “I mean, it makes people easier to identify.”
Jacob fiddled with the edges of his sleeves, peeling them upwards. “He got them before we became hitmen.” The thickness of his forearms were exposed, hard grooves of muscle that were bare of any ink.
And now I'm thinking about his body. Thanks, brain—I mean, betrayer.
How could I resist, though? He was showing off and talking in his sinfully rich, salt of the Earth voice about tattoos. Did he have tattoos, and were they just hidden from the roaming eye?
My roaming eye, specifically?
He rinsed his apple-stained hand in the sink, then wiped it on a towel. Jacob glanced up, met my stare—and dammit, I turned away.
Heat flooded my cheeks. “Uh, right. Can I ask what his tattoos mean? The whole 'swim' thing?”
“You can ask, but I won't answer.” He sighed, and I forced myself to look at him again. Luckily, he was studying the counter. “Kite and I may have to work with you, Marina... but some things will always be secret.”
Jacob's face was in profile. I spotted the little indent in his chin, the swoop of his nose that said 'I have never once been broken.' Yes, he had as many secrets as Kite.
“You said I paid attention to details,” I stated. “Let me ask you this. Do you think I have what it takes, even after some training, to kill the man I want dead?”
He was still as a pond. When he did move, it was just a tiny ripple; his arms extended, fingers curling. “Give me your hands.”
My blood went on a rampage through my eardrums. “Okay.” I said okay, but this did not feel okay. Did Jacob have some fucking switch he pressed between 'intriguing charmer' and 'silent murderer?'
When I set my fingers in his, it was a static shock to my heart. Jacob was touching me, lighting my fingerprints on fire.
Powerful, hungry urges crept down between my thighs. I shifted where I stood, rubbing my ankle with one toe. I impressed myself by how cool I kept my tone. “Now what?”
“Just feel,” he whispered.
I was struggling to feel anything over my own pulse. “What am I feeling for?”
His eyebrows crawled up, and so did the corner of his smirk. “Differences. Can you tell why my hands are different than yours?”
I noticed I was staring stupidly into his blue eyes. Just look at his hands, idiot.
Right. Just look there.
Except getting there meant I took a journey over Jacob-Land. The crevice down the side of his Adam's apple, the spread of his chest that the buttons wanted to snap open across, the strong forearms that could capture me and hold me close.
Or kill me.
That should have pushed my fluttering idiocy into the trash with the apple core. Killers should not be attractive. Thinking about what Jacob was capable of had my stomach tingling.
He was eyeing me curiously, both patient and eager. If I sliced open his forehead and saw his thoughts, what would they be? What would mine be?
He wants me to spot the differences, I reminded myself.
Clenching my hands, I traced the indents over his palms. I noted how silky his skin was. I imagined him performing any act of brutality in thick gloves that kept him callus free. I trailed the life-line a psychic would comment on, explored the thickness of his thumbs. His hands could be agile, deft, or deadly.
What was I feeling for? Why couldn't I figure out what the difference was between Jacob's hands and...
“There is no difference,” I blurted, stunned. His smile was a real pleasure. “That's what you're trying to show me, right?”
“Correct,” he whispered. He dragged his nails over my wrists and left warmth blooming behind. “There is no difference between our hands.”
“So what does that mean?” I asked, arms still floating in the air.
Jacob tilted his head, and I wondered, as he bent close to me, if he'd taste as minty as he smelled. “It means anyone can become a killer, Marina. And if anyone can kill, anyone can get away with it. That means you, too.”
I didn't utter a word. I didn't tell him how good that made me feel... or how scared.
Jacob said some things would always be secret.
He was right.
He was also a towering being of carved strength and hypnotizing eyes. My hands still hovered, like they were lost without him holding them. My foggy head was full of ridiculous thoughts. Bizarre thoughts.
I've seen Kite's bedroom, what does Jacob's look like?
A languid grin passed over him. There was tension in how he looked from my eyes, to my lips, and unless I was no where near as observant as he'd claimed, my breasts. Why was I so excited? This man had held me at gunpoint!
Was it that bad that he made my thighs squeeze and my heart swell? It is, said my brain. Shut the fuck up, said my did-you-know-I-was-still-here-*.
Jacob parted his lips. I saw the hint of his teeth. “Marina,” he said, my name a question on his tongue.
What could I answer with?
I leaned forward over the counter. My nostrils flared with his scent. If endorphins were needles, they threaded through my body and sewed away my logic.