Samantha allowed herself a couple of seconds to take in all six-plus feet of his tan, golden, sex-mussed self. His hair was going every which way. There was a faint shadow of a hickey on his neck. And his dick was fully engorged and bobbing hungrily. But he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t complain. He just pulled on his jeans and walked over to open a drawer on his dresser, grabbing a clean blue T-shirt and pulling it over his head. When he turned around, she could see it sported a picture of Spock and read: I find your lack of logic disturbing.
Sweet merciful fuck, is there anyone more wonderful than Ozzie? Ozzie with his big, beautiful Navy SEAL body—she was still wrapping her mind around that. Ozzie with his big, beautiful computer-hacker brain. He was equal parts god and geek, and to her, that made up a perfect whole.
She wanted nothing more than to shove him back into that bed and have her way with him. But justice—and the Chicago Tribune—waited on no one.
Reaching for the red bra lying atop his dresser, she blinked when he snatched it out of her hands. “Nope.” He shook his head. “This one’s mine. A souvenir of our first kiss and the first time I made you come.” He bent to pick up the apricot bra she’d been wearing the night before. “This one you can keep.”
She cocked a hip against her hand. “And do you keep souvenirs from all your conquests. If so, that’s a little creepy.”
He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “Just you, sweetheart.”
A thrill of delight skimmed through her. He might be bullshitting her. But she didn’t think he was. “Good answer.” She winked. “In fact, it’s such a good answer that as soon as I turn in the story, I plan to reward you by taking you into the storage closet where I’ll work on my afternoon moves.”
*
Tribune Tower
“Your left eyelid is twitching,” Ozzie said from the spot between her and Donny’s desks. The bullpen was its usual controlled chaos. And the air was heavy with the tangy scents of stress sweat and bad coffee. “What’s got you pissed?”
“Is my tell really that obvious?” Samantha frowned. “Or are you just that observant?”
“Little of A, little of B.” He shrugged. “But it was the litany of curses you whispered under your breath that really gave you away.”
“Charlie wants to cut this quote.” She pointed a finger at her computer screen where a red line drove viciously through her article’s money shot. Just looking at it made her blood pressure spike. “When the douchecanoe businessman goes on the record saying his ties with the mayor are what made him a target for all these trumped-up charges.”
“Your editor probably knows better than to drag the mayor’s name into this mess. Things start to get sticky in this city when—Ow!” He slapped his cheeks. “Okay! Okay! I take it back. Stop trying to fry my face off with your fire eyes!”
“That’s right. Don’t forget whose side you’re on.”
“Your side.” He crossed his heart. “I’m always on your side.”
“Exactly.” She turned back to her glowing screen. But when Ozzie’s stomach grumbled for the bazillionth time, she looked over at him again. “You know, there’s a Starbucks a block north. You could run down and snag us some breakfast.” The clock on her computer read 11:09. “Maybe by the time you get back, I’ll have this damned article done, and we can take our coffees and muffins into the storage closet.” She waggled her eyebrows and leered.
He pushed out of his seat, wincing and absently rubbing his thigh. It was strange… Ozzie was so stoic about his injury, never complaining, rarely even mentioning it. In fact, were it not for his subtle limp or the occasional flash of pain across his face—or last night’s nightmare?—she would never know he was hurt.
“Promise me you will not move from this spot?” he asked. “We still don’t know—”
“This seat and my ass are two sides of a Velcro strip,” she swore. “I won’t get up even for a potty break. Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “And skip the coffee with cream and sugar. After last night, I need a double shot of espresso.” While strong and bitter, the break-room coffee hadn’t done the trick today.
Ozzie grinned down at her, pleased with himself that he was the reason she needed the caffeine equivalent of a mule kick to the backside. “As you wish.” He snapped her a salute before sauntering toward the elevators.
Her breath strangled in her chest, her heartbeat a rapid thud in her ears. It was the second time he had uttered that phrase. The one that really meant I love you. But she didn’t think he understood the connection he was making with the movie. When he stopped to talk to the woman who wrote for the paper’s entertainment section, Samantha was sure he didn’t realize the true meaning of the words. Because he flashed that smile and twinkled those eyes at the busty, dark-haired harlot who had a set of teeth that belonged on a toothpaste commercial.
“Flirting is second nature to you, isn’t it, you big jerkface?” Samantha grumbled. Her brown eyes were definitely green this time.
She had to remind herself that Ozzie hadn’t done anything wrong. He had promised her nothing. Agreed to nothing. She was the idiot who had thought that if she got him into bed, he’d see how great they were together, and then he’d automatically want to…what? Settle down with her and make a million babies?
Mad at herself for being a stupid, hopeful, girlie cliché, and mad at him for being so wonderful that he turned her into a stupid, hopeful, girlie cliché, she turned back to her computer screen, determined to finish the damned article. The sound of her phone ringing from the depths of her purse interrupted her.
She didn’t bother to dive into the crap that was fundamental to her daily existence. Instead, she upended her purse atop her desk and snagged her phone from the pile. She smiled with relief when she saw who was calling. Donny. Dear, sweet Donny. He always seemed to know when she needed a sympathetic ear.
“Decided to play hooky today, funny face?” she asked, trying to sound chipper. “Or are you out following a lead? Because I have to tell you, you picked a hell of a day to be gone. I could really use—”
“Samantha,” a deep voice interrupted. Whoever was on the other end of the line wasn’t Donny. An icy finger slipped up her spine.
“Who is this?” She gripped the edge of her chair until her knuckles turned white. “Why do you have Donny’s phone?”
“The better question is,” the man hissed, his voice reminding her of a snake slithering through dry leaves, “what I’ll do with Mr. Danielson if you’re not out on the street in front of the building in two minutes.”
Samantha glanced up, hoping to see Ozzie still flirting with the wannabe Crest White Strips model. No such luck. He was long gone.