Undone by Moonlight

“I can take care of myself.” He must have realized she’d debunked that statement pretty soundly over the past twelve hours, since he added, “Usually. I don’t need your gang.”

She scowled. “We’re not a gang.”

“So you keep saying. Look, I should go.”

As he headed toward the hallway, she stepped in front of him. “Don’t. Let me help you. It’s the least my friends and I can do after all the times you’ve rescued us.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need rescuing.”

The man was pricklier than a desert cactus. “Stay.”

“No.”

“I’d threaten to hold your pain meds hostage, but you’d probably dip into the whiskey bottle again.”

“I think I’ll lay off the whiskey for a while.”

“Wise idea. You can’t go home, somebody tried to kill you.”

“A bump on the head isn’t a near-death experience.”

“But whoever hit you and the guy you chased is out there. What if he comes looking for you?”

Devin laid his hand on his side, where he usually carried his pistol. By the expression on his face, she could tell he wasn’t happy by its absence.

“Us regular folks can’t carry a gun in the city,” she reminded him.

“They took my badge, too.”

There was a world of frustration in those five simple words. Though he wasn’t big on sharing, she knew he defined himself by his job. The possibility of losing it was no doubt terrifying.

Counting on rejection, but past caring, she grasped his hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll help you get it back.”

He looked, not at her, but their joined hands. “I appreciate the offer, but I have to handle this alone.”

“Why?”

His gaze moved to hers. “It’s my problem.”

“There’s no weakness in accepting help from a friend,” she said gently, sensing he was on the verge of bolting.

“And we’re friends.”

“Aren’t we?”

His bright green eyes stood out starkly from his tanned skin. People of Irish and Italian decent really should mate more often if this was the result. Her friends thought he was gorgeous, but dark and rough. She saw him as wounded and lonely. He spoke to her on an elemental level, and deeper feelings were undeniably lurking.

Feelings he seemed determined to ignore or deny.

“I thought so,” she said finally to his question about friendship.

“Are we more than friends?”

Her heart gave a swift kick to her ribs. “Pardon me?”

“We didn’t …” He trailed off and clearly struggled to continue. She wondered if he was even aware he was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “I mean, I didn’t … do anything with you last night, did I?”

There’d been some clumsy passes, of course, but they, unfortunately, meant nothing. Was that what he was talking about? In his case, thing could mean something as monumental as having a conversation for more than two minutes. “Do what kind of thing?”

“I woke up naked.”

Her face turned pink. “I thought you’d be more comfortable out of your clothes.” He did more for a black T-shirt and jeans than anybody she knew, but the view beneath the cotton was exponentially better. Not that she’d looked. For long. She cleared her throat. “I was expecting some kind of undergarment, actually. Do you always …?”

“No. I need to do laundry.”

“Ah. And the scar on your hip?”

“I got stabbed.”

He gave the explanation with the same casual tone that most people used for “I think I’ll have fries with my burger,” intriguing and mystifying her more than ever.

And he was still caressing her hand. She inched toward him. Yes, he was injured, confused, weak and needy—even if he didn’t want to admit he was. It would be wrong, very wrong, to take advantage of him in his current state.

And yet her libido was also needy and it was whispering seductively about the possibility of this being her one and only opportunity with him. She’d been crushing on him for six months. Other than the head wound plus alcohol fiasco of the night before, he seemed determined not to make the first move. Any move, actually.

Yet, somewhere, somewhere way deep down, she sensed he needed her with the same intensity.

Texans were nothing if not determined and resilient. She certainly knew how to take control. And she had a much better weapon than a firearm.

Before her conscience could talk sense into her, or he could think quickly enough to shove her away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

Desperate as the move was, it was worth the reward.

He crushed her against him, bracing his hand at the back of her head to hold her in place as he drove his tongue past her lips. Her senses ignited, and he fanned the flames, consuming her like a man starved for air.

Finally was all she could think. Finally he’d let go of the tight rein he held on his control.

She embraced his heat, his aggression and need. Everything about him enticed her to learn more, to be drawn further into the inferno. Why was he so determined to be alone? What had made him so cynical and stony? Why did she want so badly to find out if anything soft lingered beneath?

As the thought occurred, his touch turned gentle. His hand, braced at the small of her back, slid around her waist, glided down her hip. If he tugged the ties of her robe, she’d be standing before him in nothing but panties and a camisole, but he seemed more interested in her mouth.

Dreams she’d had alone in her bed, in the dead of night rushed back. How often had she woken in a sweat, so sure he’d been with her between the sheets, positive she smelled his cologne on her skin, only to find herself alone and aching instead?

Fantasies never lived up to their impossible promises, yet she continued to hope and wonder. Now she finally had him.

I dream of you day and night.

Had he felt the same? Had he longed for her, too? Would this disastrous frame-up bring them together in a way their past connections hadn’t been able to?