His slow grin caused her pulse to jump. “Do you want us to be?”
“It would be a new experience.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “You’re playing with fire, love. I hope you know that.”
She was playing with dynamite, lighting matches and not ready to stop. Bringing her mouth temptingly closer, she lowered her lashes. “I’m pretty sure at least one of us will get burned no matter how this turns out. But remember, I’ve done the marriage thing for real. I know how to avoid the flames.”
His smile didn’t change; but the gleam in his eyes warned her she’d gone too far. In that split second of time, the hand on her wrist moved to her neck, and his mouth covered hers in a kiss that drained every thought from her head.
Because she knew this was something she’d asked for, she made no effort to pull free. Instead, she let a satisfied purr escape from her throat.
There was need and hunger on both sides. Jasmine also recognized and savored a punch of excitement. The taste of Rogan was one of pure sex. He wanted and he took, but so did she, with abandon.
While his lips explored, she ran her hands under his jacket, felt the heat and strength of his body, the warmth of his skin. Greed threatened to overtake her as his tongue dipped and rediscovered every part of her mouth. Her heart knocked against her ribs. But when he started to push the top of her dress aside, a red flag began to wave.
Tempted, highly tempted, to ignore it, she soldiered up and dragged her mouth free. She needed air and balance and a long moment for sanity to take root.
His half smile might have done her in if she hadn’t spied the arrogance behind it. Temper replaced hunger in a heartbeat, and she shoved him back.
“You set me up—”
He crushed his lips back onto hers, cutting her off swiftly. But only briefly, and with just enough heat to dissipate her anger.
He kept his fingers around her neck when he pulled away. “I wasn’t baiting you, Jasmine, or trying to take either of us where we know better than to go.”
She planted her hands on his chest, not trusting him or herself enough to let them drop. “You have a strange sense of direction. But then so do I sometimes.”
“Which explains why I’ll still be able to walk when we get out of this truck.”
“If you didn’t want me to use the moves, you shouldn’t have taught them to me.”
His fingers tightened, forcing her head up. “Did your eyes just give a witchy flash?”
She found she could smile. “You can let go. I’m not going to try to cripple you. I’m not even going to ask why you kissed me when I know very well I started it.”
His lips curved. “You make it hard for me to resist. And I have a high level of resistance.”
Frustration allayed, she gave his chest a precautionary pat and removed her hands. “Okay, we’re good then. And square. For the moment. As for our fake marriage—you said seven years, right?”
“Yes—to that, and to your loaded earlier question. We’re happy.”
She breathed out a shaky laugh. “That must have been some sensitive trigger I pulled.”
“Squeezed. And it was. FYI, Jasmine, you could seduce my cold-as-ice great-grandfather, and he’s been dead for fifteen years.”
Amused, she made a questioning motion with her hand. “Do we have fake identities to go with our happy marriage?”
“Your middle name’s Elizabeth, so we’ll go with that. We’re Elizabeth and Michael. McCabe.”
“You’re making this up as you go, aren’t you?”
With the shadows shifting, she heard rather than saw his wry smile. “Welcome to my life, love. We’re on a road trip. We come from…”
“Ork?” she inserted when he paused. “Krypton? Vulcan?”
“Somewhere closer to home would be better. You still good in the kitchen?”
“I can still whip up a mean chicken tetrazzini—if that was a literal question.”
She saw the smile this time. “I’ll leave the innuendo alone and say we own and operate a restaurant called Fontino’s in New Orleans.”
“Will that story hold if anyone checks?”
“No one will before morning. By then, it’ll stand.”
“Not going to ask,” she promised herself and gave her temples a tap. “Okay, summing up. Lenny Grant, teacher and bird-watcher. Elizabeth and Michael McCabe, Fontino’s, New Orleans. Entered and stored. Can Boris still be Boris, or does he get a code name, too?”
Rogan inspected his backup firearm. “You’re not warming to this spy thing, are you?”
“Truthfully, I’d rather be tracking Bigfoot with my mother. Sorry if that hurts your feelings.”
“It doesn’t. But speaking of hurt, we should probably go inside and see what if anything’s up with Lenny.”
“Bet we really are on Krypton,” she murmured and set a hand on the door. “Come on, Boris. Michael McCabe has a door to jimmy. Like he did with ours.”
Sliding out, Rogan pulled her across to the driver’s seat, then set his hands on her waist and lifted her down. “Walk where I walk.” He reached back inside for a flashlight. “And stay close.”
A gust of wind blew her hair in all directions. Swiping it from her face, she peered around him. “Can I know why we’re playing follow the leader?”
“Land mines,” he said over his shoulder.
She stopped dead. “In the driveway?” Then she spotted his grin and considered ordering Boris to attack.
A moment later, however, she had her answer. The driveway, though paved, was a sea of cracks and potholes. It also sloped sharply sideways, and twice they had to step over exposed tree roots that reached almost to her knees.
A minefield, she reflected, might have been easier to navigate.
Because Rogan had his beam trained on the ground, a glimmer of light next to the cottage brought her up short. “Did you see…?”
“Yeah.” When they reached the porch, he eased her aside. “No sound,” he cautioned. “Wait here with Boris until I get back.” Then he was gone.
She leaned a hip on the railing. “I could have worked later than late at the museum tonight,” she told the dog. “Huge shipment, boxes galore. Hours of overtime.”
Despite the roar of wind that refused to subside, Jasmine managed to hear the protracted creak behind her. Whirling, she spied a large hanging pot swinging drunkenly toward her.
