cursed the shoes she wasn’t wearing. At five-one, she was nearly a foot shorter than her former lover. It had never bothered her when they were in bed, when she was sprawled across his lap. But when he stood tall, towering over her with that lord-and-master expression, she fought the intimidation of him being her boss.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Getting a jump on our day.” His lips tilted in a smart-aleck smile. “Would you prefer that I came by to jump your bones?”
Yes, Talia thought. She wanted to have sex. She wanted to make him desperate for her, then kick him to the curb, where his hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche was parked. Between the success of SPEC and the financial strength of the Pechanga Band, Aaron was sitting pretty. He divided his time between a sprawling loft in the city and a costly house on tribal land. Not that she’d been privy to his Indian home. He’d never taken her there.
“I should sue you for sexual harassment,” she said, finally commenting on his jump-her-bones remark.
“And I should sue you for all of my hot-blooded memories.”
“You pursued me, Aaron.”
“And you enjoyed every minute of it.”
Yes, she’d enjoyed being his lover. But she hadn’t enjoyed the longing, the hope, the horrible need to be his wife.
“I could use some coffee,” he said.
“Then get it yourself.”
“Thanks, I will.” He swept past her, making himself comfortable in her cozy kitchen.
Talia followed him. She lived in a two-bedroom house from the 1930s that she’d decorated with retro furniture. She rented it because of its vintage style. The sinks were pedestal, and the doorknobs were crystal.
Chantilly Lace, her favorite Bengal, came into the kitchen and meowed at Aaron.
“Hey, Lacy.” He quit pouring his coffee and picked up the cat.
Lacy rubbed her head against his shirt, and Talia wanted to call her pet a traitor. All of her cats had always adored Aaron. He had a sleek, strong, animalistic charm that drew them near. Them and their babies. Talia bred Bengals, felines that were originally created by crossing a domestic cat with an Asian Leopard Cat, giving the breed a striking resemblance to their wild ancestor.
“Do you have any kittens?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I sold the last litter. Thunder bought one of them.”
“Oh, that’s right. He named the poor thing Spot.” Aaron stroked a hand over Lacy’s leopard-like rosettes. “But what does Thunder know?”
“A lot more than you do.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She was enamored of the way Thunder was conducting his life. He’d settled down with the woman he loved and was eagerly awaiting the birth of their child.
Aaron placed Lacy on the floor and glanced at Talia’s stocking feet. “Do you have on those thigh-high hose? God, I love those things.”
Suddenly she felt naked. More exposed than just being shoeless. “You’re annoying me.”
“I’m preparing you for the husband-and-wife caper.”
“That’s what you meant by getting a jump on our day?”
“Yep.” He finished pouring his coffee. “We need to get comfortable in a domestic setting again.”
“We’ve never lived together.”
“No, but I’ve spent a lot of time here. That’s close enough.” He sat at the dining room table, an ancient oak piece that she’d refinished herself. “Why don’t you fix me breakfast?”
“Eggs and arsenic?” she offered.
He chuckled. “See? We’re married already.”
She wasn’t about to laugh. “In that case, I want half of everything you own.”
“Spoken like a true wife.” He sipped his coffee. “I was serious about breakfast.”
And she was serious about having sex and kicking him to the curb. Her coffee had already gone cold. As cold as her he-married-another-woman heart. She wondered what he would do if she hiked up her skirt, exposed her thigh-highs and climbed onto his lap.
He would probably love every screw-you stroke. She would do well to keep her urges to herself.
“Come on, Tai, I’m hungry.”
Was that a double entendre? She gauged his expression and got a deliberately bland look in return.
Bastard. He’d probably read her mind.
Giving up on her, he began preparing the breakfast he wanted, raiding her fridge and the copper pots she kept above her stove.
Aaron was an enigma, she thought. A city-slick investigator, a traditional Indian and a former Special Operations soldier.
He fixed enough eggs and bacon for both of them. He managed to stay immaculate, too. He didn’t get a spatter of grease on his white shirt or gunmetal gray tie.
“Did you compile a list of the Gamblers Anonymous locations in Nevada?” he asked.
“Yes.” She considered adding vodka to the orange juice he’d poured. To dull her senses. To keep her from craving him. They used to make love in her cramped kitchen, pressed against the counter, getting hot and wicked.
“You could be a brunette.”
She cleared her mind. “What?”
“While we’re on the case.”
“Why?” she asked, thinking about the dark-haired, dark-skinned woman he’d married.
He moved closer, then lifted a strand of her natural blond hair, letting it trail through his fingers. “Because it would change how you look, and we’re going undercover.”
His touch made her shiver, right down to the bone. She pulled away, refusing to let him make her weak. “Maybe I’ll be a redhead.”
He smothered the eggs, his and hers, with grated cheddar and jalapeno-spiked salsa. Then he sat down to eat his food. “That’d be sexy.”
She sat at the table too, irritated that he hadn’t consulted her about her eggs, even if he knew how she liked them. “A dowdy redhead.”
“Fat chance of that.” He delved into his breakfast, then changed the subject. “You better show up to the party on Saturday.”
“What for?” she challenged, wishing he would let sleeping dogs lie. “We’re not a couple anymore.”
“Sure
