marble floors, but then again, what did he know about the protocol for a mansion?
Without him having to ask, Sahara answered by hooking her arm through his and leading him to the kitchen. He felt the full curve of her breast against his upper arm and it kept his body humming with tension.
Any other woman and he’d have already checked the invitation to see how far it extended. But not with Sahara Silver, owner of Body Armor, self-proclaimed shark.
The kitchen was something out of storybooks, momentarily distracting him once she let him go. He turned a full circle taking it in. “Damn.” The detailed ceiling was its own work of art. One end boasted a sectional couch under tall windows, a center island held plenty of bar stools and at the other end was the thick wooden table that could seat six.
“Grab a seat. Do you want something to drink while I throw together a meal?”
Yeah, he wouldn’t mind the whole bottle. Maybe it’d help him get through this bizarre night. He shook his head as he pulled out a chair at the table. “I’m good.”
“Coffee then.” On bare feet she went to a massive refrigerator and retrieved several things, including chicken fillets. Going on tiptoe, stretching those sexy calves, she got down a bowl and dropped the chicken inside, then poured in Italian dressing, dashed in some other seasonings, and used a fork to stir it around. Next she set her oven, then washed her hands and got the coffee started.
She seemed to do it all with planned movements meant to best utilize her time and streamline all processes.
Nothing new in that. Sahara was one of the most efficient people he’d ever met.
After grabbing a cookie from a big round jar, she joined him at the table, watching him while she nibbled. She held it out. “Want a bite?”
He shook his head. “What are you cooking?”
“Italian chicken, baked potatoes and salad.”
Hell of a meal to “throw together” after midnight. He lifted a brow. “Dessert first?”
“Oh, honey, a single cookie could never be dessert.” She popped the rest in her mouth, left her seat to poke at the chicken with the fork, then got out a dish and prepped it with butter. “How hungry are you?”
Starving...but not for food. Every time she went on tiptoe, he had the burning urge to run his palms up the inside of her thighs. The movement of her breasts under that soft sweater kept drawing his attention, too. Her nipples were just tight enough to be visible—and to make his mouth water.
She looked over her shoulder in a provocative way—deliberately or not, he wasn’t sure. “Brand?”
He met her gaze with a piercing stare, very deliberately. “I would have been fine with a sandwich.”
Blue eyes lit up. “Something fast and easy, huh?” Her mouth curled. “Not my style.” Looking away from him again, she washed two potatoes, then put them on a plate and into the microwave. “Although, this meal is pretty quick and not all that difficult.”
Brand was still pondering her “fast and easy” comment, knowing he might be fast with her, but not easy. No, he wanted to claim her. He wanted that bad. “I get the feeling you’re teasing me, Sahara.”
His tone alerted her, and she turned to face him. “Maybe a little. You always resist easily enough.”
Not tonight. “Trying to see how far you can push it?”
She braced her hands behind her on the counter, which pushed out her breasts. One leg bent, her gaze sultry, she said, “I’m curious. Aren’t you?”
He already knew his breaking point, and he was damn near it already. Smiling just to confuse her, he asked, “So how long is this meal going to take?”
The oven dinged and she turned away. “Thirty minutes.”
He watched as she got everything in the oven. She ate another cookie while putting together a salad, and then she set the table, leaning close to him, brushing against him.
She was really feeling frisky tonight—or was it something more?
When she started to move away, Brand caught her arm. Her skin was soft and warm, her bones delicate, but the woman had iron in her blood and a will made of titanium.
Brushing his thumb over the silken skin inside her elbow, he asked, “Is this your way of reacting to the evening?”
A flash of uncertainty filled her blue eyes, then cleared behind a big grin. She put a hand to his chest. “One of the most appealing men I’ve ever known is in my kitchen, and you want to dissect my mood?”
That evasive nonanswer only made him more determined. “Yeah, I think I do.” He tugged.
Of course she resisted his efforts.
And of course he won the small battle.
She either overestimated her strength, or underestimated his.
Sahara ended up sprawled in his lap, a sexy, squirming armful. As he worked to contain her, he asked, “Easy or hard, Sahara?”
Her eyes flared wide and her lips parted.
Cursing himself over his unfortunate wording, Brand briefly looked away. When she again tried to scramble free, he locked his arms around her and pinned her with his gaze.
Being so close, he saw the thickness of her lashes, how her pupils dilated—he even felt the warmth of her faster breaths.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth.
Fighting his way out of the cage with the number one heavyweight would have been easier, but he managed not to kiss her. “We’re going to talk about what happened tonight, especially what happened while you were alone with them.”
“We are?”
He saw no reason to repeat himself, so he merely waited.
Proving she wasn’t on her A game right now, she cracked. “There’s nothing much to tell. They said Scott owed them money and they were getting it back by ransoming me.”
That sounded true—but no way was it the whole story. “You said someone put you over his shoulder?” Even though he’d done the same thing, it infuriated him to imagine it.
“The boss man,” she confirmed with an indignant nod. “The one in charge. He warned the others not to bother me, and they didn’t. Shoot, they hardly spoke to me. But he explained a few things.”
“About Scott?”
“No, just...the rules.”
Something in her expression, in the way her voice dropped, alerted him. Opening his hand on her back, he soothed a path up and down her rigid spine. “What rules, honey?”
She stared at him. “You’re comforting me?”
“Something like that.”
“Oh.”
