so she kept her mouth shut, walked in behind him and closed the door.
He motioned for her to turn on the light then the stereo, so she did, keeping the volume at a moderate level. The deep voice of a local DJ boomed out of the receiver before whiskey-voiced Chris Isaak began to sing about doing a bad, bad thing.
Inserting the earpiece into his left ear, Rafe headed down the hallway. His gaze was narrowed and his nostrils flared in a way that Kit had never seen.
He looked like a…predator, dangerous, unfamiliar. Kit couldn’t stop the spike of excitement in her blood pressure.
From what he’d told her at Tony’s, she knew that this time he would start at the back of her house and work his way to where they’d come in. He moved first to her bedroom, then Liz’s, turning in a slow circle in each room. Kit followed slowly, trying to ignore the slow roll of his hips, the ripple of muscle beneath the khaki T-shirt.
He made quick work of the bathroom and gave her a thumbs-up. She let out a sigh of relief. She could not handle knowing someone was watching her in the bath.
Her gaze locked on his hands. Strong, gentle hands sprinkled with a faint dusting of dark hair. Surrounded by the seductive bass of Chris Isaak, Kit found herself swamped by memories of those hands on her body, stroking, teasing, pleasing.
She wrapped her arms around her middle and forced herself to watch Rafe, to pay closer attention to the pictures on the walls, to the light switches, the blades of the ceiling fan, just as he did.
When he walked through the living room toward the kitchen, he halted abruptly. Pressing the earpiece close to his ear, he listened intently. He prowled the perimeter of her kitchen, returned to the living room. She moved to the sofa, feeling along the cushions, inside the lampshade, her gaze going questioningly to his. He nodded, those lean fingers edging around the casing of the wall phone as he glanced at the bug detector he held.
He reached up to slide a hand along the blades of the ceiling fan, and his T-shirt rode up to expose sleek brown skin. When he stretched, muscle flexed across his flat belly, drawing her eye to the waistband of his snug jeans.
She straightened, pulling her gaze away to scan the room, telling herself to keep searching for audio or video equipment, though she hardly knew what to look for. Rafe moved to the wall, studied the air-conditioner return where the wall met the ceiling. He ran a finger along each pleated opening of the vent, then moved away, seemingly satisfied.
Once again his gaze traveled the room, pausing on the sofa.
He went from relaxed alertness to rigid readiness. Her gaze followed his as he looked down at the tool he carried and she saw a green LED flash. Rafe slipped the bug detector into the back pocket of his jeans. With a few silent strides, he passed in front of her and stopped at the sofa, close enough that she could feel the warmth from his body.
Dread pinched at her.
He turned, wrapping his fingers around her elbow. The heat that shot up her arm barely registered as he drew her gaze to the sofa.
He pointed, and she stared for a moment without realizing what she looked at. Then…instead of the dark plaid-covered sofa button she expected to see, she saw a flat black button. Not a button, a bug. A listening device.
She turned, shock rippling through her. “Can they hear—”
He hauled her to him, his mouth crashing down on hers.
Kit stiffened, her eyes going wide. Hot, hard lips moved over hers as a shock wave jolted her body. Then she sagged against him. Just a little.
Half-formed thoughts tumbled around in her head. She might’ve imagined it, but for an instant she thought his lips softened, coaxing the strength out of her the way they used to. He lifted his head, his dark gaze smoldering on her lips then lifting to her eyes.
She blinked, swaying. A breathy sound escaped her, and a flush darkened Rafe’s skin.
He leaned toward her, and she couldn’t form one rational thought. Just… Oh, yes.
Then his breath burned her ear, sent a shiver down her spine. “Don’t talk.”
Talk? She couldn’t breathe. Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.
He skimmed his lips up her temple, back down to her ear. She began to tremble. And reason kicked in. She pushed at his chest; his hands tightened on her upper arms.
Again he whispered, barely audible, “That’s a bug. Play along.”
Aloud, he said, “Ten years and you can still do this to me.”
His voice spilled over her like heated oil, torching a desire she’d buried too long. She knew it wasn’t real, knew he didn’t mean anything by it. Still her fingers curled into his T-shirt; she needed something to steady her legs.
His lips skimmed hers again. His hands smoothed down her back, flexed at her waist. Kit fought the urge to push away. She understood that he was playing for their unseen audience, but she shuddered anyway.
His lips came back to her ear, heat inching under her skin. “I found the camera, too. On the wall, four o’clock.”
Why was he talking about the time? Oh, he meant somewhere on the wall. A deep breath sawing out of her, she turned her head to the right.
Long fingers captured her jaw, gently forced her head to his. Black eyes seared hers, and he whispered against her lips, “Sorry, my four o’clock.”
She nodded dumbly, her body pulsing almost painfully.
His hands curved over her hips, and his voice rumbled out. “I am so ready for you.”
It was all an act for whoever was watching and listening, but it didn’t feel like acting to Kit. Still, she struggled to catch up, to be as cool as he was.
His eyes might be distant, but there was a flush beneath his skin. His breathing was slightly uneven.
He curled one knuckle under her chin, tilting her face toward his. “It’s been a long time,” he groaned. “Too long.”
To whoever watched, it probably appeared that they were kissing again. Kit lifted her head, her lips brushing his. Needles of heat slid under her skin. She forced herself to follow his gaze to the left, searching for the camera.
Rafe kissed her cheek, her temple. Her heart ached with a strange combination of sadness and anger as she struggled to pretend, the way he was.
This close there was no way he could miss the way her nipples had hardened and heat—of embarrassment, of arousal—flushed her body.
He breathed in her ear again. “The camera’s in the light knob.”
Her hands flexed involuntarily, bunching his shirt as her gaze shifted to the round knob on the wall that controlled the overhead light and ceiling fan. She tried to focus on what he said, but all she could think was she wanted him to kiss her again. For real, this time.
No, no, she desperately corrected. Where was her pride?
What pride? her conscience taunted. To even be here with him, she had to pretend
