On the Hunt (Sentinel Wars #3.5)(84)
Author: Gena Showalter

She ducked out of his reach and retrieved a hair band from around her wrist, gathering the curls into a ponytail so he wouldn’t play with them again. He looked disappointed, but slid both hands into his pockets obediently.

Wordlessly, she stalked toward the kitchen, where the pastry was baking, and Jamie began to wander around her apartment. It was the second floor of a brownstone, a completely open floor plan. Without continuing his bantering innuendo, Jamie gazed about the place, taking in her myriad plants and flowers, the primitive art on the walls. "You have a real talent for growing things.

But then again, you’re full of life, Sunny Renfroe. I’m not surprised."

She opened the oven and checked on the pastry, and Jamie grinned. "And a talent for cooking," he added. "That smells delicious . . . just like you do." He said the last in a bedroom voice, low and full of temptation.

She closed the oven, shaking her head in disbelief. He was behaving exactly as she’d imagined, pressing her with unstoppable energy and sensuality.

"Why did you come? Just to torment me some more?" she demanded, hoping he couldn’t tell how hard she’d been crying. Unfortunately, he spotted the wad of used tissues on the floor at that precise moment. Bending down, he picked them up, frowning sharply. He balled them in his fist, seeming almost angry.

He strode to where she stood in the kitchen, moving in extremely close. "I couldn’t stay away," he admitted in a husky voice. "I couldn’t even try to keep my distance. I meant what I said. . . . What if there is a way we could be together?"

Two more steps and his arms were about her waist, even though he knew the risk to both of them—especially to her. She pushed at his chest. "Do you want me to be punished? Sent back to heaven . . . or worse?"

His eyes slid closed and he dropped both hands to his sides. "No," he said in a hushed voice. "I just want to have you in my life."

"Jamie." She studied the floor. "You barely know me. You’re just caught up in . . . what I am. The way that makes you feel."

He moved right back to her, planting strong hands squarely on her shoulders. "Sunny, it’s not what you are. It’s the way you make me feel. Don’t you get it? I’ve been dead inside . . . the things I see, the creatures I kill. It’s all I know. To actually care for a woman? To believe in the possibility of love? I buried that a long time ago."

"But you can love." She reached a trembling hand to his cheek. "I see your heart and it’s beautiful."

His eyes grew bright. "My heart’s been cold for a long time. But then you came along, and you’re . . . so good. So pure and beautiful and, God forgive me, incredibly sexy. It’s like . . . I could change. I could care. I could . . . I could love you, Sunny."

"That would be a mistake."

He shook his head adamantly. "Perfect love casts out fear. That’s what the Bible says."

"I’m not afraid, Jamie. I’m here for a reason. And intimate relationships with humans don’t fall under the job description."

"They made you human. You said so yourself the other night," he argued. "How can they put you here, expect you to live a mostly human life and not have someone of your own?"

She turned away sharply; his words tore at her heart. Suddenly his arms came around her again, and he was kissing her nape. A sweet kiss, an almost chaste one, just a brush of his lips against her skin, a back-and-forth pressure. "Go to dinner with me tomorrow night," he begged.

"As friends. Only friends, I swear it."

She had to steady her breathing before she could even answer. "You’re not capable of interacting with me that way," she finally groaned. "Look at you right now."

He kissed her nape once more, slowly trailing his tongue across her skin. "I’m gonna find that loophole, Sunny Renfroe," he whispered, pressing his mouth to her ear. "And when I do, I’m going to make love to you, make you feel things you’ve never been allowed to experience." He pulled back, looking deep into her eyes. "And I’m going to make you mine. Until then, yes, we’ll only be friends . . . but you still get the full -court press. Starting tomorrow night."

Chapter Eight

As Jamie and Sunny reached the upstairs of the Mansion’s restaurant, the maitre d’ led them toward their table. As she followed him, Jamie placed a guiding hand against the small of her back. It was a gentlemanly gesture, an almost protective one, but it still set her skin on fire. Tonight was a dangerous gamble, one that defied the intent of Kiel’s express orders, even as it followed the rule of his law.

That was when she realized exactly where they would be seated. "Sir, the table you reserved," the maitre d’ announced, revealing a private, candlelit table for two in the tower turret. "Just as you requested."

"Jamie," Sunny warned. More than a gamble, this was a terrible, terrible risk, one with a potentially treacherous outcome.

He waited for her to slide into the round banquette, and as she did so, she noticed that the restaurant’s most romantic table also had a set of silver velvet curtains. Would the two of them be closed in alone after their meal was served? Before? Her pulse skittered in a crazy tempo and Jamie seated himself right beside her.

She gasped softly once they were left alone, the luxurious curtains halfway drawn around them.

The rounded bench seat pressed their bodies closer together than she’d have liked, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to scoot farther away from Jamie. Everything in the turret twinkled and glowed, from the artfully arranged candles along the windowsills to the silver and gold sequins on the tablecloth. It was more romantic and dreamier than any place she’d ever been for dinner.

An obvious and deliberate tactic on Jamie’s part, too.

"You called ahead," she murmured, daring to glance up into his bright green eyes, even more beautiful than usual because of the candlelight.

He brushed light fingertips along her cheek. "I wanted you all to myself," he said quietly. "I’m already very greedy when it comes to my time with you, baby."

"This is only friendship," she reminded him unsteadily, trying to calm her erratic breathing. "You agreed to the terms."

He stopped touching her and began staring pointedly at her lips, sensual heat in his gaze. "I love your mouth. I keep dreaming of feeling it against my bare skin, all over my body."

She stared down at her menu, avoiding his gaze. "You agreed. . . ."

"I haven’t done anything untoward, have I?" he asked, studying the wine list. "Haven’t disgraced either of us, or fondled you? Surely your bosses won’t complain just yet."