R is for Ricochet (Kinsey Millhone 18)

The waiter brought our drinks. The connection between us faded, but the moment the waiter left, I could feel it start up again. He put his hand on my neck. I leaned toward him, tilting my head until my lips were close to his ear. "We're going to get in a lot of trouble, aren't we?"

"More than you know," he murmured in response. "Know why I brought you here?"

"Not a clue," I said.

"The macaroni and cheese."

"You're going to mother me?"

"Seduce."

"You're doing well so far."

"You ain't seen nuttin' yet," he said, and smiled. He kissed me then, but only once and not for long.

When I could speak again, I said, "You're a man of great restraint."

"And self-control. I probably should have mentioned that much earlier."

"I like surprises. Good ones," I said.

"That's all you get with me."

The waiter approached and took out his pad. We eased away from each other, both of us smiling politely as though Cheney's thigh wasn't locked against mine under the tablecloth. I hadn't taken the first sip of my drink, but I was feeling bleary-eyed, drowsy with the heat that was suffusing my limbs. I checked the other diners, but no one else seemed to notice the charged particles undulating between us.

Cheney ordered a salad for each of us and told the waiter we'd share the macaroni and cheese, which was apparently served in a ramekin the size of a bread-and-butter plate. Didn't matter to me. He'd neatly shifted me off-center, away from my usual contentious and arbitrary self. I was already hooked into him. I could feel my boundaries dissolve, desire cleaving the barricade I'd erected to keep the Mongol hordes at bay. Who cared about that? Let them swarm over the walls.

As soon as the waiter left, Cheney put his hand, palm up, on the table and I laced my fingers through his. He was staring off across the room, his gaze shifting from face to face as he checked the other patrons. I sensed he'd detached himself, but I knew he'd be back. I studied his profile, the mop of curly brown hair, mine to touch if I liked. I could see the pulse beat in his throat. He turned and looked at me. His eyes moved from mine to the shape of my mouth. He leaned into me and we kissed again. Where the first kiss had been delicate, this kiss was promissory.

I nearly hummed aloud. "We have to eat dinner, right?"

"Food as foreplay."

"I'm starving."

"I'll do right by you."

"I know."

I'm not sure how we made it through the meal. We ate a salad that was cold and crisp, pungent with vinaigrette. He fed me macaroni and cheese, hot and soft, laced with prosciutto, and then he kissed the taste of salt from my mouth. How had we arrived at this place? I thought of all the times I'd seen him, conversations we'd had. I'd never caught a real glimpse of this man, but here he was.

He paid the bill. While we waited for the car, he pulled me in against him with his hands on my ass. I wanted to climb his frame, shinny up his body like a monkey up a palm. The parking attendant averted his eyes, keeping his manner disinterested as he handed me into the car. Cheney tipped him, pulled his door shut, and shifted into first. As we sailed through the dark, I rubbed a hand along his thigh.

By the time we pulled into his driveway, I wasn't even sure where we were. His house, apparently. Dazed, I watched as he got out of the car on his side and came around to mine. He pulled me out of the seat and turned me until I was laid up against him, my back against his front, his lips moving along my neck. He pushed the strap of my tank top aside and kissed my shoulder, letting me feel the faintest nudge of his teeth. He said, "Let's slow down, okay? We can take as long as we want. Or do you have to be somewhere?"

"No."

"Good. Then why don't we go upstairs."

"Okay." I reached back and slid my fingers into his hair, gripping, as I turned my face toward his. "Please tell me you're not so sure of yourself you changed the sheets before you left the house tonight."

"I didn't. I wouldn't do that to you. I bought new."

Chapter 13

Cheney drove me home at 5:45 through the early morning light. He'd go into the gym for his morning workout and then hit the department in time for a briefing at 7:00. I intended to crawl straight into bed. We'd finally untangled ourselves at dawn, just as streaks in the sky were turning from salmon to hot pink. It had taken me less than a minute to throw on my clothes, after which I'd watched him get dressed. He was more muscular than I'd imagined, his body sleek and well defined. Good pecs, good biceps, good abs. When I'd married Mickey I was twenty-one years old to his thirty-seven, a difference of sixteen years. Daniel had been closer to my age, but soft, with a boyish body, slender and narrow-chested. Dietz, like Mickey, had been senior to me by sixteen years, a connection I'd never made before. Something to ponder later. I hadn't devoted much thought to men's bodies, but then again I'd never made the acquaintance of one quite like Cheney's. He was just so beautifully built – skin as smooth as fine leather, pulled taut over an armature of stone.