His plan had totally backfired. He’d hoped to drive the wedge between them even deeper by throwing her out of her comfort zone, but so far, rather than really pissing her off, in spite of her protests, she’d seemed like she was having the time of her life. A sort of heat had filled her eyes after she’d crossed over that fence, and from that point on it had been as though she was an entirely different person. She’d climbed and sprinted like an old pro, and as much as he wanted to goad her and push her away, he couldn’t make the words come. He was f**king proud of her.

She wasn’t even the same woman he’d met two days ago. It was curious.

And sexy.

He shoved the unwanted thought away, reaching for the door handle of the room at the end of the hall, but a whisper caught his attention before he gripped the cool, polished metal.

“Gavin,” Sarabeth tugged furiously at his sleeve. “It’s a booby trap.”

He turned to face her and frowned. “What are you talking about?” She was leaning against the wall, eyes wide and shining with excitement.

“That door. Look at the jamb.” She approached the door and pointed to tiny silver wires he hadn’t noticed lacing the hinges. “If it opens, I think it will set off an alarm.”

Well son of a bitch. Damned if she wasn’t right. Every time he turned around she was doing something else to surprise him. Pyew pyewing in the mirror like some kind of secret agent, finding a rigged door when he hadn’t seen it himself…it was like working with a damn jack-in-the-box.

“So what do we do?” she murmured.

He cleared his throat and made for his wire cutters again, deftly snipping the tiny cords before pushing open the office door. When they stepped in, no alarm sounded. No dogs were unleashed. In fact, the only thing of note at all was the slip of paper on the floor in front of the door, with his name written in red ink on the front.

“What’s that?” she asked, craning her head around to see.

He took the note in hand and read over the message scrawled on the back.

McClintock,

If you’re reading this, that means we clearly aren’t doing something right. The contract for both my home and the rest of the development is yours. Contact my assistant and we’ll set up a time to sign the paperwork.

Barry

He nodded, his mind glazed over by realization that if Sarabeth hadn’t been there, he might not have gotten his new, million-dollar client.

Although if he was being really honest with himself, if her fine ass hadn’t been so distracting, he wouldn’t have missed the rigged door in the first place. Still, he had to give the doc credit. It was a solid catch.

He shoved the note in his pocket and turned to face her, but she stared at him, hand outstretched. “I want to see.” He shook his head. “Job’s over, we can go now.” He moved forward, backing her toward the door again, but she dug in her heels.

“I did the work right along with you, and I want to see what it says.”

And he wanted to get the hell out of there before he did something really stupid, like tell her how proud he was of her, or tried to kiss her on those full—although currently pursed—lips.

He attempted to go around her, but she wasn’t having it and dove forward to make for the note in his pocket. He caught her wrist, and in that moment their eyes locked. Her breath hitched, her pupils dilated, but she didn’t look away. Sure signs of fear…or something else. The blood buzzed in his ears while he waited for the clue that told him which it was. An instant later, her body was angling toward him, the tip of her tongue flicking out to moisten her lips…

Fuck.

He dropped her hand like it was a live grenade, but before he could step away, she was on her tiptoes, mouth slanted over his, catching his bottom lip between her teeth before kissing him for everything she was worth.

He shouldn’t have. In fact, every working brain cell left in his head blared a warning not to, but he didn’t listen to a single one. Instead, he closed his hands over her trim hips, pinning her close, and kissed her back. Already imagining pressing her against the wall and taking her from behind. Already picturing what that lithe body would look like naked. She strained closer, crushing her br**sts to his chest, and he pushed back. Her fingers were locked tight onto his shoulders, her nails digging into the muscle there, and he groaned, imagining that same sweet sting on his back as he plunged into her over and over. He dragged his mouth away to tell her as much, but she pushed away, stepping from his grasp with a shuddering sigh.

“I-I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.” She ran a hand through her hair and shook her head slowly, big green eyes still dazed. “I guess—heat of the moment, right?” Forcing a smile to her trembling lips, which were still red from his mouth, she backed out of the room to the soundtrack of their labored breathing.

He watched her go, needing a moment to collect himself and to get a handle on this new development. Because as exciting as the prospect of a new client had been, his mind wasn’t focused on the work or the money anymore. It was on the way her soft pink lips had felt as they’d crashed into him. The feel of her warm breath. The way she kept surprising him at every turn. The way this woman—the wrongest woman on the planet for a guy like him—made him feel more alive than he had since he could remember.

And the way he was surely going to f**k this all up somehow.

Chapter Eight

The entire ride home, she hadn’t spared him a word or glance. Instead she’d apparently decided trying to disappear would be the better move. Her arms were crossed over her chest, jutting shoulders hitched practically to her chin as she shrank deeper and deeper into the seat of the car.

By the time they were halfway home, she had him feeling like some kind of monster and finally, he blew out a sigh, gripping the wheel tighter.

“Look. It’s not that big of a deal. We kissed.” He shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. “It was pretty intense back there, what with the alarm clock going off…” He forced a chuckle, trying to goad her out of her mood, but she sniffed without responding.

“Like you said, it happens sometimes. Heat of the moment. Adrenaline pumping. We can forget all about it.” He glanced toward her, and she straightened slightly. Her hair had fallen away from her face and she was chewing her bottom lip, brows knitted together. She met his gaze for the first time since they’d left the mansion.

“Yeah?” Her cheeks were already a deep pink, but they were growing redder by the second. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, biting back the urge to growl and take it back. Fuck no, he didn’t want to forget about it. He wanted to remember it over and over, and add new, more naked memories to that one. He shifted in his seat, the crotch of his pants growing tight again. She wanted to forget it? He’d find a way to do that. So long as she was safe, he was doing his job.

Still, Sarabeth didn’t seem at all eased by his reassurances. In fact, almost as soon as they crossed the threshold of his house, she darted to her room, mumbling some flimsy excuse about needing a nap and something else he couldn’t quite make out. Hell, if she’d moved any faster, a cartoon puff of dust might’ve kicked up behind her like she was the damned Road Runner.

Deciding it was better to let her recover, he left a note letting her know he’d be in his office for the rest of the day, along with instructions on how to use the television remote in the living room, then he locked himself in downstairs. After making a few calls—one to Owen, and one to an old army buddy in munitions to try to get a lead on the type of device left in Sarabeth’s car—he worked on some reports and soon found himself blissfully knee-deep in work. By the time his friend called back to let him know they’d hit a dead end on the bomb’s possible origin, the sun was setting. He set down the receiver with a sigh and rubbed at his weary eyes. With the way things were going, it looked like Sarabeth might be around for a while.

All the more reason to stay away from her, he reminded himself.

But it was no use. Every time he thought of her, the memory of his lips against hers, of the way her body had molded around him, came rushing back in. How the hell had this happened? It could have been so easy if she’d been the trust fund doctor with a stick up her ass he’d been expecting. What he’d gotten instead—between her innate toughness, quick wit, and amazing figure—was nothing short of straight-up libido sabotage. He’d never met another woman like her. And one thing was for damn sure, even if she wasn’t completely off-limits as his client, a street rat from Edinburgh was never going to be good enough for a white-collar hotel princess. Plain and simple.

His stomach growled loudly, and he glanced at the clock. Five o’clock and he hadn’t eaten lunch. He wondered if Sarabeth had made use of the kitchen for herself and realized it wasn’t likely. She was far too polite to rummage around someone else’s refrigerator in search of food. Guilt pricked him, and he picked up the phone. He placed a quick call to Tate Boyd and asked him to come watch the house for an hour so he could get the doc some more clothes and grab a pizza for them before they settled in for the evening.

By the time he got back, a bag of clothes and an impulse buy of books for her under one arm, and a pizza balanced in the other, it was after seven.

“Sarabeth, I’ve got dinner!” he shouted up the stairs, but no patter of light footsteps answered him. Instead, a soft call came to him from the far end of the main floor hall.

“In here!”

He stalked into the living room where she sat on his wide leather couch clothed in yoga pants and a Nirvana T-shirt, a half-empty goblet of red wine resting on the glass end table beside her. The large, touch-screen remote was resting in her lap, but the TV screen was blank.

“This thing is impossible,” she muttered, carefully setting the remote beside her wineglass as he planted the pizza boxes on the coffee table in front of her.

“So you decided you’d sit in here in front of a blank screen and drink alone?” He gave her half a smirk as he settled into an armchair adjacent to the couch. “That’s healthy.”

Hell, who was he kidding? He wished he’d thought of it earlier. Maybe that would’ve stopped the thoughts of the two of them rolling around naked from taking up most of his headspace. He eyed her more carefully, taking in her mussed hair and slightly unfocused eyes. She clearly wasn’t on her first drink. Had she been trying to erase the memory of their kiss too?

“I’m a doctor,” she said, holding up both hands in front of her. “I don’t need you to tell me that my habits are destructive.” She slurred the last word and it came out sounding like “disducktrive.”

Apparently, her afternoon had been more eventful than he’d imagined.

“Right, then.” He reached for the remote. “How’s about we watch a little TV while you switch to water, and we get some food in our stomachs?”

She shrugged, and he clicked on the TV with the pad of his pointer finger. A blond woman with a lion’s mane of perfectly coiffed hair was sitting behind her news desk, talking about a shooting that had taken place a few counties over. Clearing her throat, she closed the segment right as a familiar picture popped up next to her head.

Sarabeth’s photo, the way she’d looked before—her face thin, and her hair still long and blond. Weird, he barely remembered she had looked like that.

The object of his attentions—who had been mid-sip—plunked her wineglass on the table and settled into the cushions of the couch with a groan.

“In related news,” the news anchor continued in her throaty timbre, “police have determined that Dr. Sarabeth Lucking, who police had suspected was either kidnapped or dead earlier this week after her car exploded in her driveway, is now officially listed as a missing person. After close investigation, a forensic team has announced, in keeping with their initial findings, that no human remains were found at the scene of the crime. Citizens are advised that, should they catch sight of Ms. Lucking, they are to report her presence to officials. The Lucking family remains hopeful for Sara’s return.”