Never Say Never Again. Tori Carrington

      “You got some coffee?”

      She stared at him, surprised. “Um…as a matter of fact, no. I don’t drink coffee. I have tea.”

      His grimace served as his answer.

      She tossed the towel to the counter then opened the refrigerator. “Sorry, I drank the last beer last night. I have some vodka in the freezer.”

      “Do you have orange juice?”

      She tossed another surprised glance over her shoulder. “Sure. With or without the vodka?”

      “Without.”

      She grabbed the juice container, then retrieved a glass from one of the cupboards. She noticed the slight trembling of her hands as she poured the liquid and wondered just what he was doing there. And what, exactly, his overtly sexual presence in her last sanctuary would mean to her vow to stay away from him.

      THE JUICE WAS ALMOST GONE

      Connor’s fingers tensed against the cool glass. He slid a glance toward where Bronte sat at the table across from him, her gaze probing, her stance curiously standoffish.

      He didn’t quite know what he’d expected when he decided to show up on her doorstep to ask for help, but it certainly wasn’t the blouse-buttoned-up-to-her-chin, suit-clad, tight-lipped woman across from him.

      She got up for the third time in as many minutes. He watched her move to get something out from under the counter, the gray material of her skirt pulling nicely across her rounded bottom. He swallowed hard and purposely forced himself to look around the kitchen. He hadn’t seen much of the rest of the shadowy town house, but this room was nice. Airy. The rough-hewn pine table was obviously the centerpiece. It was easy to picture ten people seated around it, chatting after a large meal.

      “I was just about to fix myself some dinner. Have you eaten?”

      Connor’s gaze snapped to where she was angling a huge pot out, then putting it on the stove. He could have sworn he spotted one of those TV type dinners on the table when he came in. He knew them all too well. “No. But I’m not hungry.”

      She turned and leaned against the stove, jumping when a burner switch must have goosed her. She moved over to lean against the counter instead. She crossed her arms under her breasts, bringing them into prominent relief despite the severe cut of her jacket. “Look, Connor, I don’t know what you had in mind, but you’d better be out with it pretty quick. You say you came here to talk, but you’re not talking. And I know you’re not here for orange juice. And since you’re not hungry, you didn’t come all this way hoping to mooch a meal.”

      “I only live a few blocks away.”

      “Oh.” She uncrossed her arms, then toyed with the spiky red bangs brushing her brows. “Then tell me, what are you doing here?”

      Connor stared at the little that remained in his glass, then slowly drank it. Coming here was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do in his life. And now that he was here, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to take the next step. He had to know what the U.S. attorney’s office had on him, or else he wouldn’t be going anywhere, period.

      Every muscle in his body grew taut, his reaction having just as much to do with the physical tension that infused the room than his reason for being there. But he hadn’t come for the physical part, no matter how enticing she looked and how much he’d like to sample that tart mouth of hers, to see if it tasted as good as he remembered.

      Hell, he was the one who was supposed to help people. It was a role he had played well almost his entire life. First, when his mother died and Pops had disappeared into a whiskey bottle. Then, as a U.S. marshall in WitSec, where witnesses depended on him to see them to safety and make sure they stayed safe.

      It was so foreign to now be in a position of asking for help, especially from Bronte O’Brien.

      “I…um…”

      “Wait a minute here.” She held up her hands to halt him. He stared at her unblinkingly. “If you’re here for the reason I think you are, you can just forget it, Connor. I mean, I enjoyed the other night as much as you did. But the other night was the other night. And today is today. You get my drift?”

      He squinted at her. “What are you talking about?”

      She gestured with her hands. “I’m talking about my just coming off a really bad relationship and not needing to get involved in another.”

      He got quickly to his feet. “Relationship?”

      Her frown would have been amusing had the situation not been so serious. “Oh, wait. I get it. You’re not interested in a relationship, are you?” She slapped her forehead then stared at the ceiling. “No. Of course, you’re not. You were alone. I was alone. And you thought that maybe we could be alone together.”

      He widened his stance and planted his hands on his hips. “Are you done yet?”

      She looked at him. “Yes. I think I pretty much got my point across.”

      “Good.” He began to shake his head, then dragged his hand over his face instead. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re an attractive woman. Any man in his right mind would want to do…well, what you’re implying I came here for.”

      Her eyes narrowed and she chewed on her bottom lip, making her upper lip look all the more plump…and kissable.

      “I’m not here to sleep with you, Bronte.”

      Her eyes narrowed even further. “Oh.” Suddenly they opened wide. “Oh!” She turned, fussed with the pot some more, then quickly faced him again. “Then why are you here?”

      Say it, McCoy. Just open your damn mouth and ask her. “Because I need your help, Bronte. I need you to help me figure out how to get out of the mess I’m in.”

      4

      CONNOR MCCOY NEEDED HER HELP.

      Incredible. Impossible. As unlikely as her waking to find the sun rising from the west. Bronte chewed on the information. Then chewed some more, not quite ready to accept it as edible. She stared at him. Stared at where the glass in his hand might shatter at any moment given his own apparent uneasiness with the admission.

      Obviously, this wasn’t easy for him.

      Obviously, it wouldn’t be easy for her, either.

      What he was asking her to do was illegal—forget bad business. She’d never shared information with anyone. Not as a favor. Not even when she’d been in the middle of her rotation in the gang division and had been threatened by a Jamaican drug lord outside the district courthouse. And then she’d had a knife held to her neck.

      She caught herself absently rubbing at the spot in question. “I see,” she said quietly.

      But did she really?

      “Actually, no. I don’t see. Just, um, how, exactly am I supposed to help you?”

      Connor drew the tip of his index finger along the length of his brow, then sighed and dropped his hand to his side. A large hand. A nicely shaped, well-muscled, fascinating hand it was impossible to look away from. Somewhere in the back of her mind Bronte remembered the saying that a man’s…intimate parts were made in proportion to his hands. She shook her head—in denial of the ridiculous notion that big, tough Connor McCoy needed her help…and to dislodge the very private images sliding through her mind. She remembered the other night in the park all too clearly. Standing under the cool shade of the cherry tree. The bark nipping at her back. Connor’s heat at her front. Her hand slipping between them on a hunting expedition all its own.

      She chewed on the scorched bit of flesh that was her bottom lip. “Sorry…I didn’t hear you?”

      “That’s because I didn’t answer.”

      She nodded. That would explain it.