Cut Throat. Шарон Сала

flashing as he pulled back. He couldn’t tell if she was pissed or enjoying the passion he’d put in the kiss.

      “Have you eaten?” he asked, offering the pizza.

      Cat inhaled deeply, surprised by the hunger pangs she was feeling.

      “No, and for that reason only, you can come in,” she said, then lifted the pizza box from his hands and headed to the kitchen, knowing he would follow.

      “I should have called,” Wilson said, as he set the six-pack of beer on the kitchen counter.

      Cat set the pizza box down and turned to face him.

      “Why didn’t you?”

      He shrugged. Truth had served him well thus far in life. He figured he might as well continue the process.

      “I figured you would tell me no.”

      Cat frowned. She hadn’t expected his honesty. Now she had no choice but to respond in kind.

      “You would have been right,” she said.

      Despite a stab of regret, he grinned and shrugged.

      “So I saved us both some guilt and anxiety. Do you want your beer in a glass or straight from the can?”

      Cat thought of the trip she was about to make and decided against anything alcoholic. Without answering, she handed him a glass, then filled one for herself with ice and Pepsi and laid out two plates.

      Wilson reached for the roll of paper towels. He tore off a couple of sheets to use as napkins and then got a shaker of red-pepper flakes from the cabinet where she kept her spices.

      Cat was torn between admiring his good looks and being a bit intrigued with the tiny gold hoop earring he wore in his left ear. As usual, his hair was a style in progress. He wore it in a buzz cut that always seemed to be a week past needing a trim. There was a small scar beneath his right eye and enough of a bump on his nose to know it had been broken more than once. His shoulders were broad, his legs long and muscular, his belly hard and flat.

      Cat was well aware of how fit he was beneath the denim and leather, and was thinking of what would come later—after pizza and beer. She wouldn’t lie to herself and pretend she didn’t want him, because she did. They would have sex. Wilson McKay was damn good at it, and she wasn’t a fool. No sane, single, red-blooded woman would turn down a roll in the hay with someone who exuded sex appeal like Wilson McKay. But the moment she thought of having sex with him, she remembered the half-filled suitcase and the chaos in her bedroom.

      Shit.

      “Uh…Wilson…go ahead and sit down. I’ll be right back.”

      She flew out of the kitchen and down the hall without looking back. When she got to her bedroom, she stuffed things back in drawers, tossed others in the bottom of her closet and shoved the half-filled suitcase under her bed. She gave the bedspread a couple of brief yanks to smooth out the wrinkles and then went back to the kitchen.

      Wilson was standing right where she’d left him with a curious expression on his face.

      “Are you all right?” he asked.

      “Who? Me? Yes…I’m fine,” she muttered, and then pasted a big smile on her face, grabbed a piece of pizza from the box and took a big bite. “Yum.”

      Wilson arched an eyebrow.

      “Yum?”

      “Have some,” she said, and pointed to the box.

      Wilson knew something was going on, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to talk about it. Finally he stifled his curiosity and sat down, picked up a piece of pizza and took a bite. He chewed, then swallowed.

      “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, and toasted her with the slice. “Yum back at’cha,” he said as he took another bite.

      Cat grinned in spite of herself. When Wilson McKay wanted to, he could be intriguing—even endearing. Still, there were rules in her world he kept trying to break.

      They finished the pizza without serious conversation, but when they began cleaning up, Wilson excused himself briefly to go to the bathroom. It wasn’t until he was coming back down the hallway that he happened to glance into her office and saw the bare walls.

      Shocked, he stopped, then stepped inside.

      He’d seen the office as it had been before, the walls papered with wanted posters. Now there was nothing left but nude walls peppered with pinholes, and he knew what that meant. Through an odd stroke of fate, in running down her best friend’s killer, she’d found another, as well. He thought of the walls Cat Dupree kept up between her and the world, and wondered how much thinner they were tonight with the absence of those posters.

      The banging of a cabinet door reminded him where he was, and he knew that Cat would view his curiosity as meddling. He slipped out of her office as quickly as he’d entered.

      “Did I stay gone long enough to avoid doing dishes?” he asked, as he sauntered back into the kitchen.

      Cat arched an eyebrow. “Yes.”

      “Good,” he said, and slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her close.

      As their bodies connected, Cat sighed.

      Now it began.

      She turned until they were facing each other. “I suppose you think we’re going to have sex.”

      Wilson’s eyebrow arched as a muscle suddenly jerked near the right corner of his mouth.

      “I don’t have sex with you.”

      Cat’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Damn it, Wilson, don’t play word games about—”

      He put a finger on her lips. “I make love to you, Catherine.”

      She slapped his hand away. “While I, on the other hand, have sex.”

      “Semantics,” he muttered, then fisted his hand in her hair and pulled gently, tilting her lips to his mouth.

      She felt his anger as she slid her arms around his neck; then the kiss deepened, and his anger morphed into lust. That, she could follow.

      A low moan slipped up her throat, but when it emerged, it sounded more like a growl.

      “Damn you,” Wilson whispered, and cupped her backside. “Grab hold, or I swear to God that the sex you have with me is going to happen right where we’re standing, with your pants down around your ankles.”

      Cat jumped, wrapped her legs around his waist and slammed her mouth against his. She moaned again, but this time because she tasted blood—her own.

      Wilson pivoted with her held tight in his arms and strode down the hallway to her bedroom.

      “You make me crazy,” he muttered, as he dropped her flat on her bed.

      “Shut up and take off your clothes,” Cat said, as she sat up and began undressing.

      Wilson’s eyes narrowed angrily. First she didn’t want him here, and now he wasn’t getting to her fast enough? If he had a functioning brain, he would turn around and leave her naked and wanting. But the thought left his mind as she sat up, pulled her sweater up over her head and tossed it on the floor.

      He grunted. To hell with pride and dignity.

      Within seconds, his clothes were in a pile on the floor and he was standing at the side of the bed.

      Cat rolled over onto her hands and knees and crawled over to him, then rose up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

      Wilson tunneled his fingers through her hair, then put his arms around her.

      “Witch,” he said roughly.

      Cat sighed. She loved the feel of him—the hard muscles beneath smooth, warm skin—and she loved the way he made her feel. But she wasn’t going to admit—ever—that