One Wrong Move by Shannon McKenna Page B

clear.
    Wouldn’t take long for that to happen. It never did.
    “Yeah, that’s me.” Discomfort roughened his voice. He tried to look unthreatening, a talent at which he did not excel. “Bruno sent me.”
    “B-b-bruno?” The girl was scared stupid.
    He fought for patience. “Bruno. Your best friend’s future husband? The father of her unborn child?” He fought down his natural urge to be a sarcastic asshole, but she didn’t react. She just crouched there, staring up at him, with those huge, shocked eyes. Her purplish lips shook. He had to get her dressed, take her someplace safe. What would he do if she collapsed? The Coney Island Hospital? That would involve filling out papers, explanations, accountability. Cops. Bad scene. Damn. He made his voice gentle, with some effort. “Come out of the closet, Nina. We have to get out of here. We don’t know when they’ll be back, how many there are, or anything else. So move.”
    No reaction. More quivering lips. More blinking. Shit. He was going to have to drag her out. He steeled himself for a screaming, scratching, hysterical freak-out. She was entitled.
    He reached in, took her hands. They were icy. He chafed them between his own, and tugged. She came out, offering no resistance.
    In fact, she practically flew out, and came to rest right in his arms. There was a weird inevitability to it. A key to a lock. Like they were magnetized. Snick, and they were fused, and he was hugging the naked girl. His arms shook, his guts vibrated, his heart tripped over itself. He was squeezing her too hard. Had to loosen his grip. He’d scare her worse than she was already.
    He couldn’t. His eyes watered, and what the fuck was that about? He hid his face against her hair, used it to blot the tears away.
    This was stupid. They had no time to indulge in masturbatory hugging bullshit, with bullet holes smoking and cops on their way. But what was he supposed to do, fling her off? Her face pressed against his shirt. Her eyelash flutters tickled his collarbone. Her breath bloomed, humid against his chest. The sensation rocketed through his nerves.
    Whoa. Back off. Don’t start with that crazy shit. Don’t even start.
    Then he caught her scent. And oh. God.
    He lived in a forest. Outside his house, the spruce, cedars, firs, and pines towered hundreds of feet over his head, a vaulted expanse of flickering green. When it rained, which was often, the earthy sweetness of pine needles, tree bark, loam, and moss rose to meet the falling rain. The meeting point of earth and water.
    Perfect balance. The intersection of opposites. It was the exact scent of Nina Christie’s hair.
    He’d bought that property for the smell alone. It had been raining when the agent showed him the place, and he just couldn’t resist it.
    So her shampoo has a nice perfume. Get the fuck over it. He knew how to dismantle a foolish notion with a few hard, well-placed blows.
    But the damage was done. Now he was hyperaware of her. His body felt like one big eye that could not close. He caught sight of the mirror on her closet door. There he was, clutching the gorgeous naked chick. Like he was about to push her down onto the floor and fuck her.
    Wow. So pale. Curvy. Her dark hair draped in swags over his wrist. His fingers looked very brown against the pale, smooth skin.
    His fingers tightened. She was silky. Softer than the girls he usually ogled, but maybe he’d been missing something, favoring the taut, lean ones. Her breasts pressed against his chest, springy and soft. Her bare, tight nipples brushed his chest. Her locks of dark hair tapered off so that the tips barely tickled the swell of 68
    her ass. He wanted to pet that peachy, shadowy cleft. His body, jangling with adrenaline, did its fucking stupid animal thing, and sprang to attention. His hands had taken off without permission on an exploratory mission, fingers splaying greedily to feel the dip of her waist, to grip the curve of her hip.
    For God’s sake, get