Page 31 of Straight Shooter

Priss nodded and stretched out her legs.

He inched his chair closer. “Now that you know everything about me, it’s only fair you share something about you.”

Her eyes turned to cool amber, and she slid another piece of orange between her lips. Her tongue flashed as she ate the fruit, and his dick thrummed against his shorts. The breeze picked up, moving pale tendrils of hair around her cheeks. She swept them to the side and kept her gaze averted, seemingly deciding if or how much she should share.

Disappointment pulled at his heart. The federal agent part of him wanted to know more about the elusive criminal, but the other part, the part that buzzed to life when she touched him, wanted something much more dangerous.

Her trust.

“What is it you want to know?” The simple question was like a dangling carrot in the face of a pathetic rabbit.

I want to know everything.

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

She shrugged. Some of the light had vanished from her eyes, and remorse for making her so somber stabbed him in the chest.

“I don’t want to talk about my childhood.”

He shrugged. “That’s fine.”

“Or any job details that you could use against me later.” One side of her mouth hooked into a grin, but truth weighed down her words.

“No problem.”

She puckered her lips. “That doesn’t leave much.”

“Tell me something you’ve always wanted. Something you think you can’t have.”

Her face fell. She fingered the material of her dress at her thigh, her eyes downcast. Where the hell had that question come from? Maybe it was because he knew she longed for things. Parents. Family. You didn’t come from a rough childhood and not crave human contact. He was pushing her, and if he were smart, he’d shut down the conversation, get her ass on a flight home, and⁠—

“Kids.” The word came out on a strangled breath. The depths of her eyes turned to liquid, and those damn tears shone in the corners again. The sadness etched on her delicate features tore at his solar plexus.

Kids. Years ago, he’d dreamed of having two or three kids running around. Now, at thirty-four years old, it was the furthest thing from his mind. The right woman hadn’t come along, and the relationships that had resulted from the occasional date never lasted more than a few weeks. He pictured Peyton with a baby on her hip and a swollen belly and a smile tickled his mouth. Maybe they’d have her hair, the golden streaks among the strawberry tones rivaled the yellow of the sun.

“Kids would look good on you.”

She beamed. “Thanks. Maybe one day.” A beat passed. Then Peyton took a swig of tea and straightened in her seat, alerting him that the conversation was over. “Where do we go from here?”

He forced down a gulp of the sugary drink as his throat tightened. He ached to throw everything else away and get lost in conversation with her. She studied him from across the table, her eyes large and wary, the tendrils of her hair looped into curls around her slim shoulders, which were accentuated by the thin straps of her dress. Her full, pink lips tucked into the corners of her mouth, and desire warmed his abdomen again. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, flashing her golden-tinted thigh, and every male hormone in his body sprang to attention.

God, she was beautiful. Sexy. Smart. And he needed her more than he needed his next breath.

Damn, he was stupid. Could he be losing touch with reality? There was absolutely not a single good thing that could come from him having sex with Peyton Risk. Except, of course, burying his throbbing shaft inside her.

Tension clogged his throat. He dug his fingers into the neckline of his shirt and pulled it away from his neck.

Peyton’s eyebrow wriggled. “Well?”

“You tell me who you’re working for.”

Her smile flashed wide and painfully fake. “Not a chance.”

He leaned forward and pressed his fingertips to her knee. Her supple skin called him to explore, but he didn’t budge. “I want to help you, to protect you. But I can’t do that if you’re protecting someone else. Who hired you? What do they want from Moretti?”

She leaned forward, pressing her forearms to her knees and bringing her nose an inch from his. Gone was the intimacy, the spark, and everything light from her now-menacing yellow irises.

“I don’t see how that would help. Beanie’s the one who wants to kill me, not the people who hired me.”