Page 38 of Above ’N’ Beyond

In painstakingly slow increments, Jimmy lowered his head. Their mouths were so close all it would take was a scant lift of her chin, and their lips would touch.

Heat rolled off him in delicious, spice-scented waves she breathed in, expanding her chest until her breasts pressed against his pecs. Kissing Jimmy Santoro would be a supremely bad idea. So why wasn’t she stopping him?

Because I don’t want to.

Hard, firm lips grazed hers. The contact was slight, like being tickled by a feather. But the blast of heat that shot through her was undeniable. Like someone had turned on a furnace and angled it directly at her face.

With a deep groan, Jimmy kissed her more deeply, breathing into her mouth. She answered with a throaty moan of her own, sliding her hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss was delicious, licking at her like flames, igniting a fire in her soul and in her core. Jimmy shifted, easing her backward so her neck rested in the crook of his arm. His hand slid up the side of her rib cage, his long fingers skimming her breast. Instantly, her nipples pebbled. If his mouth hadn’t been fused to hers, his tongue sweeping in deep, fluid strokes, she would have wanted those masculine lips wrapped around her painfully tight nipples.

He slipped his hand around her shoulder, and she winced at the sharp pain. He broke off the kiss, pulling back and narrowing his eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Her upper back, just below her right shoulder blade, stung when he’d touched her there.

Without preamble, he tugged her tank strap aside. “You’re hurt.”

“Really?” She tried looking over her shoulder to see the source of the pain. “I didn’t feel a thing until now.” Probably because she and Jimmy had been lip-locked like two kissing gouramis. She turned back to see a dangerous glint in his eyes and a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“Adrenaline can do that,” he said tightly. “Do you have any antiseptic?”

“Antiseptic?” You dork. Parroting was something she never did. Her brain must have been clouded over by a kiss-induced haze. “In my bathroom.” But she’d much rather he soothe her scraped shoulder with his warm lips.

He stood, taking her with him, then set her down and grabbed a thin throw blanket that had been hanging on the back of the sofa and draped it around her shoulders. With quick, angry strides, he went down the short hallway, looking left then right at each open door before turning into the master bedroom.

Now that she was no longer intimately pressed against his buff body, the adrenaline and kiss-induced tension bled away like air from a sliced tire.

Kissing Jimmy might have felt good in the moment, but abandoning her ironclad rule not to date a mobster was just plain dumb. Foolish. She rolled her eyes.

What have I done?

She’d been upset, afraid, and craving a comfortable safety net. That’s all this was. All it could ever be.

Jimmy Santoro might have a do-gooder streak in him, but he was still part of the Mancuso Crime Family. One of Tony’s boys and soon to become one of Paola’s minions.

He was a man she could never allow into her inner circle.

…

Jamie bit back a growl. The anger he’d barely managed to tamp down at the lake threatened to resurface with deadly thoughts of violence—something he was good at and a skill he’d been perfecting since the day his father had been taken from him.

Special Agent Hoover better pray he never crossed paths with Jamie again. Seeing those scrapes and the blood on Bella’s smooth skin made him want to tear the guy’s head off and shove it up his ass. And if it hadn’t been for Hoover, he wouldn’t have been holding her in his arms, cradling her warm body against his, and kissing her like she was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted and could never get enough of.

She was a taste he could never allow himself to savor again.

He took three steps into Bella’s bedroom and stopped. The living room and kitchen of the house had been decorated similarly to the Bistro, in rich yellow and terra cotta and deep-red upholstered furniture. Her bedroom was entirely different.

A black antique wrought-iron bed with intricate scrollwork on the headboard took up a large part of the room. The bed was neatly made, covered in a white quilted duvet with matching pillows. Sheer white draperies billowed at the open window. The area rug had a crisscrossing beige-and-white pattern.

The effect was subtle and serene, a tranquil oasis that called to his very soul, surrounding him with a calm that defused a big chunk of the fury burning inside him. His next thought was a stupid one, but he never ignored his instincts.

Every moment he spent with Bella Bianco gave him fresh insight that wasn’t in the FBI’s file on her. After reading that file, he’d expected one thing. In reality, she was another. A soft, vulnerable woman with no real family that mattered. None of it meshed with the FBI’s firm belief she was a criminal.

He took in the rest of the room, the walls of which were painted a creamy color that reminded him of a foam-topped cappuccino as the milk began melding with the coffee. A golden oak bureau sat against one wall, and a white wood vanity topped with a tripod mirror sat against the other.

Jamie drew in a deep breath, inhaling Bella’s scent. As he headed for the bathroom, he paused by the vanity. Sitting on a glass tray were several pieces of jewelry and a tiny purple glass bottle. Strictly for investigative purposes, he picked up the bottle and held it to his nose. Yep. This was the source of the flowers he smelled anytime he was around Bella.

“Did you find it?” she called out from the living room. “Top drawer in the bathroom.”