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followed her lead and stepped closer to her. Mere inches apart now, he said, "It's we , me, or the boys in blue. Take your pick."
    While her eyes fired a volley of hot curses, her mouth softened to speechless, which suited him. Because a mouth not talking had other good uses. And he, being the imbecile he was, decided to take advantage of one of them.
    Oh, but you'll be hating yourself in the morning...

 
     
     
    Chapter 5

     
    Patrick went on testosterone-fueled autopilot, gripped Gina's shoulders, and pulled her to him. Chest to chest. The scent of tart lemon with something fine and flowery beyond its sharp edge drifted around him.
    He closed his eyes, took the scent of her in deep. Absorbed her.
    The past year eroded, slid away. All the anger, the pain, the goddamn awfulness of her disappearing on him turned to smoke. One whiff of citrus, two soft shoulders under his hands, and a pair of sparking eyes glaring into his, and nothing else mattered. She was here. Now.
    He wasn't about to let her go. No harm, no foul in just one kiss.
    His gaze fixed on her parted lips. He lowered his head, then paused, his mouth a breath away from hers—that old quivering in his chest. Then... a lurch of uncertainty. She might pull away.
    She didn't. Instead, she took his face in her hands, glared into his eyes, and cursed him.
    "Damn you, Patrick Byrne. Damn you!"
    And pulled his mouth to hers.
    His chest emptied of air. His legs, ignoring the fact they'd been running five miles a day for six years, went weak as old Guinness. Her kiss, like a lick from a blast furnace, blew him apart. He lifted his head, ran his hands through her awful yellow hair—registered it didn't feel the same—and said, "God, I've missed you. Why did—"
    "Shush." She touched his mouth with her fingers and shook her head. "Not now. Not when we have something so much better to do."
    "And what would that be?" Fool that he was, he couldn't help his smile. As if he didn't know where this was leading. As if he wasn't all for it. Whatever it was.
    "If we're going after Coleman and Igor," she said, the edge of a tease in her voice, "maybe we should limber up. Do a few... calisthenics ? You up for that?"
    "You had me at 'damn you.'" He played the game, as if by rote, because it felt so right, so fuckin' right! And his dick, always up for some trouble, urged him on.
    Go for it. Take her. Why not...
    Gina took his hand and pulled him toward the hall—toward her bedroom. He didn't resist. Puppet on her string, he was.
    Careful, Byrne. Watch it!
    In her bedroom, she maneuvered him so his back was to her bed, undid his shirt's buttons, pulled it from his waistband, then gave him a shove. When he was sitting on the edge of the bed, she straddled him and pulled her top off and over her head.
    That puppet string pulled taut, as did another part of his anatomy. This was crazy. He was crazy—going back for a second helping of heartache. This woman had told him lies, royally screwed him over. Something his fired-up-and-ready-to-go cock—notorious for its short-term memory—had conveniently forgotten.
    * * *
    Gina knew she was ten times a fool, but that knowledge didn't stop her. Every blood vessel in her body was a hot, flowing river, fed by streams of pure hormones.
    Two things were at work here, her coolly analytical mind chirped: her near-death experience with Plinth Igor, and Patrick Byrne's Irish magic. Born in Galway, he'd been fourteen when he'd moved to the US. And his low voice still held the edge of Erin in its vowels. She loved the sound of it, the mist in it, and used to wheedle him into reading Yeats to her.
    I bring you with reverent hands
    The books of my numberless dreams...
    He was a cop with a poet's soul, a love of words—and the body of David Beckham. A body she would use to forget Igor and Coleman, and to postpone the inevitable—dumping Patrick and getting on with her job, solo. The way she'd always rolled. The way it had to be.
    She wouldn't make the