Black Ice - Anne Stuart [83]
The white shirt was open, exposing his golden smooth skin. He was trying to tape something to his side, a wad of padding that looked like a bandage, when she knew his body well enough to know that he had no wound there.
She came up to him, because she had no reason, no excuse not to. And because she wanted to. “What do you want me to do?”
“I need this adhered to my skin, just below the fourth rib. I can’t quite reach.”
“What is it?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “It’s something used to fake a gunshot wound. It has a small explosive device in it, plus an ampoule of fake blood. It’ll sound and look like I’ve been shot, and it needs to be in the right place to be a fatal hit.”
“All right.” She put her hands on the piece of padding, too close to him, breathing in the scent of his cologne. Her hands touched his skin, silky smooth, hot, and her fingers trembled. “Is this right?”
“Can you feel my ribs? It should be just below the lowest one.”
She tried to breathe normally. Feeling the bones beneath his flesh was unquestionably erotic, whether she wanted it to be or not. “Of course I can feel your ribs,” she said in a cranky voice. “You’re a skinny-ass Frenchman. Except that I don’t really believe you’re French.”
“Don’t you?” His voice was very soft. They were so close he barely had to speak above a whisper, and the hush was only increasing her reaction. “What do you think I am, then?”
“A pain in the butt.” Which sounded just fine, except that she was having a little trouble breathing with him so close. She reached under the shirt, around his side, and pressed the tape against his skin. “Is that right?” she repeated.
“It should do. The powder will blow a hole in my clothes, and there’s enough fake blood to cover any miscalculation.” He looked down at her. Her mouth was just below his—she could close her eyes and put her head against his shoulder, sink into the heat and strength of him.
She stepped back, nervous, trying to hide it. He buttoned his shirt, then shrugged into his jacket. Black formal dinner wear, to match her slinky dress. He’d tied his long hair back and he looked elegant, unconcerned as he finished dressing. Her eyes followed his hands as they tied the black silk tie, and she found herself looking at his mouth.
“We need to talk,” she said abruptly.
“About what?”
God damn him! “About what happened a short while ago. In the bedroom,” she clarified, in case he was going to continue being deliberately obtuse.
“Why? There’s nothing to say.”
“But…”
“It was a normal human reaction. Survival of the species, ma belle. When one is confronted with violent death one reacts in a life-affirming way. It’s nothing personal.”
She’d been an idiot to say a word. If she’d just kept her mouth shut this weekend she might never have set off any warning flags, and everyone would still be living their normal lives.
“You’re right,” she muttered, not caring that she sounded sulky and graceless. “Stockholm Syndrome.”
“What?”
She’d said the words out loud. It was too late to deny them, so she brazened it out. “Stockholm Syndrome,” she repeated more loudly. “It’s a documented psychological state where a hostage falls—”
“I know what it is.” He looked both alarmed and amused at the same time. He’d stopped her before she’d said the really damning words, and she could feel faintly grateful. She hadn’t managed to shame herself completely. “And you’re a victim of this particular malady?”
“It’s not surprising.” She was getting better at keeping her voice light and unconcerned. “You’ve saved my life on a number of occasions, we’re stuck together in a life-or-death situation, and before things got this bad there was a definite physical attraction between us.” She remembered his subsequent distancing, and she felt a trace of heat rush to her face. “At least, you managed to convince me it was mutual when you needed to,” she amended. “So it’s only normal that I feel a