Page 26 of Seal of Honor
Gabe sputtered. He’d been called a lot of things in his life, mostly names incorporating creative variations of four-letter words in many different languages. But this took the cake. “A what?”
She flashed that smile, the one that lit up her eyes and crinkled her nose, and his irritation instantly faded. That probably should have annoyed him, but it didn’t.
“It’s something my brother…” Just as quickly as it appeared, her smile vanished and she turned away to stare out the window.
Gabe let a whole five seconds of silence pass before he couldn’t stand the sadness he felt weighing down on her. “Something your brother… what?”
“Just something he used to say when I had a mood on as a child,” Audrey said, still staring out the window. “I always thought it was so ridiculous I forgot whatever I was mad about.” She finally looked at him again, and a hint of her previous smile ghosted over her lips. “Did it work for you?”
Yeah, it had. He shook his head. “I never pegged you for the manipulative type.”
Now her smile returned full force, and for a moment, Gabe found himself so dazzled he almost forgot to watch the winding road in front of them.
“I’m a woman, duh,” she said. “And a Southern woman, to boot. Manipulation is what we do best.”
Gabe forced his attention back to the road. “What else is in there?” He hitched his chin toward the basket on her lap.
“Food for the guys from Armando’s wife.”
At the mention of food, his stomach growled mightily, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since his retirement party, and then only a couple hors d’oeuvres. “What kind of food?”
“Empanadas, buñuelos, some fruit, coffee.”
He held out a hand, wiggled his fingers. “Hand over one of those empanadas.”
“We need to teach you manners.” She rolled her eyes but slapped one of the wrapped packages into his palm. “You’re lucky they included enough for you. They thought you were very rude. Which, you are.”
“I’m hurt,” he muttered around a bite of flavorful beef and fried dough. “Crying on the inside. Got coffee?”
She sighed, but produced a thermos and poured some coffee into the lid without spilling a drop as they bumped over a road that hadn’t seen construction in a good decade or more. The hot, dark aroma that only came with real Colombian java filled the car. She waited until he inhaled the empanada before handing over the cup, but they hit another bump and his head banged on the roof. The coffee sloshed everywhere. He swore as the car that had been riding his ass for the past mile blared its horn.
“You should buckle up. If Colombians are anything like Costa Rican drivers, it can get vicious.” Calmly, she poured another cup. Then, despite her lecture, unbuckled herself and turned in her seat to hold the coffee to his lips. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Something twisted his gut, a sharp clench of emotion he didn’t dare put a name to, not to mention analyze.
“Uh, thanks, I got it now.” He took the cup, their fingers brushing in an innocent, fleeting touch. That clench in his gut slid below the belt. She had soft hands, small and elegant, flecked with colorful bits of paint, and a visceral image of those pretty fingers tracing over his body, her palm closing around his cock and stroking hard and fast the way he liked, took root in his brain.
The Jeep hit another bump and sent a pinch of pain through his cock. He winced, and she drew away, retreating to her side of the car. Her eyes looked a little dazed, her lower lip swelling up under the constant worrying of her teeth. Silence stretched between them, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second.
At last, she looked at him. “You feel it too, don’t you? From that first moment, there’s been something between us. Chemistry.”
Should’ve known she’d not shy away from it. Audrey Van Amee may be quirky, rash, and as capricious as his intel claimed—though he was starting to doubt that last one—but nobody could accuse her of not having spine. Which shamed him for considering, even for a second, denying the…chemistry, or whatever it was. Lying was probably the right thing, the professional thing, to do. But, hell, if she couldn’t see the erection still throbbing against the fly of his cargo pants, she should visit a doctor about that vision problem, because the damn thing was as noticeable as the Washington Monument.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I feel it. Obviously.”
Her gaze dropped to his lap, and lingered just long enough that he had to shift in the seat to relieve some of the growing pressure between his legs. She licked her lips and he wanted to groan.
“Must you do that?”
Big caramel brown eyes snapped to his. “Do what?”
“That thing with your tongue. It’s not helping my situation over here.”
She sent him a wicked grin. “Why? Does it distract you?”
“You know damn well it does.”
“Hmm.” Slowly, ever so slowly, she traced her tongue over her lower lip. “Good.”
