by Nikki Duncan
“What?” Michael put his face in front of hers so they were nose to nose. “How?”
She let her hands fall to his chest. His sculpted-like-a-Roman-god chest. Now she’d blown everything. “The umbrella.”
Michael stepped back and held up his hands, looking at them as if they were diseased. “You put poison on the umbrella?”
“No.” She shook her head in earnest. “In the umbrella. It’s a Cold War technique. You use it like a gun to inject a poison pellet into your target.”
His brows drew down and then he strode out of the room, clearly irritated, taking all his magnificence with him.
Brigit slumped against the wall, deflated. Her luck hadn’t really changed after all. She didn’t belong with Michael any more than she belonged with her father or her sister or anyone else. She was alone. Totally alone.
“Show me.”
Her head snapped up at Michael’s command. The umbrella was in his hands and he was holding it out to her.
Taking it apart, she laid each piece on the bureau and answered his questions about how it worked. Keeping her focus on the umbrella, she tried to let his annoyance roll off her back, but his obvious disappointment in her couldn’t be ignored.
When his silence stretched into the painful zone, she peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He was staring at her with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest. “You built this?”
Returning her attention to the umbrella, she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, and I followed Peter to the bar and injected him with rat poison. Got him right in the calf.”
Silence again. Unable to stand it any longer, she turned to face him. “Say something.”
A light had entered his eyes. He rubbed his chin with his fingers and thumb. “I think I’m turned on.”
Relief slammed through her as he grinned wide, perfect teeth showing. In an instant, she was in his arms again. She wrapped one leg around his muscled thigh as their mouths found each other, and the next second he lifted her and swung her around to sit on the top of the bureau—umbrella parts scattering—all without breaking their kiss.
Her legs instinctively parted to allow him access, and he slid her to the edge of the bureau where their hips snapped together. The bulge in his pants teased her as mercilessly as his lips.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” he murmured against her mouth.
“I don’t normally,” she said, feeding him short, hot kisses. “But every time I think of Ella and Tory and what Peter’s taken from me, I hate him. I hate him so much I want to kill him a hundred times over.” She pulled back and checked his response. “Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? That I hate my brother enough to kill him? Holy Virgin, I’m fucked up.”
“You have every right to feel mad, Brigit. Blood doesn’t mean shit in this case.”
God, she loved him for saying that. Leaning into him again, she teased his lips. “Thank you.”
He responded, speaking through her kisses. “Dangerous to go after him alone, though.”
“I laugh in the face of danger.”
One of his hands went under her sweater, raked her stomach. “Jesus, you’re my kind of woman.”
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