A Good Day for Chardonnay (Sunshine Vicram #2) - Darynda Jones Page 0,95
in what felt like days.
He sat beside her and leaned against the tree behind them. Placing the backpack on the ground at their feet, he ferreted out a couple of power bars.
She took one and said nonchalantly, “I can’t even imagine what my hair looks like at this point in my life.”
“Hair has never been your strong suit,” he said, a teasing sparkle in his eyes.
“Oh yeah? Well, brains have never been yours.”
He chuckled and took a huge bite while she tried to come up with a legitimate distraction. Just something to keep their quarry’s eyes trained on them.
“How about a fight?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Could work.”
“Or,” she said, excited, “I could slip and break my leg!”
“That might be hard to pull off.”
“True.” She took another bite.
Several minutes later, the radio clicked three times.
“That was fast.”
“You thirsty?” Levi asked her.
She’d bent to stuff her wrapper into the backpack. When she straightened, she felt a firm hand wrap around the back of her skull. She looked up at him. He pulled her closer and lifted the bottle to her lips. The hard plastic of the rim pressed against them. Cool water filled her mouth.
She tried to swallow but a memory consumed her. Her breath caught and she coughed, but only slightly.
He lowered the bottle and licked his own lips as he studied hers. The image of her rescuer fifteen years ago, hood and shadows concealing his face, flashed in her mind. He held her the same way. An arm draped behind her back, supporting her. A large hand around her neck. The bottle at her lips, cool and wet against her hot mouth. A warmth spread throughout her body.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice whisper soft.
“There are only two things that will keep their attention focused on us while your team overtakes them. Either we fight or fuck.”
She swallowed hard. “You’re assuming they don’t have a sniper rifle pointed at our heads as we speak.”
“They clearly want the kid. Why would they blow their lead?”
“Fine. We fight.”
His gaze traveled over her face. “Chickenshit.”
She thought about arguing with him, but he did have a point. Desire glistened in his eyes as he looked down at her. He was either an incredible actor, or he was not wasting the opportunity, either.
“We should start fighting now,” she said, her voice breathier than she’d planned.
“I’ll follow your lead.”
After another moment of considering his alternate plan, imagining her lips brushing across his, she stood to face him instead and railed, “What do you mean my hair has never been my strong suit? What’s wrong with my hair?” She made a point to throw in some angry movements without exaggerating them too much. She had to sell it, not turn it into vaudeville.
He eased back. Took her in. Then did indeed follow her lead. Yet, unlike her, he stayed true to his character by offering no reaction whatsoever other than the barest hint of a smirk. He gestured toward the subject of their argument, a.k.a. the weakest point of her entire being apparently, and said, “It’s just so blond.”
She gaped at him. “It’s too blond?”
“And nondescript.”
“Excuse me?”
“And anemic.”
He’d really thought about this. “Can hair even be anemic?”
“Apparently.”
The humorous slant to his lips caused a momentary glitch in Sun’s synaptic firings. She mentally rebooted, and asked, “Just what do you suggest I do about it?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. You never wear it down so it’s hard to say.”
She executed her best soap-opera spin and whirled away from him. It was a wonder Hollywood hadn’t come knocking. “For your information, I’m a law enforcement officer. French braids are generally safer than ponytails or even buns, so I braid it.” She spun back to him. “And you’re one to talk. What exactly do you call that disaster?” She gestured toward his head of thick, dark auburn hair, the same hair she’d give her left kidney just to run her fingers through, and guessed, “The sasquatch?”
“Are you saying I need a trim?”
She stopped short in front of him and leaned in until they were nose-to-nose. “I’m saying you need a trim.”
This was the most ridiculous argument she’d ever had. She should’ve come up with something better to argue about than hair, but a part of her did wonder if he really felt that way. Clearly, she needed to deep condition more often. Maybe give it a light tease.
He set the bottle aside and pinned her with a knowing look. “No,” he said, his voice as deep