Relentless - By Cherry Adair Page 0,14

and the Louisiana French called lagniappe. That little bit extra. She was dangerous to his equilibrium.

Shivering, she murmured low in her throat, and without stopping the kiss, firmly gripped his wrist and removed his fingers from her breast.

His chest ached and he realized he’d forgotten to breathe as his hungry mouth devoured hers. Reluctantly he lifted his head, sucking in great drafts of air as she did the same. Skin flushed, her eyes were closed, long dark lashes smudges on her cheeks as she fought to catch her breath.

He had to put a stop to this, now. In a minute. In an hour. Fuck it, tomorrow.

Thorne pulled her back again, already missing the slick texture of her mouth and the way her body responded to his touch. Crushing his lips to her, he swept inside and found her tongue waiting there for him. Isis didn’t receive passively; she wasn’t afraid to give as good as she got. Her hand gripped the back of his neck, making him shudder.

“We’re ’ere, gov. Want me to take another turn around the park?”

APPARENTLY THAT IMPULSIVE I’m-sorry-your-father-is-a-jerk kiss in the cab had scared off “Just Thorne” because he’d dropped her off at the hotel two hours ago and disappeared.

Too bad, because Isis wanted—rather desperately—to kiss him again, preferably not in a moving vehicle. She presumed he’d come back eventually. She very much looked forward to locking lips with Thorne again. He was a fabulous kisser.

The hotel was way too damned expensive, but he’d typically overridden her protests about the unnecessary cost. At this rate, given Lodestone’s exorbitant fee and Thorne’s per diem, her small budget for expenses would be eaten up before they found what she was looking for.

Dressed in jeans and a pale blue T-shirt, her feet bare, Isis stared out of her hotel window, enjoying the sight of the darkening evening sky, the city lights twinkling in a beautiful sparkly blanket as far as the eye could see. She hadn’t been to London in several years, and she was eager to get out and explore before they got down to some serious work at the museum the next day.

No matter how pricey the hotel, she didn’t want to spend the evening alone in her room. It gave her too much time to think. She was worried about her father. His health hadn’t been good since he’d returned from Cairo, and while his Alzheimer’s prevented him from being aware she was gone, she liked to check on him every day. Had she missed something? As confused as he was about the circumstances of his “accident,” had he given her clues to Cleo’s tomb that she hadn’t picked up on? Her father loved puzzles, and the more obtuse and confusing the better.

She’d searched his apartment in Seattle a dozen times looking for anything that might lead her to his last find. Isis believed that he’d discovered Cleo’s final resting place this time. He’d found his life’s work, and it was a cruel irony of fate that now he didn’t remember exactly where he’d been.

No one would believe he’d done what he’d promised. It was up to her to close the circle of her father’s brilliant legacy while there was still time.

Before his death. And before someone else claimed the historic discovery for themselves.

Where the frick are you, “Just Thorne?”

He was from London, so she presumed he had friends there. Was some girlfriend reaping the benefits of her warm-up? The thought annoyed her no end. Holding the drapes aside, she swore under her breath. He was no monk. And she’d made her position clear—he was well within his rights to do whatever he pleased with whomever he wanted to please.

That didn’t mean Isis had to like it.

Blasted man.

She’d showered, ordered the cheapest thing on the room service menu, and eaten a solitary and too early dinner. The evening stretched out before her like a thick blank notebook.

To hell with him. She was in no mood to watch a movie at inflated hotel rates, and she had, as her grandmother was wont to say, ants in her pants—although she was pretty sure Nana hadn’t meant it in quite the same way. Or maybe she had; her Nana had been a spitfire until the day she died last year, at ninety-two.

Yes. Ants in her pants. Hot to trot. Horny.

She hadn’t meant the kiss to get that heated that fast. She’d offered a comforting hand, and he’d taken it as the offer not of her arm, but of her

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