Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

and kissed her again. She hummed softly, parting her lips, inviting him in. With a groan, Rikar accepted, sliding his hand into her hair as he got busy blissing her out. And pleasing himself. Gentle desire slid into need, becoming greedy as she turned toward him. Cupping his nape, she played with his hair, tangled her legs with his, putting them breast to chest.
    And bing-bang, just like that he wanted her hoodie gone. The cotton was too goddamn thick. He couldn’t feel a thing through it and—
    Shit. What was he doing? The plan was to distract her. Not give himself a massive case of blue balls.
    “Ah, Angela?” Breathing hard, he nipped her as he drew away.
    “Hmm?”
    “Got something for you.”
    “What?”
    “It’s a surprise.”
    Suspicion glinting in her gaze, she murmured, “Uh-huh.”
    Christ love her. She was smart. But then, he was too.
    With a quick shift, he slid out of her arms before the urge to spread her beneath him took over. One more session like that and…hell. Hoodie, no hoodie, he’d peel her out of those yoga pants and be deep inside her in under a minute flat. But that was a big no-can-do. At least today. Tomorrow? Who knew, but for the moment the plan didn’t include making love to her. It was all about the string-along. Keep her guessing, and his female would follow him.
    No questions asked.
    Okay. Maybe not no questions .
    Angela was built to interrogate. She’d pepper him with questions the whole way, but she’d be walking while she did it. And that was the point.
    Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, Rikar stood and glanced at Angela over his shoulder. Raising a brow, he held out his hand. “You coming?”
    Her eyes narrowed. “You’re fighting dirty.”
    “Did you expect anything else?”
    Her lips pursed, she glared at him. Rikar fought a grin, waiting her out and…jackpot. Curiosity grabbed hold, making her eyes sparkle as she accepted his offering. As her hand slid into his, he pulled her to her feet, but held tight, lacing their fingers together. She murmured a protest, tried to shake free. He held firm, and she gave in. Hallelujah. A small victory, but hell, he’d take it.
    Grinning like an idiot, he tugged her toward the door. All the while thinking… Fucking A. Holding her hand felt good. Right. Everything it should be and more.
    Now all he needed to do was persuade Angela to stay. To become a permanent part of his life after he took Lothair down.

Chapter Nineteen
     
    White-knuckling the steering wheel with both hands, Tania drove into the SPD’s parking lot. And straight into a war zone. Yellow police tape crisscrossed the far end. Bits of glass and steel littered the asphalt. A telephone pole, snapped midshaft with tangled wires, lay in the middle of a super-duty truck that had seen better days. And wow, the uniforms were everywhere: cops, firefighters, and tow-truck drivers, all working to clear the debris and damaged cars. Some were beyond repair, lined up in a haphazard row with smashed-in roofs, blown windshields, and flat tires. Others had escaped the pileup with little more than a scratch or two.
    Jeez, Baghdad had nothing on this place.
    And that was before she saw the huge hole in the side of the building. Holy crap. It looked like the precinct had been bombed.
    Taking her eyes off SPD’s little shop of horrors, Tania wheeled her ’64 Mini Cooper into a tiny spot between two big all-terrain vehicles. The huge four-by-fours obviously belonged to wannabes. Every woman knew the type. Guys with inferiority complexes, more concerned about what they looked like than how they acted. Yup. Men like that always went for the “monster” rides.
    Compensating for what they lacked behind their button flies, maybe?
    Tania snorted. Probably. Today, though, she was happy to take advantage of the testosterone-induced stupidity. She’d just had her Mini repainted—cherry red with white racing stripes…sweetness personified. No sense risking her girl getting dinged by the load of muscle getting flexed at the other end of the parking lot.
    Taking a deep breath, she stared out through the windshield at the chain-link fence, doubting the viability of her plan. Detective MacCord wasn’t a pushover. The guy was like cyanide. Painful. Persistent. Annoying as heck. Infecting her like slow poison.
    God, why couldn’t she get him out of her head? She’d tried everything. Had even eaten a boatload of chocolate—before ten a.m.! Gone for a run at