Ghostwalker 02 - Mind Game

routine.
    They had to follow them to find the sanitarium and ultimately, you.”

    She heard the crackle of the flames and took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry, I know better than to get so upset. You’re right, of course. I should have thought of it.” She turned her face up to his. “If we’re going to stop the fire, you’d better kiss me.”

    He caught her chin firmly and lowered his mouth to hers. “What a chore.” He brushed her lips gently, enticingly. Teasing her. Nibbling at her lower lip to distract her. To feel her shiver in his arms. Wanting the thrust of her breasts against his skin and melting softness of her body as she went pliant. It wasn’t about stopping a fire, it was about redirecting the fire. He wanted the flames in her. In him. Sharing their skin.

    His teeth tugged at her lower lip until she opened her mouth for him, allowing his tongue to sweep inside, to claim her. To lick away the flames on the walls and put them where they belonged, in her mouth, in his. His arms tightened around her, his hands restless, skimming down her back, cupping and squeezing her bottom, dragging her up and into his groin. The energy took them, as it always did, a storm flaring into an instant wildfire.
    He loved the way the energy was eaten up by the flames, by the way their mouths clung and melded, hot and wet and needy.

    Dahlia felt right in his arms. Each time. Every time. Sometimes when he sat away from her, he felt the ice-cold blood running in his veins and knew he had mastered his emotions. Maybe too much. And then she’d look at him. One smoldering look and he’d heat up, feel everything. Every emotion a human being was meant to feel.

    He slid his hands back up her body, cupped her head while he kissed her, again and again. Long, slow kisses and fierce, hot ones. She pulled away first, lifting her mouth inches from his. “Do you kiss me like that because of the energy? Or because you want to kiss me like that?”

    “I have to kiss you. I need to kiss you. I’ll never get enough of kissing you. If the energy needs us to find ways to use it up, I consider it an added bonus in our relationship.” His fingers slipped into her hair. It was always so impossibly shiny. He loved the sight and scent of it, the feel of it. “I’m very much like you, Dahlia, I rarely do anything I don’t want to do.”

    She stepped away from him reluctantly. “Well, you kept the house from burning down.
    Lily will be happy if she’s the one who rented it for us. I want to look at the rest of the photographs. Maybe I’ll see something else familiar.”

    He handed them to her.

    “Nicolas? Thank you for saying what you did about Bernadette. I don’t know why I jumped to the wrong conclusion like that. I think I’m more upset over Max than I want to admit. Why wouldn’t Jesse and Max tell me they knew Dr. Whitney? Why didn’t they say he performed the same experiment on them?”

    “You didn’t exchange much information with them,” he pointed out carefully. “You’re all taught to keep secrets. That’s the name of this game, Dahlia. Maxwell and Calhoun are agents for the NCIS and before that SEALS. They aren’t going to talk out of turn.

    You can’t blame them for that.“

    Her black eyes met his. For the first time he thought she looked like the mysterious witch some called her. There was something haunted and magical in her gaze. “Yes, I can.” The way she said it had him believing in voodoo and witchcraft. A slow, Cajun drawl, every bit as soft and sexy as Gator’s but with a soft hiss of a promise of revenge. It actually sent a chill down his spine.

    Dahlia dropped her gaze to the pictures she held in her hand. She didn’t want to think about betrayal. She’d start another fire for certain and that would lead to kissing Nicolas, and he drove every sane thought from her head. She was recovering the data tonight so she couldn’t afford to get distracted. She forced herself to look at the photos. Several were of the Quarter. Obviously the photographer planned to show he’d been vacationing.
    Many were at the French market where Milly and Bernadette often bought produce.
    There was even a picture of the narrow alley and the small yarn shop where the women purchased their knitting supplies.

    Dahlia sat on the end of the bed and spread out the pictures. There was one taken of a storefront and the reflection of the photographer was clearly in the window. She picked it up and studied