THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

two of them.
    But right now he didn’t want a wall between them.
    Hell, he didn’t want that T-shirt between the two of them and couldn’t ignore the inappropriate thought pounding through his mind.
    The only thought firing every cell in his brain.
    He wanted her. Bad.
    “Pizza smells good.”  She raised her eyebrows, waiting to be invited.
    Don’t make her ask for food, moron. “Sure. Here.”  He opened the box. “Want it heated?”
    “Nuh uh. It’s perfect.”  She picked up a slice and proceeded to devour it like he’d served her Beluga caviar. She licked her rosy lips after each bite, the pink tongue destroying his state of mind.
    He broke loose a slice and lifted it to his mouth. Kept his eyes averted, anything to shut down the crazy fantasies over how much he wanted to feel that mouth on his body. She’d wiped out three slices by the time he’d finished one.
    But then he’d lost his appetite – for food.
    Pausing, she caught her breath, seeming at peace after eating pizza. “I’m ready for bed.”
    Dangerous visual.
    He should be able to sleep around the clock at this point, but had serious doubts he’d get any rest. Not with her lying on a bed within the same walls – wearing next to nothing. Before he could dislodge that image, she interrupted his thoughts.
    “If the foldout has sheets ... I’m set.”
    No way. If she slept that close to the front door she’d turn into smoke and float out through the keyhole.
    He cleared his throat. “You sleep in the bedroom. I’ve got buddies who come by unannounced sometimes. You don’t want to be out here if one of them shows up.”  He could tell she didn’t believe him, but what argument could she offer?
    It was true anyway. Ben was liable to show up at any hour, too ramped up on his weird geek adrenaline to go home after working a bust or a crime scene. Or he would be liable to show up, if his wife wasn’t about to spit out a Ben Mini-Me.
    Angel finished a last bite of pizza, then grabbed a sponge and scrubbed her area with the efficiency of a compulsive cleaner. Could that explain the neatnik personality?
    Maybe she had a germ phobia.
    Yeah, sure. If he believed that, he’d be buying swampland in the Mojave Desert next.
    At the door to his bedroom, he watched her climb between the sheets. Silky hair trailed across the pillow. She rolled onto her side with a whispered, “Good night.” 
    That pumped another painful throb through his groin. Zane pulled the door almost shut then headed for a shower.
    Cold water would only do so much.
    He was up and down during the night to confirm she still slept in his bed. With each check on her, she’d shifted to a different position, slowly leaving less and less sheet covering her.
    The last time he peered through the small opening between the door and the doorframe, a band of moonlight beamed over her backside from the break in the drapes. She lay face down on her stomach. The T-shirt had ridden up to her waist from tossing about.
    Yep, he’d been right. No underwear.
    Shit.
    He’d never been a damned voyeur. Forcing himself back to the foldout, he battled through the few hours left until daylight. The bad thing about going so long without rest was the danger of sleeping too deeply, which wouldn’t be a problem if not for needing to hear Angel if she tried to sneak out.
    No if to it.
    When she did sneak out, he’d be ready for her.
     
    Chapter 16
     
    Mason answered his cell phone. “Lorde.”
    “ML, got news,” CK reported.
    “Good news, I hope.”  Mason was in neither a patient nor a forgiving mood. But one man had never failed him. If anyone could find his treasure and the bitch who’d stolen it, CK was that man.
    “It’s all in how you look at it. Your hot little number has gone south.”
    “How far south?”  Mason sat forward in his leather chair, hand automatically reaching for the gold compass that had also gone missing. Angelina wouldn’t get far now that his bounty hunter had caught her trail.
    “Way down. She thumbed rides with truckers. Last one dropped her in Ft. Lauderdale.”
    Florida. Why would she go there? Her background checks had been thorough. Angelina’s parents were dead. She had no siblings, didn’t even list a next of kin when he’d hired her. Had listed a charity sponsoring Olympic hopefuls as her beneficiary for her retirement fund.
    When he’d hired her, her prison record had played in her favor. She hadn’t known it at the time, just thrilled