Shock Waves Read Online Free PDF Page B

slipped over her jaw, cradled. His index finger skimmed her lower lip. “F-Flora.”
    Brenna went very still. The name echoed between them, curled around her heart. He spoke it with an aching tenderness she hadn’t thought possible from him. The quick slice of longing stunned her. She sucked in a sharp breath, felt his finger dip inside. Instinctively she closed her mouth, but his finger remained between her lips, against her teeth, bringing with it the coppery taste of blood.
    “Ethan,” she whispered again. “It’s me. The woman from the river. Brenna Scott.” Not Flora. “Are you—”
    He moved so fast the rest of the question jammed in her throat. He jerked out of her lap and into an upright position on the plush leather seat. Through the dim, foolishly romantic lighting, she saw the lines of his face go hard. The hand that had been on her face dropped to snag her wrist. And when he spoke, his voice was that of the cutthroat prosecutor, not the raw whisper of the man whose touch brought her body humming to life.
    “What,” he demanded very slowly, very succinctly, “do you think you’re doing?”
    The question stung. Not so much the words, but the ragged edge to his voice, the harsh, mistrusting tone.
    “You’re hurt.” She opted for the obvious, knowing he would believe nothing else. “I was trying to help.”
    “Help?” He made the word sound like an accusation. “Is that what you call it?”
    She’d been born with sharp instincts, had trained them to be even sharper. They hummed now, hard, deep, in a primal rhythm she hadn’t felt since the night she’d run into her darkened house, five minutes too late.
    “You were unconscious.” For a few fleeting moments the invincible lawyer’s guard had been down, his defenses lowered. He’d reached for her, touched her tenderly. Called her Flora.
    It was a side she innately sensed this man denied.
    “You’re bleeding,” she added, and though she rubbed her fingers together, his blood remained on her hand, in more ways than one. “I think it’s from the back of your head.”
    A hard sound broke from low in his throat, but he said nothing. Not at first anyway. The silence spun out between them, thick, pulsing, filling the plush limousine like a dense fog rolling off the river. His hand remained curled around her wrist, his body coiled inches from hers.
    “Tell me, angel,” he said at last, and his voice dipped low. His eyes were gleaming, almost amused. “Was this part of your dream, too?”
    She yanked her wrist from the manacle of his hand and narrowed her eyes, reminded herself not to let emotion interfere. “No.”
    “You sure about that?” he asked lazily. A slow smile curved his mouth. “I mean, I may be a bit woozy, but I don’t recall you fighting to get my hands off you.” He paused, prosecuted her with his eyes. “Not this time.”
    It took effort, but she kept her temper from leaking through. “I was trying to help you.” Trying to do the impossible.
    He scooted closer, lifted a hand to her face. “I want more,” he murmured, and his eyes, hard, forbidding, such a dark, primitive green they were almost black, met hers. “About this dream of yours.” Slowly, deliberately, he dragged a finger along her cheekbone. “I want details.”
    The heat of his hand soaked into her, through her. She felt the tip of his finger skim the side of her face, felt her heart kick a little harder. Felt heat chase away the chill.
    This man wanted, all right. Wanted with a raw intensity that could never be satisfied. She saw that truth in every rigid line of his body, felt it in his touch, saw it glowing in his eyes. But he wanted more than words, more than images from her dreams. He wanted something indefinable, something long denied.
    Something she could not give him.
    But, God, for a fleeting moment, a disturbing moment, she wanted, too. Her body tingled from it, melted. Reached.
    “There’s a beach,” she said, careful to keep her voice