The Greatest Risk. Cara Colter

the coveralls, Luke had on a white denim shirt, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, revealing the power of his lower forearms. Faded jeans clung to the large muscles of his thighs.

      “How did you know this was here?” she asked a trifle breathlessly, trying to think about anything but the way he was made.

      “This exit? I explore.”

      “For what reason?”

      “You never know when you might have to get ten old people in wheelchairs out because of a fire.”

      He could have said anything. That he got bored. That he was restless. And those things probably would have been true. But what he said also had sounded true. It would almost be too much to handle if he looked the way he did—so handsome, powerful, self-assured—and also had heroic qualities.

      He opened the door for her and bowed. “The only one in the building that’s not alarmed,” he told her.

      “How many alarms did you set off finding that out?” she asked, stepping by him, trying desperately to keep it light, to banter, not to give in to the shivering awareness she felt when she glimpsed the squareness of his wrist, caught the scent of him, noticed how the darkness made his faintly whisker-roughened face look like that of a pirate.

      “Lots. Ask Nurse Nightmare.”

      “I intend to.” She looked around. There was no light over the door, and it was pitch-black out here. She didn’t have the foggiest notion where they were. Behind one of the hospital wings, she assumed.

      He leaned over and stuck a rock in the door, holding it ajar ever so slightly. “So I can get back in.”

      “Why do you go to all the trouble?” she asked. “I think we could have just walked out the front door. You’re a patient, not a prisoner.”

      “Ha. You don’t know the first thing about Nurse Nightmare, do you?”

      “I know her name is not Nurse Nightmare! It’s Hillary Wagner.”

      He leaned close to her. She could feel his breath on the soft hollow of her neck. It occurred to her she was in a very dark and deserted place with a man she knew absolutely nothing about.

      “I like to live dangerously,” he said softly.

      So, now she knew that. And yet she did not feel the least afraid, or at least not for her physical safety. When she looked into Luke August’s eyes she saw a man who planned escape routes for ten people in wheelchairs and who loved to play.

      And she saw something else.

      Her own need. She leaned toward him, her eyes closing, her lips parting. He was leaning toward her, too, so close she could smell the tangy scent of him, feel the faint heat rising off his body. She gave in to the temptation to touch. Her fingertips grazed his shirt, and she shut her eyes against the pulsating power contained behind the thin and flimsy wall of fabric.

      He pulled back, away from her touch, and she straightened and stared at him.

      “Ah, Miss Maggie Mouse,” he said softly, “you aren’t that kind of girl.”

      She was grateful for the darkness because she could feel the blush leap onto her cheeks. It was true. She was not that kind of girl.

      But she sure wanted to be.

      “Miss Maggie Mouse?” she asked, faintly chagrined, but slightly charmed, despite herself. Boys in high school had always given the girls they liked teasing nicknames. She had never been one of those girls chosen.

      “That’s right,” he said, his eyes warm in the darkness. “Miss Maggie Mouse.”

      She held her breath. She could tell he wanted to kiss Miss Maggie Mouse very badly, or at the very least, touch her hair again.

      But he did neither.

      He held out his hand to her, and there was no mistaking the brotherliness of the offer. She took it. His grip was strong and warm and protective. Unfortunately, he had just protected her from himself, a gesture that was completely unwanted.

      “Let’s go play that game of pool,” he said, his voice thick.

      She had a sudden, wild yearning to show him she was no mouse, to show him the mouse was only a disguise.

      But for what? She wanted to be a tigress, but that was a bit of a stretch. She was a twenty-seven-year-old social worker whose one serious romance had ended like a bad Hollywood comedy.

      She decided that trying to tempt Luke August might be a mistake, and yet even the notion of taking his lips captive until he was helpless with yearning filled her with a lovely, drugging warmth that was not typical of her. Even entertaining such an idea made her feel vaguely guilty.

      Unaware of the war within her, Luke led them through the darkness with catlike confidence, bringing them out on a side street just to the west of the hospital.

      “Morgan’s is just around the corner. Have you ever been there?” he asked.

      “On occasion. They have a great lunch special. Have you been there?”

      He snorted. “It’s where everybody knows my name.”

      Great, Maggie thought. He was restless and reckless. He loved to live dangerously. He was comfortable shedding his clothes in front of a woman. He was totally at home in a bar. What was she doing here?

      Having the time of your life, a little voice, one she did not recognize at all, answered back to her, not without glee.