Page 54 of Perfect Vengeance

Chapter Thirteen

Jack didn’t give a damn what Paul’s answer to his question was and didn’t wait for it. Blondie opened his mouth to object, and Jack ignored him, whisking Gina halfway across the dance floor before the guy could utter a word. He cast a glance over his shoulder and smirked at the annoyed look on the pampered moron’s face. Too bad. Mine now.

Gina’s slim fingers were warm, as was the bare, silky skin of her back. When they’d been standing together, he’d stroked her back just to piss Blondie off. But the more he’d touched her, the more he liked it.

“You know that was quite rude.” She shot him a look of indignation.

“It was, wasn’t it?” He grinned. “Who is that guy?” Not that he cared. He was only curious. Maybe a little jealous, he had to admit.

“Paul and I dated for a couple of months.”

“Then you should thank me.” He tugged her closer, trying not to gouge her with the edge of his cast, while at the same time discretely scanning the crowd for his targets: Franco and Tino Falzone. They hadn’t shown yet, and that was a good thing. He’d have a tough time concentrating on the job with Gina’s soft, curvy body molded to his and her scent penetrating his body like a .40 caliber bullet.

“I should thank you? Why?”

“Blondie’s pathetic groping was making a scene.” And he hadn’t liked the way the guy’s hands had slithered up and down her back. He’d wanted to rip the guy’s nuts off. As an FBI agent, he could make Paul disappear and no one would ever find his body. He’d learned a thing or two from investigating the mob.

He intentionally twirled her back to where Paul stood scowling on the edge of the dance floor. He adjusted his hand, making a show of caressing her back. Paul’s scowl deepened and yeah, it was juvenile, but he couldn’t keep from smirking. Amateur.

“What’s the difference between what he was doing and what you’re doing right now?” Gina threw back at him.

“You tell me.” He grinned again as he maneuvered them away from the orchestra so they could hear each other better.

Her mouth opened, then closed, as if she was about to answer his taunt but rethought the wisdom of it. To his amusement, the barest hint of red crept up the smooth line of her neck.

He chuckled. “Fine, don’t answer. I already know.”

“Know what?” When she angled her head to look up at him all he wanted to do was kiss her incredible lips again. “What are you talking about?”

“A person’s body language says a lot about what they’re thinking and feeling. Yours, for example.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What about mine?”

“When I touch you, you relax. When that soggy-faced wimp lays hands on you, you get stiff and resistant.”

She smiled, and a look of satisfaction bloomed on her face. “I hadn’t realized you were watching us that closely.”

Yeah, right. The slight twitch of her lips told him she knew full well he’d been watching them, and that he hadn’t liked it one bit. Truth was, he didn’t like the prospect of any guy laying hands on her, especially not after that kiss. Not even the best sex of his life had haunted his every waking and sleeping moment the way that one kiss had for the last three days and nights.

“Truce?” he asked, seriously needing to change the subject. Making out with an FBI cooperator had definitely not been the most stellar point in his career. Then again, she wasn’t a cooperator. Not officially.

“Truce.” When she returned his smile, his heart squeezed, a sensation he’d never felt before. Except right after running ten miles.

Shaking it off, he rescanned the room, dissecting it into quadrants. Ironic that Franco Falzone, a man who had undoubtedly ordered the deaths of over a hundred people during his criminal reign, was a staunch opponent of violence against women. Also ironic was that Gina and her friends were ripping off the Falzones and giving the money to a women’s shelter.

In the recesses of his mind something bugged him about that, some piece of a puzzle that refused to slide into place.

According to Meat, Jack’s informant, Franco and his entire family would be in attendance tonight. Franco liked a public show of family solidarity, anything to bolster his whole pillar-of-society image. Ridiculous, since it was no secret he was a mob boss. Sadly, the public ate that crap up.

If only he could keep his mind on the job. Being near Gina undermined his normally fully focused, one-track mind.

The orchestra transitioned into a sultry rendition of “Smoke Gets In My Eyes.” When their thighs touched, he nearly groaned. He took what was supposed to be a steadying breath but wound up making him feel as if he were wading into quicksand and sinking like a lead brick.

He’d known running into her tonight was a distinct possibility. When he’d caught sight of her in that incredible dress with the slit up the side, his heart started pounding like a Gatling gun. Seeing her again had lit the fuse on his libido and made him realize he not only wanted her but missed her.

It had been regret he’d experienced when he’d left her apartment, but not for kissing her. His only regret was that he wanted more. If he hadn’t stopped when he had, he wouldn’t have stopped at all. They were better off not going there. He was the proverbial moth attracted to a flame, and that flame had a name: Gina Perot.

If only it were just physical attraction. That he could deal with. Once or twice in her bed and he’d have her out of his system. For him, that plan would never work, because there was so much more to Gina than physical allure.