Free Some Kind of Magic by Theresa Weir

guard.
    “Yes.”
    “But she moved on.”
    “You could say that,” he said, playing for time, stunned by the direction the conversation had taken. How was it this woman with her mothball smell had gone straight to his ache, straight to his hurt. He laughed, trying hard for bitterness. He looked past her. “Don’t mention her again.”
    “What happened? Did she dump you?”
    She was pissing him off. She was really pissing him off.
    “I wouldn’t blame her if she had. You being a criminal and all.”
    “Shut up,” he warned, his voice level and low.
    “I wouldn’t want to have a relationship with a criminal. I can’t imagine going out with someone, let alone being touched and kissed and made love to by someone who’d done bad things.”
    She was egging him on. She was doing this on purpose. An age-old frustration pumped through his veins. “Can’t you?”
    She stood in front of him, one leg brushing against his knee. There was a smug expression on her face, one that said that they might have both been trapped, but she had the upper hand. She’d stumbled upon his weak spot, his Achilles’ heel.
    “Don’t you know any better than to tease a trapped animal?”
    He wrapped his legs around hers and grasped her arm with his free hand, supremely satisfied to see the smugness in her eyes replaced by fear. He pulled her down on top of him, keeping his legs wrapped around hers, his thighs pressing her into his groin. He released her just long enough to shift his hand from her arm to the back of her neck. “You have no idea what it feels like to be kissed by a criminal? That sounded like an invitation, Max. Was that supposed to be an invitation?”
    “Don’t call me that.” She squirmed in his grip, shoving against his chest with her one free hand.
    He laughed at the futility of her struggle. “Is this the way you like it, Max? Are you into bondage?” With his hand splayed against the back of her neck, he brought her closer, her mouth just inches from his. He lifted his head, lifted his face to meet hers. He heard her soft indrawn breath, saw her eyelids flutter closed. Saw her fill lips tremble in the sweetest of invitations. And then, just as his lips brushed hers, she spoke one word.
    “Olivia.”
    Like someone stung, he released his hold on the back of her neck. Her eyes flew open and she pushed away from him, as much as she could with her hips still crushed between his thighs.
    He let out a cry of frustrated anger. “Damn you! How can you do this? You don’t even know me. You don’t know anything about me. And yet you do. You know everything about me. Are you a psychic? Are you reading my mind right now?”
    She squirmed against him, shoving at his chest with one hand.
    “Come on. Tell me what I’m thinking.”
    “No.”
    “I’m thinking that you feel good. Really good.”
    “Do you want to know what I’m thinking?”
    “Not particularly.”
    Anger flared in her eyes. “I’m thinking how lucky Olivia was to get rid of you.”
    He unwrapped his legs from hers and shoved her away from him. Feeling mad enough to move the whole damn house, he got to his feet and pulled, not caring if the cuffs cut into his wrist.
    He dragged the bed across the floor. The woman—Claire—walked backward, trying to move fast enough to stay out of his way. “Slow down!” she gasped when the bed collided with her for the second time.
    “Get out of the way!” He pulled until the bed built up enough momentum to slam into the open doorway, almost pinning Claire to the wall.
    “Phew.”
    She stared up at him in surprise and more than a little fear. “I’d get that removed if I were you,” she said, indicating the tattoo.
    He smiled a completely joyless smile. “It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”
    “And I thought you hadn’t exhibited many Type A traits. You sure made up for it fast.”
    “Can you see the key?” he asked.
    She twisted around. “No.”
    “Here. Get your feet off the floor.”
    She