Free Body of Evidence (Evidence Series) by Rachel Grant Page B

chest and belly. “Jesus. Where did you get this six-pack? It’s unfair, really, that you’re brilliant, successful, and hot…”
    He caught her hand and pulled her snug against his body before she could take her exploration too far. “Mara. You need to stop. This isn’t appropriate.”
    “Today I’ve been before a firing squad and survived three attempts on my life. Screw appropriate.”
    He was too transfixed by the sight of water sluicing over the deep V of her top and disappearing into the valley of her cleavage to respond. She flashed a dimpled smile. Her lips looked far too tempting. But even if her dizzy logic appealed, he had to be the voice of sanity.
    Jesus. This couldn’t be happening.
    The feel of her nipples against his chest was enough to drive him insane, and unfortunately, given their current embrace, even in her light-headed state she had to be aware of his arousal. How the hell had he gotten into this situation? He, Curt Dominick, couldn’t possibly be swimming in the Pacific Ocean twelve hours before the trial with his defendant’s punch-drunk and far-too-attractive niece plastered against him.
    That’s it. He would indict the editor-in-chief of TIME the first chance he got.

    M ARA FOLLOWED C URT up the beach and back to the car, where he grabbed his bloody shirt and thrust it into her hands with firm instructions to apply it to the cut on her forehead. She didn’t know what his problem was. She felt fine. Maybe a little dizzy, but otherwise better than she had in months.
    So she’d lost a little blood and told him he was hot. What was the big deal? She noticed ample proof he was attracted to her. “A lifeguard could give us a bandage,” she said.
    “Yeah. And check you out for signs of a concussion. But I think you need something to drink first.” He sounded so serious. So boring. Her head didn’t even hurt. She was fine. Right now, all she wanted was to taste the salt water that rolled down his incredible chest.
    Who would have thought her own private savior would be built like a superhero? She’d bet he screwed like one too.
    “Mara, you need to stop. Jesus. Please .”
    She must have spoken aloud again. She needed to stop that. It seemed to upset him.
    He took her arm and dragged her up the beach to a burger stand. She ordered a Spam musubi—Hawaiian cuisine at its worst, but a snack she’d missed while in North Korea.
    Curt made her drink a bottle of Gatorade first. She couldn’t stand the stuff. Then the lifeguard who bandaged her forehead said she had to drink another one before attempting to eat. At last, Curt fed her small bites of musubi, insisting she eat slowly.
    Exhausted, she leaned against the man by her side. He argued and cajoled and coaxed her to drink more. Gradually, with each swallow, the world came into sharper focus.
    Sometime later, after drinking what had to be gallons of Gatorade, she felt less drunk but no less tired and wondered why Curt was shirtless. In bits and pieces, the last hours crystallized. The shot that had zinged so close to her head she felt the air flow against her scalp. Curt’s body covering her—protecting her again—on the staircase. Most of the drive to the beach made sense. It wasn’t until she was in the water that her memory became really fuzzy.
    Oh hell. If her memory was even close to accurate, she’d hit on Curt like a cheap drunk. She felt her face flush and closed her eyes. “Did I say aloud everything I think I did?”
    Still leaning on him, she felt his chuckle. “And then some.”
    “Keep in mind, I’m having a really, really shitty day.”
    “Noted and forgiven.”
    She met his gaze. His hazel eyes held concern and camaraderie. Somewhere during this crazy day, they’d become allies. “I feel better. Clearer.”
    “Good, because I don’t know my way around here. I need your input.”
    “Do you really think your phone was bugged?”
    “I think it had been turned into a microphone. We have to assume whoever is