It drives her nuts that he doesn't seem to care that they almost just died. Nope. He's leaning against the wall, having some frozen yoghurt (another thing they had in common, apart from building bugs and explosives) , looking rumpled and confident and (she'llnever tell him this) so utterly sexy. Seriously. The adrenaline is still swirling through her bloodstream, her mind whirling, and she's having trouble not looking at the way his shirt is unbuttoned right now because he looks delicious.
Her first ever experience working with the man, and he left her speechless.
His skills, tactical analysis, intelligence...turnned her on. This irish man was perfect.
"I'd say I handled myself pretty well." He finally said.
"Yeah. You probably saved my life." He's right. She won't grudge that.
" 'Probably?' I definitely saved your life. And you know what that means, don't you?" He's coming closer. He's getting dangerous. "It means you owe me."
Dream on, playboy. "Owe you what?"
"Whatever I want. And you know exactly what I want, don't you?" That makes her flush a little because she starts thinking of lips and tongues and groping hands and bare skin and it scares her how good it all sounds so fast. And he's invading her space, tall, strong, possessive, like he knows what she's thinking.
She's staring at his mouth because she wants it on hers. Right now.
"You know what it is I really, really want you to do – "
His voice trails off and she's not even trying to look away from his mouth right now. Oh God – he's not – is he? – oh – his glance flicks down to her lips, and yeah. She knows what he wants. His face is right there and his breath is hot on her skin, and her lips part without her realizing it, and all she can think is he's going to be a really good kisser...
"You help kill Hanon.'"
He straightens, a smug grin crossing that absurdly handsome face, and strides past her, the undisputed winner of this round. She can not refuse to help him.
Fiona Glennane bites her lip, smiling to herself as she leans against the wall, her blood singing. Michael McBride. Only Michael McBride.
And something inside her snaps.
Because Fiona Glennane never, ever lets a self-satisfied man get the last word.
"McBride," she calls, not giving herself a chance to back out.
He turns, half-out the door, eyebrows raised, still looking pleased with himself. "Hmm?"
She takes two steps, grabs the lapel of his jacket, Yanks him to herself, and kisses him full on the mouth.
He's tense from the shock, but it only takes a moment before he responds, kissing her back, and her fingertips are buzzing, her skin electric because his mouth is so warm and she can taste blueberry yoghurt on his lips, also, some gunpowder...the best of both worlds for Fiona.
She pulls away, forcing herself to let go, and opens her eyes to find Michael McBride staring at her with a look of utter confusion. He looks stunned and boyish and dazed and he's watching her, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open and she just wants to grab his jacket again and see just how much he really does taste like yoghurt.
He swallows, blinking at her nervously, and it's all she can do to not kiss away that boyish pout.
"Mrs Glennane?"
The cup in his hand is faltering, and she rescues it quickly, her fingers brushing his as she catches it. "Didn't take you for such a dainty flower."
He just blinks again, and she smirks, because Michael is impossibly cute when he's speechless. Did his asset just kiss him?
He manages to recover the cup, still gaping at her. She's enjoying the power. And that little hint of something darker in his eyes – something hot, something dangerous and intoxicating and irresistible – she doesn't want to look away.
"Meet you tomorrow then, McBride."
She's half out the door when she hears him say, "Fi?"
Fi.
Something flutters in her chest, but she just pauses. "Yes?"
"Thankyou."