He was hard as a brick by the time she reached him, rested her hands on the lapels of the black, custom-tailored suit he was wearing with a black shirt and black tie. Leaning up, she settled her mouth very softly over his, and those damp, full lips set him on fire.

He caught her waist, pulled her in and deepened the kiss, let it go on as long as he dared, finally forced himself to pull away.

He ran a finger down her cheek. “I’m hanging on by a thread here. This stops right now, or we’re heading for the bedroom.”

Skye laughed. It was a sexy, crystalline sound he had never heard before. She was reclaiming her feminine power, he realized, finally understanding that her injury did nothing to blunt the sharp stab of sexual desire he felt for her, that any red-blooded male would feel for her.

“You look beautiful,” he said gruffly.

Sea-green eyes ran over him, from his freshly trimmed black hair to his polished black shoes. “You look amazing. That suit fits those wide shoulders of yours perfectly.”

He smiled, pleased by her approval, grateful for his mother’s sense of style and the manners she had drilled into him. “It should, for what I paid for it.”

Skye returned his smile. “I’ve never seen you this dressed up before.”

“Yeah? Maybe we should have done this sooner.” His gaze went to her breasts, getting a tantalizing glimpse of plump, satiny flesh, and his arousal strengthened. “Room service is beginning to sound a lot better than a night in a crowded restaurant.”

The laughter came again. Edge felt a sliver of sexual heat that tightened every muscle in his groin. He cleared his throat. “We need to leave.” Now. Before it’s too late.

The doorbell rang. Saved by the bell. He had completely forgotten his appointment with Cross. He flicked a glance at Skye. He had placed his backup weapon in a drawer in the entry table within easy reach, but after a quick check of the peephole to confirm who it was—dark brown suit, pale yellow shirt, spit-shined shoes, and perfectly styled brown hair—he relaxed and pulled open the door.

“Agent Cross. Right on time. Come on in.”

Cross walked into the suite with another man, taller, broader, African American. with very dark skin and intelligent black eyes.

“Edge Logan and Skye Delaney, this is Special Agent Oliver Jackson. As I said on the phone, we need a word with you.”

Edge led them farther into the living room, and they all sat down on the L-shaped pale blue sofa.

“All right,” Edge said. “You’re here. We’re here. What can we do for you?”