The weight of the stolen sapphire meant nothing the moment the leather of his palm met the silk of her glove. He did not just catch her; he anchored her against the rain-slicked brick as if she were the only solid thing in a dissolving world. Sable did not struggle. She knew the silhouette, the scent of cedar and expensive tobacco, and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a heart that had been chasing hers across three continents. She kept her back to the wall, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches that had less to do with the sprint across the rooftops and everything to do with the man crowding her space.
How long has it been, Sable?
His voice was a low vibration that she felt in her marrow before she heard it with her ears. Roman moved closer, his large frame blocking out the flickering neon of the street below. He was a wall of heat in the freezing downpour. He did not let go of her wrist; instead, his thumb began a slow, agonizingly deliberate circle over the pulse point hidden by her evening glove.
Exactly ten years tonight, Roman, she said, her voice steadier than her racing blood. I assumed you had finally given up on the file.
I never close a case until the evidence is in my hands.
He stepped into the narrow margin of space she had left, his chest brushing against the damp lace of her bodice. The friction sent a jolt of electricity through her that made her toes curl in her boots. She could see the dark glint of his eyes now, shadowed and hungry. He looked like a man who had been starving and had finally found a feast.
The file says you’re cold-blooded, he murmured, his free hand rising to brush a wet strand of hair from her cheek. His knuckles grazed her skin, and she couldn’t suppress the shiver that racked her frame. It says you don’t have a pulse for anything but the stones.
And what does your instinct say, Detective?
It says the file is a lie.
