temples completely re-created, right down to the last detail.”
“Like Mayan Disney?”
“It’s Maya; Mayan is the language. But this place isn’t open to the public, and that’s why I can’t miss the event. Canopy is one man’s home. Well, one woman’s, really. Doña Taliña Vasquez-Marcesa Blake, a Mexican shaman married to a very rich American, who, she told me when we talked on the phone, was so worried she’d get homesick and leave that he built her a rain forest and ruins. That is Canopy.”
“Like the tops of the trees in the rain forest.”
“Precisely. She’s evidently a fan of my book, and she’s arranged a book party with all sorts of important people. So as flattering as your suggestion is, I’m going to Canopy.”
“Then we’ll have to make the most of this one night together.”
They held tight to each other, like lovers on a mission to get horizontal, pausing periodically to kiss and whisper. As they walked past parked cars and overgrown shrubbery, they fell into a sweet silence, with just a cool spring breeze and a steady current of sexual electricity in the air.
“Here,” Miranda said, pointing to the brown-shingled Craftsman that abutted the property she rented.
“You live there?” He sounded surprised.
“I live in a converted garage on the property behind it, but it’s easier to get there this way. There are lots of reconverted houses in Berkeley. That’s the charm of the place.”
The Devlins’ backyard was pitch-black, and no light spilled from her garage apartment on the other side of the shrubs dividing the properties. “At the end of the row, there’s a break in the hedge. This is much faster than going all the way around the front.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” he said.
“Next time?” She raised her eyebrows. “You said you’d be gone before I get back.”
“You never know what life’s going to throw at you, Miranda. I certainly didn’t expect to end my evening”—he watched her step into the narrow opening between the shrubs and an overgrown wisteria—“climbing through bushes with a beautiful woman.” He followed her into the space, stopping to lock his arms around her and steady her feet on the twisted roots under them. “But I’m not complaining.”
“Well, I sure didn’t expect to get booed offstage and end up making out with an Australian bodyguard.” The branches forced them into a tight squeeze, and she could feel he was still hard, and his heart was beating almost as fast as hers. “But I’m not complaining, either.”
He lowered his head and kissed her gently, as though the desperation was gone now that the bedroom was no more than fifty steps away.
“As far as next time,” she whispered in between kisses, “I guess we’ll just have to see how it goes tonight.”
He groaned. “You want to know how it’s going to go tonight?” He kissed her forehead, chastely. “First, we’re going to have a wee spot of wine and conversation.” He eased his hand inside her jacket, gliding over her breast in a slow circle. “Then we’re going to help each other undress.” He lowered his head and licked her bottom lip. “Then we’re going to taste every single inch of each other’s body.” He nibbled. “With the light on, so I don’t miss a thing.”
Her legs were so weak she could have fallen backward into the trees and not cared. There was just moonlight and wisteria and the hottest, most seductive man she’d ever met. She closed her eyes, let him touch her and kiss her and sweet-talk her with his sexy accent.
“Then”—his hand tightened on her breast, his mighty erection against her—“we’ll do this.” He slipped his tongue between her lips, withdrew it, and slid it in again. “That’s how it’s going to go tonight, luv.”
Dizzy, breathless, and aching with arousal, she nudged him out of the trees. “My front door is twenty feet away around that corner.”
As they stepped forward, he suddenly
Learning to Kill: Stories