Page 8 of Brazilian Surrender
“Was it illegal? Do you or this Tony guy owe a postal worker sexual favors?”
A chuckle floated up his throat. Her concern was endearing. Why would she care how they got a hold of files? “You don’t have to worry. The post office lady promised to be gentle.”
Her infectious laugh made her seem even younger. “Really? Because I bet you can handle it rough,” she said playfully, but his body took her joke all too seriously.
He tensed up, his cock straining against his pants, and suddenly he was glad he had the desk to conceal his throbbing erection. What the fuck? He’d answer to the regular stuff—touches, boobs, legs, ass. The simple sound of laughter plus an innuendo shouldn’t get him all worked up. Never had he thought about his clients sexually. She was the first, and he had to end it before she got hurt. “Let’s see if you recognize anyone. There’s a lot to go through.”
She nodded then focused her attention on the black-and-white images of people going in and out of the post office from different angles of street cameras. He watched her for an instant and studied her profile. Long eyelashes framed her eyes. Her nose was a tad long, adding complexity to her pretty face. Her kissable lips—shit. He’d started again…
“Should I watch for anything in particular besides someone I may know?” she asked, and he blinked a couple of times.
He cleared his throat and eyed the computer screen. “Leave it up to me. Just search for a familiar face.”
Minutes stretched into hours until he finally flicked off the screen. “We’re done for the day.”
She yawned. What good could watching the recordings bring if she could barely keep her eyes open? He needed Camila fully alert and lucid. They could finish in the morning.
“You’re sleeping in the guest room,” he said. “I’ll bring you some sheets.”
The guest room consisted of a queen bed, an empty dresser, and a nightstand he no longer used. He rarely entertained and never had people over for the night, so the decor wasn’t a priority.
“You can leave your things here,” he said, opening the door for her.
She walked in, and he dashed to the linen closet to grab a couple of sheets and an extra pillow. When he returned, she had placed her bag and a small case of toiletries on the dresser.
He sat the linens on the top of the mattress. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
She turned to him with a hint of a smile. “Nah, I’m good.”
He nodded quickly and avoided looking at her in the eye. “Get some sleep. You had a long day.”
Camila shortened the distance between them, and he cleared his throat. He should just go; he didn’t need to tell her anything else and God knew every second dragged. Tension charged the air, and his nerves sizzled on high alert. His groin stirred, and he made himself a mental note to search for some ancient ritual that could teach him not react to sexual stimulation. Or in this case, not react to the nearness of Camila Duarte.
She lifted her hand and touched his chin until he stared into her gleaming eyes. Eyes mysterious like a book whose language he couldn’t read. “Jaeger,” she said in her musical, sexy accent.
“What?”
She stretched to her full height and whispered, “Thank you.”
He opened his mouth to protest her gratitude, but which argument could he possibly use? Bringing clients to his place wasn’t his thing, nor was wanting to protect for a motivation other than money or doing the right thing.
She kissed him on the cheek, a quick peck, enough for him to feel the warmth of her body envelop him. He inhaled her scent, sure that her signature fragrance would be trapped inside him for much longer than a release of air allowed.
“Welcome,” he said in a low voice, turned around, and closed the door behind him—desperate to create a safe distance between them.
