He stared hard at her. "How do you know what a gun smells like?"
This wasn't happening. He hadn't answered. She'd better not be on a date with a man who became a mafia's boss—and he hadn't inherited his father's evil personality. Her gaze narrowed. "I grew up in the country, where sometimes animals need to be put down. What is it you do? And don't lie. It's got to be something serious for you to smell like that."
"I shouldn't tell you." He peeked around the room and avoided her stare. She licked her lips. Otherwise she stayed still. John Morgan was not the billionaire rebel without a clue. His cheeks reddened. The color in his cheeks showed he was in the prime of his life. Then he leaned down. Her heart did a pitter-patter as he whispered in her ear, "I spent the past three years in the FBI, so I practically sleep with my gun."
"You work as a government agent?" She kept her voice low too. "Your father cursed the fact my dad served and that my brother went off to serve." Memories surfaced of how Mitch Morgan vocally hated all forms of government agents.
"I remember your dad mentioning Colt's choice to go to basic training. I'm sorry you heard my father's rantings."
His father didn't matter. Safety did. John was a man of integrity and honor. Her lips craved to brush against his. "How did your family feel about this?"
With a shrug, he said, "I don't want to talk about Dad tonight."
True. The man had stolen enough of their day already, but her curiosity continued. "He couldn't have been happy you chose to serve your country."
"He threatened to cut me off."
"Did he?"
"No, but he should have. I didn't touch a dime once I left."
"He used money to keep you on a leash."
"You understand too much." Then he shook his head. "The money doesn't drive me or matter."
She swallowed. It was impossible that a Morgan would walk away from the dynasty. In her own family, she couldn't walk away from the farm entirely, though she refused to ever touch a crop again, unless it was to help in an emergency. Her parents sacrificed everything for her and she'd do the same for them. "Then why did you come back?"
"Because Peter asked."
Peter and John were all each other had. She kept the thought to herself. With a shrug, she followed him to the restaurant. "So? If Colt wants me to do something I don't want, then it doesn't happen."
The hostess took his name and gave him a buzzer. On their way back outside, he whispered, "I needed to see with my own eyes. If my father is dead there is no way to take him down."
"Was that why you joined the FBI?"
"Absolutely."
"Oh. I didn't make that connection."
A conversation over dinner about his father was the opposite of fun. Besides, she needed to learn a few things in the here and now. Peter Morgan was the mystery to her—four years her senior, he'd never been home all those years she spent with Victoria. "Is Peter like your father?"
John brought her to the terrace where people sat with their drinks. The live music drifted in the open air as he answered, "I hope not. He's being kind, but he wants something and he's mentioned the will reading. I don't know how ruthless he is. I might remember wrong, or he might have changed."
He led them to a corner with black metal tables and chairs and fewer people to wait for their dinner buzzer to go off.
"What does that mean?"
He held out her chair and a sigh escaped her lips as she noticed the taper candles near the small vase of flowers. "I don't know, but he wants control of the business empire."
Everyone knew Peter had spent years in training to take over the House of Morgan. Her brain couldn't quite wrap around that John took off to be a government agent.
"What do you want?"
He lifted his finger for the waitress to come to their table as he showed off his cute dimples. "You."
Did he? Her face heated as she clutched her hands together under the table.
The waitress came over and John told her, "The Riesling. Alice has always enjoyed sweet."
She massaged her wrist to stop trembling. He remembered her sweet tooth.
The waitress left to get the bottle of wine.
Alice fixed her hair behind her ears, leaning close enough to John to sniff cedar, pine, and subtle gun residue. John was sexy before, but now he upheld the law. His untouchable hotness level skyrocketed. Her skin ached for him. "You avoided the discussion," she said. "I don't understand how a man such as yourself would take a job that doesn't pay nearly as much as you have in your bank accounts."
He tipped his head and her heart raced.
"How did you smell the gunpowder? I just bought these clothes."
"I like the shirt." The change of conversation didn't sway her, but his investigation technique needed work. She didn't feel pressured in the slightest. His broad shoulders could make a trash bag sexy. Her body melted like ice cream on a hot summer day. He'd leave soon, but he could have anything he wanted from her. The waitress came back with the bottle of wine and two glasses.
Alice waited for him to pour with her hands under her legs. She tried to calm her heartbeat so she'd sound almost normal. "I don't know." He set her glass before her. "You're supposed to smell like cedar and pine trees."
He stopped mid-sip. "I'm supposed to smell like a tree?"
"No. No." She shook her head. So much for smooth. She massaged the back of her neck with one hand and picked up her wine glass with the other.
She gulped some wine, grateful she could swallow. The liquid only made her peek at John again and fall deeper under his spell. Slowly, her temperature grew and her gaze wandered to the hotel door. Air conditioning might help. "It's how I remember you smelled. Reminds me of home, I guess."
Silence hung in the air, leaving her empty and vulnerable. He sipped his white wine, his gaze unreadable. Coldness seeped through her and sent a shiver down her back. This was the worst moment in her life. "Alice, why do you remember so much about me?"
Her face heated, which countered the ice in her neck, but her brain didn't quite work. She was light-headed. If she fainted, would the nightmare of this moment end? Not with her luck. I have to tell the truth. She leaned forward. "You were my first kiss."
Clearly shocked, his mouth fell open. Her breath stuck in her throat. The earth needed to swallow her right now. He placed his drink on a cocktail napkin and her nerves tingled. Then he put his forearms on the table. "What do you mean?"
There was no escape. No earthquakes appeared to save her. She placed her hands over his. He had to remember that moment as it was burned into her dreams. "It didn't mean anything to you. I knew that then. I accidentally moved my face, and you kissed my lips instead of my cheek. At that time, I didn't know what to do and I opened my mouth."