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He could have pounded the floor like a baby, but he did not. She had reactivated his self-control.
    His cock had never been so unhappy.
    She reached down, giving his stiff, empurpled boner a tentative pat-pat-pat, like it was a wild animal that might bite her. “Let’s compromise,” she suggested.
    He didn’t answer right away. Do the right thing, Nick, he told himself. Say thank-you and good-bye. But something else came out of his mouth. Something crude and stupid.
    “OK,” he said. “Blow me. Let’s see if you’re any good.”
    She jerked away and her tits jiggled as she came in contact with the opposite wall. She backed towards the door, clearly disgusted by his raging case of testosterone poisoning.
    He felt like he’d kicked a kitten. “Oh, Christ. I’m sorry.”
    Her chin went up. “Forget it,” she said haughtily. “This is crazy. I’m out of here.”
    “Thank God,” he muttered. Then she was gone. He put his hand over his hot face. It shook. His whole damn body shook. His eyes leaked. Nick, the ice man. Melted down to fucking mud. What the hell had just happened to him?
    It occurred to him that Becca was naked in the woods, at one in the morning, with no flashlight. Shit. She had the walkway for a guide, he told himself. But in that moonless dark, she was going to have a painful, unnerving time creeping back to the Sloane A-frame. She wouldn’t die of exposure in the ten minutes that it would take her to get there. But still. Christ.
    He went to the control room and grabbed the thermal imager.
    He winced when he saw the red, rainbow-edged image moving on the boardwalk stumble. She crouched down to feel her way, walking almost on her hands and knees. He was tempted to follow her with the infrared goggles to make sure she got back safe.
    But following a beautiful, naked woman through the dark woods with a raging hard-on like the one he had now didn’t strike him as intelligent. He didn’t trust himself. He’d probably end up carrying her over his shoulder to the Sloane house and nailing her there on the first flat surface that presented itself, if he could find a condom and get her permission in writing.
    She was right. This was crazy. He was crazy.
    He did the next best thing: climbing the spiral staircase to look out the window of one of the back bedrooms, from which the Sloane house could be seen. He stood there, and waited, like a statue, until he saw a light flick on. Home safe. Good.
    Let her go and fucking forget about it. He hadn’t done anything against the law and she wasn’t likely to report him to the local cops for not having a goddamn condom. But the gun, the cuffs—fuck it. Too late now. They would ask her a lot of rude questions about why she was swimming naked in the neighbor’s pool in the first place. No, nothing would come of it.
    He sank down into the bed, humiliated. Goddamn it, he had wanted her, though. With all his heart.
    Being alive again felt truly weird. To think he’d maneuvered, begged, pleaded, cheated, schemed, for a chance to get closer to that psycho vermin Zhoglo. He would have laughed, if he had the energy.
    Nobody could pay a guy enough money to do shit like this. He was dickbrained enough to do it for free. Jesus, look at him. The most important solo op of his life, deadly dangerous…and ta da…a beautiful naked girl waltzed in out of nowhere and made him forget who he was, what he was doing. Made him drunk and stupid with her clumsy kissing.
    He wasn’t a hugging sort of guy, but her arms had felt so damn good. And his finger tingled, thinking of her tight, hot, clinging—
    Stop. He buried his face in his hands, and let out a sound like a wolf’s howl. If he lived through this, he was done. He would spend the rest of what passed for his life building birdhouses.
    Becca’s spell was potent. While it lasted, he felt like a man again, Interesting to know that his tackle still worked. He tried to shove his cock into his pants, but it wasn’t ready to