We’re heading out into the most dangerous place on earth with killers after us?” “Yeah.” He couldn’t help a grim smirk. “Better hit the road.

Suddenly, he understood why he couldn’t have her back then, or now. Or ever. He was a starving man and she was an oasis, a hallucination, a single sparkling drop of water in his desiccated world. And the problem with giving in, drinking that water, getting just one little taste, was that he’d know exactly what he’d been missing. And he’d never, ever be able to go back.

There was a reason he’d avoided Angel Smith. Already, she’d started seeping under his skin, making him feel things he preferred not to think about. And it felt so good it scared him.

He moved in, set his chin on her shoulder, and whispered, “I can’t…” When he didn’t go on, she turned a little to the right, enough to put the tips of their noses together. “Can’t what?” “Can’t stop wanting you.

Cooking’s like making music.” She threw him a smile. “It’s the perfect storm of smell and touch and taste and even sound, you know? That sizzle in the pan, the pop of spices. The moment you turn the heat off and there, right there, the ingredients let off a warm, enveloping steam.” “I eat to survive,” he said, matter-of-factly. She opened her mouth, then shut it. Was it sad to eat for survival? That was exactly what they were doing right here and the pleasure of it was almost blinding.

The Ice Man… cometh.

He rose. “Come here.” Like a moth to a flame, mesmerized, or hypnotized, or something. Angel went to him, giving herself up to Ford Cooper’s ephemeral net.

You feel a loss of control?” “Never… Never had control to begin with.

I thought you were a jerk.” He shook with an unexpected burst of laughter. “I know.” He squeezed her tight, trying to figure out how to keep her alive. “I know.