Black and White by Jackie Kessler

Undergoths had to be. “What’s his deal?”
    Boxer grinned at her through a cloud of blue smoke. “I know you’re done with the do-gooder stuff and all, but you might like this: He says he’s got a vigilante problem.”

CHAPTER 15
JET
    Not many people are aware of the Academy Runners-civilians who work ostensibly for Corp but actually act as gophers for the Squadron. Can’t have our heroes bothering themselves with things like laundry, can we? Our tax dollars, hard at work.
    Lynda Kidder, “Origins, Part Two,”
New Chicago Tribune,
April 2, 2112
    N ot even two minutes after Jet stormed into her apartment, the door chime sounded. Still fuming from the debacle that had been the Goldwater show, the last thing Jet wanted to deal with was … well, anything. Barring some cosmic emergency, all she had on her schedule for tonight was curling up with a good romance novel. Maybe—maybe—she’d even allow herself to have some chocolate.
    Thinking of which book she’d lose herself in later, Jet opened the door. And right there, cover-model gorgeous, was Bruce Hunter. As her gaze locked on his handsome face, she forced herself to smile, even though she really wanted to squeak and slam the door shut. Her heartbeat jitterbugged in her chest, and she was breathing too fast.
    Damn it all to Darkness, how could one man fluster herso completely—and so quickly? He was just a man. A civilian, at that. Normal. Not a threat.
    Except her instincts told her differently.
    “Hey there,” Bruce said, his voice a sexy rumble that sent tingles running up her arms like electric shocks. He smiled broadly, his teeth bright enough to qualify him as a Light power.
    When she remembered to speak, she said, “Hi.”
    After a moment, he cleared his throat. “So, this is the part where you let me in …”
    Hating the heat she felt in her cheeks, Jet stepped aside and threw the door open wide. There he stood, Bruce Hunter, Academy Runner, tall and dark and handsome in his black trencher and slacks, the dimple in his right cheek turning his grin into something boyish and altogether touchable, his blue eyes sparkling.
    No
, Jet thought, staring into his eyes,
they’re nothing as soft or magical as that. They ripple with energy. They’re dangerous eyes. Sexy eyes.
    She could almost hear Meteorite’s voice laughing, telling her she really needed to get laid.
    And the truly sad thing was, Jet’s body agreed with the assessment. The tremors she felt in her belly had nothing to do with the aromatic smells emanating from the bag in Bruce’s hand.
    The tremors shifted into small pulses, sending tiny waves of heat up to very sensitive parts that usually were very carefully hidden by her cloak. But she’d hung up her cowl and cape when she’d entered a moment ago. Telling her body to stop reacting
like that
to Bruce’s presence, she said, “Please come in.”
    “Thank you.” He strode through the doorway, then turned to face her.
    She tore her gaze away from his handsome face, forced herself to look anywhere but at those captivating eyes. Down. Torso covered by his black coat, but she imaginedhim with a broad chest to go with the shoulders his duster couldn’t hide. Hints of a bright green shirt flashed in the gap of his unzipped jacket. Long legs, wrapped in black slacks. Black combat boots. Not Runner standard, but Jet had seen a number of the gophers sporting them. She assumed they were comfortable and, indeed, allowed their wearer to run quite fast. Her gaze slid back up his long legs and paused for a split second by his crotch.
    Stop that.
Light, where was her brain?
    Apparently, it was on sabbatical, because even that moment of imagining him without his pants sent a stab of desire straight through her.
    Enough. You are a hero. Heroes do not fantasize about their civilian helpers.
    In her mind, she imagined Meteorite chuckling, whispering:
But maybe
heroines
do.
    Bruce’s arms were burdened with two bags. As he stood by the table with her