Текст книги "A Little Too Hot"

Автор книги: Lisa Desrochers

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Eighteen

I SPIN AND  find a wide-eyed Cooper standing at the elevator, his hands in the air, with what I’m beginning to realize is his regular expression, a frown. “Just wanted to tell you we’re all clear. The perimeter’s secure and the wire is hot. Jenkins and I are heading back.”

“Son of a bitch,” Blake mutters under his breath. I turn back and find him hopping on one foot as he reholsters his gun. He bends down to scoop up the beer bottle, which apparently didn’t smash to smithereens on the granite-tile floor only because it hit his foot first. His expression is dubious as he straightens up, holding the fizzing bottle over the sink.

I’m still frozen in place, shaking with the adrenaline rush.

“Everything under control in here?” Cooper asks, splitting a glance between us.

Blake nods, cutting him a look.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He steps into the elevator and the door slides shut.

I turn to Blake, finally finding my voice. “Can anyone just walk in here?”

He grabs a dish towel from the counter and drops it onto the puddle, swishing it around with his foot. “You need the opener to get into the garage, then a code and key for the elevator. Only Cooper and I have the openers, a code, and the key. So, no.”

“Do I get a code and the key?”

He looks up at me. “No.”

I frown at him. “So I’m trapped here.”

“Yep,” he says, going back to mopping up the mess.

My frown turns into a glare, and I’m tempted to pull the bottle out of the sink and pour the rest of its contents over his head.

He looks up, notices my expression, and his perfect lips pull into a smug smile. “Joking. You only need a code and key to get into the house. Just push the button to get out,” he says with a nudge of his chin toward the elevator.

I consider walking over there and doing just that, but where would I go? Instead, I lean my backside against the counter as Blake scoops the sopping towel up and drops it into the sink. “What does he mean, ‘the wire is hot’?”

He turns on the water to rinse it out. “The guy who lived here was serious about his security. You’ve seen the panic room, and there’s also an alarmed electric fence that runs through the hedges along the entire perimeter.”

I just look at him.

“That’s why this was the perfect place to bring you,” he continues when I don’t say anything. “No one’s going to get to you without doing serious bodily damage—and my knowing about it.”

The image of the guy with the gun, shooting at Jonathan and me, surfaces in my mind at the thought. I give the counter more of my weight as my legs tremble. Less than a week ago all I wanted was sex with Blake—who was still Harrison then—on the sofa at Benny’s.

And now we’re here.

He’s not my lover; he’s my protector . . . and my persecutor. This is real. This is all real. What I hoped would be a mind-blowing fling with a totally hot stranger has turned into this nightmare.

My head spins as my new reality comes crashing down on me. This is my life now. I can’t undo any of it. I stagger to a kitchen chair at the small table near the window and sit heavily, my legs no longer willing to hold me.

“Sam? Are you okay?”

I’m staring at some random point on the floor, unable to lift my eyes. “No.” It’s true. All of a sudden I feel adrenaline-charged and shaky as panic takes hold of me. I rest my elbow on my knee and hold my head in my hand as a cold sweat breaks over my skin.

“Is it your head?” he asks, supporting me with a hand on my shoulder while he snatches his phone out of his pocket. “Cooper, get your ass back here,” he barks into it.

I lift my head and slip the phone out of his fingers. “Cancel that, Cooper. Everything’s fine.”

There’s a snicker from the other end. “You giving Casanova fits, Jezebel?”

“Trying my hardest.”

He laughs. “Put Blake on, will you?”

I look up to see Blake staring at me, a scowl fixed on his face as he takes the phone back from me. “Yeah,” he says into it, then rolls his eyes and hangs his head at whatever Cooper says. “No. I think maybe she was in shock.” His eyes lift and scan up my body, finally coming to rest on my face. “She seems okay now.”

I reach out and pluck the phone out of his hand again. “Good-bye, Cooper,” I say, disconnecting.

“You’re okay?” Blake asks, his forehead creasing with concern as he reclaims the phone and stuffs it in his pocket.

“Yeah. I just . . . I can’t believe this has all happened to me. I mean, it’s been one hell of a month, you know? Getting fired from the pharmacy, getting arrested, this,” I say, gesturing around the room. “If my mom wanted to prove I’m a total fuck-up, she couldn’t have scripted it any better.”

He settles into the chair next to mine. “I don’t know what your mother was thinking, Sam, but she couldn’t have anticipated this.”

“She was thinking I’m useless. She’s always thought that.”

“I doubt that’s what she thinks,” he says.

“You don’t know her,” I tell him with a shake of my head. “She’s always thought she needed to tell me what to do every second of every day, like I would forget to get out of bed if she didn’t remind me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Would you have?”

“Probably not,” I say, throwing my hands in the air, “but it was everything with her. I wore my skirts too short and my hair too long. I either had the wrong friends or not enough of them. She corrected my homework every night all my life, and got mad when I refused to send her my college assignments. She didn’t trust me to do anything right without her input.”

“So, she was a little overbearing. At least you knew she cared.”

“Then why did she throw me out? That’s, like, the opposite of running my life. Everything to nothing.”

He presses back into his chair. “Maybe it was as much for her as it was for you.”

I glare at him. “Okay, Dad. Thanks for that useless pearl of wisdom.”

“I just mean, maybe she realized you would never learn to be responsible for yourself if she didn’t let go.”

My whole body tenses as I fight to contain my frustration, because if I have a hot button, it’s my mother. Nothing makes me want to punch something quite so much as someone defending her to me. But, deep inside, I’m totally relieved he’s making it so easy to hate him. “You think I’m irresponsible?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, there comes a point for everyone when you pretty much need to sink or swim.”

I stand and glare down at him. “I was swimming just fine before the DEA decided to drown me.” I spin for my room. “I’m not very hungry. I’m going to take a shower.”

“Fine.” He moves to the counter and starts aggressively cracking eggs into a bowl. “If you want dinner, it’ll be ready in a few.”

I lock my door, then pull off the sling holding my arm against my ribs. When I straighten it, it’s stiff, and my shoulder’s a little sore, but not too bad. I throw the sling in the trash, deciding I’m done with it.

I strip, using my right arm gingerly to help, and toss my clothes on the floor as I move to the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror over the sink isn’t a pretty thing. I step closer and press my fingers to the bruises at my shoulder. They’re that in between color, transitioning from dark purple to green—the same color that surrounds the white gauze bandage taped to the right side of my face and fills in the semicircle under my right eye.

I lean into the counter and slowly pry back the bandages. Underneath, there’s a gash, held together with some sort of clear tape. The redness and swelling that were there the first time I saw it are mostly gone, and it’s just a thin red line with a little dried blood. I poke at it and it’s tender but not too bad.

I brush my teeth with the fresh toothbrush and new tube of toothpaste on the counter, then step into the hot water. The shower helps me to relax a little, and I stand in it for a long time after I’m done washing up, letting the warm spray massage out all my knots. When I’m finished, I wrap myself in a towel and move to the bedroom.

The room is dark, the sun having set sometime during the hour I spent in the bathroom. Out the window, San Francisco sparkles like a jewel across the black swath of the bay. I push open the French doors and the smell of fresh air and roasted vegetables wafts in on the gentle spring breeze.

My stomach gurgles like a drowning man, but I decide to skip dinner. There are definitely some things I need to figure out, and if I’m stuck here for months with Blake Montgomery, how I feel about him is one of the biggest. I can’t do that when I’m looking at him, because the memory of that body pressed against mine jumbles my thoughts.

I drift out the French doors, expecting it to be cold after the hot shower, but the air’s unseasonably warm tonight. A thin crescent of a moon hangs over the city, casting almost no light, and below it, a blanket of fog is rolling in off the water. The only thing that ruins the beauty of the scene is the country music wafting out the open French doors of the living room balcony.

“My eardrums are going to rupture,” I mutter.

“Give it time. It grows on you.”

I jump and look to my right. On the balcony off the living room, I see a dark silhouette, leaning on the rail. I pull my towel tighter and back a step toward my door. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

Blake pushes off the rail and moves to my side of his balcony. “You have everything you need?”

I nod, then realize he probably can’t see that gesture in the dark. “Yeah.”

“Good.” For several beats of my heart neither of us moves, but I feel the weight of his gaze traveling slowly over me. “How’s your arm?”

I roll my shoulder in a circle. “A little sore, but okay.”

“I’m glad it’s better.” He backs toward the open French doors behind him. “There’s dinner in the fridge if you want to warm some up. I’ll be downstairs . . . if you need anything.”

“I’m fine.”

He hesitates again at the door. “Good night, Sam.”

His smooth drawl roughens into something that says sex, even though those weren’t his actual words, and it turns the tingle in my tummy into an ache. “ ’Night.”

He slips through the doors and closes them behind him, and a minute later the music stops and I hear him on the stairs across the hall from my room. I step inside and move to my closet. There’s no way I’m going to wear the granny gown, but a tank and a pair of underwear will do. I reach into the drawer and pull out a pair of the white cotton panties, and that’s when the red strap of something deeper in the stack catches my attention. I dig to the bottom of the stack and pull out a strappy red thong, very similar to the one that peaked out from my black satin shorts the night I met Blake.

I drop my towel and slip it on, then pull a long white tank top over it. And as I pass my bedroom door on the way to my bed, there’s one thing I know for sure.

Nichols didn’t pick out all my new panties.

Chapter Nineteen

THE SMELL OF coffee and my empty stomach wake me. I tug on jeans and crack my door open. Blake’s in the kitchen, and I consider waiting him out, but I’m shaking from both caffeine withdrawal and starvation. I make a beeline to the cupboard I’m pretty sure I saw coffee mugs in last night and open it. Sure enough, there are several mismatched mugs from different tourist destinations. I choose the one from Alcatraz, huffing out a sardonic laugh at the symbolism.

Blake looks at me curiously as he peels a waffle out of the waffle iron with a fork. His short hair is damp, sticking up as if he toweled it dry, and for the first time, he’s in a T-shirt instead of his typical button-down. I see the black lines of the tattoo that covers the left side of his torso and chest extend down his arm to just above the elbow. His faded jeans fit him just . . . mmm. It’s taking some serious self-control to keep my eyes off him.

I concentrate on filling my mug from the pot, then start back to my room.

“Sam, I can’t let you starve to death.”

I look over my shoulder at him and see him holding up a plate with a waffle on it. I spin and give him my best smirk. “Would that look bad on your résumé?”

He flings the plate onto the counter, where it clatters for a few seconds before coming to rest dangerously close to the edge. “I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but not you . . .” His eyes narrow a little, as if he’s trying to see past my skin. “One second you’re . . .” He tosses a hand in the air. “. . . and the next you . . .” His jaw tightens again, and he shakes his head in dismay. “You’re the most frustrating individual I’ve ever met, and I’ve only known you for, like, five minutes.”

“If it’s any consolation, the feeling’s mutual,” I say, turning for my room.

“If you eat, I’ll let you call your mom.”

I stop. The thing is, I don’t really want to talk to Mom, so I could just keep walking. But I should talk to Mom. And I’m seriously starving. “Isn’t coercion against the Geneva Convention?”

“The Geneva Convention only applies to prisoners of war.”

I turn and give him my most cutting glare. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking this isn’t war.”

“Strawberries?” he asks with a tip of his head, picking up the waffle plate.

“Fine.”

“Whipped cream?”

I take a mental fly swatter to the image of what I’d really like to do with that whipped cream and start back across the living room. “Fine.”

Blake loads my waffle up and sets it on the table. “The maple syrup is hot.”

Yep. Now the fantasy’s complete.

We eat in silence, and when I’m done, Blake holds his cell phone toward me over my empty plate. “Go ahead and call your mom, but unless you want to put both you and her in danger, please don’t talk about what’s going on or tell her where you are.”

I reach for the phone. “Will you get in trouble for letting me use this?”

He pulls it back. “Only if you say something you shouldn’t.”

I stand and snatch it out of his hand. “I’ll think about it.”

He looks at me a moment before standing and clearing our plates. “You can take it to your room.”

I cross the living room and close my door behind me as I dial. It rings twice before she picks up. “Hello?”

My heart pounds in my throat. “Hi, Mom . . . It’s me.”

“Oh, thank God! I’ve been beside myself since your message. Are you in trouble, Sam?”

Of course. Not, Are you okay? or What happened? but, Are you in trouble? But I can’t give her too much shit, because I am, in fact, in trouble. “I’m okay.”

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“I can’t tell you. Sorry.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?” She sounds a little hysterical, but anything I could say to calm her would be a lie.

I toe the carpet, cringing. “Something happened and I’m sort of in protective custody. I’m not allowed to tell anyone where I am.”

“You’re in jail?” she screeches into the phone.

“No, Mom. I’m not in jail. But I’m somewhere where the police can keep me safe.”

“From who? Who do you need to be kept safe from?”

“It’s just . . . I was just sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Her voice is wary, some of the panic slipping away. “But you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

There’s a long pause, and in the background I hear my brothers fighting. The pang in my chest surprises me. It’s not like we’ve ever been close. They’re thirteen years younger than me. My golden half brothers, who can do no wrong. Offspring upgrade 2.0.

“This is . . . I just don’t know what to think. It’s all so cryptic,” she finally says.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’d tell you more if I could.” I swallow. “How are the boys?”

“They miss you.”

My chest clamps at her lie. They barely know I exist. “Tell them hi for me.”

Another long pause. “When will you be able to come home?”

Come home? Am I unkicked out? “You want me to come home?”

“I’m so sorry, baby. I should have never insisted you leave. You just scared me so much.” Her voice hitches on the last word. “There are things we need to talk about—things you need to know.”

I’m not quite sure what that means. Mom has never been a big talker, other than to tell me what to do. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to leave here. It could be a while.”

“Oh, baby. Please take care of yourself. And I expect to hear from you.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to call again.”

“I don’t like this.”

I look around the room, far nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived, and think about who’s waiting for me on the other side of the wall. As mad as I am at him, I don’t think there’s any doubt at this point that his priority is keeping me safe. “I promise I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, baby. I love you.”

I don’t answer. I know she’s waiting for me to say it back, but I can’t. Everything that happened between us is still too raw. “ ’Bye, Mom.”

I disconnect and stand here staring at the phone. When I finally open the door, Blake is at the kitchen sink, his sleeves rolled up, drying the last of the breakfast dishes.

“Everything okay?” he asks warily.

And that’s when I realize my face is frozen in a pained grimace. I force it to relax. “Yeah.” I move across the living room and lay his phone on the granite countertop. “So . . . what now?” I ask, looking around.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he says, gesturing at the room. “This is all yours, for now.”

“For months,” I say.

“Come on,” he says, moving past me. “We never finished the tour.”

I follow him to the stairs.

“You saw there’s a pool table downstairs,” he says, gesturing that way with a nod of his head, “and there’s a small gym and a poker table in the bathhouse next to the pool.”

He starts up the spiral stairs across from my bedroom door to the next level up. The stairway opens into a large room above mine. The wall behind us is glass, the view just as stunning as from the windows below. To the right, over an immense mahogany desk, there are framed San Francisco 49ers jerseys, an autographed football under a glass cube, and Joe Montana, my stepfather’s idol, smiles out of the wall, his arm slug across some guy’s shoulders.

“Wow,” I say, staring at it. “This guy knew people.”

Blake follows my gaze. “That’s what money will do.”

My eyes migrate around the room. Past the fireplace on the back wall, to the left, is a wall of books. Bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling from the windows up front to the back wall near the fireplace. I move in that direction and peruse the titles, plucking a John Lescroart hardcover off the shelf.

“That’s one of his best,” Blake says from over my shoulder.

“I like that they’re set in San Francisco.” I flip it open and find it’s autographed to someone named Bernadette. “Sweet.” I settle onto the sofa that faces the window and flip to chapter one. When I look up, Blake is lingering near the bookshelf, watching me.

He clears his throat. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he says, inching toward the landing.

I nod and go back to my book, but I’m not really reading. Out of the corner of my eye I’m watching him watch me as he slowly descends the stairs. When he’s gone, I close the book and set it on the sofa, then stand and move to the window. A minute later Blake steps onto the balcony below and clamps a hand on the rail, hanging his head between his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck with the other hand. After a long minute, he steps back and looks out over the view, and it’s not until he starts to turn toward my window that I realize I’ve leaned into it, pressing my palm against the glass. I stumble back before his gaze finds me and sit hard on the sofa.

Not only is Blake my jailer, but the whole reason I’m here in the first place. I have to stop lusting after him . . . which would be so much easier if he would stop being so hot.

I pick the book up and try to focus, but it’s useless. I stand and move cautiously toward the window, and when I look down, he’s gone. I breathe in a deep breath and look out over the city from my glass cage. It’s a sunny day, with the marine layer already out at sea. The sun glints off the tall buildings in the city, and the water of the bay shimmers. My eyes focus on the foreground, the pool below, down a long set of stone stairs. Didn’t Blake say he’d picked out a swimsuit?

I’ve never been much of a swimmer, but I look down at the pool again. Maybe the water would be good for my arm. And with no phone and no internet, I need to do something besides sit around obsessing over Blake or I’ll go insane.

I bring the book with me as I descend the stairs and slip into my room. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Blake said he bought me a swimsuit.

Tossing the book on my bed, I head to the closet and root through the drawers until I find what I’m looking for—a black string bikini. I move into the room, stripping off my jeans and T-shirt and strapping myself into the skimpy suit. It fits, and I look pretty damn good in it, if I do say so myself. If you ignore the tie-dye bruises covering the upper half of my body, the black suit with my red hair and fair skin is striking.

I tie my hair back and dig through my bag for my sunglasses, then head across the hall to the stairs. When I reach the bottom, I peek into the poolroom to make sure Blake’s not there. It’s empty, so I scoot across to the French doors and let myself out onto the lower deck. I follow the stairs and the stone path all the way down to the pool, my arms wrapped around myself against the slight chill of the spring air. I dip my toe in the water and find Blake wasn’t lying. It’s heated, just short of bathtub warm.

The bathhouse is almost as big as my parents’ real house. There are two doors in the front. I open the first and find a large room with two leather recliners and a sofa pointing at a big screen TV on the wall over yet another fireplace, a black granite, fully stocked bar along the right-hand wall, and a poker table near the windows looking out over the pool. On the opposite wall is a gym of sorts: a free weight rack next to a weight bench, and a treadmill. There’s more sports memorabilia here, and the smell of stale cigar smoke and sweat, giving it a definite man-cave feel.

I close the door and move to the next one. It opens into a bathroom, complete with a mammoth, glass-enclosed shower and a tall antique cabinet full of towels and a variety of floats. Grabbing a towel, I head back out to the pool.

I drop the towel on a lounge chair on my way to the deep end, where I stand staring at the smooth water before I lower myself in and float on my back, moving my shoulder through its range of motion.

Something buzzes over the water and I jerk upright, worried it’s a bee. But when I look at the edge of the pool, there’s an enormous greenish blue dragonfly perched there. I move closer to inspect it and am surprised when it doesn’t fly away. It just sits there, open-winged, staring at me with its gigantic eyes.

“Can I borrow your wings?” I ask it.

It doesn’t answer.

Something moves on the balcony, and I look up to find Blake leaning his elbows on the rail, watching.

I’m living in a fishbowl. But as a tingly rush skitters through me, I can’t help wondering how sick it makes me that I don’t I hate it.