Catching Hell: A Hot Contemporary Romance (9 page)

“What sort of man would I be if I abandoned a damsel in distress? I can drop you off and still get out to the farm in half an hour, this time of night.”
 

Drop her off
. Disappointment sliced through her, colder than the car’s blasting air conditioning. She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed at her elbows to take away the surprising chill from his perfectly civil words.

“Too cold?” he asked, glancing at her. His fingers moved automatically, shifting down the AC. She nodded, because the alternative was telling him to pull the car over immediately. To put those hands to better use.

And she wasn’t completely sure he would.

She started to run her own fingers through her hair, only to be reminded for the thousandth time that she was wearing that ridiculous French twist. Why did women give in to such idiotic conventions anyway? She tightened her fingers into fists before she told herself to relax.

“So,” Zach said, and it sounded like he was reading from some prepared script. “It looks like RADD got a great turnout tonight.”

She knew a safe retreat when she heard one. She responded with the absolutely appropriate, “They sold half a dozen tables more than last year.” She launched into a conscientious summary of the group’s fundraising efforts, a businesswoman’s speculation on how likely they were to achieve their aggressive annual goal.

Even though she really wanted to ask him questions instead.
Why did you just happen to be waiting there when I walked out of the hotel? Why did you stay until the very end of the ball? Why did you let Austin Pendleton take me away from you?

She firmly directed her mind back to safe territory—the quality of the passed hors d’oeuvres, the touching speech by the keynote speaker, Gramps’ welcome rally to attend. Before long, Zach was slowing in front of the Whitmore.

“Thank you,” she said, reluctantly gripping her tiny purse.
Why did you get here so quickly?
she wanted to demand.
Why didn’t you take your time?
When he signaled his turn into the garage, though, her girl parts tightened with such ferocity she barely managed to say, “You can just drop me off here.”

“Right,” he said, beginning an expert negotiation of the narrow ramp.
 

She couldn’t bite back her smile as he wound down to the third level, guiding the car into the space marked 1401. She opened the vehicle door herself, but she felt his palm against the small of her back as he led her toward the elevators. Toward the north bank. The ones that led to her part of the building.

He pressed the button for 19, and the doors whispered closed behind them. She had no choice but to stare at their reflection in the elevator’s burnished brass. Her red dress was mellowed to burgundy, and the white of his shirt was enriched to cream. She met his eyes in the mirror, his green-brown gaze turned midnight by the light.

Midnight, but there was a fire in that darkness. She felt the heat radiating from his body, flaring against her bare arm, her exposed shoulder. As if in defiance, she raised her chin, just enough to bring a lazy smile to his lips.

The elevator chimed as it settled into place, and the doors whispered open. This time, his hand was spread across her back as they walked. She felt like they were dancing again, gliding down the carpeted corridor with steps that had been choreographed years before.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly when she stopped at her door. She turned toward him then, falling into the curve of his arms as naturally as breathing. His lips found hers, soft at first. But when she leaned into him, he deepened the kiss. His tongue met hers, questing, driving, and his palm cupped the nape of her neck, easing her to the perfect angle.

A wave of warmth crashed down her spine, and she might have taken back all her words of scorn for that flesh-baring French twist, if Zach’s attentions hadn’t driven every syllable of English out of her mind. Her lips hummed with the strength of their kiss.
 

When he shifted, as if he were going to pull away, she moaned a protest, tightening her hands across his back. He clearly recognized her grant of permission; she was barely aware of his forearm cushioning her neck as he backed her up against her door. She clutched at his lapels, pulling him closer, and he matched his hips to hers as he returned his attention to her lips.

Her mouth felt bruised, but she leaned in for more. His palm curved beneath her chin, cupping, stroking, and his fingers found the delicate pulse point beneath her ear. She quivered as he caressed her, matching the motion to the flicker of his tongue against the corner of her mouth.

Overwhelmed by the sensation, she arched her back. The movement freed her from his exquisite torment, even as it drove her thighs closer to his. He caught his breath sharply, pulling away just a fraction of an inch, a distance that left her aching in unexpected desperation.

His hand shifted from her throat to the door behind her, flattening into a deflated star. He leaned his head down, resting his forehead against hers. When he spoke, his voice was so low that she felt his words more than heard them. “This is a spectacularly bad idea.”

She heard him. She understood him. She might even have agreed with him.

But bad idea or not, she knew exactly what she wanted. She tilted her chin up until their lips met again, and she whispered, “I’ve had worse ones. A lot worse.”

He pulled away just enough to shake his head, and she took advantage of the distance to find her handbag, abandoned on the floor by her feet. She started to slide down the door, reaching for it, but he gallantly swept it up and handed it to her.
 

Her fingers trembled as she took out her key—maybe not enough for him to see, but enough for her to feel the vibration. She worked the lock quickly, efficiently, and then she pushed the door open.

“Please,” she said, as he took a single step away. “Come in. Just for a drink.”

He shook his head, but he followed her over the threshold.

* * *

Zach watched as she palmed on the overhead light in the foyer. “See?” she said. “Bright as day. You’re safe.” As if the lights made any difference. He
wanted
to see her body. He wanted to see the light shimmer on the curve of her naked belly as he dipped his head down—

He forced his attention back to her face, to her barely taunting smile. He started to reach out, to trace her swollen bottom lip with his thumb, but he stopped himself just in time.
 

She laughed, low and throaty, as if she could read his mind. “Why don’t you have a seat. I’m just going to…”

“Slip into something more comfortable,” he said, completing the inevitable line with a resigned sigh. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t
stay
here. He could still open up the door, punch the button for the elevator and head downstairs to his own apartment and an ice-cold shower.

Or he could watch her hips sway as she eased past him toward the alcove that passed for a bedroom in this upscale studio apartment. Open shelves set off the living room—where he stood—from a rumpled king size bed. Anna disappeared through a doorway, into what had to be the bathroom, and he was left to study the rest of the space.

A laundry basket spilled across one corner of the bedroom, long-legged jeans tangling with a couple of navy blue towels. The mirror of a retro vanity had a dozen photographs tucked into the frame—Anna with Old Man Benson, standing on the mound in Rockets Field. Anna with that friend of hers who’d been in the coffee shop—Emily, he remembered. Anna with a clutch of friends, all laughing and wearing Michigan maize and blue with snowbanks behind them.

An upholstered couch hulked beside a coffee table, half covered by a cashmere blanket. The table was anchored by a flurry of magazines—
Sports Illustrated
and
ESPN
, interspersed with
Fortune
and a couple of high-end investment things. Three different pairs of shoes were jumbled beside the couch, obviously left where they’d been kicked off by their distracted owner.

A small kitchen table was centered in front of the room’s large window. There was just enough space for a single bowl, maybe with room left over for a drinking glass. The rest of the surface was covered with promotional handouts from the ball park—a pair of bobblehead dolls, a handful of mugs, a scarf, a visor, and three different baseball caps, all emblazoned with the Rockets logo.

The place was a mess. A comfortable, jumbled, lived-in mess. If he’d been dropped here without a hint, his first thought would be that it belonged to someone who loved the game.
 

His second thought was that it belonged to a
woman
who loved the game, because despite the chaos, there were feminine touches everywhere. A magnet on the refrigerator proclaimed, “A clean house is a sign of a wasted life.” A ragged teddy bear had pride of place in the precise center of the open shelves between the living area and the bedroom. The laundry, the shoes, the random handwritten notes—all added a feminine gloss to the room.

He shrugged, suddenly feeling too large, too male for the space. As if in compensation, he shucked his jacket and draped it over one of the kitchen chairs. His fingers made short work out of stripping his bow tie, leaving the uneven halves to dangle around his neck as he worked the top button on his shirt. He rolled his neck slowly, releasing some of the tension that thrummed through his body.

He couldn’t stop the nagging voice in his head, the one that said he had no business being here. If he
had
to go the RADD gala, he could have avoided talking to Anna. If he
needed
to talk to her, he could have skipped taking her out on the dance floor. If he couldn’t escape holding her in his arms, breathing in the scent of her hair, absorbing the heat of her body through the open planes of his palms, he could have walked away—stayed away—when that guy cut in for the next dance.

He shouldn’t have retrieved his car from the garage. Shouldn’t have waited in the shadows for over an hour. Shouldn’t have moved past the Whitmore’s well-lit entrance, into the garage, the elevator, this goddamn apartment.

It wasn’t that it looked like a
woman
lived here. Hell, he’d known that before she opened the door.

It looked like a college student lived here. A kid. And what the hell would a kid like Anna ever want with him?

The bathroom door opened, and he turned around, ready to make his excuses and get the hell back to his own place, like he should have done in the first place. The words, though, froze in his throat.

She had exchanged her dress for a bathrobe, something soft and shiny and smooth, the color of the ocean. Even across the room, he could see that the fabric echoed the blue-green of her eyes, pulling him closer, drawing him in. She’d knotted a belt around her waist, a flimsy tie made out of the same slippery cloth, and he knew it would only take a single tug to pull the whole thing loose.

Her hair was still piled on top of her head, making her neck look even longer, even more graceful than it seemed in her usual team T-shirt. For just a heartbeat, he saw uncertainty skip across her face, but then her smile was back—that dazzling, confident grin that told the world she was completely in control.

“Let’s see,” she said, crossing toward the tiny kitchen. Her feet were bare; the painted scallops of her nails contrasted with the hardwood floor. Her fingernails matched her toes as she pulled open the refrigerator door. “I have Coke. And beer. And, um, Coke.”

He grinned. “I’ll have a beer.”

She took out two green bottles and twisted off the caps. The gesture was casual, easy, and he felt himself relax as she handed one over. She tilted her own bottle, and they clinked the necks together. Her lips twisted in a wry salute, and she led the way to the couch.

She sank down in a corner, tucking one foot under her like some sort of distracted water spirit. She moved easily, gracefully, and only his overheated imagination reminded him of what was actually under that flowing robe. “So,” she said, after taking a long drink from her beer.

“So,” he repeated.

“Sit down,” she insisted, pointing to the other side of the couch .“Relax. I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

He scowled, until he realized that her laugh was nervous. She wasn’t trying to comfort him. She was trying to tell herself everything was going to be all right. He sighed and forced himself to relax into his corner of the sofa.

“I wasn’t joking out there,” he said, nodding to the door. “This is a bad idea for at least a dozen reasons.”

“Give me one.” Her voice was even.

“I’m old enough to be your father.” Shit. That wasn’t the first thing he’d planned on saying.

By the look of amusement on her face, it wasn’t the first protest she’d expected either. “Only if you got started
very
early.”
 

He raised his eyebrows at her easy dismissal. “Joke all you want, Anna, but I’m thirty-seven years old.”

“I’ve read the team yearbook,” she said, her lips pursing tartly. He tried to ignore those lips, tried to forget how they’d felt under his, just a few minutes before. “Seriously, Zach. That’s a number. It’s not a way of thinking. A way of living. The guys I dated in college never lifted anything heavier than a dictionary, and they certainly had no idea how to catch a major-league game that goes into extra innings. You’re younger than any of those guys, in all the ways that matter.”

He couldn’t answer that. Wouldn’t. What was he going to tell her, anyway? That his knees ached every morning when he stumbled out of bed? That he’d be grateful he had a full head of hair, if it wasn’t turning gray? That he’d been twelve years old the day she was
born
, turning thirty when she was still in goddamn high school?

“You don’t know anything about me,” he said instead. “We’re practically strangers.”

Her smile softened. “Your favorite color is blue. Your favorite food is North Carolina barbecue, with a side of hushpuppies. You drink Johnny Walker Black, you prefer a window seat to an aisle, and your first pet was a shepherd mix named Tag.”