The Hotter You Burn (2 page)

It was enough.

Beck's head snapped in her direction, his body going taut. He set Tawny on her feet and stepped in front of her, acting as her shield.

The gesture of protection proved hotter than the kiss.

Recognition lit his features. “You,” he said, and he sounded awed rather than angry.

Confused, Harlow blinked at him. “Me?” He knew her?

“What are you doing inside my house?”

My house!
But Harlow didn't stick around to correct him. Nothing would placate him or save her stupid hide, so she bolted around him, remaining just out of reach as she headed for the door, yanked it open and at last soared outside.

“Hey!” Beck called. “Stop.”

She quickened her pace, aiming for the bank of trees ahead: a giant oak, several mature pecans and two magnolias in full bloom. Locusts buzzed. Grasshoppers sang. Birds squawked. The three created a macabre soundtrack as the familiar scent of wild strawberries and dewy roses lodged in her throat, forming a hard lump.

Almost there... Just a little farther...

While the fifty-two-acre spread had come with a greenhouse, a small dairy, two barns, three work sheds and multiple vegetable gardens Harlow had tried and failed to tend, there was a shadowed section in back filled with gnarled trees, sharp sandburs and crunchy brushwood where snakes and scorpions liked to nest. A section none of the guys had ever dared venture. It would have been the perfect place to hide if she hadn't set up camp there.

Once she passed the embankment, she veered in the opposite direction, whizzing by the towering oak she used to climb...the weeping willow where she'd experienced her first kiss...the tire swing her father had made during one of his rare moments of affection.

“Stop,” Beck commanded. “Now.”

He sounded close, too close, but he didn't sound winded. She clutched the pie closer—
try to take it from me, I dare you—
and glanced back. Crap! He was almost on her. She picked up the pace...until several burs lodged in her heels, causing sharp spikes of pain to slow her down. Any second now, Beck would overtake—

Hard hands snaked around her waist, two hundred pounds of muscle bearing down on her. As she fell, the pie went flying.

“Noooo!” she shouted.

Impact emptied her lungs. Tears welled in her eyes, but she wiped the droplets away with a shaky hand, a whimper escaping when she spotted the dark blueberry splatters now streaming across rock and dirt, the crust now sprinkled with dirt.

“Pie killer!” Hello, dark side. “If there's any justice in the world, you will fry for this.”

“Really?
That's
what you say to me?” He sat on his haunches, freeing her from the bulk of his weight.

“You tackled me. I should sue you for everything you own.”

“Yes, please do so. Meanwhile, I'll press charges for trespassing. Now tell me what you were doing with my pie.”

My pie!
She'd stolen it fair and square. But the trespassing reminder sobered her. “If you think about things like a reasonable adult, you'll see your crime is worse. Your actions led to the painful death of an innocent dessert.” Now she would go hungry for yet another night.

Her stomach, the whore, grumbled in protest.

“The pie was going to die one way or another tonight. I just assumed my mouth would be the weapon of mass destruction, not a dirty little thief determined to blame someone else.”

He stood, then surprised her by offering her a helping hand. A trick, surely. She declined by pushing to her feet under her own steam. Besides, she'd seen some of the places those hands had been. And, really, she didn't need to know what they felt like. If they were callused and rough...hot enough to make her burn and quiver the way Tawny and countless others had.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Why not tell him the truth? He had only to ask the townsfolk about her to hear a thousand stories detailing her reign of terror in high school. Perhaps some kind soul would even mention the time a poll was pinned to the corkboard in the town square: “If given a choice, who would you rather torture? The devil or Harlow Glass?”

Harlow had won by a landslide.

“I'm Harlow Glass, and I used to live here.”

His gaze raked over her once, then again far more slowly. “I'm honored. Harlow Glass in the flesh. A sighting rarer than Bigfoot.”

How did he know? It wasn't as if he'd ever had a reason to look for her.

And oh, wow. His voice. He'd pumped up the smoke, making it even better than before, captivating and temping, sending cascades of pleasure rippling through her.

Danger! Danger!
She widened the distance between them.

“Oh, no, you don't. We're going back to the house.” He waved her forward.

Stay strong.
“How cute. You made a funny.”

His expression hardened, promising severe consequences if she refused him a second time, and yet his tenor softened, no longer quite so menacing. “My apologies for not being clear, sweetheart. You're coming with me, and that's that.”

“No, that's not that. I have no desire to watch another mouth-to-mouth sesh with Tawny. Let's just conclude our business here.”

The smile he unveiled lacked any sort of humor, and yet it utterly devastated her senses, leaving her reeling. “You have two options. One—we discuss the theft and destruction of my pie within the privacy of my home, and just how you're going to make it up to me. Or two—I call Sheriff Lintz.”

Dang it! He had her by the lady balls, and he knew it. “Look. You could waterboard me, but I still won't confess—”

“Good to know I have your permission to waterboard.”

“—to a crime, so why don't I say I'm sorry for interrupting your evening, and we call it good?”

“Does that sorry come with a side of pie?”

“No,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Then we won't be good.”

Figured. “So...what? You expect me to bake you another one?”

“Yes, ma'am, I surely do.”

“Are you going to ask me a thousand questions about how I did what I allegedly did, or why I did what I allegedly did?”

“Do I look like a guy who cares about how and why?”

No. No, he didn't. He looked like a guy who didn't care about much of anything—except pleasure. “Okay. All right.” Anything to (1) continue to keep him away from her camp, (2) speed up their parting and (3) appease him so the matter stayed between the two of them. But he was in for an unpleasant surprise. Her mother hadn't given her the title of Worst Chef in History for nothing. “You win.”

Head high, she marched past him. He didn't lag behind for long, was soon keeping pace beside her, his hand light on her lower back. The action was meant to ensure she stayed the course, but the heat of him pricked at her, made her itch for...something.

“You do know baking a pie takes several hours, right?” At least, it had for her mother. “Are you going to trust me in the kitchen, alone, while you and Tawny conclude
your
business?”

“Tawny will have to wait.
 
In a contest between sex and pie, sex will lose every time.”

“Wow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “No wonder panties drop in your presence. Your words are poetry.”

“Are you trying to tell me your panties have already dropped?”

She peered up at him, incredulous, then stunned. Waning sunlight hit him just right, stroking him with muted golden rays, making him almost inhumanly beautiful. Definitely otherworldly. The ache returned to her chest.

“The day my panties drop for you,” she said without any sharpness, “is the day I want to be taken behind one of the sheds and shot.”

“Because you'll know you'll never have me again and you won't be able to live with the pain?”

She snorted, oddly charmed by his warped sense of humor.

No. Not oddly. He knew what he was doing.

“Yeah,” she said drily. “Something like that.”

Mirth glittered in those golden eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Very well. I promise to make it as quick and painless as possible.”

How kind. “Let's backtrack. Earlier you looked at me as if you knew me. You also hinted you'd searched for me. Why?”

His amusement drained in a snap. “Perhaps you're mistaking shock for familiarity.”

She wasn't the greatest at reading people, but she wasn't the worst, either. “The two aren't even close to similar.”

“You find the thought of meeting me and forgetting me more plausible?”

Well. That was certainly a good point, wasn't it?

As they passed the line of trees, Tawny came into view. The girl waited on the porch, her hands braced on the railing where the initials
H.G.
were carved, her upper arms pushing her breasts together. As if she really needed the help. She was short and curvy, a real live pinup compared to Harlow's too-slender frame.

Eyes of the coldest steel narrowed, and Tawny hissed like a rattler about to strike. “I was hoping I'd had a waking nightmare.” A gust of wind lifted strands of her punk-rock hair as she flew down the steps to meet them at the railing. “But nope. Here you are. A demon in the flesh.”

Harlow remained silent. The formerly overweight Tawny had once been a victim of her cruelty, so Harlow accepted the insult as her due.

Looking back, she knew there was no excusing the hateful things she'd said to
anyone
. A bullying dad? A desire to feel better about herself? Please.

At least she'd gotten hers in the end.

Out of habit, she rubbed the scars on her torso, proof she'd gone from bully to victim in a blink.

Beck wrapped an arm around her waist, the contact electric, jolting her from her thoughts. Tawny noticed and cursed.

Harlow stepped away from the playboy. When it came to repaying the sins of her youth, she couldn't give Tawny much, but she could give her an open playing field for the affections of the town he-slut.

Problem. Beck refused to let her go, putting his delicious muscles to good use to hold her steady. The connection unnerved her, an instant, undeniable and almost unbearable high.

Get it together, Glass.

“If you know what's good for you,” Tawny said to Beck, “you'll cut out her viper tongue and leave her on the side of the road to bleed to death.”

Ouch.

“Maybe later,” he said. “Right now, she and I have some business to discuss.”

At the top of the steps, he paused to wrap his other arm around Tawny. The blonde gave another hiss, clearly not wanting to be linked with Harlow, even through association.

Very well. At the door, Harlow wrenched away from him under the pretext of tying her sandal that had no laces.

Beck, who was proving stubborn to his core, simply stopped and waited for her to rise, then once again pulled her close to herd her into the kitchen.

“Stay,” he told her with a pointed glare. “If you run, I'll catch you and you won't like what happens next.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Is that a threat?”

“Honey, it's a promise. I'll be on the phone with Sheriff Lintz so fast your head will spin.”

Sheriff Lintz, who had every reason to hate her. In tenth grade, she'd publicly dumped his son, and none too nicely. “I'll stay,” Harlow vowed.

As he dragged a protesting Tawny down the hall, Harlow picked up the muffled sounds of their conversation—her whining, him placating—until she more clearly heard him say the words “Wait here.”

A door closed. Footsteps echoed. He rounded the corner, reentering the kitchen, then stopping to lean against the marble, his hands flattening on the surface. His gaze locked on Harlow, hot enough to burn.

She licked her suddenly dry lips.

“Now then,” he said. “This is the part where I don't have to ask you a thousand questions about how and why—because you're just going to tell me. Or else.”

CHAPTER TWO

B
ECK
 
WOULD
 
RATHER
 
make a jump rope from his small intestines than accept a change. Change sucked. Even moving to Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, a few months ago had been a special kind of mental and emotional torture for him, and only at the urging of the friends he loved like brothers had he managed it.

He was still adjusting. In the city, he could go to the grocery store or bank without being hassled. Here, everyone stopped him to ask for a favor, or advice, or simply to inquire about what he was doing, as if they had a right to know.

Though Miss Harlow Glass had no idea, she'd already changed his life in more ways than one, and it had nothing to do with her visit today.

“I told you I wouldn't admit to anything.” She shifted from one sandaled foot to the other. “I meant it.”

He admired her refusal to buckle under the pressure of his narrowed gaze. But every word she uttered was a stroke of sin and heartbreak, and he wasn't quite prepared for the instant, intense effect she had on him.

“I don't care what you told me, honey. You don't make the rules. I do.”

“Rules were made to be broken?”

“Were they? You don't sound very sure.”

She raised her chin, a pose he recognized.

He knew her, this black-haired beauty with features so feminine, so delicate, his deepest masculine instincts pawed at their cage, ready to be unleashed. She'd invaded his dreams for weeks.

When he, Jase and West had first moved into the Glass house—as everyone in town still called it—Beck had found an old box of photos left behind by the previous owner. In them, a girl ranged in age from infant to adult, every image fascinating him. As a child, Harlow Glass had been sad, haunted and haunting. She'd kept her chin down and her shoulders tucked in, a position he'd adopted far too many times at the same age. An involuntary way of making himself a smaller target.

As she'd grown into a teenager, the sadness had faded, overshadowed by calculated sharpness. A loss of innocence. As she'd blossomed into a woman, her eyes—the most beautiful ocean blue—had projected guilt, sorrow and pain. Emotions reflected back at him every time he looked into a mirror.

A sense of possessiveness had taken up residence inside him, and he'd kept the photos a secret. Not exactly a surprise. A former foster kid, he'd had his toys and clothes taken every six to eight months, causing him to develop a keen distaste for sharing.

In a way, this girl was his.

He'd watched her life unfold. He'd wondered about her, constantly playing host to curiosity and obsession, even scouring the town for her. Now here she was, a gift from heaven dropped straight into his lap, more luscious than he'd imagined.

“I hold your fate in my hands. You might want to give sugar, spice and everything nice a try, honey.”

Peeking at him through the thick shield of her lashes, so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her, she nibbled on her plump bottom lip. “Are you going to call Sheriff Lintz?”

Beck crossed his arms over his chest, pretending he needed a minute to think things over, letting her fret. He didn't like the thought of this girl in trouble with the law. And yeah, okay, he doubted Harlow would receive more than a slap on the wrist, maybe a little community service for what she'd done, but the stain on her record would follow her for the rest of her life.

“No,” he finally said, making sure to grumble. “I'm not calling the sheriff.”

Relief danced through her eyes, reminding him of cottonwood in the wind. “How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“Honey, I'm sure I'm being as honest with you as you've been with me.” Let her stew on
that
. “I only want answers from you, not a pound of flesh.”

He might be a “cold, unfeeling bastard,” as some of the women he'd slept with had called him when he'd stuck to his word and refused to commit the morning after a one-night stand, but he wasn't heartless. Harlow used to live in this home, and the foreclosure obviously hadn't changed her sense of ownership. It wouldn't have changed his, either. He'd been here only a few months, but he'd have to be pried out with a crane. The fifty-plus acres boasted pecan, cherry and sand plum trees, as well as wild strawberries, blackberry and blueberry patches. Everything Brook Lynn, Jase's fiancée, needed for her pies.

There was a pool he and his friends had restored, two ponds, one loaded with crappie and bass, and a shed/safe house now fully equipped with weapons and food just in case the zombie apocalypse kicked off. Something Brook Lynn actually feared.

Also, there was the whole theft thing. Harlow didn't strike him as the law-breaking type. Considering everyone in town hated her and no one would give her a job, she had to be broke and starved.

The thought drove him to the fridge, where he slapped together the ingredients for a turkey sandwich.

“Here,” he said.

“No, no. I couldn't.” She backed away, though her gaze remained on the food, longing darkening in her eyes.

“You can steal my pie, but can't accept my sandwich?”

“Allegedly stole. And maybe I learned a lesson about the perils of taking from others.”

“Maybe I don't want to eat alone.” Though he'd had dinner with Tawny, he made a second sandwich. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Oh! In that case.” Harlow nabbed the offering so fast she probably had whiplash. At first, she tried to eat daintily, a nibble here and there, but she soon gave up the pretense and ripped into the bread with a savagery that broke his damn heart.

Why had she stuck around Strawberry Valley so long? True, the rolling hills and colorful Main Street could have come straight out of a Thomas Kinkade portrait, and the public barbecues, block parties, swim parties, festivals and celebrations for everything from a kid's orthodontic work to a teenager's first date were charming enough to seduce even someone like Beck. But Harlow couldn't support herself here, so why hadn't she moved to the city and started fresh?

Roots? Something he was only just beginning to understand.

As a young kid he'd lost his mother to cancer and, soon afterward, his father to plain ole selfishness. Daddy Dearest had dropped him off with an aunt and just never come back. After Aunt Millie got tired of him, she'd passed him on to
another
family member. Rinse and repeat five times over until there was no one left, the entire lot refusing to take him in permanently. He'd become a ward of the state, shuffled from one foster home to another. While some had been nice, others had been bona fide hellholes.

The back door opened, hinges creaking. Jase Hollister stepped into the kitchen with Brook Lynn in tow, the two pink-cheeked and breathless.

“Hey, man.” Jase bumped fists with Beck.

“Hey.”

Jase and West had been stuck in the system with him, and they'd understood him in a way he hadn't understood himself. They'd bonded at meeting one, and they'd become each other's only family, sticking together through good times and bad. He loved them. Hell, he would die for them.

Brook Lynn noticed Harlow and frowned. “What's
she
doing here?”

Harlow must have endured her limit of insults for the day, because she flipped her hair over her shoulder and said, “Beck saw me and chased me down. He
insisted
I spend private time with him here at the house.”

He rubbed his fingers over his mouth to hide his grin. “This is true.”

“Beck.” Brook Lynn radiated concern. “You don't know her or the evil she's capable of. Don't sleep with her, please. She's—”

Jase spoke over his girl, saying, “This is where we part ways,” as he dragged her away.

The past few months had softened him, the man many would call “a hardened criminal.” For once, Beck had to admit a change had been for the best.

After Jase's nine-year prison stint, he'd needed a fresh start in a new place. He'd picked Strawberry Valley, enamored by the wide-open spaces and community support.

Moving with him had been a no-brainer for Beck, despite the challenges. Being without his friend for so long had been bad enough, but he and West owed Jase more than they could ever repay. And really, that debt was the reason Beck had never complained when Jase renovated the ramshackle farmhouse. The reason he grinned as his surroundings were altered bit by bit.

“I should be going,” Harlow announced.

Beck focused on her. “Nice try, honey, but we still have unfinished business. How did you get inside the house?” He hadn't seen a single sign of forced entry. Not that he'd been paying much attention before or after he'd chased her down.

“Well...I kind of have a key.” She plucked at an invisible piece of lint on her shirt, adding, “Is now a bad time to mention I don't like the repairs you've made on the house?”

“You do not have a key. Jase changed the locks our first day here.” The guy was distrustful of strangers. They all were. They'd learned to be.

“Well...he may or may not have left the new keys on the porch while he ran to the backyard to get his tools.”

And she'd just happened to be nearby, watching? And none of them had noticed? “As of tomorrow, your key won't work.”

A flash of fury in her ocean-blues, quickly extinguished by defeat. She put her chin down and hunched her shoulders, the same pose she'd struck in so many of the pictures. “Yeah. I figured.”

Damn it. His chest began to ache. How many knocks had this girl taken in her young life?

And why did he even care? Yes, her pictures had intrigued him. Yes, she was hot as hell. But devoting so much time and energy to one woman wasn't his MO.

“If you were hungry, why didn't you come to the door and
ask
us for food?”

She went ramrod straight. “I didn't—I don't—need your help.”

Ah. Pride. The downfall of so many. He'd once tried to convince himself he didn't need anyone, either, that he was fine on his own. Meanwhile, anytime he'd spotted a happy family, he'd felt as though he were being run over by a car.

“You did—you do—need my help, or you wouldn't be here.” As she glared at him, he added, “How'd you lose the house, anyway?”

“That's none of your business,” she stated flatly.

“You blew through your mother's insurance money. Got it.” The day of the purchase, the broker had prattled on about the Glass bully losing her mom earlier in the year and refusing to lower herself by getting a job. Beck had only half listened at the time and had regretted it with every fiber of his being since finding the box of photos. Now he tried to dredge up any other information he might have heard without any luck. “What are you, Harlow Glass?”

Her lips pursed, drawing his gaze and holding it hostage. Those lips were better than the pictures had promised. Plump and red, the kind every man fantasized about devouring...and being devoured by. She shifted from foot to foot, more nervous now than when she'd first arrived.

“What do you mean? What am I? What kind of question is that?”

“The legit kind. What do you do for a living? Are you a life coach? Accountant? Underwear model?” He looked her over, careful to avoid the dangerous beauty of her face—but the rest of her proved just as detrimental to his mental health. “Femme fatale?”

“I'm not a heartbreaker, that's for sure. Not like some people I've recently met.”

“Meaning me?”

“Yes, you,” she said with a nod. “Who else? You've never dated the same woman twice. Not since you've been here, at least.”

Or ever. “So?” Yes, he slept around. But why not? Sex felt good and for a few hours, he could drown himself in pleasure. No thoughts. No problems. No worries. His version of therapy.

“So. I wasn't finished. You've got a woman in your bedroom right this second, but you're still out here—” she waved her arm around the kitchen “—flirting with me.”

“This isn't flirting, sweetheart. This is an interrogation.”

“Ha! An interrogation implies I'm being threatened, but the only part of me currently in any danger is my mouth. You're staring.”

Was he? “Am I scaring you...or exciting you?”

Her eyes widened. “N-neither.”

A stutter. Adorable. “Let's find out how you react to actual flirting.” He prowled his way around the counter.

She stepped back, once, twice, and would have again but the stove stopped her retreat. A sense of triumph overtook him as he placed his hands at her sides, caging her. He leaned in and brushed the tip of his nose against hers, the heady scent of strawberries and pecans teasing him. “If every guy you've ever met hasn't looked at your lips with animal hunger,” he said, his voice low and husky with need he couldn't hide, “I'd be shocked.”

She traced her fingertips over the lips in question, the action so inherently sensual, so damned innocent, he would have given anything to corrupt... To steal a taste.

Tit for tat, one dessert for another.

“Prepare to be shocked,” she whispered.

“Foolish men.” Up close, he could see little details the pictures had missed. The curl in her midnight lashes. The smattering of freckles on her nose. The rose-colored flush under her cheeks. “But let's get to the heart of the matter, honey. You owe me, and not just for the food. For the mental anguish I've suffered.”

“Mental anguish,” she echoed.

“That's right.” He leaned forward the barest inch, drawn by a force he could not control, and his chest brushed against hers.

She inhaled sharply, exhaled fast and shallow, an instinctive action born of awareness, and just like that, he was as rigid as steel.

“A part of me died with that pie,” he said, caressing the side of his nose against hers.