Too Hot to Handle (3 page)

Not good at all.

The man had been completely exhausted. If she’d left him by himself, he’d have been sleeping on the floor in a couple of minutes. She hadn’t seen his injuries, but judging by the way he’d been holding himself, they were bad. The last thing he’d needed was another fall and a night spent on a hard surface.

But getting him into bed hadn’t been a possibility. Jack was a big man. Tall, muscular, and heavy. Capable of putting the pressure on her hips that she’d always desired. She liked digging her nails into a solid set of shoulders. Just thinking about it was enough to make her hungry, eager.

Standing there the night before, trying to decide what to do next, she’d ended up climbing onto the couch beside him. It definitely wasn’t how she’d imagined spending the night with him. Still, it had been nice to lay next to Jack.

Especially when he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her in tight. His grip warm and reassuring, telling her that she was still alive.

“I didn’t sleep with you,” Honey repeated. Her cheeks flushed a bright red. “It didn’t happen.”

Face to face, it was hard to remember why she’d turned him away in the first place. He was exactly her type. “You ever wonder what would have happened if we’d stayed together?” she asked. “It never would have worked. Ten bucks says we would have burned out within the month. Chemistry like that’s explosive, and—”

Jack was staring at her, shock in his eyes.

“Maybe not.” Honey chewed her bottom lip. “Maybe we’d have dated for all those years, gotten married, and had two-point-five kids. Maybe everything would be different—maybe the world would have been destroyed by an asteroid years ago.”

She’d made her decision in high school, and now she needed to stick with it.

But her long fingers tangled reflexively in Jack’s rich chocolate brown curls. In the dim light from the far window, his hair was so dark, almost black, and it gave him a dashing look. The busted lip didn’t hurt, either.

All bruised and battered, he didn’t look like the proud owner of a detective’s shield—a man who’d made her life a living hell. He looked like one of the charming thugs from her part of town.

His hair was soft to the touch, tight curls that kinked at the end. Nothing like her frizzy red hair. She could smell his shampoo, something expensive and manly. It smelled like sex, pure and simple.

“Want to tell me what the hell you’re doing in my house?”

Ah, bitter and confrontational. That was more like the Jack Ogden she knew and disliked. He had been grumpy the day they met, and his temper hadn’t improved in the years since. If she’d been anyone else, she might have been offended. As it was, she was relieved. Everything was back to normal.

More or less. There was still the small matter of his hand on her ass.

“I told you. My house burned down last night.”

“I wouldn’t call that a house.”

He’d grown up in a mansion on top of a damn mountain. The house she’d inherited from her grandfather might be a piece of 1950s tract housing with the structural integrity of a cardboard box, but it was still her home. Or it had been, until the night before.

“Home is where the heart’s at,” she announced in a singsong. “Except in my case, home is a burnt-out piece of crud.”

She’d lived in that house her entire life, and now it was gone.

She’d never go home again. Honey started shaking. Her mouth opened, forcing air down into her lungs. It didn’t help.

One moment, the room was quiet, comforting, and the next second, uncontrollable sobs wracked her body. Jack’s embrace was the only thing tethering to her reality, and even that wasn’t enough. All she could think about was the stench of burned plastic. Her lungs tightened in response to the remembered burn.

Friday night had been nothing special. She should have been at home in her pajamas eating tomato soup from a can and yellow cheese sandwiches, watching sitcoms on TV. Only, her cousin Brody had called her in desperation. One favor, that was all he wanted—a ride home from his girlfriend’s house in North Hollywood. When she finally got to him, he was standing naked on the side of Ventura Boulevard, trying—but failing—to protect his dignity with a cell phone and a neon-orange traffic cone.

The fire must have been set just after she left, because it had already died down when she got home. The firefighters were standing on the corner sharing a pack of cigarettes and a thermos of coffee.

She should have been in the house.

If Brody had waited ten more minutes before calling, she’d probably be dead. Burnt to a crisp, along with her stuff. Her cousin was a low-down, dirty dog, but she owed him a big fat “thank you.” If it weren’t for his philandering ways, she’d be a dead woman. Killed by the same fire that had turned her house into rubble.

The sun had risen outside, and she was still in one piece. Standing in front of her ruined house the night before, she’d been gripped by a fear like ice in her veins, a certain knowledge that she wouldn’t last the night.

But now here she was. With Jack.

His palm moved down her back, soothing. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“You think I’m overreacting?” He hadn’t seen the fire’s bright embers glowing in the evening light.

His headlights hadn’t lit up the car parked at the end of her block, illuminating the man who’d stuck around to make sure she didn’t make it out alive. Driving a boxy sedan with high-intensity lights, the arsonist had gunned the engine, and then he’d chased her old truck to hell and back.

After she’d lost the sedan, she’d ditched her truck at a Walmart parking lot, caught a bus over the Sepulveda Pass, and gone to the one place where she’d thought she’d be safe. The one place where she’d known no one would look for her.

“My house burned down, and I don’t know why.”

“Come on, Honey, you’re a smart girl.” A familiar cynical edge colored Jack’s voice. “You must have plenty of enemies. Did you finally take something worth stealing?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Honey sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not a thief.”

“It’s called ‘grand theft auto.’ Not ‘grand I’m-just-taking-it-for-a-spin-around-the-block auto.’”

Honey flinched. Her reputation was a burden. It was also well-deserved. When she was younger, she’d stolen anything with wheels. But she hadn’t stolen a car in a long time. Not since she’d spent a year and a half with her room and board provided by the Los Angeles County Correctional Facility. Eighteen months that she could have spent taking care of the people who depended on her.

“If that’s what you really think, then maybe I shouldn’t have come here.” Honey jerked away, sitting up. “I thought you’d help me. Even if you’re not my friend, you’re still a cop.”

“Damn it, Honey.” Jack reached out, tugging her back down into his arms. His voice softened. “All right. You’re not a thief. What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanic.” She chose her words carefully, eager to make Jack understand. Things had changed. “These days, I fix cars. I don’t steal them.”

“With your record?”

“Right, my record.” Honey crossed her arms defensively. “After all, I’m just a car thief—a felon with a prison record. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Nothing you didn’t deserve.”

“Sure.” He was right. She’d stolen his car. She’d also gone to prison and paid her debt to society. “It’s my garage. I don’t get as much work as I’d like, not in my part of town, but I’m my own boss. I’m honest. I don’t overcharge on parts, I don’t gouge on service. I can do things with an engine you wouldn’t believe. It’s all about classic American muscle.”

He gave her a sly smile, almost apologetic. “That’s one place where we agree.”

Honey bit back a grin. With their bodies pressed against each other, she could feel every inch of Jack’s classic American muscle. The night before, she’d figured that a borrowed T-shirt would be more modest than her “I’m Sexy and I Know It” pajamas, but she probably should have left on the plaid flannel short-shorts.

His blue eyes suddenly went dark, wary amusement giving way to desire, and his hands started moving down her back. Honey’s entire world narrowed to a point. Everything would be all right as long as he kept touching her.

Then she was kissing him again. This time, she was the aggressor. Every movement was harsh, rough—an act of desperation.

Sex wasn’t something she took lightly. Her reputation might be less than sterling, but the truth was that she’d never slept with someone until the third date, and she’d run off her last boyfriend two years ago.

For a bad girl, she was usually pretty good. But right now, she wanted to tear Jack’s clothes off and screw him silly. Her hands moved down to fumble with his belt buckle. If she could feel him inside of her, penetrating her to her core, she’d know that everything was going to be okay.

“Honey.” He freed his mouth from hers. “Honey, what are you doing?”

“Okay, that’s not exactly the response I was hoping for.” All she needed was a little cooperation. The hard flesh she could feel nestled against her belly told her he wanted her enough to play along. “Are you really turning me down?” she teased.

Jack stilled her hands. “Yes.”

She felt like she’d been slapped.

Outside, birds were singing, and people were going on with their lives as if nothing had changed. For them, it hadn’t. For her, nothing would ever be the same. Not with the only home she’d ever had burned to the ground and Jack’s kiss still warm on her lips. Not with his rejection ringing in her ears.

“Look, Honey—”

The scraping of metal on metal interrupted him. A key clicked in the lock. The apartment’s door swung open with a bang.

Even injured, Jack’s instincts were good. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, and he rolled sideways hard, pushing himself over her and onto the ground. He landed first, his body hitting the floor with a loud thud. She ended up sprawled awkwardly on top of his torso. “What the hell—”

Jack’s hand clapped over her mouth, preventing her from completing the question.

The way she’d been acting a few minutes earlier, he wouldn’t have had to imagine for long.

Glasses crashed together. The refrigerator opened and shut. His sister was making herself at home.

Weird.

The two of them didn’t hang out. The last time he’d tried inviting Jessica to dinner, she’d laughed at him. Between her classes and her charity work, she was a very busy person. Too busy for the younger brother she’d never been close to. They saw each other at family events and benefit dinners, which meant that he shouldn’t even be in the same room with her for another week. Not until the annual ball that Jessica helped organize as a benefit for the local hospital. The invitation was in his desk somewhere.

“Jack!” Her scream was ear-shattering. “Get your butt out here.”

Honey wriggled slightly until she was lying on the ground, her body nestled in the crook of his arm, her head resting on his chest. Soft, supple fingers brushed against his skin, drifting downward across his torso.

“I’m right here.” His tone came out high-pitched. Nervous. He swallowed hard. Everything was hard. If he stood up, he’d expose an erection hard enough to hammer nails.

If he didn’t stand up, his sister would come over to investigate.

He got up slowly, clambering onto the couch. “What do you want?”

“What do I want? You’ve got to be kidding me. I want to talk about why you beat up my boyfriend last night.”

“Your ex-boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, it doesn’t matter.” Jessica put his kettle on the stove and turned on the burner. Every movement was neat, precise, showcasing a graceful economy of movement. Between marriages to wealthy men old enough to be her father, she taught dance classes to preschoolers at a studio in Santa Monica. “What do you think gives you the right to interfere with my life?”

“You’re my sister. He was saying things about you. Things he had no business saying.” Jack leaned forward. “Aren’t you even going to ask who won?”

“You got your ass handed to you.” Dressed in lemon yellow yoga pants and a pair of expensive yellow tennis shoes, she’d obviously been on her way to the dance studio when she’d heard the news. “You okay?”

“Some scrapes and bruises. The doctors say I’ll be sore for a while, but no permanent damage. They wouldn’t have released me otherwise.”

That was a bald-faced lie, but Jessica didn’t know him well enough to realize.

His entire life Jessica had been distant, cold, and competitive. The way they were brought up, the six-year separation in their ages might as well have been sixty.

That didn’t mean he was going to let a jerk in a fancy suit say anything bad about her.

He glanced at Honey. Her expression had turned calculating. She knew when he was lying. Either that, or she’d peeked under his clothes the night before. He could only imagine the possibilities that were running through her mind. Standing up and tattling on him was only one option. One good poke in the ribs, and he’d be screaming for his mother.