A Little Too Hot (16 page)

Everything inside me pulls into a hard knot. “I wasn’t planning on being nice.”

“No, Sam,” he says with a shake of his head and a little bit of a wild look in his eye. “You’re not talking to Arroyo.”

“I’ve got to do something!”

Blake grasps my shoulders gently. “Just help us put the bastard away.”

I close my eyes and breathe a slow breath to stop my shaking. After a minute, when I can speak, I open my eyes and look up at him. “Just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you want.”

For a several beats of my racing heart, he doesn’t move. But finally, he lifts a hand and sweeps the hair off my face with a finger, tucking it behind my ear. His finger continues its gentle path along the line of my jaw. It’s only when his thumb brushes over the scar on my cheek that I realize it’s damp with tears. He slowly leans closer, so I can feel his breath on my forehead. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he says. “That’s my first priority. But I’ll find Jonathan. I promise. And we’ll do everything we can to find the girl.”

I’m shaking again, but this time it’s not from rage. I lay my hands on his chest, knowing I should push him away. But I feel the beat of his heart, almost as fast as mine, and it makes me want to pull him closer instead.

He steps back and his gaze locks on mine, those blue eyes pleading for something, but I’m not sure what. Before I can sort it out, he spins for the stairs and disappears.

It’s a long time before I can move, but finally I stagger to my room. And as I lay on the bed, trailing my fingers along the lines that Blake’s fingers took, there’s one thing that’s suddenly crystal clear. I still don’t trust him, but he’s not the enemy.

I’m just not sure what that makes him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A
FTER TOSSING AND
turning most of the night, I wake up early, and no matter how hard I try to go back to sleep, I can’t. I finally give up and slip out from under the sheets. I go to my window, looking out over the city below as it wakes to a new day, just as the door to the bathhouse swings open. Blake steps out in gym shorts and a T-shirt with a towel hanging from around his neck. He tosses the towel on a lounge chair and strips off his shirt, then dives in. And then he swims like a pro, muscles rippling under taut skin.

Is he working out? Does he work out every morning? I’ve never been up early enough to notice, but that would explain the body.

I watch him for longer than I mean to before ripping myself away from the window and slipping on a pair of shorts under my sleep shirt. I follow my nose to the coffeemaker.

Coffee—the sweet nectar of life. Just focus on the coffee, not the scorching hot half-naked guy in the pool.

I close my eyes and take a long swallow, then refill my cup. And I focus on my coffee until I’m standing in front of the window, focusing on Blake. As he pulls himself up to sit on the pool edge, defined pecs and biceps flex under black tribal ink that wraps around the left side of his torso and over his shoulder, stopping just above his elbow. He stands and turns to grab his towel, and I miss my mouth with my next sip, dribbling coffee down the front of me.

“Damn,” I hiss, setting my mug on the table and grabbing a napkin to dab at the stain on my shirt.

The French doors downstairs open, then close, and I brace myself for Blake to appear at the top of the stairs. He doesn’t. And the next second, I find myself slipping silently down the stairs to the floor below. I stop short of the corner and poke my head around. In the middle of the room, near the pool table, Blake is moving through the air as if gravity doesn’t exist. He steps and turns, kicking and punching through a Kankû-dai, never once losing his balance or his focus.

His hair is tousled, as if he toweled it dry, and he’s unshaven. The look totally works for him. My eyes trail down his cut abs to a dark blond happy trail that disappears under the low slung waistband of gym shorts that are still damp, clinging to his lower body in a way that leaves little to the imagination, and leaves little doubt that he’s perfect in every way.

I close my eyes with a shudder as I recall the way my body fit perfectly into the curve of his, and the way his body responded when mine was pressed against it.

When the shudder passes and I open my eyes, I find he’s stopped moving . . . and is staring at me. It’s only then that I realize I’ve moved out from behind the wall and standing on the bottom stair, in full view.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling my face warm. “I’m just . . .” What? Stalking you?

“Drinking problem?” he asks with a nod at the coffee stain on my shirt.

“Oh . . . um, yeah,” I say, flicking at my shirt absently. “I sort of spilled . . .” While I was drooling over you.

He turns to the pool table and grabs his shirt, tugging it over his head, and that drool worthy body disappears behind brushed cotton. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” I swallow and step off the stair into the poolroom. “Has anyone heard from Jonathan?”

He lowers his gaze, and before he even opens his mouth, I know the answer. “No, Sam. I’m sorry.”

I breathe in deeply, trying to keep the panic at bay. “Do you think Ben will hurt him? Because of me?” As I say it, I realize at some point I’ve resigned myself to the fact that this is my fault.

He rubs a hand over his wet hair, and his biceps and shoulder muscles ripple under intricate black lines. “I don’t honestly know. He’s capable of just about anything.”

I tip my head back and blink away tears.

“Come on,” he says, and when I look at him, he’s moved over, making room in the middle of the floor for me.

“What?”

“Kankû-shô? Or do you know Kankû-dai?”

I step toward him. “I’ve seen Kankû-dai, but I’ve never been taught.”

He smiles. “It’s your lucky day.”

My eyes migrate against my will to his chest, and I force them back to his eyes. “You’ll teach me?”

“If you want.”

I move to where he is. “I want.” God, I want so much, most of it out of my reach. I want Jonathan back. I want Ben to not want me dead. I want the last few months to have never happened. But this is something I can have.

He nods, and his eyes hold mine for a long moment before he takes his position in the middle of the room. “Technically, it’s more advanced, but if you’ve been doing Kankû-shô for a while, it shouldn’t be hard to pick up.”

I lean against the pool table. “Show me.”

He stands and bows, then starts through his kata. I watch, mesmerized by his strength and control. When he finishes and bows again, and I’m both speechless and breathless, and I haven’t even moved yet.

“Your turn,” he says.

I nod, because I’m not sure I can talk. He bows, and I manage to get my act together enough to straighten up and stand at his side. I bow.

“So, first is the rising sun,” he says, spreading his legs and lifting his arms slowly as he breathes in, elbows bent and palms forward.

I shift slowly into rising sun as I inhale, mimicking his position.

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine.” And it’s not a lie.

“Good. Then it’s two quick gyaku zuki. Left, right,” he says, sinking into a crouch and demonstrating a quick reverse punch in each direction.

I repeat his movements.

“Stay over your base.”

I glare at him. “If I wasn’t over my base, I’d be on my ass.”

A smirk plays over his mouth, then vanishes. “Next is a front punch followed by a quick forearm block, right then left, then a back kick right.”

As I reproduce his quick movements, he comes around behind me.

“Remember, these are defensive strikes,” he says, laying his hands on my hips. “Stay balanced and exhale with the blow. Try it again.”

I do and his hands tighten on my hips.

“You’re screwing up my balance,” I tell him, spinning in his arms.

There’s a long minute where neither of us moves, but then I find myself leaning forward without even meaning to. Damn, he smells good.

“Don’t, Sam,” he says low, closing his eyes. But he doesn’t pull away.

He’s tense, every muscle coiled tight. His hands are fisted at his sides, his body ramrod straight as he fights with himself. I lean in a little more, so we’re as close as we can possibly be without actually touching. Heat radiates off his body in waves, and I close my eyes, taking it in.

He tips his forehead down to mine. “I have to focus, Sam,” he says through a tight jaw, fighting to control the shake in his voice. “If I’m going to help Jonathan and take Arroyo off the street, I can’t compromise this case by going where we’re headed.”

He says this, but he still doesn’t pull away.

So I do.

Because the most important thing right now is finding Jonathan.

I spin for the stairs before I do something stupid.

“Sam! Wait,” he says as I start to bound up them.

I stop and turn back.

He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, blowing out a breath. He lifts his eyes from the floor and looks at me from under long blond lashes. “We got word from Arroyo’s defense team. They want to interview you.”

I come down a step. “Interview me? Can they do that?”

He nods. “It’s common practice, but our attorneys will be there with you. They’ll make sure everything’s on the up and up.”

A band tightens around my chest as I come down the last step. “Will Ben be there?”

“Not at the interview, no.”

“But he’ll be in court when I testify.”

“I’m afraid so.” He leans on the back of the sofa. “It’s going to take some fortitude to do this, Sam, but I have faith in you. I know you want to help Jonathan and that girl.”

“You really think what I know is going to help?”

“The victim was wearing the clothes you described when he was found. No one saw him alive after he walked into Arroyo’s office. We’re still hoping for trace, but I believe what we have is enough to make our case.”

“Then what happens? After I testify, and you’re done with me? Will you just send me home? Will Ben leave me alone?”

His lips purse. “We won’t know that until we see how it all turns out. There are programs for people in your situation. It’s something you should consider.”

A wave of shock sweeps through me, leaving me numb. “You mean like witness protection?”

He nods slowly.

I bury my face in my hands. “Oh, God.”

He’s right in front of me. I can feel him there before he even speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “I really hope it doesn’t come to that, but taking Arroyo off the street is important. Really important. And you’re the only hope we have of making that happen right now.”

“He really has that girl?”

“I believe he’s responsible for her disappearance, yes.”

I lift my face and look at him. “And Jonathan?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know, Sam.”

I need to think,” I say, moving to the French doors to the pool. Blake lets me go and I wind down the path and drop onto the end of one of the lounges. My dragonfly is there, on the edge of the pool. He keeps me company while I cry.

Chapter Twenty-Three

B
LAKE LEADS ME
into a room in the courthouse where five men in suits are sitting on opposite sides of a table. My feet stall in the door.

“Where’s Yvonne?” I whisper.

He grasps my arm and backs us up a step, into the hall. “She was your criminal attorney. You’re not charged with anything anymore, so you don’t have a lawyer.”

“I liked her.”

His face goes sympathetic. “I’m sorry. But our attorneys are here to keep Arroyo’s team in line. It’s going to be okay.”

I take a calming breath and we step back into the room. All Ben’s guys are on one side of the table, and Blake and I move to the other, where the two DEA lawyers make room for us between them. Introductions are made, hands are shaken, and we all take seats. The only thing holding me together is Blake’s leg, pressed against mine under the table.

“Miss West, thank you for meeting with us,” the Asian guy on the other side of the table says.

“I didn’t realize it was a choice,” I mutter.

That gets a tight smile from the fat man next to me, one of the DEA guys.

“So, just to make sure we have all the facts straight, you were working at Benjamin Arroyo’s nightclub, Benny’s, as an exotic dancer?” the Asian one says, looking over his paperwork.

“Yes.” I want to add more, but I remember Yvonne’s rules and keep it to yes and no.

“And, on the night of April twenty-sixth, you were working?”

“Yes.”

“How long was your shift that night?”

“I started on stage at nine, and Nora . . . Ben’s wife, pulled me off around eleven-thirty.”

“So, it’s safe to assume you were tired, after dancing for two and a half hours on stage.”

“No.”

He gives me a skeptical smile. “You might have had a drink or two to relax?”

I have no idea where he’s going with this, but I work to hide my nerves. “Only water.”

“You’re sure about that?”

I open my mouth to say yes, but cringe as I remember. “Ben gave me a scotch or two.”

He nods, satisfied.

“But I wasn’t drunk.”

He squints at me, as if he finds that hard to believe. “How did you end up working at Benny’s, Miss West?”

“I interviewed and Ben hired me.”

He squints at his paperwork. “But . . . weren’t you enrolled at UC Santa Cruz?”

A stone sinks in my gut. “I was.”

“And you were asked to leave for academic reasons.”

It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.

“How many morning classes did you have last quarter, Miss West?”

“Define morning,” I say.

He waves a hand in a circle. “I believe the precise definition can be found in
Webster’s,
but for our purposes, can we agree on anything before noon, say?”

“Two on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and one on Tuesday and Thursday.”

“And, how many of those class sessions would you estimate you attended?” he asks, looking smug. “Just give us a ballpark percentage.”

“I don’t see how any of this is relevant to your defense,” the lanky white guy on Blake’s other side says, and I remember he’s one of ours.

“It goes to character and reliability of the witness.” He smirks at his adversary. “We can do this in open court, if you’d prefer.”

The guy leans around Blake and gives me a grim nod.

I rub my forehead. “In a ballpark percentage, zero.”

Blake tenses next to me, but when I look up at him, it’s not the disappointment I expected to see that’s lining his face. His blue eyes meet mine, and there’s an apology in them.

The rest of the questioning revolves around me detailing everything I saw again, and Ben’s attorneys making me question all of it. By the time we’re finally done, I have no idea what I saw.

“I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus,” I tell Blake as he leads me out of the room.

“That was rough. Sorry.”

I start to say it’s not his fault, but then I remember that it mostly is. “Just get me out of here.”

He guides me to the parking garage and opens the door to the Escalade for me. He climbs in his side and just looks at me for a second. “It wasn’t as bad as it seemed, Sam,” he says, starting the car. “Their job is to make you doubt yourself—to break down your confidence.”

“Well, they did a pretty good job of it, then.”

His face pulls into a frown as he navigates us out of the garage behind Cooper’s black Charger. “The other part of their job is to discredit you. They’re going to tear you apart on the stand. But all that matters is what you saw. Don’t let them into your head. Just tell the court what happened and everything will be fine.”

I plant an elbow on the console and rest my forehead in my hand. “But I don’t really know what happened . . . just that Weber was in that room when I left. I don’t know Ben killed him.”

Blake flashes me a glance. “He did, Sam.”

We wind our way through city streets, taking the most indirect route possible, and when we finally make it up the hill and Cooper clears us, we pull into the garage. Blake has seemed more distant today, and I know it’s probably because of our “moment” yesterday. He’s trying so hard to toe the line, but if he’s feeling half of what he makes me feel, I know that can’t be easy.

Once we’re safely inside, I change and escape out the French doors to the pool, where I dive in and swim. With each lap, I feel a little of the tension melt away, until eventually my mind is blank. I have no idea how many laps I’ve swum when I finally run out of steam. Twenty? Thirty? I roll onto my back in the shallow end and let the water sweep my hair back as I stand.

I wipe the last droplets out of my eyes and find my dragonfly keeping me company again. And so is Blake. He’s seated on the lounge chair near the edge of the pool in his swim trunks.

“Did you hire that dragonfly to watch me? Is that your version of a fly-on-the-wall?”

He glances down at the dragonfly and back to me. “I have spies everywhere.” He leans his elbows on his knees, flexing his pecs and making it hard to look anywhere else. “Were you a swimmer? Before this?”

“No. We didn’t have a pool or anything, so . . .” I move to the pool edge next to my dragonfly and prop my arms on it, crossing them and resting my chin on my forearms. “You?”

He shrugs. “Not really for exercise. More for recreation. Scuba and snorkeling mostly.”

I remember him saying something about diving with his dad when he was a kid. “I’m sort of afraid of sharks. I don’t go in the ocean.”

“Galeophobia,” he says with a nod.

“Excuse me?”

“The fear of sharks. Galeophobia. It’s pretty common.”

“All I know is there are always stories about surfers getting eaten, and there was that kayaker that got munched right near San Francisco a few weeks ago, so I think it’s less of a phobia and more just basic common sense. Don’t swim where there are things that can eat you.”

He leans back on his hands. “The chances of anything happening are almost nil. Thousands of people dive and surf off the California coast, and there are maybe one or two attacks a year.”

“Yeah, well, I’d bet those one or two people wouldn’t say their chances were nil.”

He stands and paces the pool deck, but his eyes never leave me. “I’m starting to think that’s what life is all about . . . facing down your fears.” He hesitates at the stairs into the water before slowly stepping down them.

The water, with him in it, takes on an electrical charge that wasn’t there before. As he gets closer, he brushes a hand over the surface of the water, pushing a small wave at me. “Would you ever consider leaving here?”

I turn my back to the pool edge and rest my arms on it. “Um . . . every day.”

He gives me a slow shake of his head. “I don’t mean this house. I mean this state.”

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

All I can do is stare as he moves closer, rippling the water ahead of him so that it laps gently against my belly. He reaches up and I hold my breath as the backs of his fingers brush along my jawline. He lowers his hand and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. When he opens them, his gaze is intense. “If I could go back in time, I’d never have put you in this situation. It’s killing me that I’ve put you in danger.”

I break our gaze, because what’s becoming crystal clear is, as much as I’ve wanted to blame Mom and Blake and everyone else for everything that’s happened to me, it’s all because of choices I made. “This isn’t your fault, Blake.”

“I’ve just . . .” He gives his head a slow shake as he tries to sort something out. “This is the whole reason I joined the DEA, you know? To take Arroyo down. I guess I was so focused on the endgame that I didn’t consider the collateral damage.”

“You joined the DEA because of Ben?” I ask, a little confused. There have to be thousands of bad guys. “How did you even know who he was?”

He blows out a slow breath and braces his hands on the pool edge on either side of me. “My sister was killed in Afghanistan.”

“Oh, God,” I gasp, my hands flying to my face. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“Dad was a mess after she was killed, but he wouldn’t let himself grieve. He just buried himself in his work. It was about three months later that he was leading a bust here in San Francisco. Arroyo was involved.” He shrugs off the pool edge and backs away a step. “It’s not really clear what happened, but things went bad and Dad got shot.”

He pauses, swallowing hard, and I can’t even bring myself to ask if he’s alive, or if he was killed.

“I joined the DEA right after his funeral,” he says, answering my unasked question. “This is all I’ve been able to think about . . . taking down the guy who killed my father.” He turns and rests his back against the pool edge, his shoulder pressing against mine. “I can’t bring Caroline or Dad back, but it just felt like something I had to do . . . taking up his cause.” He closes his eyes against whatever’s rising there and rubs them.

I step in front of him, and he shudders as I stroke my fingertips down his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Blake.”

His wounded eyes open and he holds me in his gaze. His breathing is shaky from emotion as he says, “I should have never involved you in this. I just got so caught up in getting Arroyo, I—”

I stop him with my fingertips on his lips. They’re as soft and strong as I remember when they were pressed against mine. “It’s not your fault.”

My eyes trace the lines of his perfect mouth, along the angle of his jaw, past his Adam’s apple to the hollow of his throat. When they lift back to his face, his eyes are smoldering.

He lifts his hand and trails a fingertip along the scar on my cheek. His touch is electric, and my breath stalls as he leans slowly toward me. He threads his fingers through my hair, but then pauses, his lips just inches from mine.

There’s a long second where he holds me hypnotized by his proximity, by his scent, by the delicious taste of his breath. My heart strains against my rib cage, trying to break free. The fire in my soul burns in his eyes as he gazes into mine.

But then his jaw flexes and he closes his eyes. When he opens them, the fire is still there, but there’s a hint of pain. He turns and stalks up the stairs to the house, leaving me breathless and aching, but with a new understanding of Blake Montgomery.