A Little Too Hot (19 page)

The paramedics strap Blake down and rush his gurney down the hall, and I can’t explain the hole in my chest as he vanishes into the elevator.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I
MANAGE
TO
get us there without getting lost, and by the time we pull into the garage, the sun is rising. I drag myself though the shower and then lay in bed, trying to sleep. But it’s useless. I find myself lingering on the edge of consciousness, listening for the elevator door, and every time I start to doze, the ring of gunfire in my head jerks me awake.

Finally, I give up. I tug on some clothes, and when I come out of my room, Nichols is in the leather armchair, biting her thumbnail and texting someone. A half-played game of solitaire is laid out on the coffee table in front of her.

I cross to the kitchen and start a fresh pot of coffee brewing, then flop onto my back on the sofa. “Why didn’t you know how to get here last night?”

“Only Montgomery, Cooper, Jenkins, and Special Agent in Charge Navarro were privy to that information,” she says, her thumbs flying over the screen of her phone.

“Why?”

She looks up at me. “Security. The fewer people who know, the more secure the location.”

I spin on the sofa and sit up. “Is that Blake?” I ask, glancing at her phone.

“No. Sorry,” she says, gripping it tighter, like I might make a dive for it or something.

“Has anyone heard from him?” I try not to sound totally desperate, but I can tell from the look on her face that I don’t pull it off.

“Cooper says they gave him a transfusion and the doctor wants to keep him for a few hours. He should be back later today.”

Relief floods through me. “Good. That’s good.” I bring my knees up and hug them to my chest. “What’s going to happen to Jonathan?”

She relaxes back onto her chair. “It depends on whether he knew they were tracking him. If he did, he’ll be charged with any number of things, including aiding and abetting, and obstruction of justice.”

“He’s my best friend. He didn’t know.” I wish I sounded more convinced.

She gives me a grave look. “I hope you’re right.”

Her stomach growls and she rubs a hand over it as she sets her phone on the end table and settles deeper into the chair. “We should have picked up some fries on the way home.”

I give her a feeble smile. “That kid is going to pop out of there with curly red hair and floppy white shoes, you know.”

Her eyes widen, but then she cracks up. Both hands go to her belly as she laughs, like she’s trying to hold everything together.

“Boy or girl?”

She looks at me, then her eyes shift around the room as if she’s afraid someone might be listening. “I’m not supposed to know,” she says quietly, leaning forward.

“What do you mean?”

“My husband says this is one of life’s few surprises, and he doesn’t want us to know ahead of time.”

I give her a skeptical smile. “But . . . ?”

Her face pulls into a guilty squint as she chews on her cuticle. “I couldn’t stand it. I had to know. So I called the doctor’s office after we had the ultrasound and asked him.” She leans closer. “It’s a boy,” she whispers.

“Is that what you were hoping for?”

She sits back in her seat, rubbing her bulging stomach. “I just want a healthy baby. We’ve been trying for three years to get pregnant.”

“Wow. Well . . . congratulations.”

“It put a lot of strain on our marriage when it didn’t happen right away. Mike comes from a big family and he wanted lots of kids, so . . .”

“Well,” I say, gesturing to her stomach. “Maybe it’s twins.”

That gets a nervous little smile out of her. “There was only one baby on the ultrasound.”

I get up and pour us both a cup of coffee, then come back to the sofa, handing her a mug.

“Thanks,” she says, taking it from me. “Something else I’m not supposed to have.”

I settle into the sofa. “Blake told me you were undercover at Benny’s.”

Her hand pauses, her mug halfway to her mouth. “I was.”

“What did you do there?”

She takes a slow sip of her coffee, and I notice a slight shake in her hand. “Danced. But then I got pregnant, so I told Special Agent in Charge Navarro that I had to pull out. I couldn’t risk anything happening to the baby. I’m on leave from fieldwork until after he’s born.” Her hand migrates to her stomach again as she says this in what I’m just now noticing is a protective gesture.

“Huh. I think I might have gotten your job. Jonathan said someone got ‘knocked up,’ ” I say making air quotes, “so there was an opening.”

Her smile seems a little forced. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Blake said you couldn’t find anything on Ben while you worked there.”

She shakes her head. “He keeps that place pretty spotless. Totally on the up and up.”

“So why are you guys so sure he’s guilty?”

She lowers her gaze and swirls the coffee in her mug. “I can’t really talk about anything to do with case with you.” She scoops up the cards and starts shuffling. “But I
can
whip your butt in cribbage again.”

We play, and she’s in the process of beating me for the third time when the faint clank of the elevator door opening has me bounding out of the sofa. My eyes snap to it in time to see Blake step into the living room.

He’s in a fresh T-shirt and there’s a white gauze bandage wrapped around his left upper arm. He looks like shit—pale, with dark hollows under eyes that look glazed over, mussed hair sticking up in twelve different directions, and slumped shoulders, as if the weight of the world is pressing down on them.

“Are you . . . is it . . . okay?” I stammer.

“It’s fine,” he says, wrapping his hand over his bandage, as if that might hide what crappy shape he’s in. “Wasn’t much more than a scratch.”

“I’ll stick around tonight, if you need me to,” Nichols says, hauling herself out of the chair.

“We’ll be fine,” Blake tells her. “Cooper’s out front, waiting to take you back down the hill. Special Agent in Charge Navarro’s sending him back up tomorrow morning, even though I told her I’m not compromised.”

Nichols cuts him a skeptical look. “You’re not indestructible, Montgomery.”

“I’m fine,” he says in that slow drawl.

Her face scrunches as if she doesn’t believe him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Blake answers. “Go.”

“All right.” She moves toward the elevator, jiggling her phone. “Mike will be happy. He’s been texting me every three minutes. He worries.”

“As any husband would,” Blake says with a weary smile. “Thanks for standing in.”

“Just glad everyone’s safe,” she says, punching the elevator button and stepping in. But just as the door starts to close, Blake sticks his hand in and it springs open again.

Nichols tenses as Blake steps into the opening. “Give your elevator key to Cooper. I’ve got his.”

She nods. “No problem.”

He steps back and the elevator door closes.

I move closer. “You’re really okay? Nichols said they gave you a transfusion.”

He nods, flexing his bandaged bicep. “Stitched up, pumped up, and good to go.”

“What happened with Jonathan?” I feel my face scrunch, and I realize as soon as I ask it, I’m afraid of the answer.

He takes a deep breath and settles heavily into the chair Nichols just vacated, elbows on knees. “He’s exactly as clueless as he seems. It doesn’t appear he had any idea about the tracking chip in his shoulder. Apparently, his drinking buddy chipped him when he was passed out. He told Cooper where he’d been with Arroyo’s goon, but when Coop and Jenkins got there, the place was empty.” He hangs his head and shakes it in frustration. “All he had to do was steer clear. That shouldn’t have been so goddamn hard.”

I’m at once relieved and swamped with guilt. Jonathan filled the hole in my life that Lexie left behind. He’s been my closest friend and confidant for most of the last year. I know his heart and I never should have doubted him. I should have told Blake and Cooper that Jonathan would never do anything to hurt me. Shame crushes my heart like a stone fist.

Blake stands and shuffles toward the stairs. “Are you okay on your own for a minute? I need to—”

“Sleep,” I interrupt, gaining my feet. “You look like shit on a plate.”

His mouth curves up on one side. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” I say with a brush of my hand at the stairs. “Get some sleep and I’ll make you some lunch whenever you’re ready.”

The almost-smile clears and his gaze goes suddenly intense. “Thanks,” he says again, and I get the feeling there’s more he wants me to hear, though I’m not sure what it is.

“You’re welcome. Now go.”

He keeps me fixed in his intent gaze for a second longer, then turns for the stairs.

Mindlessly, I drift to the kitchen and pour myself another cup of coffee, then climb the stairs to the office. I peruse the shelves without reading any of the titles and randomly come away with one of the Harry Potter books. I settle onto the sofa and mechanically thumb past pages of words, but I don’t see any of them.

Jonathan took a bullet trying to protect me the night of the crash. I love him like a brother. Granted, a really horny brother, but a brother nonetheless. The look on his face as Cooper dragged him away—the hurt in his eyes when he realized I didn’t believe in him—is etched indelibly in my mind. I need to apologize to him. If I could just talk to him . . .

If I could just talk to
anyone
. Izzy. Ginger. Katie.

Mom.

Maybe it’s almost getting killed . . . twice, but I miss her, and I suddenly feel so homesick it hurts. An overwhelming swell of claustrophobia wraps itself around me, and I feel like I’m being smothered. I can’t do this. Mom throwing me out; Blake, Jonathan, the fact that Ben wants me dead—none of this can be happening to me. This is someone else’s life I’m trapped in.

My head swims with the panic that’s taking control of me. I launch off the sofa to the window and press my palms against it, breathing hard. Freedom is just on the other side of the thin glass.

The urge to run is overpowering, and I fly down both flights of stairs and rocket onto the deck, sprinting down the path to the pool. When I get there, I don’t even slow, diving head first into the warm water in my jeans and tank top.

And I swim.

I beat my way through the water, the drag of my clothes making it a challenge to stay afloat. But I keep going. I don’t heed the ache in my shoulder, or my burning lungs, or limbs that are turning to lead. I keep swimming.

And when I can’t move another muscle, I sink to the bottom and just sit here. My lungs are on fire, but I don’t care. It’s quiet down here, even my thoughts muffled.

Down here is the only place I’ve found peace since this whole thing started.

Down here, everything else goes away.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T
HROUGH
THE SPOTS
flashing in my eyes, I see a streak of white bubbles as a splash sounds from the surface. The next second there’s a strong arm clamped around my chest, and I’m pressed to a hard body behind.

Blake pulls me to the surface and onto the stairs, where he sits, holding my limp body against his, our limbs twisted together as I gasp for air.

“I’m sorry,” he says into my hair.

I barely hear him over the pulse pounding in my ears, but the ache in his voice as he says it tears at my soul. I claw at him, burrowing deeper into his muscled chest. His arms circle me, gently at first, then more fiercely as ugly sobs start to erupt out of me. He crushes me against his body, holding me together as I fall apart, murmuring, “I’m sorry,” over and over, his lips moving on my forehead.

My last thought is that I’m suffocating without him, and then everything goes dark and I float away.

I
WAKE UP
in my bed and I have no recollection how I got here. . . . I was in the pool. Blake came in after me.

And now I’m in my sleep shirt under my sheets.

It’s sunset outside my window, and my hair is barely damp, so the pool must have been a while ago. My head throbs, trying to piece it together.

I pull myself to a sitting position and my head protests again.

“How are you feeling?” I look toward the door and find Blake sitting in the armchair in the corner. He still looks a little pale, but otherwise okay.

My eyes are draw to the bandage on his arm. “Good. How about you?”

“Never better.” He leans so his elbows are on his knees, and his gaze is all concern. “I can get you some coffee, or tea, or . . . anything you need.”

I swallow and my throat feels swollen. “Coffee would be good, thanks.”

He nods and stands. “I’ll be right back.”

The way he says it, like he’s afraid something will happen to me in the minute it takes him, makes me look at him funny. “Okay . . .”

He vanishes out the door, and a second later I hear him rattling around in the kitchen.

I sit and look at myself, wondering how I got into my sleep shirt. When I stumble into the bathroom, I find my jeans, tank, and bra hanging on the towel hooks to dry. But I’m in the same underwear, and it’s still a little damp between the legs.

I lean on the counter, trying to remember. Blake pulled me to the stairs. Then what?

I head out to the kitchen and nearly run into him on his way back to my room with my Alcatraz mug.

“You’re up.” He hands me the cup and I take it.

“Did you change me out of my clothes?” I demand.

He rubs his neck and turns back toward the kitchen, avoiding my eyes and my question, and that’s all the answer I need. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” I say, following him.

He ducks into the fridge, and when he comes out with a bowl of fresh strawberries, his eyes flick to mine. “We have counselors . . . at the agency.”

“Are you going to talk to them?” I ask, slipping onto a stool and setting my mug on the counter.

He tips his head in a question. “I meant for you . . . if you need to talk to someone.”

I pluck a berry from the bowl and bite it. “About . . . ?”

“About . . . what happened. You’ve been through a lot this last month, and . . . if you’re depressed, or . . .”

“I’m not depressed.”

“Sam,” he says, fixing me in a concerned gaze, “you tried to drown yourself.”

My eyes widen as I get what he’s thinking. “What? Hell, no! I’m not suicidal, Blake! I just . . . it’s all kind of overwhelming, you know? I just needed to turn off my brain for a little while.”

His gaze turns skeptical. “By swimming yourself to exhaustion and nearly drowning in the bottom of the pool?”

I shrug. “Yeah . . . I guess.”

He shakes his head and rakes a hand through his hair, grabbing onto a fistful as he breathes out a frustrated sigh. “Christ, Sam. You scared the shit out of me.”

“If I ever get out of here, I’m going swimming in the ocean.” It’s a totally random thought, but I feel the sudden need to do it. Maybe I need to prove to myself I’m tough enough to handle anything, even sharks. Even Ben.

He leans on his elbows across the counter. “I thought you were galeophobic?”

I take my mug and go to the sofa, sinking into the corner and curling my legs under me. “But life is about facing your fears, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

He gives me a slow nod, the worry in his gaze shifting to something brighter—something that might be admiration. And I realize I want it to be. I
want
him to have a reason to think I’m something other than a babysitting job. I want to be someone worthy of his time.

“Are you going to get him?” I ask with a sudden determination to do anything I can to help.

He moves around the counter and settles onto the sofa next to me. “Our search of Arroyo’s records didn’t turn up the smoking gun we were hoping for. We haven’t been able to find anything to directly connect him to the disappearance of that girl, and we’ve come up nearly empty-handed with physical evidence from the club that would implicate him in Weber’s murder. They did a really good job of keeping the scene and the body clean. The only thing we’re sure about is you were the last person to see Weber alive. That means he didn’t leave Arroyo’s office on his own two feet. Arroyo most likely had his goons carry the body out.”

His goons.

I know he means Marcus, but I can’t help remembering how he always had my back. He wasn’t a goon; he was my big, scary guardian angel. There was genuine concern on his face when he came out of Ben’s office that night and saw me in the hall, shaking up against the door after I’d let Blake touch me.

There’s a jolt through my body as the image forms in my head.
Grease on his hands
.

“Could that have been blood?” I muse out loud.

Blake leans closer, a spark in his eye. “What? Did you remember something?”

I tip my head back onto the sofa, feeling a little sick. “Do you remember hearing anything, like a bang, when we were in the VIP room together that night?”

His ears flush and for the first time he looks truly embarrassed. “I don’t really . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, chagrin settling over his features. “My memory of that night isn’t as clear as it should be.”

“I heard something outside the room, which is what made me . . . it sort of snapped me out of . . . whatever,” I say, working really hard not to let my mortification show. “A few minutes later, when I went out into the hall, Marcus was just coming out of Ben’s office. He was wiping something off his hands. I thought it was grease. There was a towel. He threw it on the floor near Ben’s door.”

Blake’s face becomes suddenly animated as he gets what I’m saying. “Was Arroyo with him?”

“Ben was yelling something at Marcus through the door . . .” I close my eyes and try to think. “He wanted him to get Devin, the other bouncer, I think.”

The elevator door clanks, and I turn just as Cooper steps out. I’d forgotten that Blake said he was coming this morning.

Blake ignores him, all his attention focused on me. “But Arroyo was definitely in the room. You’re sure of that?”

I nod.

A smile breaks over his face as he moves off the sofa. “We’ve got him.”

He relays the information to Cooper as I refill my coffee, nearly spilling it because of my shaking hands. I take it to the counter, slip onto a stool and pick at the bowl of strawberries there, even though I’m not really hungry. They shoot me a few more questions, and once Cooper has all the details, he dials Jenkins and disappears into the elevator, apparently deciding that following up the lead is more important than babysitting Blake and me.

Blake is exhilarated. “This could be our smoking gun, Sam.” He shakes his head, and I see that look of admiration in his eyes again. “I never thought it would play out like this.”

I slip off the stool, licking my strawberry sticky fingers. “How, exactly, did you think it would play out?”

There’s a full ten seconds where he just stares at my lips, but then he clears his throat. “Your prostitution charge was just to get into Arroyo’s club records. I never thought we’d be able to put him away for
murder
. And I never in a million years thought you’d be the key.” He steps closer and his eyes spark as he sweeps a lock of hair behind my shoulder.

“It was because of you,” I say, my shaking, amplified by his proximity, showing in my voice. “You freaked me out in the VIP room. I was in the hall trying to pull my shit together when I saw him.”

He bites his lips between his teeth and stares down at me, the spark in his eyes becoming a slow burn.

We’re less than a foot apart and I can’t stop myself from touching him. I lift a hand and trace my finger along the edge of the bandage on his arm. “Does this hurt?”

His breathing becomes shaky at my touch and he leans forward a fraction of an inch. “Not much.”

I trace the bandage up under the sleeve of his T-shirt, and goose bumps pebble the skin under my fingertip as it moves toward his shoulder. “Have you been shot before?”

His breathing stalls altogether for a beat. “No,” he finally says, lowering his gaze. He blows out a sigh, lifting his eyes to mine again, and in them I see his struggle. He closes them in a slow blink as he backs away. His hand slides down my arm and he catches my fingers with his for just a second before letting go of me. “I have some reports. There are leftovers in the fridge. I probably won’t be up for dinner.” He turns and vanishes down the stairs, leaving me standing here staring after him.

I don’t see him for the rest of the night, but I hear his music waft up from downstairs. I sneak down at one point, just to make sure he hasn’t keeled over dead, and see him on the sofa with a laptop, so I leave him alone. I know he needs his space for a lot of reasons.

I forage in the fridge and find something to take back to my room for dinner, then flip on the TV, but there’s nothing except reruns of shows that were bad the first time around. When I’m done eating, I turn it off and change into my swimsuit. I’ve got to burn off some of this tension before it eats me alive.

Just after dark I skip down the path and glance back at the house. The living room lights are on, but Blake isn’t on the balcony. I’m surprised by the pang of disappointment, until I get nearer the bathhouse and realize the light is on in the man cave.

He’s working out.

I tiptoe to the window and cautiously peer in. He’s on the bench press wearing nothing but his white bandage and a pair of loose navy gym shorts. As I watch, he lowers the heavily weighted barbell to his chest, then hikes it back up. Muscles ripple under taut skin across his chest and up his arms as he presses the weight once, twice, three times, and he winces each time as the left side of the barbell lags behind.

I want to go in there and tell him to stop. He’s not ready for this. But, instead, I find myself pressed up against the window, watching.

God, he’s beautiful.

He rests the barbell on the rack and sits up, and I step away from the window before he sees me.

I reach for the doorknob but then back away as the fleeting image of what might happen if I walked into that room flits through my mind and makes my insides tingle. The memory of those sure, firm hands on my body sends a rush of adrenaline surging through my bloodstream, and more than anything, I want to feel that again. I reach for the knob again, imagining how this will go. Between the two of us there are so little clothes, it would only take seconds before we were totally naked. Not enough time for either of us to think—to change our minds.

I hear the clang of metal and know he’s on another set. If I walked in now, what would he do?

I imagine the taste of his sweat, the feel of his hard body as he crushed himself against me. Every muscle in my belly contracts at the image of him throwing me onto the sofa and what would happen next.

Suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a game anymore. It feels deeper. And scarier. Are we both still here only because we have to be? Or is it more that we want? Need?

But I can’t want what I want. Maybe when Ben is locked away for good . . . when I’m no longer Blake’s job. But not now.

I move quickly to the pool and dive in, then swim hard, trying to swim away the need to go into that bathhouse and follow through on my desires.

When my lungs burn and I can’t move another muscle, I finally stop and float on my back, staring up at the night sky. The city lights are too bright to see anything but the brightest stars, but I remember what it looked like at the cabin. But that brings back memories of other things that happened there: Blake’s strong hands on my body, his mouth devouring mine. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind. But just as I’m starting to relax, there’s a splash.

When I first feel Blake’s hands on my waist, I giggle and kick against him, trying to pull away. But when I stand at the shallow end of the pool and look into his face, I suddenly know we’re not playing a game.

He tugs me to him and stares into my eyes with scorching intensity. The heat of his body, pressed against mine, burns me alive. His lips part and a sound of pure need escapes from them as he trails his nose along my forehead and down my temple. His lips brush over my scar, and his ragged breath in my ear stalls for a second, as if he’s preparing to whisper something private.

I pulse with the need to know what it is. I lean closer, unable to fight the urge, and I can taste his breath.

His fingers find my face, caressing my scarred cheek, then scoop around the back of my neck.

I don’t even think. I just do what I’ve been dying to do for weeks. I stretch up onto my tiptoes and press myself against him. My lips brush over his and I take his lower lip between my teeth.

He groans as his hands tighten around me, one at my back and the other at my neck, and he pulls me against the curve of his body. His mouth moves hungrily on mine, his tongue tasting and owning.

Little flashes of lightning jolt through my insides and my heart strains against my rib cage. Every nerve ending is on fire with his touch, and every part of me hums.