A Little Too Hot (20 page)

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him closer, deepening our kiss. He responds with a low groan deep in his chest, and I’d swear the water around us boils. He grabs my hips and lifts me onto him, and I wrap my legs around his cut torso, needing to be closer, to feel every inch of him pressed against me. He backs us toward the pool stairs and lays me across them, his mouth leaving mine and trailing down my jawline, my throat, and across my collarbone.

I feel a tug at my neck, and suddenly my bikini top is floating away on the surface of the water. His lips migrate lower and I arch up and moan when they close over my breast, swirling his tongue over my tight nipple.

I’m on fire, my whole body a live nerve ending. I ache all over and I can barely breathe. As he presses me against the stairs and moves his erection against my sweet spot, I come unglued.

I let out a sharp “Ahh!” and dig my heels into his back, pulling him harder against me. I don’t care anymore about what’s right or wrong. I want Blake more then I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, and I know he feels the same.

I lift a hand and trail the tip of my finger along the curves of his chest and down his ripped abs. Every muscle feels taut under my hands, steel under silk.

His mouth finds mine again, and he moves his erection against my sweet spot, finding a rhythm. As I climb to a place I’ve never been, I can’t believe he can do this to me right through our clothes. He takes my nipple into his mouth again and gives suck as he rubs himself faster against me, and
holy God
, I’ve never felt anything like this. I’m vaguely aware that I’m crying out, loudly, something between a moan and a sob. And a minute later, when I come for the first time in my life, I do sob, an animal cry that doesn’t even sound human.

I’m struggling to catch my breath as he scoops me up and carries me to the house. Despite his injury, he sweeps up the stairs to my room like I weigh nothing at all and lays me on my unmade bed. He lies next to me and I curl myself around him. I burrow into his warmth, and as much as I don’t want to miss a minute of this, I feel myself drowsy with contentment. The beat of his heart, the caress of his fingers over my back, the rhythm of his breath in my hair, lull me slowly into sleep.

I
WAKE TO
the smell of coffee. It takes me a minute to get my senses straightened out, but then I smile when I remember where I am . . . or more accurately, how I got here.

I roll, and when I find the other side of the bed empty, the smile fades off my face.

Coffee
.

He’s in the kitchen.

I drag myself out of bed, still groggy, and slip my robe on over my bikini bottoms, then go to the kitchen. But Blake is nowhere.

I fill my Alcatraz mug and suck down half of it in one greedy gulp. When I hear Blake on the stairs, I can’t keep the grin from spreading over my face. I turn, but the person who crests the top step isn’t Blake. It’s Cooper.

He looks at me, his gaze cool.

I pull my robe tighter around me, suddenly feeling naked. “Is Blake . . . downstairs?”

“Special Agent Montgomery decided he needed some recovery time. He asked me to stand in, which means you’re graced with my company for the next few days.”

A tight band wraps around my chest and I can’t get a full breath. “Recovery time?” I picture him working out last night . . . and carrying me up the stairs.

But now he needs recovery time?

Cooper fixes me in a frosty stare. “He was shot, in case you forgot.”

“I know he was shot!” I snap, guilt and dread and fear spinning my emotions into a cyclone.

He moves past me into the kitchen. “At least he had the good sense to brew the coffee before he left.”

I move to the living room, sinking into the sofa. “Is he coming back?”

He flicks me a glance. “You tell me, Jezebel.”

I lean into the cushions and close my eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Cooper settles into the armchair and sets my full Alcatraz mug on the table in front of me. “Look, Blake is a good kid, and he’s a great agent. He has more potential than anyone I’ve seen come up through the ranks for a while. If you ever repeat this to anyone, I’ll deny it, but I think Special Agent in Charge Navarro screwed up bringing him in on this case. There’s no way this isn’t going to be personal for him. His emotions are all over the place. Add Jezebel,” he says with a flick of his wrist at me, “and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.”

Is that what we are? A disaster?

I lift my mug to my face and take slow sips, breathing in the steam and letting it calm me. After a minute I stand and head to my room.

I start for the bathroom, but detour to the window. Below, in the pool, a black shadow sits at the bottom of the shallow end. My bikini top.

It happened. I didn’t dream it.

I crawl into my bed and pull Blake’s pillow to my face. He’s still here, that musky, earthy scent that’s all man. All Blake.

Does this mean he thinks what happened was a mistake?

It’s a long while later that I drag myself up and shower. When I finally cross the living room on my way to the coffeepot, Cooper is watching a WWF match on TV.

His gaze doesn’t stray from the screen as he says, “I went to check on your family yesterday.”

My eyes snap to him and my coffee sloshes over the rim. “Why?”

“After what happened at the cabin, we wanted to be sure they were okay.”

My heart’s beating in my throat as I move to the living room and drop into the sofa. “And?”

“Everyone’s fine.”

I try to swallow the ball of panic in my throat but I can’t. “What did you tell them?”

His head shakes slightly. “Nothing.”

“Mom didn’t ask how I was or anything?”

He finally pulls his eyes away from the TV. “She did.”

“What did you say?” I ask, throwing my hand in the air, exasperated.

He leans forward, his elbow on the arm of the chair. “I told her you were fine, Jezebel.”

“Oh, God.” I say, dropping my face into my hand. I can only imagine what Mom’s making out of all this.

“She wanted me to give you that,” he says, pointing the remote at a thick white envelope on the coffee table.

I pick it up and see it’s already been opened. “You?” I say, slipping my finger into the opening.

He gives me a shake of his head. “Your mother.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“No.”

“But she and Greg are okay?”

“Yes.”

Conversation with Cooper is about as informative as talking to a rock. I shoot him a glare and flip the envelope in my hand. When I see the return address, I almost drop my mug.

Lexie.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A
L
L THE BLOOD
rushes out of my head and I feel suddenly dizzy.

I set my coffee down and pull out the contents of the envelope as if it might bite me. It’s not flowery, and it doesn’t smell like roses or anything. It’s actually pretty classy—parchment-looking paper with a swatch of antique lace in one corner. But I can’t help the way my stomach clamps at the words written in a simple slant across the front.

Alexandra Elizabeth Banks and Trenton James Sorenson request the honor of your presence at their nuptial

June twenty-ninth is the date. Trent is marrying Lexie in two weeks.

There’s a folded note, and I see Lexie’s neat script through the thin paper, but I’m not ready to read it just yet.

I toss the whole thing on the table and pick up my coffee, taking a long sip.

“That bad?”

I look up at Cooper. “Yes.”

He nods slowly. “You know what helps with stuff like that?”

“Whiskey?”

He barks out a laugh. “That, for sure.” He flips the remote off the coffee table and unmutes the TV. “But this too. Nothing like watching guys in tights beat the crap out of each other to help you forget everything else.”

I settle deeper into the sofa and hope he doesn’t notice my cringe. There’s a reason I never watch this.

Cooper spends the next two hours giving running commentary of each staged match, and, despite the coffee, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open.

“Yeah!” he shouts, with a pound of his fist on the arm of the chair, jarring me awake. “Finally a good match! This guy’s a legend.”

I look at the TV and throw up a little in my mouth. “Yeah. In his own mind.”

Cooper cuts me a glance. “What do you know about the Butcher?”

“Not as much as I should, considering he’s my father.”

His eyes go wide and he springs out of his seat. “You’re telling me Butch ‘the Butcher’ Rupert is your father?”

I shrug. “That’s what I’ve been led to believe, though I’ve never seen him anywhere but on TV.” Mom told me they got married too young and divorced before I was born. I guess he never really wanted anything to do with me.

He drops back into his seat, stunned, and pauses the TiVo just as dear old dad is jumping the ropes on his way into the ring. “The Butcher?” he repeats. “Your dad is seriously the Butcher?”

I close my eyes, hoping my face isn’t as red as I think it is. “I don’t admit that to many people.”

“Why not? He’s a legend.”

I try to rub the red out of my cheeks and look at him. “He’s forty-three and still struts around the wrestling ring on national television wearing nothing but a tiny pair of red spandex and fake blood. It’s humiliating.”

He looks at me for a long minute, then a grin breaks over his face. “I can see the resemblance.”

I glare at him and stand up. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Forget Jezebel. I’m going to call you Pork Chop,” he calls just as I slam my door. Hard.

I
T’S BEEN FIVE
days. When I ask Cooper about Blake, all he’ll say is he’ll be back when he’s ready. And every time he says it, I see the condemnation in his eyes.

I’ve spent most of my time in my room to avoid that look.

It’s late afternoon when I finally come out in a T-shirt and shorts over my swimsuit. I head for the kitchen and find a tub of strawberries in the fridge, which I inhale before heading downstairs.

Cooper is at the pool table, chalking his cue. “Up for a game of eight ball, Pork Chop?” he asks, lifting his cue as if toasting me.

“No, thanks,” I say, heading toward the French doors. “I’ll be down at the pool.”

He nods as he leans over the table to take his shot. “Don’t drown or anything. The missus and I are saving up for a trip. Can’t afford to get suspended.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, ducking out the door.

When I reach the pool, I sit on the stairs, skimming my fingers over the surface. I can’t forget the look on Blake’s face as he laid me here and kissed me. I can’t forget the feel of his mouth and his hands working their magic over my body. I can’t forget how he took me to climax right through our swimsuits.

And I don’t want to.

I won’t let myself believe it’s over . . . whatever we were starting.

I swim, but it doesn’t ease the ache in my heart. An hour later I pull my waterlogged body out of the pool and bake in the last of the evening sun until I’m dry, then head back into the house.

“. . . could stay with her,” I hear Nichols say as I’m cresting the stairs across from my room.

“Navarro’s not going to go for that,” Cooper answers. “Not in your . . . condition.”

“I’ve got another few months before the baby’s due. We’ll be fine.”

“Sorry, Christine. I’ve got orders . . . as much as the missus hates them.”

I step into the room and they both turn to look at me from where they’re sitting on the sofa.

“Hope you’re hungry, Jez,” Cooper says through a grin. “Nichols brought enough pizza to feed an army.”

“Um . . . yeah. Just let me change.” I duck into my room and slip on a pair of jeans and a tank before heading back to the living room. I want to ask if either of them knows where Blake is. Did he go home to L.A.? To his fiancée? But I bite my tongue. I’m not supposed to care, and I don’t want another lecture from Cooper.

I grab a plate from the cupboard and a Coke from the fridge and sit in the armchair.

Nichols pushes the stack of three pizza boxes toward me.

“What? No french fries?” I say with a grin.

She shakes her head. “The baby’s over them. Now he wants pepperoni pizza.”

When I open the top box, I see it is indeed pepperoni. And it’s mostly gone, which means they didn’t wait for me. I pull a slice onto my plate.

“There’s cheese and ‘the works’ in the other boxes. I didn’t know what you like,” she tells me.

“This is fine,” I say, lifting my slice.

“Your personal chef will be back tomorrow,” Cooper says, and my heart skips.

“Blake?” I’m embarrassed when my voice comes out squeaky.

He fixes me in his scowl. “Unless you have someone else who cooks for you?”

“He’s . . . okay?”

He nods. “He called while you were playing Malibu Barbie,” he says with a jut of his chin at the window. “There are some things happening in the case, so he’s at the office, but he said he’d explain everything when he sees you tomorrow.”

The knot in my chest eases. Blake is coming home. I didn’t scare him off.

I sink into the chair and focus all my attention on my pizza slice, because otherwise I’m going to get up and do a happy dance around the room. And I don’t want to have to explain
that
to Cooper.

Chapter Thirty

W
HEN
I
STUMBLE
out of my room, shorts and a tank top over my swimsuit, it’s after ten and Cooper is just pulling a pair of Eggo waffles out of the toaster.

“Morning, Jezebel,” he says when he sees me.

“I thought I was Pork Chop now.”

He shrugs.

I go to the kitchen and pour my coffee, but just as I take my first sip, I hear the telltale clank and rattle of the elevator. I spin, sloshing my coffee onto the floor, as the door slides open. My breathing goes a little shaky as Blake steps out, wondering how this is going to go.

But then he smiles.

The tiniest of whimpers escapes my throat with the flood of relief.

“Tell me that Cooper didn’t feed you Eggos,” he says, glaring at him.

“Cooper didn’t feed her
anything
,” he says from the armchair through a mouthful of waffle. “Figured she was all grown up and could feed herself.”

Something sparks in Blake’s eyes as he moves toward me, where I’m busy holding up the kitchen counter. “That she is,” he murmurs with a secret smile as he brushes past me.

His touch leaves me vibrating.

He pulls a carton of eggs out of the fridge, then rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. “Omelet?”

“Um . . . yeah. That sounds good.”

Cooper comes back to the kitchen and hands his empty plate over the counter to me. “I guess my job here is done. I’ll grab my stuff and get home to the missus.”

He disappears down the stairs, and I look at Blake, wondering if we’re going to talk about what happened before he left. He’s cracking eggs into a bowl, and before I can think how to start that conversation, I hear Cooper on the stairs.

I take my coffee into the living room and try to figure out how I should be acting right now. But I end up just standing here in my daze.

“So . . . if everything’s under control,” Cooper says, splitting a glance between Blake and me, “I’ll be on my way.”

“Goodbye, Cooper,” Blake says without looking up from his work.

Cooper shoots him a scowl from the elevator as the door slides shut.

I move to the coffeepot, directly behind where Blake is working, and lean on the counter. “Where were you?”

“At the office, mostly,” he says without turning.

“Are we . . . okay?”

He stops working and gives me a slow nod. “Arroyo’s accountant turned.”

“What?”

His eyes brighten as he turns to face me, and a smile breaks over his face. “It’s almost over, Sam. Arroyo’s screwed seven ways to Sunday. We came up with blood trace in the hall, where you say his goon threw the towel, and now we’ve got his accountant. The coroner puts the time of death in the window when you saw him in Arroyo’s office, and your testimony will put Arroyo in the room as his guy was exiting with blood on his hands, so that’s a lock. But even if he somehow manages to walk on the murder charge, we’ll get him on racketeering.”

There’s a second where I don’t even really hear what he’s saying, because, in his excitement, he’s so stunningly beautiful. And when he scoops me into his arms, lifting me clean off my feet and spinning us in a circle, I go dizzy with the feel of him and the smell of him . . . and the fact that he just spun me in a circle. My head swims and I wobble a little as he sets me on my feet and smiles down at me. He steadies me with firm hands on my shaking shoulders as I get my bearings.

I blink and give my head a shake. “So, is it done? I can go home?”

His glow fades a little. “I’m sorry. No. Not yet.”

“Why?” I ask, confused. “If you’ve got his accountant?”

He lets go of me and his mouth presses into a tight line. “We’re still going with the murder charge first. Arroyo knows it will be your testimony that puts him and Weber together in his office at the time of death. He’s not going to back down.”

“What about that girl? Does the accountant know what happened to her?”

He gives his head a small shake. “We haven’t been able to get enough from the records to even determine if Arroyo was responsible. I had Nichols pull together some more pictures I need you to look at.”

Any relief I was feeling about Ben’s accountant is instantly gone. “Anything,” I say. “Whatever you need.” My chest aches as I take my coffee to the living room and settle onto the sofa.

He goes to his messenger bag and pulls out a file, then sits on the sofa next to me. “These are FBI profile pics on people they’re tracking for human trafficking who are known to have been in California in the last year. It’s a long shot, but we have reason to believe Arroyo might have brought in a buyer to . . .” His jaw grinds tight with barely contained loathing. “. . . look at you. If any of them look at all familiar, that will at least give us a place to start.”

He spreads five glossy black and white photos on the coffee table, and I feel my face scrunch in disgust immediately. Because the one in the middle is Creepy Asian Guy.

“That one,” I tell Blake. “Nora called him Mr. Chang. Said he was some VIP or something. He wanted me to take my top off.”

Alarm flashes in Blake’s eyes.

“I didn’t,” I say when it’s clear that’s what he’s thinking. “I walked out.”

“Did he say anything else?”

I shake my head. “No. He was gross and I left.”

“When did you see him? Do you remember which night?”

I rest my forehead in my hand and try to think, but separating one night from the next is hard. They’re all measured in degrees of Blake . . . whether he was there or not, whether he touched me. “It was . . . I think it was the first night you came back to the club after we . . .” I rub my eyes so I don’t have to lift my head and look at him. “No . . . it was the second night. The night before you arrested me. He was my private right before you.”

He plucks the photo up and pulls out his phone. “She says Sayavong was at the club . . . it would have been . . . May ninth, I’m pretty sure.” There’s a pause as he studies the picture. “Yep, and a current whereabouts. He’s Laotian, but he has residences in Central America and the U.S.” He sinks back into the sofa. “And if you can pass the info along to Morgan over at the Bureau and get him on it . . .” He trails off and listens. “Thanks, Coop.”

When he lowers the phone, his gaze is intense. “I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if we hadn’t gotten you out of there when we did.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. I feel sick at the thought. I remember the way Creepy Asian Guy looked at me, how it made my skin crawl, and what Ben said to him.
Let’s get this done before you sail
. If Benny’s hadn’t gotten raided the next night, what would have happened?

“Can you remember anything else, Sam? Anything at all?” Blake presses.

“Ben walked the guy from the VIP room to his office. Before the door closed, Ben said, ‘Let’s get this done before you sail.’ ”

Blake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Sayavong flies in and out of the country. He’s on the FBI’s watch list, so we have all his flight information for the last few years. Unless . . .” He taps his index finger on his chin. “Maybe that’s how he moves his cargo . . . in containers. Arroyo might have been talking about a commercial ship.”

He’s back on the phone a second later, filling Cooper in on his theory. He stands and moves to the balcony as they work out a strategy to search shipping records, and I go to the kitchen and finish chopping the bell peppers. Blake is still on the phone when he comes back in and fires up the burner. He pours some egg into the pan and swirls it with is wrist. “He probably didn’t use one of the bigger shippers,” he’s saying to Cooper. “They have too many checks and balances . . . too much government oversight.”

I layer the veggies into the omelet, and when the egg starts to set, Blake adds the cheese, then folds it expertly. He gives me a playful shove with his hip and shoos me into the living room. “Yep. I think we should start there and work our way up,” he tells Cooper, flipping the omelet in the pan.

I sit, and that’s when I see Trent and Lexie’s wedding invitation, still on the coffee table. I’d forgotten about it, with everything else that happened.

I pick it up and flip it over in my hands, then slip it out and read it over again. There’s a pang in my heart I don’t expect as my finger trails over Lexie’s name. I really wish things were different. I wish I hadn’t said the things I did. I wish I could be there for her.

I slip her note out of the envelope and unfold it.

Dear Sam,

I know there’s nothing I can say to make up for the way things happened between us. I should have been honest with you when I realized I was in love with Trent. I was just so scared and confused. I thought being away from him in Rome would clear my head and make me see that what happened between us before I left was just a huge mistake. But it did the opposite. The longer we were apart, the more I realized what a big part of me he is. The more I realized I wasn’t whole without him.

It killed me not to be able to tell you this. Especially when you and he started spending time together. But I honestly didn’t know how he felt. I thought he regretted what we’d done and was trying to move on, and a part of me was happy it was with you, because I knew how you’d always felt about him.

Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I want you to know I didn’t plan any of it, and neither of us ever meant to hurt you. I miss you, and I wanted so much to talk to you before the wedding. Your mom said you’re away where you can’t be reached. I hope it’s somewhere fascinating, like Tibet. Whenever it is that you get this, just know that I so wanted you by my side for the wedding.

Miss you. Love you.

Lexie

I sit, staring at the note until the cushion next to me depresses. I look up to see Blake with a plate in each hand, and his expression all concern.

“Let me guess. The ex-boyfriend and his stepsister?” he says.

“Bingo,” I say, setting everything back on the coffee table.

He hands me an omelet. “Eat.”

I blow out a heavy sigh and take the plate. “Thanks.”

We eat, and when we’ve finished, I take our plates back to the kitchen and rinse them.

Blake brings his coffee and crosses to the stairs. “When you’re done,” he says, “come down.”

My gaze locks on his and he gives me that cocky almost-smile as he disappears down the stairs.

His bedroom’s down there.

I can’t stop my eyes from flicking at the stairs every few seconds while I finish cleaning. Once I have the dishes in the dishwasher, I follow him downstairs and find him in the middle of Kankû-dai. I watch, mesmerized, as he finishes.

“You ready to try again?” he asks after his final bow.

“Considering I really want to punch something, sure. Why the hell not.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I think we should stick with kata until your shoulder’s better.”

“My shoulder’s fine.” I give him my best smirk. “Just admit it. You’re scared of me.”

His face goes all serious and his eyes darken. “Everything about you scares the hell out of me.”

We just stand here staring at each other for the better part of forever, and I feel my breathing get rough and my insides churn with the need to finish what we started the other night.

Finally, he lowers his lashes. “So . . . Kankû-dai, or Kankû-shô?”

“I want to spar.”

His eyes flash back to mine. “You’re sure your shoulder is ready?”

I step closer. “I’m ready.”

He gives me a look. “Your wish, my command.”

I take a deep cleansing breath, then bow.

He bows then starts to circle slowly to his left. I follow his movements, but I can tell he’s waiting for me to make the first move.

“Don’t you dare go easy on me,” I warn, “because I’ll beat your ass at your best.”

He tips his head and a smile ticks one corner of his mouth. “Be careful what you wish for.”

I drop to a crouch and swing out with my leg, but Blake deflects my kick easily.

“I’m rusty,” I mutter under my breath.

He counters with a punch to my sternum, but I deflect it and spin, connecting with a kick to his knee.

We trade a few punches, then I lunge, but he twists out of my grasp. We circle a few more times, exchanging blows, which we both deflect. I go low for his legs again, and this time I get enough of his knee to take him down. But before I can get ahold of his leg to pin him, he’s rolled over his shoulder and is on his feet again.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he taunts.

“Be careful what you wish for,” I say, singsonging his words back at him.

He tips his head, his eyes sizing me up, looking for my weakness. He seems to zero in on my shoulder, taking a few jabs that I’m forced to deflect with my right arm, but then he takes me by surprise when he swings out with his leg, buckling my knee and dropping me to the floor.

I roll backward over my shoulder and spring to my feet, unleashing a kick that connects with his sternum and rocks him back on his heels. He stumbles against the pool table, and I’m on him in a heartbeat. But before I can get a grasp on him, he hooks an elbow under my leg, lifting me completely off the ground. He spins me and pins my back to the green felt.

He’s breathing hard as he hovers over me, his body wedged between my spread legs and his hands planted on either side of my shoulders, and I see the struggle behind his eyes. Beads of sweat trickle along his neck, disappearing under the brushed cotton of his T-shirt.

I lay here, frozen like the rabbit in the headlights, waiting for him to decide. He continues to hover over me for what feels like forever, his hot breath and the ravenous look in his eye turning my insides into a quivering mass.

But then something in his eyes changes. The fire is still there, but a shadow of resignation creeps over them and his jaw tightens with his growing resolve. He pushes off the pool table and slowly backs away, his hands in the air as if surrendering . . . maybe to his better judgment. Certainly not to me.

When I can move, I sit up and straighten my tank top.

He leans against the back of the sofa, catching his breath, and rubs a hand down his face. But then his eyes lift to mine. “What did the note say?”