All Fired Up (Kate Meader) (26 page)

She was looking at him strangely because of his terse declaration. He backpedaled and dug deep for his charm.

“Not to worry, love. It looks worse than it is. I’ve cracked ribs before. Time and drugs—that’s what it takes.” And the ability to leave the past where it belongs.

Frown deepening, she ran a finger along his old scar. Apparently his charm was off today.

“You can tell me things, too. I’m not nearly as self-absorbed as people think I am.”

She didn’t sound convinced, and he wondered if she truly believed in her depth or how far she had come in her recovery. All he knew for certain is that he didn’t possess one iota of her emotional bravery.

His father had used him as his punching bag for ten years until Shane was big enough to hit back. He had suffered the man’s boot on his neck, shards of glass in his shoulder, broken arms, fractured ribs. He had felt words that hurt more than all those injuries put together.
Useless, worthless, good-for-nothing. A mistake.
The Alzheimer’s did nothing to soften John Sullivan. It just blessed the old man with a blissed-out forgetfulness and sharpened every one of Shane’s memories to jagged points. Honed his resentment toward Jack for not being around as well, which he knew was downright irrational. Nothing could be gained from a visit down that rocky road.

Cara’s compassion pushed all his buttons or the ones that had yet to be pushed. His cock was fully engaged, but now his heart was lifting in reaction to her concern. He squeezed her waist gently, immensely gratified at the smudgy fingerprints he left on her immaculate top.

I claim you, Cara DeLuca-Doyle.

Annulment papers on the dresser, idiot.

“Don’t worry about me, love,” he said, smiling through.

That earned him a resigned noise. Charm offensive somewhat successful.

“Stand up,” she said, her hands on his shoulders. When he did, she used the upward movement of his body to slide her fingers down his sides, carefully avoiding the rawest welts. She slipped her fingertips inside the elastic of his shorts, their bagginess unable to hide the burgeoning situation down below.

“This is where I go solo,” he said.

“Shane, I’ve seen it before.”

Not like this she hadn’t. His cock was a rampant weapon and if it didn’t find some relief soon, he might not be responsible for his actions. The pain should have put a damper on the situation but the mere presence of Cara would make a dead man’s dick lift a coffin lid.

Rein it in, boyo.

“That’s not the problem. If I let you go any further, I’m going to have to dip into my fantasy bag.”

“Oh, which fantasy would this be?” she asked like his dirty little list was familiar to her.

“The one where you bend over that sink and I plunge into you to the hilt.”

She spared a glance for the sink. “Do I get any say in this fantasy?”

“It’s my fantasy, LT. And in it you’re screaming like a porn star and your primary participation involves telling me how much harder you want it.”

The pat on the chest she gave him was patronizing, to say the least. But it also felt affectionate, like the look Jack and Lili shared while they bickered about riding Tad’s bike. Shane hoped to God Jack knew what he was doing on the Dyna Glide.

“I guess I can’t stop you from having your little old fantasies. Fantasies so rarely become reality, though.” Her fingers lingered on the waistband of his shorts; her gaze stroked his mouth.

“Cara, the only reason this particular fantasy isn’t turning into reality is because I’m likely to end up in the emergency room if I take it where I want to go.”

Her expression was one of infinite patience. Oh, she was a cool one. “Shane, the only reason this fantasy of yours isn’t turning into reality is because I’ve made it clear that we’re not happening.”

“So you have, yet here we are. With the nursing and the jaw stroking and the heat between us you can’t deny. Not even a woman as controlled as you pretend to be.”

So much for reining it in—all he’d done is turn himself on even more. He didn’t need to look in the mirror to know his expression raged with an incongruent mix of pain and desire.

She stepped back out of his burning orbit and picked up Vegas. “I guess I’ll leave you to go solo, then.” Her voice was low and raspy, transmitting right to his groin. She took another look at the very clear evidence of his arousal and blinked rapidly.

He hooked the back of her neck. Another blade of pain shot through his left side but he stayed the course.

“I’m going to be in that shower thinking about you. Feel free to stick around and listen. Or anything else that takes your fancy.”

Her sharp snatch of breath stole his own breath away but it could just as easily be those cracked ribs. He kissed her softly; any more fervently and he’d probably pass out. The cat made a pissy noise at being caught in a semicrush between them.
Suck it up, kitty.

“I’ll need help getting dressed later. And making lunch. And then getting undressed. So don’t go far.” He shucked his shorts and pulled back the curtain. Grimacing at how much it hurt to bend, he gingerly adjusted the shower tap all while potently aware of her heated gaze on his back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw both her appreciative survey of his body and her exit reflected in the mirror. Dangerous hope unfolded in his chest, but this time, he didn’t push it away.

Chapter 13

Vegas jumped out of her arms, leaving Cara free to massage her temples in circles over her tight skin. It had taken every inch of her dwindling willpower not to strip down and step into that shower with Shane. If she had, they might have both ended up in the emergency room.

Psych consult needed for female presenting with acute nymphomania.

Those caramel eyes, the blatant desire lurking within, and his mouth—whoa, he could kiss. As soon as his lips touched hers, she was sucked into Shane’s world, where it was sweet and hot and oh-so-sexy. A world she wanted to live in, and sleep in, and have freaking babies in.

She should leave. Run away like she always did when things got uncomfortable, but beneath that dirty-talking sex god, there lived a man in pain, and not just physical. He wore a deep emotional wound that not even that golden smile could hide.

In his Spartan bedroom, home to a dresser, a futon, the ubiquitous cowboy boots, but no photos or anything personal, she pulled open drawers, searching for clean clothes. She had tried to go gentle when undressing him and he had responded with his macho
nothing to see here
act, but there was no reason why he should suffer any more than necessary. Sweatpants with an elastic-banded waist and a zipped-up hoodie would be a less painful alternative to a tee and jeans. She laid them out on his bed.

The manila envelope she had shoved in his hands three nights ago lay innocuously on his dresser. Still smooth, not a wrinkle in sight. Clearly, he hadn’t been carrying it folded up in his leather jacket or regularly unsheathing the papers while he wrung his hands with indecision. Perhaps he hadn’t given it much thought at all. A sneaky peek revealed her neat signature cutting a lonely script across one dotted line versus a blank where Shane’s John Hancock should be. Almost three weeks later, they were still married and she wasn’t freaking out.

Could she possibly be enjoying this crazy situation she found herself in? Was she actually thriving on this roller coaster of emotion? Good grief, she was. She was more than tall enough to go on this ride, and damn, she was starting to like what was happening here.

Enough to stick around and make lunch. She was going to make lunch for her debilitated husband. What should she make? What
could
she make?

Not a lot.

Placing her ear to the bathroom door, all she could hear was the rush of water, but her imagination supplied the video. Shane getting all slick and soapy, running his big, strong hands over his hard chest and taut abs. Moving his hand farther down and down—

Okay, lunch.

Offering a TV dinner or a tub of yogurt to an award-winning chef wasn’t going to cut it. Cara was a product of a food-loving culture, worked with chefs every day, and had two hands that admittedly she would much rather employ washing the broad, muscled back of her wounded soldier. Surely a capable, kick-ass woman like herself could come up with something.

The cat brushed by her legs and meowed.

“Yes, Vegas. To the kitchen.”

A few false starts later, they were on their way. While the aroma of melting cheese filled the air with its comforting warmth and pleasant associations, she fed the cat from a bag of unappetizing pellets she found in the pantry.

“Hey.” At the sound of Shane’s voice, her stomach gave a swoopy loop.

He’d managed to pull on the sweatpants she had laid out on the bed and had gotten halfway with the hoodie, which dangled off one shoulder like a pathetic matador’s cape. Dripping wet bangs stabbed his eyes. It was the saddest, most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

With as much care as possible, she helped slide the empty sleeve up his arm. She suddenly felt shy around him as though her attempts at domesticity had turned her into a diffident housewife. Fumbling with the zipper—clearly her brain didn’t approve of this action—she watched in mounting disappointment as the metal teeth interlocked inch by inch on the slow slide up his chest. Too soon, he was indecently covered.

Criminal, just criminal.

She grabbed the sling off the table and applied it with a growing confidence in her new nurturing abilities.

His eyes shone bright, part amusement, part challenge. All devastating.

“Something’s burning.”

Sure was, honey.
Scorching heat licked flames across her skin, but of course he was referring to his pain and not the heat wave rolling through down south.

“Your shoulder still hurts?”

“No,” he said. “Well, yes, but I meant that whatever you’re cooking is burning.”

“Oh shit!” She turned quickly and removed the pan from the stove. The rather poorly constructed cheese sandwich was golden brown on the upturned side. She was uncommonly proud of that one side but it did little to alleviate the fact it would not be so pretty on the other.

“I messed up. I was trying to go with your advice.”

“My advice?”

“There’s nothing sexier than a confident woman in the kitchen.”

His lips twitched and he eased himself into a chair at the kitchen table. “Serve up that bad boy, then.”

She plated up and tried to ignore the acrid smell that accompanied its slide out of the pan. How was it possible to mess up a grilled cheese sandwich? Evan could do this. Jeez, the cat could do this.

“I could make something else.”

“This’ll be grand.” He raised his smoldering dark eyes to hers and locked his gaze in place. “I’m very pleased you stayed, Cara.”

He said it quietly, so her heart really shouldn’t have overreacted like a wild animal trying to escape her chest. Their eyes held for a scary couple of heartbeats. Her whole world distilled to this moment, a one hundred proof shot of emotion ripping a high-octane path through her veins.

A loud knock on the door surprised her and forced her to break the magnetic link. She opened it to find Tad and Jack. Crap on toast.

Her cousin held up a takeout bag from DeLuca’s. “Lili called in an order for the patient.” Without waiting for an invitation, he strode into the apartment. Jack followed with a similar, cocky gait. Immediately, Tad made himself at home, doling out her father’s famous gnocchi with brown butter and sage onto plates.

Shane caught Cara’s eye. “I’m good, Tad. Cara already made me lunch.”

Tad did one of those cartoon double takes that he probably thought was hi
larious
. “Cara cooked? And it’s edible? This I gotta see.”

Shane took a big bite of the grilled cheese and chewed confidently. It might have been her imagination but his strained smile was less an effort to weather his bodily pain, but more a struggle to react graciously to the worst thing he’d ever had the misfortune of eating.

“Hmm, this is”—he rolled his tongue around his mouth and she saw the exact moment when he realized what he was getting himself into—“really good.”

Her gorgeous, blarney-spouting liar of a husband.

Maybe she had been a little adventurous with the ingredients. There was a wedge of brie in his fridge, so she thought, why not? And because he was a gourmet chef, and oh no, would not be satisfied with a plain old cheese sandwich, she had added a few flavorful extras. Like pimento peppers. And Dijon mustard. And a smattering of capers because her mother used them all the time.

Tad scrutinized the sandwich in Shane’s hands and emerged skeptical. He lifted his gaze to Cara.

“So C, thanks for the design and marketing workup for the wine bar. I really liked your idea for the furniture.” She had filled another one of her thick binders with décor ideas and promotional strategies for Tad’s new venture. One of her notions was recycled wine casks for the table tops. After reading through his business plan, she had high hopes for its success, along with its value as a location for private parties.

“No problem.”

Jack handed over the key to Shane’s Harley with a wry smile that said he’d enjoyed the ride.