He's the One (6 page)

Chapter Two

E
lla let out the pent-up breath she’d been holding and tried to look normal. As if
being handcuffed in nothing but a slipping towel was anywhere close. But she couldn’t
pull it off, so she sucked in a breath and went for calm, cool, and collected, or
at least the appearance of it.

And reminded herself that as far as the worst-case scenario went, this wasn’t it.
Close, but not quite. After all, she hadn’t been raped, tortured, or killed before
the goons had left her, right? She was still breathing, which was a good thing, so
she kept that in front of her.

James let out a sound that managed to perfectly convey his surprise and unhappiness
at the sight of her.

The fading light fell over him favorably, but
any
light fell over the man favorably. Then he flipped on the switch and the fluorescent
bulbs had her blinking like an owl. “Hi,” she said.

He just looked at her. His nearly black hair was cut short as always, but no matter
the length, it had a mind of its own. His melt-me chocolate eyes could reveal everything
in his heart, or nothing at all, depending on his mood. They were pretty stingy at
the moment. He had his cop face on, allowing only his tough competence to show as
he moved in closer to prop up the wall with a shoulder, his arms crossed casually
over his chest. A deceptively relaxed pose. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t play
sexual games with your boyfriend on my weekend for the house,” was all he said.

She registered the urge to knock her head against the wall. He hadn’t actually yet
signed the divorce papers she’d sent him, which technically made them only separated,
but that
he’d
been the one who’d left still rankled. And that it had been her job to drive him
away made explaining her current problem a tad bit difficult, because she really hated
when he was right. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He lifted a disbelieving brow but relaxed. It was a marginal lessening of the tension
in his shoulders that no one else would have noticed, but she’d known him for a very
long time and could read his body like a book.

“If there’s no boyfriend, what’s this?” He gestured with a jerk of his chin to the
way she was cuffed to the rack. “An early Christmas present?”

“Ha, ha,” she said, and jangled the cuff. “A little help?”

He took his gaze on a slow roll up her body, starting at her bare feet, past her legs,
which she’d thankfully shaved—
No
. Just because he’d been the first,
and the last
, man to drive her to the edge of sanity with a debilitating combination of love and
lust and like and more lust, she did
not
care if her legs were shaved for him. Damn, but he could still get to her like no
one else, which really topped the cake.

His gaze continued on its tour, landing on her breasts, which were spilling over the
edge of the slipping towel, then her throat, and finally her face, his own impassive.

She couldn’t blame him there. She’d taken that single, horrified glance in the mirror.
She knew her long, curly, blond hair had long ago rioted, resembling an explosion
in a mattress factory. She knew she looked like a ghost without blush and lip color.
She was just surprised he hadn’t gone running for the hills.

But then again, nothing scared James. He stood there in black jeans, black athletic
shoes, black T-shirt well fitted to that mouthwatering body, looking like sin personified.

“What the hell are you doing here, Ella?”

Good question
, she thought, and since she had no intention of telling him the truth, that she was
a complete idiot, she racked her brain for a good excuse. “
Me?
Just . . . hanging.” She added a grin, and hoped he bought it.

But he’d never bought the bullshit she’d been able to feed just about anyone else.
He stepped closer, a mixed blessing for her. She felt a huge relief, because though
he was a lot of things, including a rat bastard, he was incapable of leaving her here
trapped and helpless. Or so she hoped.

And then there was her panic, because now she could see him up close and personal:
the dark day’s growth on his jaw, the way his eyes were like two fathomless pools
she could drown in, his tight jaw . . . and then there was his scent, which made her
want to press her nose to his throat and inhale. Pathetic.

Once upon a time he’d been everything to her, her greatest fantasy, her most amazing
lover, her best friend, and she missed him, mourned him like a missing limb, and if
he looked close enough he’d know it. Not wanting that to happen, she dropped her head
down, but he only stepped even closer, and her forehead brushed his chest. He was
warm and hard with strength, and beneath the shirt his heart beat steady. The waistband
of his jeans were loose, low on his washboard abs. She had good reason to know his
body looked just as perfect without the clothes, and that he knew exactly what to
do with it to drive her insane with wanting.

Why couldn’t he have love handles? Or bad breath? Okay, maybe not love handles or
bad breath, but it’d be nice if
he
could screw up once in a while instead of it always being her.

“Ella.”

Right. He wanted answers. “It’s complicated,” she said demurely.

“Uh-huh.” He tipped up her chin. “Keep going.”

Her towel slipped another half inch. Before she could pull it back up, her left hand
was in James’s, held above her head against the wall in a gentle but inexorable grip.
“Look at me, Ella.”

She stared at his Adam’s apple and hoped the towel was still covering her nipples.
His thighs bumped her bare ones and said nipples hardened with hope because they knew
exactly how good he could be to them. “Why?”

“Because we both know you can’t look me straight in the eyes when you’re lying, Super
Girl.”

A nickname she’d acquired from her various escapades, usually nearly fatal. He kept
his other hand on her jaw, holding her head, leaving her stretched and bound like
an offering. “M-maybe I really am an early Christmas present.”

He stared at her, his eyes no longer the flat, cool cop’s eyes. Now they were filled
with frustration, temper, and a good amount of the heat and love that had always caught
her breath. “It’s only June.”

“Merry Half Christmas.” But he didn’t cave, he never caved. “Okay, fine,” she said,
grumbling. “So I ran into a little problem with a case.”

“Surprise, surprise. What was the problem?”

“I found proof that a multimillion-dollar yacht we’d insured and lost this year was
purposely destroyed. It didn’t click until their second, and more expensive, yacht
was destroyed last week.”

“Drug runners?”

She nodded. “A few deals in a row went bad. They were hurting for money. Now we think
they sank the boats for the insurance money.”

“And?”

“And I’m working on getting proof.”

His eyes narrowed. “Let me guess. Your suspects are planning to hightail it out of
town with the cash from the first boat, and you got in their way.”

She bit her lip.

“Jesus Christ, El.” Temper dropped, replaced by instant concern as his hands slid
down to her arms. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.”

His expression was no longer a cool cop’s, but fierce and terrified. “Did they—”

“Nothing. They did nothing but cuff me.” And okay, maybe they’d made a joke about
her being a true blonde. “I’m fine.”

He let out a low breath, fighting for control as the muscles bunched in his jaw.

She knew it was more than this particular situation. Her job was the basis of any
fight they’d ever had—her putting herself in danger, sometimes stupidly. Him hating
it.

He ran a finger over the cuffs on her wrist. “Hell of a mess you’ve got yourself into.”

“Do you have a key or something?”

“Or something,” he murmured, and looked her over again, slowly. “You sure do look
like my idea of Christmas, all naked and . . .” He ran a callused finger over the
edge of her towel, his knuckles brushing over the plumped-up curves of her breasts.
“Restrained.” His melting eyes met hers and her knees nearly buckled at the memories
his words caused.

It’d been their first Christmas together, and she’d bought him two new silk ties,
which he’d used not around his neck but for her wrists in his bed. He’d had his merry
way with her, and then in return had let her bind him.

The memories made her ache. “Can you just set me free?”

Another slow pass of his finger over the edge of the slipping towel, and though she
didn’t lower her gaze and look, he was helping the thing fall, damn him. “
James
.”

“Yeah, I could set you free.”

Relief rushed through her. Short-lived, as it turned out.

“Soon as you tell me one thing.” His slow exhale fanned the hair at her temple, warming
her ear, causing a delicious set of goose bumps to raise over her skin.

Her eyes wanted to drift shut. In their marriage, one thing that had never wavered
was this . . . this hunger, this unquenchable need.

Truth was, she missed his arms around her at night; she missed his big, solid presence
in their bed. He had a way of making her forget everything but what he could make
her feel, and what he made her feel was like a walking orgasm. The man oozed sex appeal,
and that hadn’t changed. “Um . . . what do you want me to tell you?”

He ran his hand up her free arm, once again lifting hers over her head, entwining
their fingers. His thighs bumped hers, and it took every ounce of self-control she
had—which wasn’t much on a good day—not to rub against him like a cat.

“Tell me that you really don’t want to be married anymore,” he murmured, and curved
his fingers into hers now so that they were holding hands rather than him restraining
her. “Tell me you really want me to sign those divorce papers you had sent to my work.”

That was so far from what she expected, she blinked. “You were the one who left me.”

“Mmm,” he said noncommittally, tracing the pads of his rough fingers over her skin.
Just that small touch and her world spun. Her free hand automatically went to his
arm for stability, even though she couldn’t have fallen if she’d wanted to. Her fingers
dug his ropey, satiny shoulders. She was close enough to see into his dark, dark eyes,
and what she saw there made her go still and quivery at the same time.

“El.”

Just that, just her name on his lips, and everything faded away except the excitement
that always shimmered between them no matter what they were dealing with. He tipped
her face up and their mouths were only a breath apart. With a soft sigh, she leaned
into him. A sound escaped him, one of frustration, of need, and then he hauled her
close, wrapping his arms tight to her body. “This is crazy,” he muttered, and rubbed
his jaw to hers. “Stupid crazy.”

She nodded. She knew it, knew also if he dipped his head a fraction of an inch and
kissed her, it’d be a mistake. It’d taken her this whole time to even begin to get
over him, she couldn’t do it again, she just couldn’t—

“Damn,” he whispered, and then his mouth touched the very corner of hers.

She let out a helpless little murmur and strained even closer, wanting more, so much
more, but he pulled back. Stared at her as the corner of her towel slipped entirely
free from between her breasts.

The only thing holding it in place was James’s body, and they both knew it. “Uncuff
me,” she whispered.

“Tell me that you don’t want me anymore,” he whispered back.

Damn it. If she said the words, they’d be a lie, and he’d know that, too. He always
knew. But here she was, literally trapped, and a complete wreck from just one tiny
kiss, ready to toss all pride to the wind and beg him for whatever scrap he had left
to give her.

Six months ago, he’d told her all bets were off, that he couldn’t love her as wildly
and fully as he did and watch her destroy herself with the job. In her stubbornness,
all she’d heard was the ultimatum, him or her dangerous job, and she’d reacted. Badly.

He’d left their L.A. condo and she’d hit rock bottom, or so she’d thought.

But she’d been wrong.
Today
was rock bottom. Being forced to admit still wanting him . . . it was too much. “I
don’t—” But the lie caught on her tongue.

“Tell me,” he insisted in a rough whisper, his length bumping hers.

She had to close her eyes in an attempt to deny what he could make her feel with just
that barely there touch of his hot, tough bod.

“Tell me.”

God, it’d be so easy to do just that, but then they’d be back at square one, with
her loving him ridiculously, and him wanting her to be someone she wasn’t.

No
.

She was stronger than this, and to prove it, she lifted her chin, staring at a spot
just over his shoulder. “I don’t want to be married anymore.”

He studied her for a long beat, his gaze burning a hole in her heart.

Not for the first time, either . . .

“That’s not what I asked you,” he finally said.

“I want you to sign those papers at your office, James.”

“And what about me, Ella?” He nudged even closer, slipping a muscled thigh between
hers.

She nearly melted into a pool of longing on the floor.

“You don’t want me?” he asked softly, silkily.

She closed her eyes, gathered her strength, then opened them again.
I don’t want you
, she tried to say, but he shifted again, that thigh moving between hers, rubbing
against her, and all that came out was a whimper.