Hot Pursuit (2 page)

Chapter Two

Limping to the elevator, Taylor pushed the UP button.

It was a complete miracle her bones weren't scattered over the bottom of a cliff. After more than four hours in the E.R. with Candace, she was queasily aware of how lucky they had been. Her neighbor had taken a tumble and now sported a nasty gash along her back, while Taylor had received four stitches above her right knee, a cut on her face, and about a thousand bruises.

But they were both damned lucky the fall hadn't been worse, and Taylor was pretty sure it was no thanks to a bottom-feeder named Harris Rains.

Under the influence of two Darvocets, Candace had come up with the only humor of the evening: “It never Rains, it bores. . . .”

Wincing, Taylor shuffled off the elevator and dumped her climbing bag on the floor outside her apartment, searching for her keys. Only then did she register the amazing smells of food emanating from the nearest apartment—which was very odd since her neighbor was a Cal Tech geek whose idea of a well-rounded diet was a blonde in a thong and two six-packs of Dos Equis. The man probably hadn't opened his oven in months.

Taylor took another lingering sniff.

Lasagna with really good cheese. The spice smells could be pumpkin pie. She closed her eyes in silent homage to the unknown chef.

Despite her growling stomach, she resolutely ignored the open door. With a new book in progress, eating came at odd moments when the words weren't flowing. Even at the best of times, Taylor was no cook. Scrambled eggs and coffee tested the limits of her skill. Her favorite kitchen utensils were a telephone and a take-out menu.

Another whiff of tomato sauce with fresh basil and oregano drifted down the hall. Taylor felt like weeping.

But she had a can of soup inside. She'd shower and heat something up. For dessert she'd have the smashed protein bar left over after the climbing trek from hell.

Behind her, boots scraped on bare wood. A long rail of unfinished pine shot out of her neighbor's doorway.

And holding it steady was the most amazing, delicious,
outstanding
male body she had ever set eyes on.

“Coming through.”

Taylor watched in stunned silence. Van Damme shoulders. Kung-fu torso.

Could you have a hot flash at thirty-five?

The geek must be doing an apartment makeover. His handyman clearly had a girlfriend happy to throw together a six-course meal on short notice.

With a body like that, the man could have
any
food group he wanted, anywhere he wanted.

He studied Taylor as he hefted the board easily onto one hip. “You live in 7B?”

Taylor realized she was staring. Staring glassy-eyed. “Uh . . . yeah. That's me.”

“I hope the noise isn't bothering you. I'm putting in a new kitchen cabinet today.”

“I didn't hear anything.” Taylor cleared her throat. “I—I just came in.”

“Jack Broussard. I'm your new neighbor.” Mr. Fixit held out a hand covered with sawdust. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Taylor swallowed. Her eyes kept drifting down that muscled chest to lean hips. “Taylor O'Toole. What happened to the prior tenant?”

The man shrugged. “Some kind of research grant came up at Cal Tech. In exchange for cheap rent, I agreed to update a few things in the apartment.”

His gray eyes narrowed on her knee, bandaged just below her spandex climbing shorts. “Take a tumble on your bike?”

“No, from a cliff up in Marin. It was my first outdoor climb.”

He shifted the plank of wood. “And you fell?”

“The rope pulled free.” Taylor shivered, blocking the memories.

“It must hurt.” Her new neighbor leaned the wooden plank against the wall, muscles flexing smoothly. “You couldn't get me up on a cliff without a gun at my back.”

Taylor didn't even have enough energy left to brag. “You probably won't get
me
up there again either. One of the bolts broke and the rope pulled free.” Even now she couldn't suppress a shiver. “Free fall at ninety feet isn't exactly my idea of fun.”

The cool gray eyes flickered over her bandaged knee again. “Sounds ugly. Sure you're okay?”

“Four stitches, but it could have been worse.” The lasagna smell was killing her, but she tried to look nonchalant while managing not to trip over her climbing bag.

Her neighbor ran strong, calloused fingers thoughtfully down the rough plank. “Does that kind of thing happen a lot when you're climbing?”

“What kind of thing?”

“Bolts pulling out. Free fall.”

Only dogged pride kept Taylor on her feet, as exhaustion warred with pain from the stitches. “I don't think so. Then again, some people have a warped idea of extreme fun.” She picked up her bag. “I'd better go and let you work on your studs.” She winced. “Nuts. I mean beams. Whatever you call them. Tell whoever's cooking that she's got my vote for the James Beard award.”

She was pretty sure she heard him laugh as she closed her door, but her legs began to shake and she didn't stay around to find out.

 

An hour later, fresh from a steamy bath, Taylor padded into the kitchen and stared into her refrigerator. Optimism turned to disgust. All she had was a wilted head of lettuce and two half-eaten cartons of yogurt.

Lasagna was her favorite food in the world, followed closely by chestnut ice cream from Berthillon's in Paris. Unfortunately, it was a long way to Paris.

Shaking her head, she headed down the hall to her office. In a few seconds she was deep in a scene involving two women climbers, a swift-moving bank of fog, and a sheer wall of granite.

 

Taylor lasted fifty-three minutes and four pages. The fog fled, the rocks simply evaporated. So much for being creative.

The final straw had been the chocolate fragrance filling her apartment. She paced the living room like a rabid animal and finally threw down her notebook.

You are a total disgrace. In fact, you have the willpower of a slug.

But what did pride matter when bittersweet chocolate was involved? She straightened her shoulders, stalked outside, and banged on the door.

Her neighbor answered on the fourth knock. Same stellar abs. Same Van Damme shoulders on a body that belonged in a museum.

Taylor looked up swiftly. “I know this is rude, but is that bittersweet chocolate I keep smelling?”

He had a towel draped over one shoulder and sawdust dotting his chest. Taylor had a wild image of her fingers brushing aside the fine powder and tracing those warm, rigid muscles.

She managed to restrain herself.

“Ganache.” His mouth twitched. “Belgian chocolate.”

“Dark chocolate? The really good stuff?”

“The darker the better. The éclairs are almost done.”

She smiled weakly. “Would you consider a trade? How about my firstborn child and a dozen active credit cards for one éclair?”

His brow rose. “I didn't hear any children at your place.”

“I don't have any—yet. I'll get started right away if it will help.” She flushed when she realized what she'd said. “So to speak.”

“Save the children.” He stepped aside and held open the door. “Take your pick of the éclairs. You want some lasagna to go with it?”

Suck it in, O'Toole. Don't drool.
“Lasagna?” She managed a casual laugh. “Is that what I was smelling?”

“It's an old family recipe.” He gestured at a big living room outfitted with sawhorses, tools, and dozens of boxes. “It's a mess in here, so be careful. Especially watch out for that saw in the corner.”

Taylor sidestepped a hammer and nails, glancing at one of the boxes. “You seem to have a lot of equipment. How much renovation are you planning to do?”

“Replace the counters. Resurface the drawers and cabinet doors. Maybe change the floor. A deep red saltillo tile would be nice.”

Sawdust drifted. Taylor watched him shift another plank of wood with practiced ease. Why did the image of sweat and manual labor suddenly seem so sexy? “No offense, but I hope it won't be too noisy. I work at home.”

“What kind of work?” The question was casual as he pulled the lid off a big ceramic baking dish.

Lasagna smells filled the air and Taylor's knees threatened to buckle. “Writing. Suspense—heavy on characters and a solid hit of romance.” She waited for the snicker, the frown, the twist of the lips.

He simply nodded. “Sounds interesting.”

“It has its moments. Some days you enjoy matching a nasty face with a lethal bullet.”

Her neighbor chuckled, measuring a piece of lasagna with his knife. “How about this much?”

Was the Pope Catholic? “Gee, I don't want to be greedy.”

“No problem. I made plenty.”

Taylor felt her jaw go slack. “
You're
the cook?”

He slid an éclair onto a plate and added a decadent amount of Belgian chocolate sauce. “My dad always said if a man wanted to eat, he owed it to himself to learn to cook. As a matter of fact, he could cook circles around my mom.” He smiled. “And she liked it just fine that way.”

Taylor forced her mouth closed. Mr. Five-Star Biceps could
cook
?

“Have some while the sauce is still warm.”

She stared down at the plate he'd thrust into her fingers, pretty sure she was on the verge of disgracing herself. “Well, I don't—”

“Go on.” He leaned back against the cabinet, grinning. “Don't tell me you're one of these women who watches every calorie.” There was a glint of challenge in his eyes.

“Well, no, but—”

He slanted a look over her legs, now encased in fake leather capri pants.

Taylor registered the faint look of challenge, and that was her undoing. She took a big bite of éclair—and nearly staggered with the decadent force of the rich chocolate and whipped cream. “Not bad,” she said huskily, licking white froth off her finger.

Her neighbor didn't move. “If you let me watch you eat,” he said slowly, “I'll give you a few more.”

Suddenly the room felt hot. Taylor picked up an electric charge that hadn't been evident seconds before. Maybe she was hallucinating from carbohydrate overdose. “No thanks, I'd probably drool. But I appreciate the food, really. If you ever need some cappuccino, just drop by. Coffee is about the only thing I can manage in the kitchen.”

He crossed his arms, revealing ripped muscles. “I'll keep it in mind. Let me know if the noise bothers you.”

“Sure.” Taylor headed back to the door on autopilot. As she turned to say good-bye, she saw him silhouetted against the big picture window, light falling over his back. His face was in shadow and he didn't look like a carpenter.

Now he looked cool and dangerous.

“Did you say carpentry was your regular job?”

“You have something against carpenters?”

She stared at him in silence. In his face. The cool edge of challenge was back in his face.

“Look, Mr. Broussard, the question wasn't personal. It's just habit for me to watch people. As a writer, part of my work is noticing how people talk, how they move. You look like an athlete. Or maybe a soldier. Definitely not a carpenter.”

He picked up a hammer and shoved it into the tool belt riding low at his waist. “I didn't know that carpenters had any particular look. But trust me, you'll know that's what I am when the banging starts.”

 

Jack Broussard closed the door and frowned. He heard feet tap down the hall and a door close. Quickly he walked into the bedroom and lifted a cardboard box, revealing a state-of-the-art surveillance system and two sets of headphones. He slid on the smaller headphones and fiddled with a dial.

He heard the dead bolt slide home next door, followed by shoes scraping across a wooden floor. Every sound was magnified by the powerful system he'd just installed in the wall adjoining the two apartments.

Dishes scraped in the kitchen. Water ran briefly. A refrigerator door opened, then closed.

Broussard considered her explanation about the bandage on her leg. A bolt that pulled free at ninety feet? The woman was damned lucky she wasn't bloody hamburger in a ravine somewhere. He had to hand her points for courage, if not for intelligence. Rock climbing wasn't like chalking up fifteen minutes on a StairMaster twice a week.

Amateurs never understood that you had to train for danger full time or the training didn't stick. But
was
she an amateur?

He considered the question as he pulled a cell phone from a nearby drawer and punched in a set of numbers that would appear in no phone directory anywhere.

The phone clicked once and the call was relayed to a new location.

Jack entered his password. Silence fell, followed by a pleasant female voice telling him he had reached a nonworking number. He knew the drill so well that he didn't skip a beat. Jack gave his name, asked two short questions, then listened intently.