The Hotter You Burn (4 page)

The two were with an unfamliar man and woman dressed in business-formal clothes. Both were attractive, and though the male looked to be in his late thirties, the woman, an elegant redhead, looked to be in her late twenties. Roughly the same age as Harlow and yet a thousand times more successful.

Talk about a knife through the heart.

Was Lady Successful a new conquest of Beck's? Or a soon-to-be conquest? Did she know he'd move on in the morning?

Beck muttered something to the group, and Harlow took off. No reason to stick around, and every reason not to. But he shocked her by racing across the street and keeping pace beside her.

“I'm surprised to see you out and about,” he said.

Oh, his voice! She'd forgotten how deep and husky it could get, every word he uttered a promise.

Gaze drawn to him by a force she couldn't control, she looked up. He was peering at her, too, and between one moment and the next, the air charged with electricity. Whispers of sensation brushed over her skin, leaving goose bumps behind.

“Expected me to still be slaving away in your garden?” she managed.

“Something like that.” Heavy-lidded eyes swept over her, powerful, sensual...almost possessive. “Are you headed into the city for your shift at the Boobie Bungalow?”

Her cheeks burned as she remembered the story she'd told him. It wasn't a lie if she believed it, right? As a lover of romance novels, she'd often fantasized about being a woman down on her luck—could be a stripper, why not—rescued by the prince of some distant land.

“Maybe I've got the week off. Maybe the other girls lose money when I'm there, and I thought I'd give them a chance to make rent.”

“How kind of you.” The corners of his mouth curled up, his amusement as seductive as the rest of him. “Where are you headed, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.
Her heart skipped a treacherous beat, her blood heating dangerously, making her sweat, and dang it, she hated herself for reacting so strongly to something that meant absolutely nothing to him. He called every woman he met by an endearment. Which irritated her because... Just because.

He needed a spoonful of his own medicine, the way she was often forced to taste hers.

“I'm going to the library, sugar tush. Why?”

“That's my question.” He flattened his palm between her shoulder blades, sliding it down the ridges of her spine, stopping just above the curve of her bottom. The touch was innocent, nothing overtly sexual to it, and yet it frazzled her nerves. “Why are you going to the library?”

As she opened her mouth to respond—what she would say, she didn't know—Tim Whatson sidled up to Beck's other side.

“Hey, man. Can we talk?”

Beck stiffened before fisting the hem of Harlow's shirt, forcing her to stop with him. The backs of his knuckles brushed against her, skin to heated skin, and tendrils of something hot and dark shot through her.

Need more. Now.

“Hey,” he said to Tim, whom he obviously knew. Was he oblivious to the cravings he'd just stirred inside her? “How's it going?”

“Not so good. I need your help. My girlfriend is tee-icked. I forgot our three-month anniversary, and she's threatening to leave me. What should I do?”

Beck, the new Dear Abby? “You should give her a thoughtful, personal gift. There's nothing more thoughtful or personal than a portrait, and I happen to have an opening in my schedule. I could—”

“What do you think, Beck?” Tim said, interrupting her.

“Give her a thoughtful, personal gift,” Beck replied. “There's nothing more thoughtful or personal than a portrait.”

Tim nodded as if he'd just received the answer to every prayer, and Beck released her to gently push her forward.

“Now,” he said. “Where were we?”

Your skin against mine...
“Uh, I was telling you how I ruined your rosebushes this morning—by accident!—and how I'm headed to the library to learn how to fix them. You were in the process of forgiving me.”

“Hold up a sec.” He darted in front of her.

Unprepared, she slammed into his powerful chest and ricocheted backward. His arms wrapped around her to cage her and hold her steady.

“Whoa. I've got you.”

Her every pulse point suddenly leaped, and as she peered up at him, the rest of the world vanished, every second revolving around Beck alone. Her chest pressed against his, her breath coming faster and shallower, as if the air between them had somehow thickened.

“You okay?” he asked, the gleam in his eyes anything but concerned. Instead, the hot and dark thing she'd felt earlier was now reflected back to her.

“No. I mean yes. Maybe. I don't know.”

His hand swept up, up, his fingers soon toying with the hairs at her nape, tickling. “I think you mean
yes, Beck, you make everything better
.”

She shivered and grabbed a handful of his shirt. The hard line of his body shifted subtly but definitely, ensuring he consumed what remained of her personal space. He stared at her lips...

Did he desire her?

She wanted him to desire her.

No. No. He wasn't the man for her, wasn't steady or reliable. Fortifying her resolve, she stepped away from him, and in an instant, the world crashed back into focus. She sucked in a mouthful of strawberry-scented air, only then realizing she'd been breathing in the man's heady musk—a musk that had clearly drugged her.

He shook his head and frowned. “Let's backtrack. You ruined my roses?”

“Yes. So now you know my newest crime. You should return to your meeting. Don't let me keep you.”

Beck, ever the ladies' man, winked at her. “Why would I want to have lunch with business associates when I can pore through dusty old books and learn how to garden with the cutest little pie stealer in town?”

Said without a crumb of resentment. Said with relish. Had he truly forgiven her? Did he actually
want
to spend time with her? Excitement bloomed—only to be dashed by disappointment. He had a knack for making every woman he met feel special, and she couldn't forget again.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I work better alone.”

“You only think so because you've never worked with me. Come on.” He looped an arm over her shoulders and urged her forward, the contact almost too much to her touch-starved senses. The handful of women they passed peered at him with longing, then glared at Harlow, but he didn't seem to notice. “When we finish at the library, we'll grab lunch and you'll tell me all about your childhood.”

“You'll be bored.”

“I'll be riveted, guaranteed. You're an incredibly interesting subject, Miss Glass.”

A line. Surely. Just to be contrary, she said, “Should I start with my first period?”

“See?” The low, gravelly tone had returned. He squeezed her tighter, and she just couldn't help herself; she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I'm already foaming-at-the-mouth eager for the details.”

“Only fair to warn you. My childhood will make you cry. And if it doesn't, you need prayer.”

“That bad, huh?”

Worse. “Will you tell me about
your
childhood?”

“Does my childhood include stories about you?” he asked good-naturedly.

There he went, deflecting. “Maybe it does. For all I know, you're the boy who visited Strawberry Valley every summer and spent his nights peeping inside my bedroom window.”

“Hardly. I never would have been content to remain outside. I would have climbed in. And yes, you would have invited me. I would have made sure of it.”

“So sure of yourself.” She tsk-tsked despite her breathlessness. “I was an ice queen. I would have ignored you.”

“I was a blowtorch. I would have melted you.”

She snort-laughed, then sighed.
He's charming me too easily.
“If you want to know about my childhood, fine.” The thought of food was too heady to resist. “As long as I get to pick where we eat and you pay for everything.” Besides the sandwich he'd given her yesterday, she'd only eaten what she'd managed to forage—two pecans the squirrels left behind.

He ran his fingers up and down her arm, saying, “You're not even going to make a token play for the check?”

Ignore the earth-shattering tingles. Ignore the delicious burn.
“Are you kidding? Never!”

He chuckled, and a moment later they reached the library, a little red-and-white building in the center of town. A set of cement stairs led to French doors, and four columns held up a wraparound parapet. An American flag flew proudly at one side while the town banner flew on the other, the latter showcasing a bloom with white petals and a bright yellow center.

“Wait.” A flare of panic overshadowed her good humor as Beck tried to escort her inside. She dug in her heels. “I need a moment to prepare myself.”

“For what?”

For what would surely be a humiliating experience. One he would witness.

Oh, crap! She tore away from his grip. The thought of being subjected to people's ire in front of this perfect man was simply too much to bear. “I'll wait out here. You go in and get the books, okay?
Then
we'll eat.”

“And do all the heavy lifting myself?” Beck shook his head. “No. We do this together.”

Sweat beaded over her brow and upper lip, even dripped down her nape, which was odd since ice crystals had sprouted inside her veins. “I'm just... I'm not going in there. Okay?”

“What, you don't want to be seen with me?” He arched a brow at her. “What if I promise to make it worth your while?”

He didn't understand. A guy like him, so blessed in every area of his life, would never understand.

She backed away from him, saying, “I'm sorry, Beck, but I just remembered I'm needed at work. Private party.” She turned and rushed away, never looking back.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
HE
 
NEXT
 
DAY
, Beck had a meeting in Oklahoma City. He decided to use the opportunity to find a new distraction.

He'd tossed and turned all night, his mind a volcano of activity. He knew he wasn't good enough for long-term anything with anybody, but Harlow had taken it to a whole other level by refusing to be seen in public with him. She'd actually run away from him.

He wished he'd never seen the photos of her, wished he'd never spied her across the road yesterday, looking adorable with dirt streaked on her cheeks and arms, her hair so black it gleamed blue in the sunlight, her skin rosy, the smattering of freckles more evident than usual. She'd been fan-freaking-tastically adorable. A Country Girl Gone Wild fantasy he hadn't known he'd had.

Her white shirt had been so thin, so damp with perspiration, he'd seen the outline of her bra. A sensible white cotton somehow sexier than red lace just because it nestled against
her
. It hadn't helped when her nipples puckered before his eyes.

Desire for her had come swift and sharp, strong enough to make him crazy, to make him pant like a dog. His mouth had watered at the thought of tasting her, and his hands had itched to touch her. If she'd given him any encouragement at all, he would have gladly spent the rest of the day feasting on her.

But she hadn't encouraged him, and now he was glad. Harlow Glass was nothing like the women he usually pursued; she wasn't looking for a good time, and she wouldn't go quietly in the morning. She'd already expressed curiosity about his past and would have demanded stories about his childhood as soon as she'd told stories about her own.

She was a complication he didn't need, so, he'd find someone else. Easily. And he'd do it today.

The pencil in his hand snapped in half.

Dane Michaelson's newest assistant... Sarah? Samantha? Whatever. She rushed over to pick up the pieces and give him a new one. He looked her over. She was understated but pretty, with brown hair and piercing green eyes. Not that it mattered. A woman was a woman. And he could have this one. She would take him however she could get him, and for the few hours he spent between her legs, he could fool himself into believing everything was okay. No thoughts. No problems. No worries, he reminded himself. Only pleasure.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Good. This was good. This was familiar.

“That will be all, Sasha,” Dane said. “Thank you.”

She sauntered out of the office, casting Beck a final peek over her shoulder. He winked at her.

“You surprise me. Flirting? At a business meeting?” Dane sat across from him, relaxed behind an elaborate desk constructed from salvaged wood. For a billionaire oil tycoon, he was absurdly young. Twenty-eight, Beck's age. They'd known each other for...what? Close to six years now? Though they'd merely traded phone calls up until recently.

The guy had grown up in Strawberry Valley and even though he'd moved to the big, bad city for a number of years, he'd never been able to cut ties with his hometown, even tattooing his arms with wild strawberries.

“And now you ignore me,” Dane muttered. “We've been sitting in silence for a full ten minutes. You want to tell me about the new security program or not? That
is
the reason you're here, isn't it?”

“We both know you're going to buy it no matter what I say. West does quality work and you won't find a better system anywhere else.”

“Can we at least pretend to negotiate?”

“No. I'd rather talk about Harlow Glass. Do you know her?” Damn it. What happened to washing his hands of her?

What the hell made her so special? Yes, he'd seen pictures of her during childhood. Yes, he had an insane need to know more about the girl she'd been and the woman she'd become. But this seeming obsession with her did not fit his character.

“Know?” Dane said. “No. Know of? Yes. She went from shy and sugar-sweet to barbwire-mean overnight, eventually becoming the meanest girl in elementary school.” He worked his jaw. “She used to make Kenna cry.”

Kenna, Dane's fiancée, was as tough as nails, so it was hard to imagine her breaking down, and equally hard to imagine Harlow the wannabe stripper as a school-yard terror. But then, most people probably didn't look at him and see a murderer.

Dane eyed him thoughtfully. “Why the interest in her?”

“She and I have unfinished business.” He offered no more, his feelings too personal—too raw. “What else do you know about her?”

“Not much. I once overhead Kenna and Brook Lynn talking about her, and from what I gathered, she dropped out of public school her junior year in favor of being homeschooled and after that, she rarely left her house.” Dane leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against the edge of his desk. “I must admit, your curiosity surprises me more than anything else.”

“Why?”

“For the first time in our history, you've turned a business meeting into a personal gabfest.”

He had, hadn't he? Damn it! It was a small change, but a change nonetheless.

He adjusted his tie before standing a little too swiftly. “All right. Meeting adjourned. I'll tell West you want his new program as soon as possible, and you'll be paying full asking price.”

“You could at least give me the friendship discount.”

“Full asking price
is
the friendship discount. Everyone else will have to pay double.” He strode out of the office before he did something stupid, like ask more questions about Harlow.

The assistant spotted him and leaped to her feet, smoothing her skirt. “Leaving so soon, Mr. Ockley?”

Not just the perfect distraction, he decided, but the perfect means to an end. Harlow
wasn't
anything special to him, and she wouldn't usher in any more changes; he would prove it. “Now that my eyes are on you,” he said, leaning against the counter in front of her, “leaving is the last thing on my mind.”

She batted her lashes at him, playfully twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. “Thank you. I'm flattered.”

“Then I'm pleased.” But was he? He'd said the words by rote, with a definite lack of enthusiasm. Where was his enjoyment? His sense of victory?

Or was this yet another change to place at Harlow's door?

“Will you have dinner with me?” he asked, his hands fisting.

Green eyes widened, a cherry-red mouth forming a small O. “I... Yes. When?”

“How about tonight? The sooner I see you again the better.”
That
he meant with every fiber of his being.

She practically hummed with excitement as she rattled off her digits.

“I'll be counting the minutes.”

By the time Beck made it home, the farmhouse was empty. West was at the office, while Brook Lynn and Jase were out delivering sandwiches for her catering business, You've Got It Coming.

Beck threw his briefcase on his bedroom floor and sank into the chair in front of his desk, where pictures of Harlow were scattered. He went still. Sad ocean-water eyes stared up at him, holding his gaze captive, silently beseeching him to help...to save. His gut knotted. He was no one's savior. He was too screwed up.

Look at him. He bounced from moment to moment without any thought for the future. He broke into a sweat at the mere thought of commitment. He had an all-consuming hatred for change. His first sexual experience had been with a married maternal figure. He'd helped kill a man in a fistfight, and then allowed his best friend to rot in prison for nine years.

Beck anchored his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his upraised hands. Clearly he needed someone to save
him
.

As if he could be saved.

But...maybe it wasn't too late for Harlow. While he wasn't a savior, there
were
things even a guy like him could do to help. Like set her up financially, maybe even move her into the city where she wouldn't be reviled at every turn. And bonus for him: she would be out of sight, out of mind.

Yes. He picked up the landline and started making calls, putting the wheels in motion to set up a trust in Harlow's name, telling his real estate agent what kind of home to search for in Oklahoma City. Then he called West.

“You in front of a computer?” he asked in lieu of a greeting.

“Are you a top contender for banging the most women in any given year?”

“I'll take that as a yes. Work your magic and tell me how Harlow Glass has been making money.” To survive as long as she had, she had to be bringing in a little cash from somewhere.

“All right.” Fingers click-clacked over a keyboard, one minute bleeding into another. “Okay, this is strange.”

“What?”

“My superpower is finding information—nice trust you're setting up for her, by the way—but I can't locate Harlow's place of employment. Or where she's been staying. She has no known address and hasn't paid taxes. She has zero credit cards and no checking account. She doesn't have a tag registered for a vehicle.”

Damn. “Thanks, West.”

“Anytime, my man. Sorry I couldn't be of more help.”

“No worries. Just...do me a solid and keep digging.” He hung up, mind racing. Where the hell was Harlow staying? How was she getting around? How was she eating?

The answer to that last one seemed an unequivocal
she wasn't
, and for a moment, his vision went black, rage boiling to the surface. No one should have to live that way, and whether Harlow liked it or not, he wasn't going to stand for it in her case.

* * *

L
ATE
 
THE
 
NEXT
 
AFTERNOON
, Beck was ready for a straitjacket and a padded room. They'd make a nice vacation. Harlow hadn't shown up to work on the garden that morning, and he'd had no luck finding her in town. He'd asked around, but no one had seen her. A couple of people had offered to round up a lynch mob and go hunting for her, and he'd had to curb the urge to respond with his fists. She seemed to have disappeared into the ether.

Now he racked the balls on one of the most expensive pool tables ever made, the outer shell a limited edition 1965 Shelby GT 350. Normally he took great care with every inch of it.
My precious.
Today, he wanted to rip out the felt and pull the metal and wood apart piece by piece.

His date with Sandra...Sally?...could have made a Worst Ever list. He'd thought about Harlow all evening, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Frustrated with the lack of answers, he'd turned up the heat with
S
girl until she'd practically begged him to stay the night at her place. There was no better distraction than sex, but as she'd undressed, his mind had returned to Harlow yet again. He'd thought of the nice steak dinner he'd just enjoyed and wondered if she'd had any dinner at all.

Little surprise he'd failed to get an erection while a beautiful woman writhed on his lap.

He'd left without doing the deed, and the humiliation still lingered.

“Your turn,” Jase said, snapping fingers in front of his face.

Beck swiped up his cue and nearly broke the wood in two, so tight was his grip.

“Careful. What's with you?”

“I'm fine.” No way he'd dump his problems in Jase's lap. The guy had carried too many burdens for too long. Beck would die before he added another.

“Don't lie. Not to us.”

The statement came from West, who rose from the bench press Jase had installed earlier in the week. Though he'd built a workout room in the back of the house, more and more equipment was migrating into other areas of the house, allowing anyone in the mood to exercise to spend time with those who weren't.

Dark locks of hair were plastered to West's face, and he used the shirt he'd discarded to wipe his brow. Sweat dripped down the ropes of muscle and sinew in his chest, bypassing his only tattoo: the name
Tessa
etched over his heart.

He snatched the cue from Beck. “Bad boys don't get to play the greatest game ever invented.”

At six-two—two inches taller than Beck—West was his staunchest competition in the meat market. Not that they'd ever competed. West only dated for two months out of the year, picking one female and staying with her the entire time, only to dump her for some made-up reason when the clock zeroed out.

He had his reasons, so Beck didn't fault him. “Okay, all right.” Beck held up his hands, palms out. “You got me. I'm not fine, but I will be. There's no need to worry.”

“We'll worry if we want to worry,” Jase said. “We haven't seen you this worked up since you went parking with Kara Bradburry in the tenth grade.”

West barked out a laugh. “Dude. You were so nervous, shaking so hard, you couldn't even unhook her bra.”

At the time, his only experience had come from a woman more than twice Kara's age, who'd told him what to do every step of the way.

Great. Now he needed a drink.

He grabbed a beer from the minifridge and downed half. “Like you guys did any better with your dates.” Back then, the three of them had seen nothing wrong with semipublic make-out sessions, because they were teenagers and teenagers were stupid, the males most of all; they had two brains and the one down south usually made the most important life decisions. It went something like:
Her. Her. Not her—fine, she'll do.

West lined up a shot and with his gaze on Beck, sank a solid in the corner pocket. “Let me guess. This is about Harlow Glass.”

Just the mention of her name proved last night's limp-wood experience had been an anomaly, and it pissed him off as much as it relieved him.

“She's pretty,” Jase said, his tone conversational.