Читать книгу The Hotter You Burn - Gena Showalter - Страница 8
ОглавлениеBECK WOULD RATHER make a jump rope from his small intestines than accept a change. Change sucked. Even moving to Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, a few months ago had been a special kind of mental and emotional torture for him, and only at the urging of the friends he loved like brothers had he managed it.
He was still adjusting. In the city, he could go to the grocery store or bank without being hassled. Here, everyone stopped him to ask for a favor, or advice, or simply to inquire about what he was doing, as if they had a right to know.
Though Miss Harlow Glass had no idea, she’d already changed his life in more ways than one, and it had nothing to do with her visit today.
“I told you I wouldn’t admit to anything.” She shifted from one sandaled foot to the other. “I meant it.”
He admired her refusal to buckle under the pressure of his narrowed gaze. But every word she uttered was a stroke of sin and heartbreak, and he wasn’t quite prepared for the instant, intense effect she had on him.
“I don’t care what you told me, honey. You don’t make the rules. I do.”
“Rules were made to be broken?”
“Were they? You don’t sound very sure.”
She raised her chin, a pose he recognized.
He knew her, this black-haired beauty with features so feminine, so delicate, his deepest masculine instincts pawed at their cage, ready to be unleashed. She’d invaded his dreams for weeks.
When he, Jase and West had first moved into the Glass house—as everyone in town still called it—Beck had found an old box of photos left behind by the previous owner. In them, a girl ranged in age from infant to adult, every image fascinating him. As a child, Harlow Glass had been sad, haunted and haunting. She’d kept her chin down and her shoulders tucked in, a position he’d adopted far too many times at the same age. An involuntary way of making himself a smaller target.
As she’d grown into a teenager, the sadness had faded, overshadowed by calculated sharpness. A loss of innocence. As she’d blossomed into a woman, her eyes—the most beautiful ocean blue—had projected guilt, sorrow and pain. Emotions reflected back at him every time he looked into a mirror.
A sense of possessiveness had taken up residence inside him, and he’d kept the photos a secret. Not exactly a surprise. A former foster kid, he’d had his toys and clothes taken every six to eight months, causing him to develop a keen distaste for sharing.
In a way, this girl was his.
He’d watched her life unfold. He’d wondered about her, constantly playing host to curiosity and obsession, even scouring the town for her. Now here she was, a gift from heaven dropped straight into his lap, more luscious than he’d imagined.
“I hold your fate in my hands. You might want to give sugar, spice and everything nice a try, honey.”
Peeking at him through the thick shield of her lashes, so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her, she nibbled on her plump bottom lip. “Are you going to call Sheriff Lintz?”
Beck crossed his arms over his chest, pretending he needed a minute to think things over, letting her fret. He didn’t like the thought of this girl in trouble with the law. And yeah, okay, he doubted Harlow would receive more than a slap on the wrist, maybe a little community service for what she’d done, but the stain on her record would follow her for the rest of her life.
“No,” he finally said, making sure to grumble. “I’m not calling the sheriff.”
Relief danced through her eyes, reminding him of cottonwood in the wind. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Honey, I’m sure I’m being as honest with you as you’ve been with me.” Let her stew on that. “I only want answers from you, not a pound of flesh.”
He might be a “cold, unfeeling bastard,” as some of the women he’d slept with had called him when he’d stuck to his word and refused to commit the morning after a one-night stand, but he wasn’t heartless. Harlow used to live in this home, and the foreclosure obviously hadn’t changed her sense of ownership. It wouldn’t have changed his, either. He’d been here only a few months, but he’d have to be pried out with a crane. The fifty-plus acres boasted pecan, cherry and sand plum trees, as well as wild strawberries, blackberry and blueberry patches. Everything Brook Lynn, Jase’s fiancée, needed for her pies.
There was a pool he and his friends had restored, two ponds, one loaded with crappie and bass, and a shed/safe house now fully equipped with weapons and food just in case the zombie apocalypse kicked off. Something Brook Lynn actually feared.
Also, there was the whole theft thing. Harlow didn’t strike him as the law-breaking type. Considering everyone in town hated her and no one would give her a job, she had to be broke and starved.
The thought drove him to the fridge, where he slapped together the ingredients for a turkey sandwich.
“Here,” he said.
“No, no. I couldn’t.” She backed away, though her gaze remained on the food, longing darkening in her eyes.
“You can steal my pie, but can’t accept my sandwich?”
“Allegedly stole. And maybe I learned a lesson about the perils of taking from others.”
“Maybe I don’t want to eat alone.” Though he’d had dinner with Tawny, he made a second sandwich. “Did you ever think of that?”
“Oh! In that case.” Harlow nabbed the offering so fast she probably had whiplash. At first, she tried to eat daintily, a nibble here and there, but she soon gave up the pretense and ripped into the bread with a savagery that broke his damn heart.
Why had she stuck around Strawberry Valley so long? True, the rolling hills and colorful Main Street could have come straight out of a Thomas Kinkade portrait, and the public barbecues, block parties, swim parties, festivals and celebrations for everything from a kid’s orthodontic work to a teenager’s first date were charming enough to seduce even someone like Beck. But Harlow couldn’t support herself here, so why hadn’t she moved to the city and started fresh?
Roots? Something he was only just beginning to understand.
As a young kid he’d lost his mother to cancer and, soon afterward, his father to plain ole selfishness. Daddy Dearest had dropped him off with an aunt and just never come back. After Aunt Millie got tired of him, she’d passed him on to another family member. Rinse and repeat five times over until there was no one left, the entire lot refusing to take him in permanently. He’d become a ward of the state, shuffled from one foster home to another. While some had been nice, others had been bona fide hellholes.
The back door opened, hinges creaking. Jase Hollister stepped into the kitchen with Brook Lynn in tow, the two pink-cheeked and breathless.
“Hey, man.” Jase bumped fists with Beck.
“Hey.”
Jase and West had been stuck in the system with him, and they’d understood him in a way he hadn’t understood himself. They’d bonded at meeting one, and they’d become each other’s only family, sticking together through good times and bad. He loved them. Hell, he would die for them.
Brook Lynn noticed Harlow and frowned. “What’s she doing here?”
Harlow must have endured her limit of insults for the day, because she flipped her hair over her shoulder and said, “Beck saw me and chased me down. He insisted I spend private time with him here at the house.”
He rubbed his fingers over his mouth to hide his grin. “This is true.”
“Beck.” Brook Lynn radiated concern. “You don’t know her or the evil she’s capable of. Don’t sleep with her, please. She’s—”
Jase spoke over his girl, saying, “This is where we part ways,” as he dragged her away.
The past few months had softened him, the man many would call “a hardened criminal.” For once, Beck had to admit a change had been for the best.
After Jase’s nine-year prison stint, he’d needed a fresh start in a new place. He’d picked Strawberry Valley, enamored by the wide-open spaces and community support.
Moving with him had been a no-brainer for Beck, despite the challenges. Being without his friend for so long had been bad enough, but he and West owed Jase more than they could ever repay. And really, that debt was the reason Beck had never complained when Jase renovated the ramshackle farmhouse. The reason he grinned as his surroundings were altered bit by bit.
“I should be going,” Harlow announced.
Beck focused on her. “Nice try, honey, but we still have unfinished business. How did you get inside the house?” He hadn’t seen a single sign of forced entry. Not that he’d been paying much attention before or after he’d chased her down.
“Well...I kind of have a key.” She plucked at an invisible piece of lint on her shirt, adding, “Is now a bad time to mention I don’t like the repairs you’ve made on the house?”
“You do not have a key. Jase changed the locks our first day here.” The guy was distrustful of strangers. They all were. They’d learned to be.
“Well...he may or may not have left the new keys on the porch while he ran to the backyard to get his tools.”
And she’d just happened to be nearby, watching? And none of them had noticed? “As of tomorrow, your key won’t work.”
A flash of fury in her ocean-blues, quickly extinguished by defeat. She put her chin down and hunched her shoulders, the same pose she’d struck in so many of the pictures. “Yeah. I figured.”
Damn it. His chest began to ache. How many knocks had this girl taken in her young life?
And why did he even care? Yes, her pictures had intrigued him. Yes, she was hot as hell. But devoting so much time and energy to one woman wasn’t his MO.
“If you were hungry, why didn’t you come to the door and ask us for food?”
She went ramrod straight. “I didn’t—I don’t—need your help.”
Ah. Pride. The downfall of so many. He’d once tried to convince himself he didn’t need anyone, either, that he was fine on his own. Meanwhile, anytime he’d spotted a happy family, he’d felt as though he were being run over by a car.
“You did—you do—need my help, or you wouldn’t be here.” As she glared at him, he added, “How’d you lose the house, anyway?”
“That’s none of your business,” she stated flatly.
“You blew through your mother’s insurance money. Got it.” The day of the purchase, the broker had prattled on about the Glass bully losing her mom earlier in the year and refusing to lower herself by getting a job. Beck had only half listened at the time and had regretted it with every fiber of his being since finding the box of photos. Now he tried to dredge up any other information he might have heard without any luck. “What are you, Harlow Glass?”
Her lips pursed, drawing his gaze and holding it hostage. Those lips were better than the pictures had promised. Plump and red, the kind every man fantasized about devouring...and being devoured by. She shifted from foot to foot, more nervous now than when she’d first arrived.
“What do you mean? What am I? What kind of question is that?”
“The legit kind. What do you do for a living? Are you a life coach? Accountant? Underwear model?” He looked her over, careful to avoid the dangerous beauty of her face—but the rest of her proved just as detrimental to his mental health. “Femme fatale?”
“I’m not a heartbreaker, that’s for sure. Not like some people I’ve recently met.”
“Meaning me?”
“Yes, you,” she said with a nod. “Who else? You’ve never dated the same woman twice. Not since you’ve been here, at least.”
Or ever. “So?” Yes, he slept around. But why not? Sex felt good and for a few hours, he could drown himself in pleasure. No thoughts. No problems. No worries. His version of therapy.
“So. I wasn’t finished. You’ve got a woman in your bedroom right this second, but you’re still out here—” she waved her arm around the kitchen “—flirting with me.”
“This isn’t flirting, sweetheart. This is an interrogation.”
“Ha! An interrogation implies I’m being threatened, but the only part of me currently in any danger is my mouth. You’re staring.”
Was he? “Am I scaring you...or exciting you?”
Her eyes widened. “N-neither.”
A stutter. Adorable. “Let’s find out how you react to actual flirting.” He prowled his way around the counter.
She stepped back, once, twice, and would have again but the stove stopped her retreat. A sense of triumph overtook him as he placed his hands at her sides, caging her. He leaned in and brushed the tip of his nose against hers, the heady scent of strawberries and pecans teasing him. “If every guy you’ve ever met hasn’t looked at your lips with animal hunger,” he said, his voice low and husky with need he couldn’t hide, “I’d be shocked.”
She traced her fingertips over the lips in question, the action so inherently sensual, so damned innocent, he would have given anything to corrupt... To steal a taste.
Tit for tat, one dessert for another.
“Prepare to be shocked,” she whispered.
“Foolish men.” Up close, he could see little details the pictures had missed. The curl in her midnight lashes. The smattering of freckles on her nose. The rose-colored flush under her cheeks. “But let’s get to the heart of the matter, honey. You owe me, and not just for the food. For the mental anguish I’ve suffered.”
“Mental anguish,” she echoed.
“That’s right.” He leaned forward the barest inch, drawn by a force he could not control, and his chest brushed against hers.
She inhaled sharply, exhaled fast and shallow, an instinctive action born of awareness, and just like that, he was as rigid as steel.
“A part of me died with that pie,” he said, caressing the side of his nose against hers.
“Died.” Another echo.
“Mmm.” His lips hovered just short of kissing hers, their breaths intermingling, and damn. How was not touching this woman more carnal than getting another naked? “I asked what you are because I need to know how I can devise a sufficient payment. Do you know how painful it is to crave something with every fiber of your being? To want it more than you want water to drink?”
“I do.” She melted into him, all her softness fusing to his aching hardness. “I really, really do.”
How close was she to surrender?
He cut back a curse. The answer didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. She wasn’t here for sex, and what she’d said before was true. Another woman waited in his bedroom. While he had the morals of an alley cat, he refused to make out with one female while another waited in his bed. It was a line he never wanted to cross.
Back on track. “That’s how badly I want...the pie.”
Horrified realization dawned, and she pushed him away. A puny action, but he willingly stepped back.
“Thanks for the taste of your flirting,” she said with a sneer, “but as you can see, it left a foul taste in my mouth.”
No. She’d gotten lost in the moment. Hell, he’d gotten lost in the moment.
She opened her mouth, closed it. “Look. I’m sorry I stole your pie. Okay? I guess... Well, I was resentful. You’re living in my house, where I’m supposed to be, and I just... I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“I accept your apology.”
“Great. I guess I’ll be going now.” She attempted to circle him, but he stretched out an arm, stopping her.
“You’ll find all the ingredients in the fridge and pantry, and the dishes in the cabinets beside the sink.”
She sputtered for a moment. “Forgiveness shouldn’t come with strings.”
“I’m giving you a chance to put words into action, to prove you mean what you say and help ease the pain of my loss.”
“Fine.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll bake for you.”
Sexiest. Phrase. Ever. “You can start with a pie and finish with a cake, a dozen cookies and cupcakes.”
“Wow, that’s quite a bit of interest.”
“Did I mention I’m feeling quite a bit of pain?”
She glared daggers at him. “I hope you like your pies, cakes, cookies and cupcakes with char. I’ve never baked a dessert I haven’t burned.”
“You can’t be that bad.”
“Want to bet?” Her hips swayed seductively as she ambled to the far side of the kitchen and pointed to a smear of black on the fan over the oven, the one thing Jase had yet to replace. “What has two thumbs and ruins everything she touches?” She hiked her thumbs at her chest. “This girl.”
Well, hell. “Forget baking. What do you suggest you do to balance the scales?”
She twirled a strand of her hair and said, “I can... I don’t know... Garden? I couldn’t help but notice the disgraceful appearance of the roses.”
“Neither could we. When we moved in.” For weeks the guys had bugged him to hire a landscaper, a task he was responsible for rather than Jase because he expected everything from mowing to weed pulling to be done a certain way—his way—or done again. But he’d put off the hire, not wanting to deal with the chaos of yet another new person in his life.
But...as Harlow tended the overgrown rosebushes out back, he could stealthily question her about her past, assuage his curiosity about her and finally move on. Moving on was familiar. He liked familiar.
“All right,” he said, punctuating the words with a nod. “You can start tomorrow morning. Unless you have a job I don’t know about?”
“I don’t. I’ll be here bright and early.”
His suspicious nature came out swinging. “How do you pay rent? For that matter, where do you rent?”
A flash of panic, quickly gone. “Look. It’s late. I’m exhausted.” She peered longingly at the exit. “I need to leave. Okay?”
Not okay. Alarm bells clanged inside his head. “Where are you living, Harlow?”
“Well, you see, when I said I didn’t have a job, I meant I didn’t have a job I was proud of.” She laughed almost manically. “I’m, uh, well... I’m a stripper. Yep, that’s right. I take off my clothes and dance on a pole for a living, and I make lots of money. Tons of money. So much. I have the most amazing apartment. In the city. Right by the strip club. Where I work.”
“What’s the name of the strip club?”
“Boobie Bungalow,” she offered without missing a beat, more confident in her story now.
He nearly choked on his tongue. Liar, Liar.
“What?” She glowered at him. “It’s very exclusive.”
“I should know. I’m a very exclusive man, and I’ve been there.”
“You have?” she squeaked.
“I have.” Clients sometimes preferred to do business while doling out singles. “I don’t remember seeing you, and you’re not the kind of woman I’d forget.”
“Well, uh, I just started.”
He offered his most innocent grin before going in for the kill. “I have an idea. Why don’t we work off your debt another way? You come over tomorrow, as planned, but rather than gardening, you’ll give me a lap dance.”
The color drained from her cheeks as she pulled at the collar of her shirt. “No. I’ve got my heart set on gardening.”
“You’re sure? I can score you afterward, give you pointers on how to do a better job next time.”
“Very sure.”
He released an exaggerated sigh. “All right. But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
“But if you do, my answer is yes.” He escorted her to the front door. “Until tomorrow, Harlow Glass.”
She gulped. “Until tomorrow, Beck Ockley.”
As she raced onto the porch, he noticed there were no cars in the driveway and called, “How are you getting home, honey?”
She stopped, but kept her back to him. “Just because you can’t see an adorable little Camaro down the street doesn’t mean it’s not there, does it?” She raced off then, as quick as her feet would carry her.
Something was off. He had to curb the urge to go after her as he shut the door. Holding a woman against her will would only cause problems, and not just the moral variety. He and his friends could not afford another run-in with the law.
Jase had paid dearly for the last one.
Ten years ago, West’s girlfriend had been assaulted at a frat party. Tessa’s tearful confession had sparked an unstoppable rage in all three of them. Jase and Beck had loved her like a sister.
Together, they’d hunted down the bastard responsible and beat him into blood and pulp. They should have walked away, let him heal and the system punish him for his crime, but they hadn’t been the most emotionally stable guys at the best of times and they’d continued whaling.
Thoughts that seemed to have no bearing on the situation had bombarded Beck. Thoughts of the foster mom who’d introduced him to sex at the age of fourteen. He’d remembered how every illicit touch had filled him with guilt and shame, but had also made him feel good, even special. How he’d told himself time and time again that pleasing her would earn her love; she would keep him, and they would be a family. And later, when she’d let him move on to the next house with a smile and a wave goodbye, how he’d cried. As he’d punched and kicked Tessa’s assailant, he’d poured his frustration, betrayal and anger with his own past into every blow.
The rapist—Pax Gillis—had died on the blood-soaked ground.
Beck had never forgotten his name, had never quite shaken the tide of remorse.
He should have paid a terrible price for helping end someone’s life—even if the life belonged to scum. But he and West had been spared, Jase taking the fall on his own, wanting his friends to have a chance to pursue their dreams, demanding they stay quiet. Because they operated by a single rule—what one demands, the others do, no questions asked—they’d acquiesced, but over the years their guilt and remorse had only deepened.
Beck should have come forward at some point, if only to try to reduce Jase’s sentence. A dime to a nickel, maybe. Finally doing something good with his life. Under his watch, Tessa had ended up dying in a car crash after a fight with West, and West had ended up high on coke, losing his scholarship to MIT.
Beck wasn’t even the one who’d helped West get clean. The guy had done it all on his own, going on to create a computer program Beck, a born salesman, was able to unload for millions, allowing them to split the shares three ways, investing Jase’s portion for him to enjoy upon his release from prison.
And damn, Beck needed a beer. No, he needed a distraction from his troubles. Thankfully one waited in his bedroom.
He stalked down the hall, opened the door. Feminine clothing littered his floor, leading to the bed...where Tawny reclined, naked and ready.
“I’ve missed you.” She ran a fingertip between the heavy weight of her breasts. “Tell me you got rid of the wicked witch of the Southwest, and I’ll do bad, bad things to you.”
“She isn’t a witch, and we’re not going to talk about her.” He kicked the door shut. “But you are still going to do those bad, bad things.”
