Ash Rising (DEAd Series) (24 page)

“What’s he doing in Toronto, then?” she whispered.

He turned to glance at her, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “I imagine they’re circling the wagons.”

He let go of her hand, and she regretted the loss. Rubbing her palm absently against her denim-covered leg didn’t diminish the tingle his touch left in its wake. “Circling the wagons?”

“Rico and Gina are dead. So’s Slick. One by one, everyone in Salvatore’s closest circle, everyone involved with what happened two years ago, is being picked off. Bet that makes the rest of them a little nervous. That’s why I find it interesting to see Clay. I suspected he was the one they brought in to rig the explosives in my apartment. He’s the go-to guy for that kind of stuff. The fact he’s here…”

His jaw worked, and his hand clenched against his thigh. She started to cover his fingers with her own to offer comfort but felt awkward about making such an intimate gesture. He’d given no indication he’d welcome any personal contact between them. Just because she wanted to touch him didn’t mean he felt the same way.

A short time later, Tommy and the other man exited the house, got into the sedan, and drove away. Clay Patrick remained inside, and after a few more minutes, Ash nudged Emma and gestured with his head they should leave. He waited until they were out of sight of the house before he spoke.

“He’s tucked in for the night. Pete will put the house and warehouse under surveillance, so there’s no point sticking around.”

“Oh, goody.” Emma slogged behind him. Oh, to be at her apartment and standing under a hot, steaming shower.

They eventually reached the dirt road where he’d parked the Mustang. Beaulieu went around to the trunk, and she glanced down at her mud-coated clothes and boots. He wouldn’t want her in his car covered with filth.

“Go ahead and sit.” His head appeared around the open trunk and he tipped his chin toward the passenger door. “If you wouldn’t mind taking your shoes off, I’d appreciate it.”

Emma nodded, wiping her hands on her thighs and dusting the seat of her jeans off in a futile attempt to make them less grimy. She sat in the passenger seat and toed off her boots, glancing up when he appeared in front of her.

“Here.” He handed her a rag to wipe her hands and took her boots. She heard some banging and the trunk closing before he slid into the driver’s seat. Without his shoes. For some reason, on him, barefoot was…sexy. She swallowed and forced her eyes back to his face. Yeah. That was sexy, too.

His fingers drummed on the wheel before he turned to her with a determined expression. “Listen. We’re closer to my house than we are to town. We should just go there and clean up, grab something to eat because I’m starving, and then I’ll bring you back to your apartment. Okay with you?”

“Okay.” She wondered what she’d wear. She wondered what he’d wear. She wondered.

“Okay.” He sat and stared at her. “Good. Yeah. Okay.”

With a definitive nod, he started the car and ignored her when she slid her eyes to his frowning face. Dusk fell as they rode in silence toward the lake, and he eventually turned into the long, tree-lined drive of a sprawling cape-cod style home.

“This is yours? It’s beautiful.”

The gardens and lawn were well tended, the house sitting majestically amid flowering plants and bushes. The setting reminded Emma of an old English garden right on Lake Simcoe.

“My parents’,” he said, pulling into the garage. “Mine now.”

She followed him through the door that opened into the kitchen—lots of stainless steel and cherry cabinets. He tossed his keys on the dark granite counter, and her gaze wandered to his bare feet again. Feet weren’t sexy.
Damn it.

“There’s a guest room.” He gestured down the hall. “Has an attached bath. I can give you clean sweats and a shirt that should fit well enough until I get you home.”

“Okay. Thanks. It’ll be good to get clean. Get the mud off, I mean. Not that I mind being dirty. Dirty’s okay sometimes, but—” With great willpower, she forced herself to stop babbling and walked resolutely in the direction he’d indicated. She didn’t have anything to be nervous about, just because she was about to strip down in his house, and, presumably, he was, too. Nope, no reason for nerves, imagining that long, luscious body naked with water sluicing over skin, trickling over sculpted muscle…

A smile curved his perfectly shaped mouth. He followed her to the spare room and paused at the open door. “Use whatever you need, and let me know if there’s something I can do to you.”

She glanced up sharply at the innuendo, wondering if she’d misheard, knowing she hadn’t. He gave her a bland stare and almost pulled the innocent act off, but the amusement in his eyes gave him away.

“
For
you, I mean. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do
for
you.”

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. After ogling his back until he disappeared down the hall, she stumbled into the well-appointed guest room and fanned her face. Mind. Gutter. Out.

The attached bathroom was stocked with necessities and even included a hair dryer. Emma scrubbed until she was pink-skinned and squeaky-haired, used the dryer, and peered out the door with a towel wrapped around her naked body. Her bra was salvageable, having escaped the dousing in mud and muck, but she couldn’t bring herself to put her underwear on over clean skin. A pair of sweats and a man’s button-up shirt lay on the bed, and she grabbed them to her chest before darting back into the bathroom. The pants fit well enough—she was tall, and they had a drawstring waist. The shirt was a bit large but would work, so she buttoned the front and rolled the sleeves. Running a hand through her hair, she gave one last glance at her face in the mirror and grimaced. No cosmetics with her, so nothing she could do.

She checked her weapon and slid the pistol into a drawer of the dresser along with her ID and phone. Following the muted sounds of a television, she padded barefoot down the hall to the wide family room. Her gaze snapped to Ash’s figure seated in a large leather chair when he turned the TV off and set the remote on a table.

“Feel better?” he asked. “Find everything you need?”

“Yes. Thank you. You have an amazing home, Inspector.”

The leather furniture reflected a classic, comfortable design, and shelves filled with books, knick-knacks, and photographs lined the walls. She wandered over to the pictures when he didn’t reply but remained in the chair to watch her.

A large, framed portrait of a man and woman held a place of honor on a middle shelf—obviously his parents. He had the woman’s coloring and the man’s eyes. Surrounding the photograph were a number of others showing him at various ages with the couple in the portrait, by himself, and with friends.
She glanced across the room, hoping he hadn’t noticed her curiosity.

He slouched in the over
stuffed leather chair, long denim-covered legs extended and crossed at the ankles. She followed the lean lines up to his waist, where the heavy material formed fascinating wrinkles and bunches. Her mouth went dry, and she moved on to where the thin cotton of his white T-shirt clung to his flat belly and swelled over his upper chest. One muscled arm supported the elbow of the other on his stomach, and his long fingers rested against his full lower lip. Her focus lingered for a second, watched those fingers press and pull teasingly at that lip, before shooting up to meet his amused gaze. She flushed but held his stare, bluffing her way through the embarrassment of getting caught admiring him. Everyone had to admire him in some fashion or another. He was made to be admired. He was sex incarnate.

“You look
so young in these pictures.” Her voice sounded husky, as if she was aroused, because…she was aroused, damn him.

He nodded slowly. He didn’t speak
or move his stare from hers.

“What were you—
late teens? Early twenties?” Clearing her throat did nothing to rid herself of the traitorous heaviness in her chest, abdomen, and lower.

He nodded again.

She glanced back at the photographs on the bookshelves. He and his friends appeared young and carefree, like they were having fun—so unlike the silent, brooding man before her.

“I’ll bet you were fun to be around back then.” She froze
, and her gaze skittered away from his. She hadn’t meant to sound like he wasn’t usually fun. Well, not exactly.

“You wouldn’t have spent more than two seconds in my company back then.”
His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used his vocal cords in a while. She started at the sound, as she hadn’t been expecting him to respond. “I would have taken one look at you, made some comment I thought was clever but would have probably pissed you off, and you would have dumped me right on my fine ass.”

She snorted. “Please, Beaulieu. Who
says you have a fine ass?”

F
inger tapping his lower lip, he arched a dark brow. Heat warmed her face, but she gave him a grudging nod to acknowledge the silent rebuke. He did have a fine ass, and he knew it. Probably the finest she had ever seen.
Conceited bastard
.

“
You’re attracted to me.” The low rumble of his voice was as unexpected as his words.

Emma caught her breath
and went still, poised for flight across the room, but he held her with his gaze.

“I’m attracted,
too. Very much. Is that enough for you, Emmaline? Do you expect something more before you’ll have sex with someone? Promises of love, a relationship? You seem the type.”

Oh, he was clever. So very, very clever. She mustn’t forget that.
He poked her pride to get her to prove him wrong, to sleep with someone—him—who attracted her without all the pretty words and a promise of commitment. He thought he had her pegged, but she was clever, too.

“What typ
e do I seem to you?” she challenged.

“You seem the type
to want dark, desperate things done to you, to do them yourself at least once in your life. You want to experience a man taking you hard, taking you deep, taking you into pleasure so hot you forget who you are. You’d submit your will to that, so long as he can bend your mind and wreck your body, leave you weak and so completely sated you can’t wait to experience it again…and again…and again. You’d be willing, as long as he made it worth your while. And I can. I can do all those things, but I can’t promise you more. Is that enough?”

She stared at him
where he sat across the room. He hadn’t moved, but he’d rocked her world. She panted in shallow, short breaths, and sweat slicked over her body from just his words. A quick, sharp shudder wracked her at the thought of what his hands, his body, his mouth would do to her. One side of his lips twitched when he saw her involuntary reaction.

Conceited bastard, indeed.

She lifted her chin. He didn’t intimidate her. Well, she wouldn’t let him know he intimidated her. Asher Beaulieu offered her heart’s desire, and despite his warning, those hungry words and promises of pleasure overwhelmed her defenses. The opportunity would not slip through her fingers, no matter the consequences. She was no fool; she knew they’d be severe. But that night, with him, alone in the charming, beautiful house, his bedroom only yards away, with him willing and offering… No red-blooded woman could refuse him, even if she did know better.

“It is.” Her voice rang out firm an
d clear. Unmistakable. His eyes widened in fleeting response before he masked the reaction. She felt more balanced—more equal—to see he hadn’t been expecting her capitulation. “You’re right. That is what I want.”

She left
her answer vague on purpose. Let him decide what she meant. He certainly kept her guessing often enough. She wanted both what he offered and what he didn’t—the pleasure he could give her and the deeper attachment he couldn’t. She was an intelligent, generous woman. She’d take the one and work for the other.

Studying
her, his blue eyes were dark and intense, body unmoving but held in position with obvious tension. His hands tightened on the arms of the chair, preparing to stand, and Emma jerked with nervous, startled reaction. She tried to cover the motion by turning and pretending to examine the items on his bookshelves, but she’d seen the maddening smile on his face.

“Are you ner
vous, Emmaline?” His voice resonated with seduction, smug and shrewd.

“No,” she lied.

“You should be.”

“Lo
ok, Inspector.” Her ridiculousness made her pause, referring to him by his professional title after the dirty, amazing, hot things he had just said to her. The insulting things. “Beaulieu—”

“Ash,” he corrected, his voice a deep, dark stroke
. He still hadn’t moved.

“Ash,” she repeated impatiently. “I know you think you’re all…” She waved her arms at him. How could anyone adequately describ
e the sexy jackass? “But you’re—”

“Come here.” His voice broke through her tirade, soft and beguiling.

“What?”

“You’re wasting all that remarkable
energy standing over there. I want to feel your heat. Come here, Emmaline.”

“
What
?
Are you…? Seriously?” She started to give him well-deserved hell, but his tension registered through her outrage. His arms were bunched, his fingers clenched into the leather of the chair. Satisfaction broke through her irritation when she noticed the obvious swelling between his legs. After giving the bulge a considering once-over, she raised her eyes to his. “No.”