Burning Up (11 page)

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Authors: Anne Marsh

BOOK: Burning Up
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Chapter Nine
T
wo days. She'd managed to avoid Jack for two days, but Lily figured she couldn't run forever. After all, they were sharing a house. Her house. He knew damned well she couldn't hide much longer.
All he had to do was wait her out. The devilish gleam in his eye was warning enough.
He wouldn't wait much longer.
She should have been fighting him harder, but she couldn't hide from the delicious sense of anticipation building in her. God, it was going to be so good when they finally landed in bed together. They both knew it. She just wasn't ready to admit it yet, wasn't ready to end this game they were playing.
So, when he pulled up in that beat-up old pickup of his, she was waiting. The fire he'd been called out on had been every bit as small as he'd expected. She'd called Ben to find out. Typical small-town stuff. The guy four houses down from Nonna's hadn't cut back the grass around his barbecue pit, and the whole world—with the notable exception of the mad barbecuer himself—knew the man was no grill master. Too much lighter fluid, and the corn the idiot had decided to grill became tinder. At least he'd had the presence of mind to dial for help when the shooting flames had leaped the pit and gone for the grass.
“Fire out?” she called through the screen door while he stripped on the sunporch.
“Yeah,” he hollered back, just as if they were Miriam and Daniel, married for thirty years, with a backyard full of grandkids. “Man's got himself a big black bald patch in his backyard, his wife's still hollering at him, but his house is standing. Not even scorched,” he added, and there was no missing the satisfaction in his voice. He'd won another round.
Whistling, he dropped his gear on the floor, Nomex fire pants following his steel-toed boots. She didn't know why he couldn't leave his stuff at the firehouse or in that damned plane hangar where his brothers and the rest of their team were camped out. Instead, he left it all right there on her porch, like a dog or a big predatory cat marking his territory. She could absolutely imagine him as a tiger, rubbing his cheek against the wood of her house to mark it as his. Mark
her
as his.
When he came in, he still had soot on his face, as if he'd scrubbed a hand over it in the heat of the moment. The little breeze from the open door brought her the too-familiar, woodsy scent of fire.
She couldn't shake the memory, couldn't forget those little fires that had upended her life. Just a whiff of smoke was enough to send her over the edge. Someone was out there, watching her. Choosing what to take away from her. He knew what she was reading. He had probably brushed elbows with her in the general store. He was coming for her.
“Baby?” His eyes went straight to hers. “You going to tell me what's wrong?”
“I'm all right,” she lied.
“Like hell you are,” he said, starting toward her.
She flinched and took a step backward before she could stop herself. He was too much, too overwhelming.
God, she wasn't ready for this.
Maybe, she thought despairingly, she never would be ready.
 
Standing there in Lily's pretty little living room, Jack froze. He'd wanted to push her, wanted to make her burn for him the way he burned for her—but, Christ, he didn't want to hurt her. Or scare her. Never that. She was looking at him like a skittish kitten. All big eyes. Later, when she rethought what was happening now, she'd hate that vulnerability, but, right now, it felt almost like trust to him. Whether she'd meant to or not, she'd let down her guard. He was seeing a part of Lily Cortez that she kept well hidden, and Ben's little heart-to-heart in the bar kept replaying through his head.
Don't you dare hurt her.
“What's wrong, baby?” He backed off immediately—still sensual predator, but now all that interest was focused on her fear. Not her body. Part of her was disappointed. The rest of her was aroused, intrigued by that rough tenderness, protectiveness.
“You smell like smoke.”
Yeah, he smelled of fire. And she looked as if she hated herself for not being able to dismiss a flash of fear.
He didn't move, hand braced on the door frame, leaning a hip against it. “You don't like the smell of smoke?” She shook her head mutely. “It reminds you of the fires in San Francisco, doesn't it?” he growled.
“Yes. The smell of smoke.” She shrugged helplessly. “It takes me right back.”
“So I'll shower.” He turned, stripping off his T-shirt as he headed toward her ground-floor bathroom. “Baby,” he warned as he hit the bathroom door, “I'm coming back, though, and this conversation is just getting started. I thought you'd want to know that.”
When Jack emerged from the bathroom, she'd done her thinking and then some. She didn't doubt Jack would be every bit as sensually wild in bed as she'd fantasized—and this time, he wouldn't hold back. Even more seductive was the man she was coming to know, strong and honorable, a natural-born protector who would defend her. If she let him. And, she had a sinking suspicion, even if she didn't want to let him.
He padded barefoot into her living room, wearing just a pair of sweatpants and a battered old T-shirt.
“Smell,” he coaxed, holding out a hand to her, his eyes dancing with laughter. “I even used that damned lavender soap of yours.”
“All better,” she agreed, but she didn't come any closer. Her senses were humming, hyper-aware of him. The lush warmth of the evening air surrounded her as the day's heat mellowed into something softer, less searing, but no easier to ignore. She burned for Jack Donovan with each breath of scented air she took.
Her commercial fields—those were lavender. The garden spilling around her porch and her front door was pure play. Lavender tangled with heirloom roses, catmint, and the odd hollyhock. A sweet explosion of scent that greeted her each morning when she opened the door, and, when she left the windows open as she had tonight, the pungent scents drifted through her rooms, getting right under her skin. Right now, the heady aroma of night-blooming roses mixed with the potent scent of the man filling up her house.
He shook his head mischievously. “Not good enough.” Moving with the speed of a striking panther, he crossed the floor and wrapped his arms around her waist, swinging her off her feet.
“Jack,” she gasped, arms circling his neck reflexively.
“Now, that's better.” He smiled down at her. Cheek to skin with him, nothing between them. Just the warm, masculine scent of him. He smelled so right. Nothing frightening about the arousal humming lazily through her.
“I'm waiting,” he invited.
Why not?
she thought fiercely. Inhaling, she pressed her cheek against the hollow of his shoulder. Let her lips rest against his skin and felt the shudder go right through him.
“Lilybell,” he growled warningly, lowering her to her feet.
“I thought you wanted to play,” she whispered.
“Dance with me.” He put a little space between them. “We haven't ever shared a dance.” The radio was playing country music, the low, throbbing twang of the singer promising heat and heartache.
Just like her Jack.
Damp and soap-scented from his shower, his short hair curled a little on the back of his neck. And she was dancing with him. Moving slowly in the circle of his arms as he waltzed her barefoot around her living room. Focused on her.
Why not?
she thought again. The sun was just going down outside, the room sliding into shadows and twilight. The moment was deliciously tempting.
She slipped her hand into his. Callused and warm, careful, his fingers closed around hers and tugged teasingly, pulling her closer to his big body. Toward the warmth and heat of him.
“We'll go just as slow as you like, baby.” Heated promise filled his voice. “Just tell me what you want.”
“I want to dance.” To start with. She stepped closer, sliding her body into the protective curve of his. Perfect fit.
His husky groan was the perfect reward. “You're going to kill me, baby.” Heat washed through her, followed by the now-familiar, soft pulse of desire. Oh, how she'd missed him.
“You remember that night we had together, Lilybell?” His question was a husky whisper by her ear. His large hands wrapped around her waist, settling on the waistband of her shorts. “I do. I've thought about that night every night since, dreaming about what would have happened if I'd stayed there at the swimming hole with you instead of taking you home. I wanted you something fierce. Ten years haven't changed that.”
Dancing in his arms made it all too easy to remember. He'd chosen to keep her safe, when she'd been dying for the sweet, sweet danger of his touch. He'd coaxed her out of the water, sure, but then all he'd done was put her into his truck and driven her home. Well, he'd kissed her, but that was all.
“But I'm back now, baby. And I think we've both grown up enough to make this turn out all right. I want you. I want
us
.”
His hand on the small of her back rubbed coaxing circles, and she was melting into him as if it was high school all over again. She should have been pissed he'd just waltzed back into her life like this, but she wasn't stupid. It might be no more than some really great chemistry, but most people went a lifetime without experiencing this. Even if he was just a summer fling, did she want to miss out on it? On him?
Jack Donovan could be her treat to herself.
Yes.
She liked that idea.
“Baby,” he whispered, those wicked hands of his still sliding up and down her back. Coaxing. “You've got to choose for us. Say yes, baby, because you're killing me.”
Rough and sexy, his words rocked through her, a sensual promise she wanted to hold him to. Sliding her arms around his waist, beneath the cotton of his shirt, she pressed a cheek against his chest. The beat of his heart was reassuringly fast, his breathing harsh. Jack Donovan wanted her, and he wasn't afraid to let her know what he wanted. Who he needed.
She smiled slowly, before she could stop herself or hide the little sign of feminine pleasure. The radio cowboy was winding down his song, missing his girl something fierce as the night closed in around them.
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching up to pull his head down to hers. “Yes, Jack Donovan. Show me what we missed out on that night. Show me how you would have touched me.”
“It's a damned good thing you're sure, baby, because I'm not ready to let you get away from me tonight.” Lifting her up into his arms, he crossed the room swiftly, lowering them both into her wicker armchair. “We've got all night, and I plan to be very, very thorough.”
“Promises, Jack?” Tilting her head back, she smiled slowly as she wrapped her legs around his waist. The summer night unfolding outside the open windows was thick with the scent of lavender and the drowsy hum of crickets. The perfect accompaniments to summertime romance. She'd never felt like this before. The lush heat building so slowly inside her demanded more. She needed Jack, needed his kiss.
The heat spread, building, as she squirmed on his lap, feeling the strength of his thighs and the erotic rub of the worn denim against her bare legs. Just his closeness, the erotic possibilities of the slowly darkening room, had her panties dampening. Making out in the dark like a couple of high school seniors, only there was no one to walk in on them. No reason to stop. The throaty purr of pleasure and acquiescence slid from her throat before she could bite back the sound.
From his answering groan, he liked it.
“God, yes, baby.” One hand slid up her back, then cupped the nape of her neck, angling her face for his kiss. His fingers tangled in her hair, sending erotic shivers down her spine. “Tell me how much you want this.”
His other hand moved to her waist, playing with the edge of her tank top before slipping beneath it to stroke her bare skin. A slow, heated promise of pleasure and all the time in the world.

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