Hot Under Pressure (3 page)

Too bad she’d never been very good at “supposed to.”

“I told you I was.” That sounded kind of ungrateful. She didn’t really want to antagonize the guy, did she? “Thank you for stopping by, though. It was nice of you to make sure I wasn’t dead or concussed or something.”

There. Polite, even in the face of potential mugging.

“Oh, I don’t know.” The earthy voice sounded a breath away from laughing at her, and Skye wondered if she’d been right about him being a man.

Well, he was definitely male, but maybe not as old as she’d originally thought. Crossing her arms the way that squashed her too-big boobs down a little, Skye lifted her chin. “What don’t you know?”

The guy lowered himself to the rock and kicked his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. “You might still be concussed. I’d better sit here with you a while, just to make sure.”

Skye did some more waffling. He sounded reasonable, nice even, but he was wearing black jeans and clompy leather boots, and every time he moved moonlight glinted silver off the zippers and safety pins holding his leather jacket together over a black T-shirt. He looked tough, in a way that no one Skye went to school with in tiny, artsy-fartsy Sausalito, ever looked. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she began to make out his features, she saw that he was young, too. Probably not any older than she was. Maybe a year older. He could be eighteen.

Feeling jittery and weird, Skye glanced back in the direction of the path. He wasn’t blocking her escape in any way. And with him sitting like that, she could make a break for it, no problem. Skye was shorter and rounder than cheerleaders like Laura, but she was fast.

“I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you think.”

Skye whipped around at the guy’s quiet voice. He sounded … sad. Or something. Disappointed, maybe, and guilty shame flooded Skye’s chest. He’d been nothing but nice to her, and here she was, judging him by how he dressed and looked, just like those dumb girls at school always judged Skye, with her peasant blouses and paint-stained corduroys.

“I don’t think that,” Skye denied stoutly. “I’m sure you’re a very nice person. It’s just that it’s getting late, and I should probably head home.”

“Whatever.” The guy shrugged and leaned back on his hands again, looking off to the side, away from Skye, exposing his sharp, chiseled profile.

Skye felt a little like she’d fallen off the rock again, the world tumbling around her for a brief, disorienting moment before she caught her breath.

He was gorgeous. And all big and dark and scary. And gorgeous.

The moon was higher in the sky now, casting a blue-ish light over everything. Skye could finally make out his expression, the way resignation had twisted his hard, sensual mouth into a flat line. He tipped his head down, just a little, and the shadows lengthened over his strong, uncompromising face.

It was the face of a man Skye would’ve said she’d never want to meet in an alley, or alone on the moors, or in a deserted public park—but as she stood there and watched him realize that she hadn’t run off yet, watched the softening of his lips and the widening of his dark eyes as he turned back to find her still there, Skye knew this guy was telling the truth.

He’d never hurt her.

A surge of confidence had her rounding the rock and scrambling up the loose dirt and gravel of the hill to get to the top again. She plunked herself down right next to him, pulling her knees in to her chest and giving him a sidelong look.

“Decided I’d better not risk it.”

Confusion narrowed his eyes and made her notice his short, masculine eyelashes, black as soot when he blinked. “Risk what?”

“Concussion.” She shrugged. “Not to mention how dangerous it is to run in the dark over bad terrain. Knowing me, I’d find the one rain gulley and sprain my ankle, or fall off a cliff into the bay.”

“A little accident prone, are we?” The smooth amusement was back in his voice, and a warm glow filled Skye with fluttering wings of pleasure.

The hottest guy she’d ever seen in real life was sitting in a secluded, romantic cranny of nature with her, talking to her. Maybe even flirting with her!

“More than a little,” she said, aware of how breathless she sounded, but utterly unable to get a good, deep gasp of air into her giddy lungs. “My mom won’t even let me in the studio with her anymore, I’ve knocked over her easels so many times.”

“Your mother’s an artist? That’s cool.” He said it so simply, like he was interested, but didn’t really care all that much.

Skye strove to match his detached tone. “Yeah, she paints. Sculpts a little, works with metal. Whatever she feels like when the muse takes her.”

His mouth twitched again, quirking one cheek into winking a dimple at her, so fast she almost missed it. “The muse. Is that what you were looking for out here?”

“Who, me? What makes you say … hey, give that back!”

Skye snatched at her composition book, but the guy held it up, his long arms easily keeping it out of her reach.

“Are you an artist, too?” he teased, waving the notebook.

Jumping to her feet, Skye lunged for the book, her only thought to get it in her hands before he opened it and saw her embarrassingly horrible chicken scratch drawings.

The guy gave it up easily with a “Hey, okay! Sorry. Shit, I ought to know better—” but having braced for a struggle, Skye overcompensated and lost her balance.

She clutched the notebook to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut, the words
“Not again!”
flashing through her brain as her entire body braced for impact—before she realized she hadn’t slammed into the hard, cold ground.

In fact, she was sprawled on something hard, but warm. A firm surface that gave when she pressed her hand to the cool leather of the guy’s jacket …

Oh my God.

“I’m so sorry,” she squeaked, mortified, as she tried to heave herself up off the poor guy she’d just flattened. “I must be crushing you.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re not crushing me at all.” His voice sounded strained, though, and Skye’s cheeks went scorching hot with a mixture of arousal and humiliation. She felt enormous and ungainly, wallowing in his lap like a walrus, unable to get her balance back and get off of him—but part of her wanted to stay right where she was, for the rest of her life.

“Besides,” he continued in that same, tense voice, “it was my fault. I was being a dick.”

Annoyance rushed back in, overwhelming her embarrassment momentarily. “Yeah, you were. An artist’s notebook is sacred, okay? You never, ever mess with that. Ever.”

Never mind that Skye wasn’t an artist and never would be, no matter what her parents wanted.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “You’re right. Hey, I’ve got shit I wouldn’t want some stranger poking through, either.”

“Please.” She couldn’t help but scoff. This boy radiated ‘cool’ like it was seeping from his pores. “What could you have to be embarrassed about?”

“Right.” He looked away, out over the water. “Because a guy like me couldn’t possibly have depths.”

Now Skye felt bad again. The yo-yoing of her emotions was wearing her out. “No, I didn’t mean—”

“Well, I have depths,” he declared, swiveling his head suddenly to give her a narrow stare. “You’re not the only one with a secret notebook, all right?”

Skye felt a quickening of excitement. Something in common! “You’re an artist, too?”

Fake it till you make it, baby. And if it would give her more to talk about with Tall, Dark, and Deep, here …

But he shook his head. “Nah, can’t even draw a good Spider-Man. But I … write stuff. Sometimes.”

Skye couldn’t believe how nervous he seemed all of a sudden. But kind of defiant, too, like he expected her to laugh. Deliberately keeping her voice very serious, she asked, “What, like stories?”

He shrugged, staring down at his fingers picking at the frayed hole in the denim over his left knee. “Not really. More like … poetry, I guess. It’s lame, I know.”

“It’s not lame!” Skye clambered up to her knees beside him. “It’s amazing.” Bracing herself to take a flying leap, she said, “Would you maybe read me one of your poems sometime?”

There was a swooping feeling in her belly, as if she’d tumbled off the rock again, but it stilled when he glanced up at her from under his dark lashes. His hair fell over his forehead, almost hiding his eyes, but she could still see the way they crinkled when he smiled.

“Yeah? Maybe. Sometime. Anyway, sorry again about trying to steal your notebook. But you look really freaking cute when you’re mad. Like a kitten with its fur rubbed the wrong way.”

Skye huffed. Great. She was a kitten. Kittens were, roly-poly little balls of fluff—definitely not sexy at all.

Crap.

Skye gave him a disgruntled frown. “Yeah, thanks. And thanks for keeping me from falling to my death again, but I’ve got to go.”

“Wait, don’t leave. I promise I’ll be good. What’s your name?”

Skye paused, torn. She didn’t really want to leave—and it wasn’t like she had a curfew or a set of parents waiting at home for a family dinner or something. “I’m Skye,” she said, bracing for recognition. “Skye Gladwell.”

“Cool,” the boy said, sitting up. He was watching her with interest, but nothing flared in his gaze at the mention of her famous father’s last name.

Skye got a little tingle of excitement down her spine. The anonymity she’d always wanted, that she stared out across the San Francisco skyline and dreamed about, was sitting right in front of her. Embodied in the broad-shouldered, muscled form of a truly, knee-shakingly hot guy.

Skye thought maybe she’d found her muse.

“You live near here?” he asked.

Settling back down beside him, Skye felt the heat of his tall, young body all along her right side. “Pretty close. Sausalito.”

He leaned in, his face right next to hers, close enough that she felt the delicate scratch of his unshaven cheek against her temple. Pointing out over the water with his long arm, he said, “I live way over there. A place so different from this, you can hardly imagine.”

“Where?” She could barely breathe, shiveringly, achingly aware of every inch of him.

“Oakland.”

“I’ve never been there,” Skye confessed, a little ashamed. It seemed stupid—it wasn’t like Oakland was some faraway country or something.

“You’re not missing anything,” he told her. “Don’t bother. No, seriously, don’t—sweet little thing like you’d get eaten alive in my neighborhood.”

Skye stiffened, knocking him back a bit. “I can handle myself. I’m tougher than I look.”

You had to be, when every kid in school wanted to make fun of you for your parents being crazy, and not married, and sewing you weird hippie clothes to wear.

“You’re a cream puff,” he said, and she felt his fingers stroking through her hair. “What’s a nice girl like you doing out here? Looking for trouble?”

The tender, careful caress distracted Skye from the extremely unflattering comparison to fat, round pastries, and a delicious shiver skimmed over her skin, raising the fine, pale hairs on her arms and tightening her nipples into tiny pinpoints of sensation.

If she turned her face just the eensiest bit to the right, she’d be looking right into his deep, dark eyes. Their mouths would be close enough to brush together. His hand was in her hair.

The moment hung suspended and brilliant, like one of the stars overhead, while Skye’s heart pounded out a new, terrifying rhythm. She wanted to kiss him. Did he want to kiss her?

Gathering all her courage, she closed her eyes and turned her face, lifting her mouth to his … and he handed her a twig with a bright green leaf attached to it.

“This was tangled up in your hair,” he said.

Skye died, right then and there, of humiliation.

Or at least, she wished she could. But no, stubborn life had to keep marching on, trampling all over her hopes and dreams and dragging Skye with it.

“Thanks,” she managed to get out, even though her voice sounded like someone had a choking grip on her vocal cords.

“No problem.”

His face was still really close to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath against the tip of her nose; he smelled like the salt breeze and smoke, like from a bonfire.

From this close, now that her vision had adjusted, Skye thought his eyes were deep brown, the rich, pure color of the paint her mother mixed in with gold to make the perfect shade to capture the cedars she loved to paint.

“You’ve got pretty eyes.”

For a moment, it was as if he’d read her mind. But it only took Skye a second to catch up and realize he was talking about her own boring blue eyes. Disappointed, she lowered her gaze and fought to keep the tremble out of her lips.

“Thanks,” she said again, more subdued this time.

Everyone complimented her eyes. Or her strawberry-blonde hair, or her creamy skin, or her great personality. Those were the things people talked about when you were heavier than the other girls in your class. She could just hear her mother’s bewildered voice as her sharp gaze sketched over Skye’s lackluster appearance: “You could be so pretty, if…”