Hotter Than Wildfire (12 page)

And she was, almost naked.

In his arms, she was suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that underneath a thin silk sheath, she was naked.

Harry, on the other hand, seemed to be fully aware of it. He wasn’t fondling her, but he wasn’t pretending she wasn’t in his arms, either. His left hand—his very big and very warm left hand—enveloped her left breast, his right hand curved around her thigh.

It was the closest she’d ever been to a man in…in years. And to tell the truth, she’d never been this close to such a strong man, such a…a
male
man.

There’d been Ben, studying for his accountancy degree, like her. Nice guy, beanpole thin, much more interested in derivatives than sex.

And Joe, who had a Toyota dealership and was thirty pounds overweight and kept trying to stick what felt like a marshmallow in her.

Harry felt like another species. Bigger and stronger and tougher and faster.

He was looking down at her, gaze going from her eyes to her mouth and back. As if gauging whether…

Oh yeah. In answer to his unspoken question, Ellen tightened her arm around his neck and closed her eyes.

His mouth was as warm as his hands, only much softer. He tasted absolutely delicious—of coffee and cinnamon and butter. His twisted his mouth slightly, opening hers, and his tongue licked hers.

She pulled in a startled breath at the electric current that ran through her at the touch. Searing heat that took her breath away.

It was way too intense and she pulled back.

His mouth was slightly wet from hers and it was a huge temptation to run her finger over his lips, just to see again how soft they were, the only soft thing in a hard man.

He lifted his head, just slightly, so that his mouth was only an inch from hers.

Harry’s eyes were golden flames, burning hotter than the sun.

“Where were you going just now?” He was so close his coffee-tinged breath washed over her face.

She had no breath to answer him.

Oh God. The kiss had electrified her. This was insane. It was just a
kiss
. It wasn’t as if she had never been kissed before. But it was the most sensuous kiss she’d ever had, almost as intimate as sex itself. And, oh, it had been so
long
since she’d been held. Since she’d even touched another human being, even the most casual touch, let alone this assault on the senses.

She erected a small mental barrier against him, against the oh-so-tempting and oh-so-dangerous feelings of sensuality and safety he sparked in her, and stiffened a little in his arms.

“I, um, I need to get to the bathroom.”
And I need to get out of your arms.

Harry turned and carried her into the bathroom, gently putting her on her feet, holding on to her arms.

Ellen found that she could stand. The support of his hands felt good, too good, and she took a small step back, away from his grasp. “I hope you’re not thinking of staying here while I use the bathroom.”

She was painfully aware that she was in the presence of an amazingly attractive man, dressed only in a wrinkled gown, even if it was silk, with bed head and probably moss growing on her teeth.

Being on the run meant many things, including a loss of dignity.

Those golden eyes saw too much, understood too much.

“I won’t stay if you don’t need me.” His golden gaze was keen, he searched her eyes, took a moment to answer. “But I’m going to be right outside. If you need my help, all you need to do is call. I’ll hear you.” He nodded to the sink. “There’s an unused toothbrush and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste there. Soap and a towel are on the counter.”

“No moisturizer?” she teased.

“Sorry. Whoa.” He shook his head, surprised. “Not even a hint of moisturizer. But I’ll buy some later. Nicole can tell me what to buy and where. Or better yet, I’ll have her buy it.” He stepped back out of the bathroom. “Remember, I’m right outside,” he said, and closed the door.

Ellen used the toilet, then walked to the sink. The bathroom was very large and very spare. All the fixtures were white and the walls were tiled in white. There were white glass-fronted shelves on the left-hand side and a huge shower on the right.

There was no trace of a woman. Ellen told herself that it was absolutely no business of hers if a woman lived here or even if a battalion of women trooped through his bedroom and bathroom nightly, but she was whistling in the wind because the spurt of relief she felt at seeing his toiletry items—one comb, one brush, one toothbrush, one half-squeezed tube of toothpaste, an electric shaver—on the sink was unmistakeable.

The brand-new plastic-wrapped toothbrush and travel-sized tube of toothpaste had COMPLIMENTS OF THE HILTON HOTEL on them.

She eyed the shower, tested her knees, and thought,
What the hell.
A second later the nightgown was on the floor and she was in the shower.

Bliss.

She’d lived in such miserable hovels over this past year. They had reminded her of the places she’d lived in during her childhood and that she had worked so very, very hard to put behind her.

Hard work, intense study, focus like a laser beam to get her degree while holding down two jobs, all that hard work at her first big job, and yet this past year had brought her back full circle to what she’d fought so hard to escape.

The dirt-cheap motels as she made her way west, with the rust stains in the toilets and the pubic hairs in the shower. The rented rooms with a grudging trickle of hot water. She knew those kinds of places intimately.

She’d made a lot of money on Eve’s records, but it had all gone to the company she’d set up to receive the monies. She hadn’t figured a way to draw on the money without drawing attention to herself. Her money might as well have been on the moon.

So this shower was pure luxury.

Harry Bolt seemed to have a no-frills approach to décor, but that seemed to be more a reflection of his taste than his pocketbook. He sure hadn’t stinted on the bathroom. The shower stall was ten times larger than her last shower in her rented studio apartment and had six shower heads. She stood under the pounding hot water and let herself go.

In one of her under-the-table waitressing jobs she took for a few days in a small town near Denver, another waitress had taken a shine to her. The waitress was flaky, a New Ager, but had been kind and warmhearted. She had a bunch of theories about water—that flowing water takes trouble and bad karma away.

Maybe. Maybe not. But she was sure feeling better.

Ellen hummed. She always sang in the shower. She sang when she was happy, to celebrate. When she was sad, to cheer herself up. When she was frightened, for bravery.

Such a mixed blessing her voice and music had been to her, all her life. Her mother had been a lost soul, living on the fringes of the music world, dreaming of making it big while drinking too much and smoking too much and failing to hold down jobs.

The irony was that her mom hadn’t had much of a voice. There might have been something there when she was young, but by the time Ellen was ten, it had long gone. Cindy hadn’t taken care of herself, in any way. What little voice she had had succumbed to the cigarettes and the liquor and the unhappiness. First her voice had gone and then her life, when Ellen was seventeen.

And her mother had been so
angry
that Ellen had been given all the talent in the family. When she was little, her mom dragged her around fairs and open-mike bars. Ellen could sing harmony with a wild boar. Her voice held her mother’s voice up. But then, as she got older, the owners of the bars started wanting just Ellen. But by that time, Ellen had seen enough of the underside of the music world and had discovered math.

Cool, rational math. So perfect. So shiny and sublime. Always dependable, always. Two plus two always made four. Everything else in her life was unstable, transient, unpredictable. Once she discovered math, there was no going back. She finished high school a year early and in college simply dove into her studies.

Music was no longer necessary to eat. It became her private joy. In the shower, driving, on walks. A private joy and solace.

Like now. Stressed and uncertain, scared and without a future, Ellen poured the music out of her like the water from the showerheads, and both cleansed her.

Out of the shower, it took her only a few minutes to be ready. She couldn’t find a hair dryer, so she simply toweled her hair as hard as she could and combed it. No moisturizer, so once she was dry, she put the nightgown back on, and that was it.

She placed her hand on the door and hesitated. The shower and the singing had taken her out of herself for a little while, but behind that door was reality, waiting to take a big bite out of her.

A man who’d saved her life, a man she found almost insanely attractive, was waiting there. For the moment, he’d spread a mantle of protection over her, but she couldn’t huddle there forever.

Apparently, what RBK did was place women under threat in a new life. Harry Bolt hadn’t managed so far because she’d been wounded. But Ellen could only imagine that he was hoping she’d hurry up and get better so he could get back to his life.

In a day—two, three, maybe—she’d be on her way. Maybe he’d wait till the stitches were completely absorbed. So maybe she could have as much as a week, feeling the lack of fear like a gentle, warm wind on her face.

But sooner or later, she’d be out in the cold. Relocated to somewhere improbable, like North Dakota or Wyoming, though if they gave her a choice, she’d choose mild winters and sunshine over snow any time. But still. This, as in so many things over this past year, was out of her control.

So she’d find herself in some strange town, with a new identity and a new name to get used to. Scared of making friends, working low-level jobs. Keeping her head down. And now, never singing, ever again.

Her heart beat painfully at the thought.

This moment, this precise moment,
she thought. Remember it. Feeling warm and unrushed, with a paladin behind the door, safe.

Remember, because it won’t last.

She pushed the door open.

 
There she was!

Harry nearly dropped to his knees. The sounds coming from his bathroom had been so heavenly, he had to pinch himself to make sure they were real.

The music coming out of her mouth had been amazing. If a Martian had to find out what humans were like, all he had to do was listen to Eve. Ellen.

And on top of it, she was herself a beauty, a sort of extravagance of talent. You’d think that having that voice, that ability, would be enough, but no. Who could possibly imagine that a voice like that came out of the luscious mouth of a beauty like Eve? Ellen.

It was hard to think of her as Ellen. Though maybe not, now that he thought of it. If Eve was going to be a beauty, then you’d think she’d be this big, in-your-face beauty.

Instead, Ellen had a fresh, quiet loveliness. Unobtrusive and hidden. You had to look twice to see it, though after you did, you couldn’t look away, ever again. Clear, pale, poreless skin; large, uptilted green eyes with heavy lashes; small, straight nose; slightly oversized mouth that made you think of music and, well, sex.

She was small, slender, with a narrow ribcage, which was strange because when she sang jazz, she could belt it out like a smokin’ mamma.

She came out of the bathroom hesitantly, first sticking her head out, as if waiting to see if danger lurked, then pushing the door wide open. The movements of a woman who was still afraid, who’d been on the run for a year.

She was right to be afraid, because that fucker Montez was still after her and would be for the rest of her life unless Harry stopped him. Preferably, stopped him dead.

Her running days were over, though. Harry would stand for her.

Part of the hesitation was over him, he knew that. He’d done everything possible to reassure her, but it was clear that her last memory had been of him running toward her at break-neck speed with a gun, and then she’d woken up in a strange place with a bullet wound.

The human mind works on all sorts of levels. It is capable of fine sentiments and refined thinking, which is very good while drinking tea and discussing the politics of the day and the latest movies.

But what saves your life is the primitive part of your brain. The one that takes signals from the world as it is, not as you’d like it to be. The part of your head that pings and sends up smoke flares when dangerous men are around.

Harry was a dangerous man.

Harry looked at her through the eyes of a mercenary, a man trained to break people. She was sleek and fit, but slender. She moved with the grace of a dancer, not an athlete. She was extraordinary, with a once-in-a-generation talent, beautiful and graceful—and prey.

They’d break her in five minutes.

Her luck couldn’t hold out forever.

It wouldn’t be luck operating in her life from now on, it would be Harry, and he’d bend the fates his way. He’d bet on himself against any man, and he was highly motivated.

Not to mention he could always count on his brothers, Sam and Mike. The three of them were unbeatable. You didn’t want to mess with Harry Bolt, especially when he was backed up by Sam Reston and Mike Keillor.

She was watching his face, trying to take her cues from him, looking a little lost and maybe even scared. His usual expression—or so his brothers told him—was grim. He knew how to scare and intimidate; he had that down pat. But now he needed to hearten.

A smile, that’s what was needed. And he knew how to do it, too. Tighten muscles at corners of mouth, show teeth…

By God, it worked! Ellen’s face lightened and she smiled a little in return.

Step number two, feed her.

He took her by the hand and turned toward the kitchen. For the first time, he was glad he had a big apartment. When Sam had found it for him, he’d hated it. It was so big and empty, with room after room he didn’t need and didn’t want. It was still mostly empty space, because he’d never taken the time or the trouble to decorate.

But now he was glad that it took a while to get from the bathroom to the kitchen, because he could hold her hand. Her hand was small and soft in his and it felt…good. Damned good.

He nearly snorted, thinking of what Mike would say. Mike, Mr. Unromantic, Mr. Fuck-’em-and-leave-’em. Holding hands wasn’t part of Mike’s style. Harry wouldn’t have thought it his style, either, though it had been a long, long time since he’d touched a woman in any way.

Maybe that was why he got off on this so much. He was just holding her freaking hand, something kids did on a playground, not that he’d ever held a girl’s hand when he was a kid. As a kid, everyone had avoided him. His household had been bad news even in the slums they’d lived in.

Now he got it, totally. Got why there were all these gauzy ads on TV, youngsters holding hands in a park, oldsters holding hands in the old folks’ home.

It was nice. It was more than nice. It was warmth and connection. She looked up at him as they crossed the huge, bare expanse of his living room and smiled. He smiled back, lost himself in her eyes, and barely missed smacking his shin on the coffee table.

He instinctively shortened his strides, slowed down to keep pace with her. She was still weak and moved slowly.

Fine with him. He’d walk holding hands with her till sundown if he could. He was still savoring the feeling of her palm against his, trying to figure out the last time he’d held hands with a woman, when they finally arrived in the kitchen.

Her eyes widened when she saw what was on the table. A French press full of steaming coffee, a big platter of bacon and eggs and toast, two stacks of silver dollar pancakes and a small pitcher of blueberry syrup.

And—because Nicole had insisted—a big bowl of peeled and diced fruit and a couple of jars of plain low-fat yogurt, which he thought tasted like cardboard. But you didn’t say no to Nicole. That was the law.

Harry held out a chair and she slid in as if her knees wouldn’t hold her any more. He frowned. She was still weak. She needed food and rest and exercise, in that order.

He slid into the chair at a right angle to hers. “I can’t claim all the credit for this breakfast,” he said, pouring her some coffee. He held up the milk pitcher and raised his eyebrows. She nodded and he turned her coffee a pale tan. “Nicole and Sam’s housekeeper decided a couple of months ago that I needed fattening up, and she’s just continued bringing down food by the bucketful ever since.”

Her eyes widened. Harry knew what she was thinking. He was a solid two twenty. It was all muscle, but no one looking at him now could possibly know that he’d been reduced to bone and gristle a year ago.

She’d taken two silver dollar pancakes, poured four molecules of blueberry syrup over them and was eating daintily.

Everything about this was just so great. Eve, in his kitchen. Okay, Ellen. But she was also Eve. And—unexpected bonus—lusciously beautiful.

The hot water of the shower had put some rose under the ivory. Her colors were just incredible. The sun was shining in through the kitchen window and she lifted her face into it, closing her eyes.

Harry hungrily watched her face as the sunlight brought everything to life. The deep-auburn eyebrows, delicately arched, the long, lush eyelashes slightly lighter at the tips, the full mouth so deeply red it didn’t need lipstick—unpainted, it was enough to bring a full-grown man to his knees. Not to mention the dark-red hair that revealed a thousand colors in the light, from dark brown to coppery red to streaks of blond. It was thick and glossy and starting to curl as it dried. A curling loop hung over her shoulder and he had to dig his fingernails in his palms to force himself not to pick it up and run it through his fingers.

They’d kissed, yeah, okay. But women had this invisible rule book men weren’t allowed to read, and he didn’t know if some time had to pass from kissing her to fondling her hair.

He’d have the right to touch her soon, though. And not just her hair. All over. Oh yeah, he would.

“This is delicious. Thank her and Nicole for me.”

“You can thank them yourself,” Harry said easily, as he transferred half the bacon and scrambled eggs to her plate. “We’re invited to dinner at Sam’s tonight.”

For some reason that alarmed her. Her head rose and the coffee cup which she’d been holding to her mouth trembled. Harry reached out and cupped her hand with his.

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” she said. Her voice was tight and strained. “As soon as I’m better, I’ll be on my way. With some help from you and Sam. So, really, there’s no reason to include me in any dinner invitations.”

Harry listened calmly, refraining from rolling his eyes. He didn’t even dignify that ridiculous statement with an answer. She was here and she was staying.

Instead, he leaned forward and watched her eyes. It wasn’t a hardship. In the morning light they looked like the finest green marble, with darker veins of color running through them. Back in his office, her eyes had been bloodshot with fatigue, dark purple smudges under them. Now the whites of her eyes were as clear as a child’s, the skin underneath fair and unblemished.

“Why did you run?” he asked. She sucked in a little breath, the sound loud in the silence of the room. “You came to us for help, you were safe with us, but you ran away. Why?”

Ellen put the cup down carefully on the saucer, focusing on her hands, as if it were a difficult and delicate task. She looked up, finally.

“I thought—” she began, and stopped.

“You thought?” He gave in to temptation and picked up the deep-red lock that had fallen forward and smoothed it back. Fuck the rule book. “What did you think?”

She met his eyes and he nearly winced at the misery in them. Beautiful deep-green eyes full of pain and sorrow and a deep loneliness. She sighed. “You know I got your name through Kerry. Or the woman you know as Kerry because that’s the name you provided her with.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t the one who’d set Kerry—or Dove, or whatever the hell her name had been originally—up in her new life, Sam was.

But had the roles been reversed, had it been Sam who’d been wounded, Harry or Mike would have been the ones to help Kerry into her new life. Her story had been terrifying. A rich, powerful, brutal, alcoholic husband who’d put her into the hospital over and over again, and who sooner rather than later would put her into a grave.

“She shouldn’t have talked,” Harry said gently. If she hadn’t talked, Ellen would probably be dead by now, but they drummed into the women’s heads that no one—
no one
—was to know their story. It was their first line of defense. No one was to know, ever.

Shelters had their hotline, which was the way the women found their path to RBK. It was way too dangerous to have an informal network of women talking among themselves. The men after them were brutal, but they weren’t necessarily stupid.

“Yeah.” Ellen nibbled at a corner of a piece of toast, then put it down, pushed the plate away. “She knew that—believe me, she knew that. We became friends almost despite ourselves. We were both waitressing off the books. I could just tell from what Kerry was reading and the way she spoke that she was well educated, way overqualified for what she was doing. We just drifted together, I think, because we were both so…so
lonely
.”

Harry nodded again. He knew. The women they spirited away had to keep their heads down for the rest of their lives, otherwise they were dead meat. But women are hardwired to make connections. They have to do real violence to themselves not to.

Unlike guys.

If Harry hadn’t had Sam and Mike, he’d have spent the worst periods of his life—after Crissy’s death and after Afghanistan—completely alone, never speaking to another human being. And while he’d been wounded, he hadn’t even wanted company. Sam and Mike pushed themselves into his life, never taking no for an answer. Because Harry’s instinctive response was to turn his face to the wall.

“So you became friends? Told each other your stories?”

She sighed. “Not really. Neither of us sat down to ‘tell our story,’ as you put it. It’s more things that slipped out. I told you how this guy stopped by and asked about me. When she told me, she saw how panicked I was. She put that card in my hand, said that if I needed help to turn to Sam Reston in San Diego.” Her mouth tightened. “But then last week, like I said, I was coming back to my room after the evening shift. It was dark. I rented a room in a bad part of town and was used to being careful, being aware of my surroundings. But more because it’s an area of drunks and addicts than anything else. I thought Gerald would never find me. But there he was—one of Gerald’s men, dressed as a bum.”

“Must have freaked you out.”

Ellen gave a shaky laugh. “Yeah. You could say that. I keep a little running-away kit in my purse at all times. Cash, a big, floppy hat, sunglasses. I ran. They’d be watching airports and stations, I knew that. The only thing I could think of was a bus. I just hopped on the first bus south, went to Portland, then San Francisco, spent the night in one of those seedy all-night cinemas that show classic movies. At least it wasn’t showing porn—I don’t think I could have stood it.”

“You watched the Thin Man movies.” Harry could see it—a terrified Ellen on the run, huddled in the dark in a movie theater. Alone and scared. “Nora Charles.”

She huffed out her breath. “Yeah. I was so tired, so scared when I called, it was the first name I could think of.”