The Hotter You Burn

by Gena Showalter

  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."

  CHAPTER THREE

  HARLOW LOOKED FROM her bleeding hands to the mangled remains of the bush she'd just "pruned" and whimpered. For three hours she'd worked harder than she'd ever worked in her life, baking under the death glare of an angry summer sun, and this was the result?

  Hardly seemed fair.

  "Thirsty?"

  The woman's voice cut through Harlow's pity party, and she glanced up to find the blonde and very beautiful Brook Lynn Dillon standing before her, so happy with life she actually glowed. Envy clawed at Harlow, but she paid it no heed. Brook Lynn was worthy of her happiness.

  For years she and her big, golden heart had chased after her party-girl sister, Jessie Kay, while working two full-time jobs just to pay rent--and she'd done it all while dealing with an inner ear disorder. Harlow wasn't sure what the disorder was called; she only knew the devices in the girl's ears prevented her from hearing whispers as loudly as screams.

  While Harlow had never turned her evil sights on Brook Lynn--even a bully of her magnitude had lines she wouldn't cross--Jessie Kay and Kenna Starr, the sisters' best friend, had not been so lucky.

  "Are you offering arsenic or bleach?" Harlow quipped.

  "I didn't ask if you wanted what everyone in town would like to serve you," Brook Lynn said staunchly, making Harlow flinch. "I asked if you were thirsty."

  "I am," she said, standing. "Thank you."

  As an old, ugly dog playfully nipped at Brook Lynn's heels, she held out a glass of ice-cold water
.

  Harlow tried for ladylike, taking a dainty sip, but the taste of heaven snapped the tether to her control and she chugged the rest, draining every drop. No liquid had ever been cooler or more soothing, wetting her tongue and moistening her dry-as-the-desert throat.

  "Thank you," she repeated, feeling human again.

  Brook Lynn confiscated the glass. "Actually, you shouldn't thank me. You should thank Beck."

  His name alone caused her heartbeat to pick up speed and knock against her ribs. She'd stared at the back door for hours, willing him to come outside and check on her. Surely she'd built up the intoxicating effects he'd had on her.

  "Is he here?" Was he still in bed with Tawny? Her hands curled into tight little fists.

  "No," Brook Lynn said. "He was called in for a meeting, but he told me to take care of you while he was gone."

  A contented thrill--followed by an irritating realization. He hadn't cared enough to see her? Wow. Well, screw him. He disturbed her, rendering her breathless and shaky with a simple glance, but so what? Physical attraction never lasted. And neither did he! One and done, the king of the one-night stand.

  Harlow had no interest in being used and tossed aside, nothing but an afterthought to the man she'd welcomed into her body. She wanted affection and love, the kind she'd read about in books and seen in movies. The kind where couples fought to stay together, even during the worst of times. The kind that protected. Defended. Cherished.

  A pang of longing razed her. There'd be no name-calling. No shaming. No being made to feel worthless.

  Before dropping out of high school in favor of being homeschooled, she'd had boyfriends. A lot of boyfriends. She'd dated and dumped them at Beck-speed, searching for someone, anyone, to fill the void inside her. A void somehow made bigger when a machine exploded at Dairyland, the milk plant just south of town, killing half the workforce--including her dad.

  As horrible as he'd been, she should have rejoiced, right? All of her problems should have vanished in a puff of smoke. But that couldn't have been further from reality.

  Brook Lynn turned and, without uttering another word, walked away, the dog prancing behind her.

  "Brook Lynn," she called, and the girl stopped without spinning around. "I'm sorry for the way I acted. In the past, I mean...and recently." RIP, blueberry pie.

  "That's great, I'm glad" was the response, "but actions mean more than words, and so far you've proved nothing."