by Aleah Barley
His free hand moved between her legs, cupping her through soft denim, then dropping to toy with the frayed edge of her shorts. Searching up underneath.
Too much fabric between them.
Her hips jerked forward, desperate for his touch, but he kept teasing her, bringing her closer and closer to the point of pleasure without pushing her over the edge.
She dug her hands into his back, trying to pull him closer. His desire was hard against her hip. Muscles tensed in his back. His arm tightened around her waist, lifting her up and depositing her on the counter with a thud.
His mouth never left her breasts.
His hand moved up to the waistband of her denim shorts, unbuttoning the clasp in one quick motion. The sound of her zipper being pulled down became audible over her panting breath and the passing traffic on the street below.
“The food’s getting cold,” he said. “You’re going to have to ask me to stop.”
“Don’t stop.”
That was all the encouragement he needed.
He stroked her. Gently at first, then harder. A quick move backward, tugging her shorts off, and then he was back in position.
His hand slipped under her cotton panties, resting there possessively for a long moment. When he glanced down, his body began to shake with pent-up laughter.
“Ice cream cones. You really have panties with ice cream cones?”
“They came in a set. Sweet treats. I have ice cream cones, lollipops, donuts, and muffins. I used to have a pair with strawberry shortcake, but I lost them skinny dipping at the beach.”
Why was she babbling? This wasn’t the time to be babbling. It was the time to be focusing on the way he made her feel. Special, like she was the only woman in the entire world.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the way he was touching her. Gently, slowly. A finger pushed its way inside her. She let out a sharp gasp.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
What did a woman say to a man with his finger on her clitoris?
You can push my button anytime.
She felt like she was flying, floating above her body, forced into the air by a wave of pleasure so intense it made everything else simply melt away. He’d been right—sometimes it was better to take things slow. But it wasn’t only his attention to detail that had her feeling like there were fireworks exploding under her skin. It was Jack Ogden. The man she’d wanted but could never have. The fantasy made flesh.
All her regrets over the years, all her mistakes, and she was finally where she’d always hoped to be. In Jack’s arms. Rocketing toward oblivion.
“I want you.” Why was he still wearing so many clothes when the only piece of her clothing left was the pair of panties pulled down around her thighs? She grabbed for his T-shirt, giving it a sharp tug and pulling him even closer. “I want you inside me.”
“Not yet.” His hand moved down, leaving her feeling empty.
Fingers splayed around her thigh, making her muscles tense. He held her in place while he knelt on the ground, a penitent before some pagan altar.
She closed her eyes, preparing for what came next.
“No.” His fingers dug into her thigh. “I want you to watch.”
It took everything she had to open her eyes, and then he was slipping her panties further down. He kissed his way along her hipbone, following a decades-old scar.
His curly brown hair was dark against the pale skin of her belly. She could feel his teeth grazing her skin, nipping at her thigh, and then his tongue was on her, and she gasped desperately for air. Honey arched her back, needing to feel him closer, and she groaned when he caught her with his strong hands. Shoulder muscles bulged as he pushed her down against the counter, hard.
In a few hours, they’d have matching bruises, but it would be worth it.
His tongue moved inside her. Connecting with her core, tasting her, touching her in places she’d never been touched before. Places she hadn’t even known existed.
When she finally came in a rush of heat and passion, the pleasure made her scream.
Her bones turned to jelly.
A deep smile carved itself permanently on her face.
She reached down, curling her hands in Jack’s shirt. Tugging at the soft cotton, she felt hard muscle and something else.
Something wet.
Her eyes opened. She pulled back, concentrating on what was right in front of her. A dark stain on the front of his green T-shirt.
Chapter Seven
“What happened?”
Jack pushed himself to his feet. It took him a moment to figure out what Honey was talking about.
Seeing the blood on his shirt made him feel all the aches and pains he’d been ignoring while she was in his arms. The fight the night before wasn’t something he could recover from with a few hours’ sleep. It would take time, rest. Maybe some fresh stitches.
“Just a little cut. I’m fine.”
She tugged up his shirt, taking a quick peek underneath. “It’s just a little gaping wound. Why didn’t you tell me how bad the damage was?”
“It’s not that bad.”
Pain was the kind of thing a man liked to be quiet about—especially a man who’d been raised never to show weakness. People wouldn’t vote for someone they considered weak. He didn’t want the great American political career his mother had always planned for him, but the lessons she’d taught him applied equally well on the mean streets of Los Angeles. Never let them see you bleed.
Besides, Honey was depending on him to keep her safe. He needed her to believe in him.
“I’m fine.”
“Stay here,” she told him before moving out of reach.
Jack closed his eyes and listened to Honey’s footsteps padding through the apartment. What had he done?
Standing next to her in the cramped kitchen, every motion had been intimate, bringing them closer together. Taking her in his arms had been inevitable, although he hadn’t actually planned to get all the way to third base with her on the countertop.
He’d been following some primal, animalistic instinct. In another couple of seconds, he’d have dragged her down to the floor. He would have entered her easily, hot and hard, his mouth descending on hers so she could taste herself, salty on his lips. Breathing in unison, panting, gasping. His hips would have rocked against hers until she came a second time with his final thrust.
Jack shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears.
Not in his ears. His cell phone. It rang three times, then stopped. A few seconds later, he heard the distinctive bell that meant he had a voicemail.
His eyes opened. He leaned over, retrieving his phone from the floor beside Honey’s backpack.
Fourteen messages. Starting the night before and continuing on into the morning.
He sank to the floor, listening. The first was from his boss. Hell. The man must think Jack didn’t have a personal life.
He was right, according to Jack’s last few girlfriends.
Bare feet sounded out against wood floor. Honey was back, his first aid kit in hand. Somewhere along the way she’d found a clean T-shirt, and when she moved, it rode high over her bare thighs.
The skin of her throat was still flushed pink, and Jack felt a wave of remorse. A gentleman wouldn’t have pushed her down on a kitchen countertop. He should have taken her to bed. But when she’d told him her ex-boyfriend had called her frigid, he hadn’t been able to help himself. Honey was a sexy, vibrant woman, and the fact that nobody had told her that was a travesty.
Jack addressed her over the yammering in his ear. “I want to apologize. You deserved better. I should have taken my time.”
“Are you kidding?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “The sex was amazing.”
“Sweetheart, that wasn’t sex.” He grinned. “Believe me, when we have sex, you’re going to know it.”
“Right.” Honey flushed all over again.
After sitting down beside him, she opened the first a
id kit and began to rummage through the contents. She pulled up his T-shirt and tugged at his bandage, slowly tearing it off to take a closer look at last night’s damage.
“I’m the one who should have been more careful,” she murmured quietly. “I didn’t know.”
Trying to hold back the rush of pain, Jack concentrated on the noise from the phone and the way Honey bit her lip when she was nervous.
The fingers on his chest were cool, capable. The sharp sting of antiseptic made him groan, but then he was too busy listening to his messages, hearing reports from the field about one travesty after another. The world outside was falling apart, and he’d been too busy fulfilling his own primitive desires to notice.
There’d been a fire the night before. His body stiffened when he heard the news. Not at Honey’s. Someplace else. Someplace a whole lot closer to home.
Fresh gauze covered his cut, followed by sticky tape that would hurt like nobody’s business when he pulled it off.
The last call was from his sister, reminding him that the hospital fund-raiser was in a week. It was going to be Jessica’s shining moment, and he would be attending if she had to stuff him into a tuxedo and nail him to the front of her car to get him there.
Jack closed the phone, tossing it to the side in irritation. He had more important things to think about than where he’d left his tuxedo.
“All right.” His voice was dark. “I need an answer, now.”
“You got a question?”
“You stole something out at Black Palm Park, didn’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yours wasn’t the only place torched last night. The police are investigating a fire in Black Palm Park. One of the big houses near the ocean. A man almost died. Logan—”
“Burrows.”
“Hell, you’re not even going to bother denying it.”
Logan Burrows. The name was enough to conjure up a wrinkled face and a forceful spirit—a crotchety old real estate developer with a bad temper and enough money to be dangerous. When he’d moved to Black Palm Park, the bluffs near Malibu had still been known simply as “the Palms.” He’d built the roads, the houses, the country club, and the private school Honey hated so much. Rumor was that he’d built the housing complex on a whim because his wife loved the view.
These days he spent most of his time giving speeches to civic organizations and writing checks for worthy causes. Jessica loved him.
There was no reason for Logan and Honey to be connected, but Jack didn’t believe the fires were coincidental either. Not on the same night.
“They’ve done some interviews already,” he told her.
The job at the Moore house had been a drive-by—fast, sudden. A crime committed by someone who knew how to blend into the background in a neighborhood where people didn’t pay attention to what was going on in their neighbors’ homes—not when it could get them hurt.
The beach house was another matter entirely. People knew their neighbors in Black Palm Park, and they paid attention. How else would they get to be the first with a juicy piece of gossip down at the country club? The police should have been able to compile a rough sketch, but so far, they’d come up dry.
“You stole something, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t steal something. I took something.”
She was splitting hairs, and they both knew it. “You stole something important. From Logan Burrows.”
Honey flinched like she’d been slapped. “I don’t steal things. Not anymore. How could you even think that? I took it, and I never took anything from Logan Burrows.”
“Was it a car?” It had to have been a car to catch Honey’s interest after so many years. Grand theft auto was the first of her sins. She had an addiction to speed and mayhem that she’d never be able to break.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pounding in his head. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here with a criminal. I thought you were the victim. I can’t believe—”
He couldn’t believe he’d practically had sex with her, or that he still wanted to. Even knowing she was up to no good.
“I am the victim,” she insisted. “My house burned down. Anyway, I didn’t steal anything. It was already stolen.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Last week, Logan came to me. Someone had stolen a car from him, and he didn’t have the skills he needed to retrieve it. I tracked her down to a chop shop in West Hollywood.”
“Her?” Leave it to Honey to give a car a gender. The damn thing probably had a name, too.
“Cars like that are always female.” Honey began to put the first aid kit away. One leg was curled under her body, the other dangled in front of her. “Temperamental, unpredictable, and sexy.”
“Uh-huh.”
Honey’s brow furrowed slightly. Her lips pulled up into a silent snarl.
Her free leg swung idly. All that skin stretching smooth and golden from her neatly turned ankle to her borrowed T-shirt.
Jack was finding it hard to focus.
“So you found out where the car was being stored. You snuck in, and you took it.”
“I told you, I don’t steal anymore, and I don’t sneak. I asked. Nicely.” Back and forth, her leg moved in time with the rhythm of her words. “A little sweet talk, a case of beer, and the owner handed me the keys. Easiest job I ever pulled.”
“Wait, some greaser just gave you the keys? And all you did was flirt?”
But it made sense. Honey could flirt like nobody’s business. If she asked him for his keys—staring up at him with those big green eyes and fluttering ginger lashes—he’d probably hand them over without a fight, too.
But she’d never ask. She didn’t need car keys. Not for the Super Bee.
“Why didn’t you hot-wire the car?”
“Because the keys belonged with the car. Because I was paid twenty thousand dollars to find her and get her back to Logan without a scratch. I didn’t even drive the damn thing. I loaded her onto the back of my truck and brought her home. Without a scratch.”
Twenty thousand dollars wasn’t a fortune, not in Black Palm Park, but it was a lot of money in Honey’s part of the city. Enough to keep her in spark plugs, funky T-shirts, and ice cream for years. Even so, he didn’t believe there was enough money in the world to keep her from driving a car—especially the kind of car that earned a twenty-thousand-dollar retrieval fee.
“Twenty thousand bucks? What was it, a Rolls-Royce? A Lamborghini? The actual Aston Martin used in the filming of Goldfinger?”
“A Volvo.”
“A Volvo?” Jack couldn’t keep the laughter from pouring out of him, though it hurt to laugh. All this trouble for a car that any soccer mom would be happy to drive.
“What was so special about it? Was it made out of solid gold?”
“Fiberglass and polyester. Baby blue finish. Leather interior.”
“That’s a lot of money for a Volvo. You didn’t think anything was hinky?”
“It’s not just any Volvo. It’s a Volvo Sport, made in Sweden. Originally designed by a boat builder. Twin carburetors. Three-speed manual gear box.” She talked about the car the way another—less interesting—woman would talk about diamonds. He had the sudden impulse to go out and empty his savings account. A Volvo Sport. He’d never even heard of it.
“Between 1956 and 1957, there were only sixty-seven made,” she said. “Only a handful survive today. This one was number sixty-seven. I didn’t believe it, even when he—even when Logan told me. I had to check the serial number myself. Number sixty-seven. Rumored to be lost sometime in the sixties. That car’s one of a kind. Priceless. Seeing her in a chop shop in West Hollywood was like finding a unicorn in a glue factory.”
Maybe it would take more than the contents of his savings account to buy the car. He might have to raid his trust fund.
“I still find it hard to believe you didn’t drive it.”
“Not even a spin around the block. I returned
her to Logan’s house, collected my money, and went home.” Her leg stilled. “I didn’t even talk to Logan when I dropped the car off. He was busy. I left her in the garage and took the money he’d left on the table. Twenty thousand dollars, just like he said, a nice chunk of change for two days’ work. He was so pleased with my efficiency, he threw in a bonus.”
“That doesn’t sound like Logan Burrows.” The man was known to spend hours grinding his opponent down during negotiations on even the most trivial matters. He paid people for the job they’d done and nothing more. Logan wasn’t the kind to give anyone a bonus, and he wouldn’t have paid Honey twenty thousand dollars to find a car, no matter how nice the vehicle was. Not when she’d do the same thing for a cool five hundred dollars and a night on the town.
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Of course I’m sure. I might not know the man close enough to walk up to him at a party, but he gave the graduation speech my year at the academy. Tall guy, steel-gray hair, big ears.”
The description was accurate, if crude.
Jack put a hand to his chest, checking her patchwork. It would do. He pulled his T-shirt back down into place. “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. All this fuss over a car. He loved the Super Bee, but he wouldn’t kill someone for it.
“The thief must have set the fires,” he said. “The man who stole the car from Logan originally. He must have been angry when he got back to the chop shop. He didn’t get his money. He didn’t get the car. He got screwed, and he wanted revenge.”
“See, that’s the part I don’t get. I’m not an idiot. It’s not like I handed out business cards. There are a lot of car thieves in Los Angeles, and they’d all like to get their hands on the sixty-seventh Volvo Sport, but this guy didn’t know what he had. He was planning to chop her down for parts.” She frowned. “It was like the thief stole the car just to have it destroyed. It’d be like torching—what’s that famous painting? The one with the woman in the ugly dress.”
