“You heard me. You’re going to get in the shower, and then we eat.” He’d already turned away, his hand first up and around the molding on the front door and then examining the lock. “After you eat, you’re going to—” Suddenly, he broke off in the middle of that thought, his back still toward her, his hands stilled.
Cecily waited for him to finish telling her exactly what he wanted her to do and the precise order in which he wanted her to do it. Her jaw clamped, but she wasn’t going to rise to the bait and jump all over him, even if it made her want to scream. The crazy would all be over soon. They were halfway to New York, and she’d never see him again. The crazy would all be over soon.
Except this was now. And now here Shane was, frozen in the middle of a sentence, slowly turning back around. This time when he looked at her, it was like he was really seeing her. In fact, he stared at her. Cecily realized she was holding her breath and exhaled slowly, her heart beating faster and faster under his steely gaze. “What?” she managed.
“I was, uh . . .” He folded his arms across his chest, looked down at his boots planted in a V, went completely silent for a good five seconds, and then looked up and asked, “Do you want to shower, eat, or sleep first?”
It was obvious it took some effort for the words to come out like that, all question marky and flexible sounding. Cecily stared at him in disbelief. She bit her lip, managing to keep from laughing, but couldn’t keep from smiling. Shane shook his head, but he’d dropped his arms and was suddenly grinning too, one arm grabbing the back of his neck.
Shaking his head and grinning. The biggest smile on his face since they’d started this trip. Hot. Badass. And now sweet. “All three sound like heaven,” Cecily said finally.
“If you wanna pick something out to eat from the menu, I’ll order it while you shower and then it’ll be here by the time you’re ready,” he said quietly.
“That sounds great, Shane,” Cecily said. She meant to say more, wanted to say more—acknowledge that he’d made an effort to meet her halfway—but she didn’t want to break the spell.
No matter. He’d tucked that smile away and was already turning away again when he said, “Sure.”
Steam clouded the bathroom as water poured down Cecily’s face and body. She took a deep breath, almost giddy as she soaped up, inhaling the citrusy scent with a big, dumb grin on her face. It had been too long since she’d felt safe enough to close her eyes and just enjoy a hot shower.
She couldn’t wait to get to New York and see Dex, but Shane was nothing if not dedicated in his commitment to keep her safe, so for the first time in forever, she felt free. Free to take the world’s longest shower and slop on bath wash that smelled like pure joy hanging from an orange tree in sunny Florida. Free to jump up and down on a killer mattress. Free to change into clothes she liked, and to dial down the makeup, regardless of any man’s preference. Free to just be herself, without a care in the world, without having to worry that a time bomb on the other side of her door was just waiting to go off.
Shampooing her hair with an enormous amount of suds, Cecily tried to decide if letting down her guard was a mistake.
James’s agenda had been to control her and break her down. Conversely, while they didn’t come any bossier than Shane, he’d made it clear that his agenda was to get her to New York in one piece. This suggested Shane thought delivering her to Dex in multiple pieces was in the realm of possibility, which was a little disconcerting, but then the whole situation was disconcerting.
Cecily getting caught up with a man like James was disconcerting.
Dex getting caught up with a man like Shane was disconcerting.
And judging by his behavior, Shane getting caught up with a girl like herself was also disconcerting, although outside of getting into the James mess, Cecily imagined she came off about as normal as you could be. Like a physical therapist or an ice cream vendor, she thought with a smile. Well, like a graphic designer. I’m just going to move to New York and become a graphic designer and go down the path I meant to go down in the first place.
Cecily rinsed all the soap off and stood under the hot spray, staring at the wall of steam as warning sirens went off in her head. The idea of living in New York with her brother—making a living doing what she loved, an idea that had kept her company so many nights over the last month, giving her comfort when she felt all alone—was all she could think about. And now, all of a sudden, not two days on her way to exactly what she wanted, something in her didn’t want this road trip to end.
Her eyes worked through the steam and settled on the doorknob, behind which was the most enigmatic man she’d ever met. Six foot and—oh, my god—counting, with a gorgeous car to go with a gorgeous bod and a look in his eyes that could both chill and probably kill. He had a mysterious trunk he wouldn’t let her near, a knife in his boot, he kept a six-pack of cell phones ready to go, and he was partial to cheap cheeseburgers and luxury lodging. That was both too much and too little to know about a man, and she hadn’t locked the bathroom door. Did I do that on purpose? Why do I feel so safe? Is this some bizarre form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Maybe it’s Post-Traumatic Shane Disorder. She giggled, and then checked herself. For the love of god, Cecily, what James did to you is not funny, and just because you’ve got a personal bodyguard right now does not mean James can’t find you again if he wants to make your life miserable.
That was a sobering thought, strong enough to make her feel a chill even in hot water. She’d sworn when she got away from James that she’d be smart enough to walk away from the dark the next time she saw it, and there was Shane checking the curtains. The phone. The pictures. The locks. The doorframe. Shane was no pizza delivery guy, no ice cream vendor, that was for sure. What are you going to ask him over dinner: “So, how dark is it, Shane?”
Cecily watched bubbles swirl into the drain but still made no move to turn off the water. What does it mean if I don’t want to ask because I might not like the answer? What does it mean if I don’t want to know the answer because I don’t want to stop being around him and I don’t want to have to walk away? What does it mean that I don’t want to walk away because I might miss catching that tiny hint of a smile, nearly impossible to bring to life, the one that makes my heart beat faster when I finally get it?
Cecily dripped more of the satsuma body wash into her palm, closed her eyes, let the water pound down all around her, and imagined that her hands were his hands. Shane’s big hands, running perfumed soap over her shoulders, fingers grazing the edges of her back, smoothing over her naked breasts, and swirling around her nipples.
Her breath was coming more quickly now. She leaned against the back of the shower, just slowly moving her hands over her body, wondering if Shane was wild or liked to take his time, or—
A sharp rap sounded outside the door; Cecily’s eyes flew open, terrified he’d caught her.
She stared at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn. He’s not coming in here; I trust him not to touch me.
Which is such a total bummer.
She heard low voices and realized he was talking to hotel staff, that it wasn’t Shane at her door, probably wasn’t even an intentional knock. As disappointment seared her, all she could think was, Oh, hell, Cecily, you’re really into this guy.
Apparently, there was still a time bomb on the other side of her door.
CHAPTER 6
I do not trust myself not to touch her.
I mean, of course, I’m not gonna touch her. I just . . .
Shit. If Shane were being smart, he’d go down to the bar, pick up a bored businessman’s wife, and bang her in the elevator on the way back upstairs.
But Shane was not doing that at the present moment, and it wasn’t just because the Hudson Kings’ Russian problem was lurking somewhere over his shoulder. He couldn’t take his mind off Cecily, sure as hell not while she was behind the door taking a shower.
He had to force himself to focus long enough to install devices on the fr
ont door and the windows that would alert him if someone tried to enter. Then he’d called room service and ordered steak for himself, chicken for her, plus a bottle of bourbon more his style and two bottles of wine to go with dinner—one merlot and one chardonnay since he didn’t know her tastes.
The hard liquor had arrived separately. Two cheeseburgers more than two hours ago were nothing against a whole lot of suppressed lust, driving fatigue, and a generous swallow of bourbon. Shane’s thoughts were beginning to spiral out of control. Never leave your glove box unlocked, he thought idly. If he was being honest, he’d have to admit that he’d somehow managed to do just that.
Now, he sat in a chair across the room from the bed upon which Cecily sat wrapped in a hotel robe after washing a man out of her hair with some kind of epically fantastic orange-scented shampoo, and the most coherent thought he could keep in his head was: Not. Gonna. Touch. Her. That said, if she wanted to reach her suitcase for some clothes, she’d have to step over his outstretched legs, and yet he didn’t so much as uncross his ankles.
She was probably naked under the swamp of white cotton, and in order to give him something to do besides stare and think way dirtier than he had any right to, he poured a second drink. Tasted awesome, but “Not. Gonna.” was quickly losing half its staying power; if dinner didn’t come soon, he might just forget about the “not” and be left with the “gonna.”
She smells like an orange. Never gonna look at an orange the same way ever again. I had an orange right now, I’ma take that orange. Gonna caress that orange, roll it between my hands. I’m going to peel that MOTHERFUCKING ORANGE and suck each and every part of it until her juice is running off my tongue and down my chin, and I can smell her scent all over me for days. I’m gonna—
“Shane?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re staring into space.”
Trust me, I’m not staring into space.
“Maybe you should eat some crackers or something out of the minibar,” she was saying. “Are you light-headed?”
“Just a long day, kid. Dinner’ll be here soon.”
Her expression told him he’d gotten his message out. “Kid.” Good as armor.
Fuck me, I shoulda gone outside; I shoulda got a suite with a door. I shoulda taken some precaution, whatever the hell that would have been. Shane had convinced himself that he was still here, in this room, this close to her and a bed, because he was maintaining the chain of custody; you don’t leave your delivery somewhere you can’t keep eyes on it. And you sure as hell don’t leave your delivery out in the open when you know that what she’s just been through ain’t over. Hence, the “there are no rooms with doubles left” lie—and a request for a view of the hotel’s driveway—down at the concierge.
And again, there was Dex, counting on Shane to do the right thing. “Handle with care,” he’d said. Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate.
From the little Dex had to say about Cecily’s opinion of James, it sounded like fold, spindle, and mutilate was the guy’s specialty, mostly directed at her mind unless she was lying about that bruise being the first time.
But it was what little Dex had to say about Cecily’s opinion of Shane that he couldn’t get out of his mind: “I can tell she feels safe with you.”
Here. With me. Well, she shouldn’t. He leaned back in the dark, while she sat under the halo of a reading lamp. She wouldn’t be able to see all of him, but he could get his fill of the wide blue eyes, the dripping wet hair and the pile of white fluff framing that heart-shaped face, all working overtime to make his dick twitch.
And that was just the surface shit. There’d been this moment, as he was coming toward her at the gas station that first time, sunglasses lowered, about to introduce himself. She’d looked him square in the eyes just before hauling ass backward, and something about her hit him in the gut. Something with a name he was still searching for.
Seeing she was what you’d call petite and seeing as how most hotel robes were made for “average” people, the fabric engulfed her. Without a single inch of skin showing beneath the neck, she was the sexiest thing Shane had ever seen in his life.
He’d had a lot of time and practice fostering a great imagination. Guy like him, people might think he didn’t have it in him to be creative, but idling on an LA freeway in ninety-degree heat, he could stay calm for hours just imagining being someone else in another life on a sunny day.
And right now, from the chair in the corner, he was imagining yards of naked Cecily under the white fluff while forcing himself to look completely impassive.
Apparently, she’d just asked a question. “What?” Shane mumbled.
She bit her lip, clearly fighting annoyance. Her gaze shifted from the bourbon bottle he was gripping like a stick shift to his face, which he knew she couldn’t see clearly. She’s worried I’m gonna get drunk, and I won’t be able to fill her in. And frankly, that’s a brilliant idea. Wish I could get shitfaced right now.
“I said I think room service is here. I’ll throw some clothes on,” she said, clutching the robe together at chest level as she headed resolutely for the closet and stepped over his legs. Shane did not help her lug the suitcase to the bathroom; room service got only half his attention while he noted how Cecily’s commitment to modesty at her neckline with her one free hand resulted in a nice lack of attention to covering the legs and thighs.
Room service was tipped and gone by the time Cecily got back. She was dressed in sweatpants and a tiny pink T-shirt with a glittering red heart in the middle. You’ve got to be kidding me. How is it possible to be so fucking adorable and so fucking sexy at the same time?
“Smells delicious. Thank you, Shane,” she said, a little shy all of a sudden. “This is all really generous.”
Shane gave a dismissive nod and was about to just pull over his warming tray of steak and tuck in, but Cecily was suddenly taking over, making sure he had a napkin, pouring two waters, removing the food from the trays, and reorganizing it on the plates he would have ignored.
He was starving, but he sat back, watching her do quiet, simple things, feeling an unfamiliar warmth spread across his chest. How could a man have this and put a hand to her? How could a man have this and make her cry? With this one girl, that guy could have had Friday-night sexy as all hell and Sunday-night chicken dinner happy.
With this one girl.
“Shane?” She was staring at him staring at her, holding out the breadbasket.
Shane shook himself out of his thoughts and grabbed the closest roll. “Trying to guess if you were merlot or chardonnay.”
“I know you’re not supposed to with chicken, but merlot, please.”
“You like what you like,” Shane said softly, picking up the merlot and the corkscrew.
Her eyes widened for a second, and she ducked her head down as she laid out the silverware in parallel lines, one set for each of them. “Why didn’t you want room service to come in and set up?” she asked, now serving out some salad while he poured her wine.
“Habit.” Shane watched her move around him, unaccustomed to sitting back and letting someone else take charge, do something nice for him. “Don’t like people looking around at my kit.” He indicated his bags. “Always aware of being on a job.”
“Do you have anything unusual in there?” Cecily asked.
“No,” he said, deadpan. “The unusual stuff is all in the trunk.”
Cecily’s eyes moved sharply back toward him, and a gruff chuckle came out of Shane’s mouth.
She laughed too, but then killed the moment by asking, “Speaking of the job, Dex said you’d fill me in.”
“I shouldn’t be the one filling you in. How much you need to know is Dex’s business.” He knew he sounded as exasperated as he felt.
“But he told you to fill me in, right?”
Shane didn’t like the answer so he didn’t give one. Which Cecily interpreted as a “go” sign. “First, how did you meet my brother?” she asked.
“Met on a freelance job. Found we had compatible skills and didn’t irritate the fuck outta each other. Now we’re both specialists for Rothgar, the man who runs the Hudson Kings. Our team is former military, former gang, former white-collar badass, wherever, whatever, from all over the place. High-class, low-class, good with ideas, good with plans, good with hands . . . I guess you could say that he recruited the best, and the men who answered that call were looking for something. And though I don’t know all the stories myself, and it sure as shit isn’t my place to tell you, I would guess that Rothgar demonstrated that he could give them something they were missing. Either stopped them from walking alone into darkness, lent a hand at a critical time, or, maybe, just something that would seem small to the outside world, like keeping a promise.”
Finally, finally, he looked right at Cecily. “That’s why he commands the respect he does. The loyalty. That’s why we’re a brotherhood, though we don’t share blood.”
She nodded slowly. He figured she was trying to guess what Rothgar offered to him that he needed so badly. He had no plans to share that with her.
“Your specialty is . . . cars.”
“In a nutshell.”
“My brother?”
“Dex is the team’s hacker.”
Cecily bit her lip. “You mean programmer.”
“I mean hacker.”
She took a deep breath. “And Roth—”
“The guy who keeps everything from falling apart.”
“No, really. What does he do?”
You know plenty. “Like I said, he’s the glue. You’ll meet him.”
Cecily paused, then tried again. “What other specialists do you work with?”
“We have a money guy. A demolitions expert. That kind of thing. Others.”
“The bomb thing wasn’t a joke, then?”
“The bomb thing wasn’t a joke, though he doesn’t get as much work as he’d like.”
There was a pause. Cecily cleared her throat, blinking as she moistened her lips. Shane had to look away from those lips. “You’re doing well, by the way,” he muttered. “Thought you’d be overreacting, freaking out around now.”
The Transporter Page 4
