Fire Inside

by Kristen Ashley

  “Don’t bother,” I muttered, then felt it important to note, “And I’m not stealing your tee because it’s yours.”

  It was his turn to mutter and when he did, he muttered, “Right.”

  “I’m not,” I declared, zipping up my skirt.

  “I believe you, lady,” he stated like he absolutely did not.

  I decided to let that go and get out of there.

  Sandals in hand, I moved to his jeans on the floor and yanked out my phone before I moved to my purse in his easy chair. I grabbed it and walked to the door barefoot.

  I did this intent on leaving, intent on not looking at him. Just as, when he left me, he didn’t look at me.

  So intent, I didn’t think when he called my name when I was at the door, and I looked at him.

  He was lying naked across the bed, up on an elbow, head in his hand, eyes on me, looking so amazing I had absolutely no idea how I didn’t throw my stuff aside, rush across the room, take a flying leap and join him.

  “See you tonight,” he stated. My head jerked because I was focused on my thoughts, so his words came as a surprise.

  “What?” I asked.

  “See you tonight,” he repeated.

  I finally got it together and therefore was able to lie. “I’m busy tonight.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “So I won’t see you,” I went on.

  “You’ll see me,” he declared and my eyes narrowed on him.

  “Hop—”

  “Tack’s comin’ down the mountain, lady. You wanna be gone before he gets here or any boys around get up, you better haul ass,” he advised.

  Damn!

  “Careful of High,” Hop went on. “He’s curious so he’s gonna be lurking.”

  Double damn!

  “You sure you don’t want me to take you to your car?” he asked.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” I answered.

  He grinned.

  I glared.

  This went on for some time before he prompted, “Babe, you don’t want anything from me, why are you standing in my room staring at me?”

  Gah!

  “I’m not staring, I’m glaring,” I countered.

  “What you’re doin’ is hangin’ on to an argument that’s long since over ’cause you don’t wanna leave me,” he shot back.

  God.

  I gave him one last glare, opened the door and shot through it.

  I didn’t slam it.

  I walked as quietly as I could through the Compound, calling a taxi service while I made my way to the door. I then walked as quickly as I could through the forecourt of Ride while I ordered my taxi. Last, I sat on the bench of a bus stop a block away to wait for my taxi and, while I waited, I put my sandals on my now filthy feet.

  And I did all this not thinking that I was looking forward to seeing Hop that night.

  No, I wasn’t thinking that.

  Definitely not thinking that.

  Absolutely not.

  Even though I was.

  Damn.

  Chapter Five

  Whatever

  I was in my office at work.

  I had taken the morning to fight back the overwhelming craving the promise of seeing Hop that night caused, created a plan to avoid him and put it in action.

  Therefore, I had not hung at home or at Tyra’s, went out to get a pedicure, or done anything I normally did on a Saturday.

  I had bought a big sub, a bag of chips, a six pack of diet cherry 7Up and a huge chocolate chip cookie, and went to my office in downtown Denver. I picked my office as shelter from the storm because I had a strict rule that I didn’t work weekends. My weeknights might end at nine, ten, even ten–thirty, but my weekends were my own so no one would think I’d be there. I also picked my office because it had a good security system, the kind where you could arm the door but move around the offices without tripping it.

  In other words, no one could breach my sanctuary without me knowing it.

  I had also packed a bag and made a reservation at Hotel Monaco for two nights. I’d always wanted to stay there even though it was located in the same city where I lived. I often thought of booking a weekend, getting away, doing nothing but being in a cool hotel in the heart of a beautiful city and just vegging. I’d just never found the time.

  To escape Hop, I decided now was the time.

  So my overnight bag was on the floor beside the couch in my office and I was seeing the silver lining of the situation.

  I was getting my shot at Hotel Monaco and I’d been at the office for five hours. Five hours without the phone ringing, emails coming through, or any of my ten employees walking into my office. This meant I got to do things I never did, like clean up my email inbox, tidy my desk, organize my files and concentrate on work without distractions. This also meant I did ten hours of work in that five hours and not only would I hit my organized desk on Monday, I’d do it ahead of the game.

  I thought this was fabulous. The first hint of fabulousness I’d had in weeks.

  No, months.

  No, years.

  And this was the thought I was having when I heard the warning beep of the security system that said the door was opened and you had a minute to put in the code or the call was going to Dispatch.

  My body jerked, my eyes went to the wall of windows that looked into the interior office, and my mouth dropped open.

  Hop, in deliciously faded jeans, his black motorcycle boots, his black leather cut with his hair falling appealingly in his face, and his jaw not shaved since that morning, was just inside my office. He was carrying a white plastic bag that looked like it held Chinese food containers.

  He was also with a Native American man who had his gorgeous, glossy black hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape. The guy was standing at my beeping security console.

  Without me telling them to do so, my feet pushed back my chair, my body straightened from it and, woodenly, I walked across my office to come to a halt just inside the door.

  Hop watched me do this. When I stopped, he called casually, “Hey, babe.”

  I stared at him, then my eyes drifted to the Native American guy who was working at the wires he’d pulled out of my console. The beeping stopped. He twisted his neck and took me in then aimed a slow, shit-eating, unbelievably sexy grin at me.

  A shiver shook me from top-to-toe; his grin was that good. Not to mention, he was shockingly handsome. He also had a very wide, gleaming gold wedding band on his finger, beaming so bright against his luscious brown skin, I could see it from across the interior office.

  “Yo,” he called.

  “Uh…” I mumbled.

  His shit-eating grin got bigger and sexier.

  A tremor shook me.

  “This is Vance Crowe,” Hop introduced, jerking a thumb at Vance and telling me something I already knew.

  Vance Crowe worked for Lee Nightingale of Nightingale Investigations. He was famous. All the Nightingale men were famous. This was because newspaper articles and books were written about them. And newspaper articles and books were written about them because they were all talented private investigators who had a knack for the business and a way of finding trouble. Bad trouble. And that trouble usually had to do with a fantastically beautiful damsel in distress who would, in the end, find herself married to one of the Nightingale men.

  I looked back at Vance to see my console again looked normal with no wires hanging out and he was turned to me.

  “Manual override,” he stated, “Very manual,” he went on. “It’s good now. When you leave, just set it like normal.”

  I blinked.

  Vance turned to Hop. “Later, man.”

  Hop stuck out a hand and they did a complicated, jerky, manly, completely cool and weirdly hot handshake as Hop stated, “Marker.”

  “You got it,” Vance replied as they broke contact. “I need you, I’ll call.”

  “Right,” Hop said, jerking up his chin.

  Vance jerke
d up his, turned to me, and gave me another grin. I got a chin jerk then he turned and disappeared through my door.

  Hop moved to it, locked it and then turned to me.

  He started talking as he walked toward me.

  “Took some work, had to ask around and be cool about it but got it from Big Petey. Kung pao shrimp.”

  I blinked again.

  Hop made it to me, shifted slightly sideways and either by necessity or design his hard body brushed mine as he moved by me and into my office.

  Again woodenly, I pivoted to see Hop looking around as he walked to my desk and dumped the bag on it.

  He turned to look back at me. “Cush, babe.”

  I didn’t look at my button-backed white leather couch against the wall. The high-backed white leather executive chair behind my sleek, modern but feminine glass-and-chrome desk. My all-in-one, huge-screened computer. The white leather chairs in front of my desk. The thick rug on the floor with its stark graphic design in white, black, hot pink, and tangerine. Or the fabulous art deco prints on the wall.

  I stared at him.

  He looked back to the bag and started to unearth white containers with red Asian designs on their sides, muttering, “Expected nothin’ less.”

  “What just happened?” I asked.

  He twisted his neck to look at me, his hand wrapped around paper-bound chopsticks. “Crowe’s good at bypassing security systems.”

  “What just happened?” I repeated.

  Hop straightened to full height and turned to me, whereupon he explained more fully, “Lookin’ for you so I could bring you dinner, saw your car in the underground garage. Came up. Saw the security console through your door, you at your desk. Console stated security was engaged. Called Crowe. Did some snooping. Found out you liked kung pao shrimp. Ordered it. Got it. Met Crowe here. I picked the lock. Crowe bypassed your system. Now we’re eatin’ while you finish up and shut down then we’re goin’ to my place to watch some TV and spend the night.”

  There was a lot there so I started at the top.

  “I didn’t see you come up.” I motioned to the wall of windows beside me that had a straight view to the front doors, which were also a wall of windows.

  “I didn’t want to be seen,” he informed me.

  I went back to staring at him, forgetting about the rest of what we needed to go over.

  He went back to the food. Placing my container in front of my chair, he took his, sat in one of my sleek white leather chairs, shifted low, leaned back and lifted his motorcycle boots to my desk, ankles crossed.

  He then commenced eating.

  At this point, I remembered what we needed to go over, prioritized quickly and announced, “I’m not eating dinner with you.”

  “It’s Imperial,” he replied.

  Damn.

  Imperial kung pao shrimp was the best and I was hungry. I’d had a big lunch but that was five hours ago.

  And anyway, what would he do with that food if I didn’t eat it? Would it go to waste?

  Sacrilege.

  Okay, maybe I was going to eat.

  Moving on.

  “I’m not going to your place to watch TV and definitely I’m not spending the night,” I declared.

  “Okay, we’ll go to yours,” he returned.

  “We’re not doing that either.”

  His eyes hit my overnight bag then came back to me while I tried to ignore the smell of delicious Chinese food filling the air.

  “Where we goin’?” Hop asked.

  “Where I’m going is none of your business,” I answered.

  He grinned, clamped his chopsticks around some noodles and shoved them in his mouth, eyes on me, the grin never leaving his face.

  I watched this thinking it stunk that even watching him eat was somehow sexy. Then I moved to thinking it stunk that seeing him slouched in my sleek white leather chair with his feet on my desk was also sexy. He was all hot biker in leather and faded denim, stubble, unruly hair. My office was all pristine, clean edges, glass, chrome, and splashes of bright colors. He didn’t fit. His presence there, regardless of his casual pose, was an invasion and I’d discovered weeks ago I liked all the ways Hop could invade.

  Just then, I discovered this kind of invasion was included.

  He was not of my life, my work, my home. He came from a life that was wild and free. Where it was okay not to shave or get regular haircuts. Where you didn’t throw away supremely faded jeans; you wore them because they were fabulous. Where you casually broke in somewhere you wanted to be, bringing along your buddy who could adeptly, if feloniously, disarm security systems.

  Where rules didn’t apply, only feelings did.

  You went with your gut, you led with your heart, you did what you wanted and you didn’t think of consequences.

  You lived.

  You were free.

  Yes, Hop invading my office bringing Chinese food brought all this to me.

  And I liked it.

  I shook these thoughts off and realized he hadn’t replied.

  “Hop—” I started but he swallowed and interrupted me.

  “Sit down, Lanie, and eat. It’s getting cold.”

  I took two steps into the room, stopped and said quietly but firmly, “I don’t have the energy to spar with you tonight. I’ve been working for five hours and although not physically taxing, it’s been mentally draining. I just want a quiet night.” I shook my head and amended, “No, I need a quiet night.”

  “Then it’s good we’re just gonna watch TV. And when I fuck you later, you’re golden. I’ll do all the work.”

  That got me another shiver even as I felt my palms start to itch.

  God! He had an answer for everything.

  I didn’t know what to do. I had not one idea how to get him to leave me be. What I did have an idea about was that I refused to consider the fact that I didn’t want him to let me be.

  It was then I decided I should eat. Brain food. If I had Imperial kung pao shrimp, I was certain my mental juices would start flowing and something would come to me.

  Putting this plan into action, but deciding to do it with extreme ill-grace, I stomped around my desk in order to get to my food.

  Unfortunately, Hop felt like providing a commentary as I did this and, equally unfortunately, I liked what he said or, more accurately, muttered.

  “Christ, a Saturday, alone in an office for hours. Still she looks fuckin’ spectacular.”

  I drew in a deep breath, sat in my chair, successfully ignored how his words affected me and glared at him.

  Another thing my mother ingrained in me, which was incidentally one of the few things, like knowing how to cook, that she taught me that I liked, was that I never should look bad.

  Even if I was dinking around at home, I didn’t do it in ratty sweats and old t-shirts. I might not do full-on makeup, perfume and overly styled hair, but I was never, not ever, a slob. I had knockabout clothes but they were fashionable loungewear like comfortable yoga pants, hoodies, wraps and stylishly cut tees.

  If I was going to step foot out of my house, although on occasion my loungewear worked, normally I ratcheted up the effort.

  Like today. I had on a pair of bootcut jeans that I knew did miracles for my ass, which wasn’t, like Ty-Ty’s, something to write home about. Purple leather platform, spike-heeled booties that skimmed the bottom of my ankle and had a saucy, silver zip at the side (these also did miracles for my ass). And a thin weave, soft wool, silvery sweater that was slightly see-through, showing my lilac cami underneath, and it had an intriguing drapey neckline that was close to my neck on one side but went wide on the other, exposing goodly amounts of shoulder and half my collarbone.

  I was reconsidering this life rule and making plans to troll Goodwill stores for stained, used sweatpants and sweatshirts, trying to contain the queasiness this thought was giving me as I opened up my food and the scent of sublime Imperial kung pao shrimp hit my nostrils.

  Heaven in a Chinese food contai
ner.

  I totally forgot about my Goodwill plans and snatched up the chopsticks. When my cell on my desk rang, I was so distracted by my watering mouth and a mind way too filled with garbage that I stupidly picked it up, hit the button, and put it to my ear. I did this, one, without reading the display and two, without thinking about the fact that Hop was sitting right across from me.

  “Hello,” I greeted.

  “Lanie, darling! Guess what?”

  Mom.

  Mom sounding excited, which was never good. You’d think it would be but it never, ever was.

  Mom on my phone with me in my office with Imperial kung pao shrimp, one of my drugs of choice, and Hopper Kincaid, another one, Hop being the drug that was harder to beat.

  Why me?

  My eyes went to Hop to find his eyes curious and warm on me.

  He had great eyes.

  Gah!

  Everything that was happening crashing over me, my forehead went to the edge of my desk, where I pounded it repeatedly.

  “Lanie?” Mom called into my ear.

  “Babe, Jesus, stop doin’ that,” Hop called across my desk.

  Silence from Mom but as for me, my entire body went still, which fortunately meant I quit banging my head on my desk.

  “Lanie, baby girl, are you with a man?” Mom asked, sounding breathy, which meant even more excited.

  Damn!

  I started banging my forehead on my desk again.

  “Lanie, seriously, stop fuckin’ doin’ that,” Hop ordered, closer, like he was leaning across my desk, and also sharper, kind of like a gentle bark.

  “Oh my goodness, Lanie! Are you there? What’s going on? Why aren’t you speaking? Are you out on a date?” Mom asked, and I shot up to sitting in my chair.

  When I did, I saw Hop did not have his feet on my desk. He was out of his chair, leaned across the desk toward me. His food container was set aside, one of his rough, callused, beautiful, strong, intensely masculine hands planted in the middle of my desk. His eyes were intent on me.

  “Lanie! Are you there?” Mom called, beginning to sound panicked.

  “I’m here, Mom, and I’m not out on a date,” I finally replied.

  Hop held my eyes.

  Mom said nothing for a few moments, then, “All right, then who’s that man I hear?”