Hidden Fire

by Jo Davis

  He liked to believe he was man enough to give her the space she needed, and to be happy with himself and the direction of his life first. A woman like Grace deserved a man every bit as confident and successful as herself.

  God willing, he’d be that man.

  “I feel like I’m supposed to be here, as though this is already home. I’m calling the Realtor this afternoon,” he said, his mind completely made up.

  “Good for you,” she said softly.

  And pulled him in for a kiss. A scorching-hot, tongue-tangling kiss that tasted like burgers and fries, and he didn’t care. All coherence took a side trip when her hand drifted to his crotch and began to caress him to full arousal with the lightest of touches.

  “I want you,” she said, fiddling with his buckle. “Here. Now. And I want you to . . . take charge.”

  “Ah, shit, yeah.” Two of his most treasured fantasies came together in his brain, and knowing they were both within reach at the same time blasted his self-control to dust. Quickly, he stuffed their trash into the empty bag, stood, and strode to the trunk, tossing it inside and placing their drinks there for safekeeping. Stripping off his shirt, he spread it on the ground at the front of his car and returned to where she sat on the blanket, watching curiously.

  “Stand up,” he said, his tone firm. She did, her face flushed with desire, waiting to see what came next. “Strip for me, down to the skin.”

  She shed her blue suit jacket and white blouse, then her bra, eyes never straying from his. Next went her pants and underwear, which she nudged aside with one foot. She stood totally exposed to him, tall, lean, and naked. His.

  “Ah, Christ.” He palmed his rock-hard erection through his clothing. “Take your hair down.”

  One by one, she removed the pins, pitching them onto the blanket with her clothes, until the whole shiny mass cascaded past her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall. She watched expectantly, gaze smoky, as lost as he to the sensual game they played.

  He picked her up again and carried her the short distance to his shirt spread in front of the car and set her on it, unwilling to risk her stepping on something sharp. Last, he gathered up the quilt and her clothes, which he placed on the passenger’s seat. Then he shook the blanket out and spread it over the hood.

  Sidling close, he ran a palm down her back, skimmed her smooth buttocks. “Face the car.” She did, trembling under his hand. “Good. The blanket is to protect your pretty skin. Do you know why?”

  “I—I think so,” she answered breathlessly.

  “Oh, yes, you do. You see, I’ve enjoyed many sensual, satisfying adventures, but never this. The dangerous side of me has always wanted to take a woman right in the open, where anyone might see,” he whispered into her ear. His pleasure grew when she shuddered, spread her legs, and leaned into his touches as his fingers explored the folds of her sex.

  “God, Julian.”

  “Oh, you like that? You’re going to love what comes next. My second fantasy is, I’ve dreamed of bending a beautiful, naughty woman over the hood of my fast car and fucking her hard and deep.” He nibbled and kissed her neck, rubbed her clit. “Pounding into her, letting her know who belongs between her lush thighs. Lucky me, that woman is you, querida . I’m going to fuck you until you can’t breathe, until nothing exists but me buried in your hot sheath. Now bend over and lay your upper half on the blanket. Brace your feet wider apart.”

  Madre de Dios! She was a feast waiting to be devoured, hair fanned over the blanket, taut butt poked out, inviting.

  In two seconds, he’d toed off his shoes, shed his pants and boxers. Behind her, he smoothed his hands down her back, her pert ass, the outsides of her thighs. He crouched between her thighs, mindful that she deserved spoiling before he went at her like an animal.

  Angling his head, he trailed his tongue over her slit, gratified by the tiny whimper from above. He let himself enjoy simply tasting for a bit, aware he was driving her into the proper head space, spiking her arousal, seducing her.

  “Mmm, so pretty. Who does this belong to, baby?”

  “Y-you.”

  “That’s right.” Parting her sex, he stroked into her channel with his tongue, sweeping as deeply as possible, causing her to moan. He continued his seduction in this way for a while before changing tactics. Fastening his mouth to her clit, he sucked the tender nub until she writhed over him, panting short cries, driven to the edge.

  Before she went over, he stood, chuckling at her moan of despair. He positioned himself behind her, cock jutting proudly toward its goal, and grabbed her hips. He guided the head just into the entrance, teasing with the promise of what was to come, rubbing the tip in and out. Creating delicious friction.

  “Please,” she begged.

  With a growl, he plunged in to the hilt. “Mine.”

  “Yes! Yours. I need . . .”

  “Me, right here, always.”

  She ground backward against his groin. “Nobody but you.”

  His control frazzled and he began to shaft her, long slow slides that superheated the blood in his veins, sizzled in his cock. With every stroke, driving him mad, hips pistoning faster and faster until he was slamming his cock home, loving the noisy rhythm of their flesh slapping together. Her walls bathed him with fire, the flame spreading to every limb.

  He quickened. His balls tightened. The fire consumed him.

  And when she screamed his name, her channel convulsing around his rod, he exploded. Shot into her forever, giving her all of himself.

  “I love you,” he rasped. “Dios mío, I love you.”

  And so, he rendered himself naked and vulnerable in a way he never had before, had never been tempted to before this woman. This elusive, lovely, special woman. So right for him in every possible way.

  It was official. He was ruined for any other.

  As they came down together, he planted little kisses on her back, kneaded her shoulders. Whispered words in Spanish he’d never said to another soul, about sharing dreams, about tomorrow. About this place and how he hoped one day in the not too distant future she’d plan their home to suit her.

  Forty years from now, he wanted them to sit on their back porch, holding hands, and remember this day with a fond smile. And how they’d re-created this moment by the pond many times since, the same as when love was new and the possibilities were laid out before them, the world theirs for the taking.

  He softened and pulled out, desperate to squash the sudden, awful ache. Call him a sentimental fool.

  He knew she had to have heard his declaration.

  But not once on the drive back to town did she acknowledge his love—or give him the words in return.

  16

  I love you.

  Three simple words had never thrilled—or scared—her more. She hadn’t missed how he’d fallen silent as they dressed, his subsequent smiles and attempts at lighthearted conversation on the way back to town strained.

  At an age when many women were fantasizing about finding the right man, falling in love, and settling into the status quo, Grace dreamed of taking on the world, one court case at a time. She had big plans involving the DA’s office, and the picket fence fell into the nebulous “someday” category for her.

  He loves me.

  Sure, the sex was unparalleled. But not long ago, sex to him was an “itch” requiring a scratch. With Carmelita or whoever else was available. Was she supposed to believe he’d settled down? He had admitted he’d been quite the ladies’ man.

  Even if he’d changed, could she take the final step? Give over her heart, give up her independence, to a man who was a virtual tornado? Control and order didn’t exist in his vocabulary.

  Could the two of them ever work?

  She recalled reading once that it’s aerodynamically impossible for the bumblebee to be able to fly.

  Tell that to the bumblebee.

  Note to self—nothing’s impossible if you believe. The jack-pot question was, did she believe?

&n
bsp; At his condo, she hovered in the living room while he packed his bag, and studied the photos of his family on the mantel. One group shot appeared to have been taken in recent years. A plump, attractive older woman, presumably his mother, surrounded by her children: Julian, his brother, and four sisters. Julian’s parents made beautiful babies, because his sisters were pretty and his brother almost as stunning as Julian.

  Julian would make beautiful babies, too.

  Stunned at the errant thought, she turned away from the mantel. Fortunately, he walked into the room and interrupted her brooding, bag in hand and ready to go.

  Once they were under way, she stole a glance at him. “I just want you to know how grateful I am for you coming to my rescue today. Overhearing that conversation between Warren and Derek was quite a shock.”

  “Not necessary,” he said with an edge to his voice. “People who care for each other don’t expect gratitude.”

  Okay. She was going to have to nip this awkwardness in the bud. “Well, people who care for each other express how they feel. I do care about you, Julian. And it means a lot to me that you dropped what you were doing to rush to my side.”

  He didn’t respond. Damn, he probably thought she was a fickle bitch. She did care, dammit. She was even falling for him.

  She just didn’t want to.

  At her place, he started to take his bag into her bedroom, but paused. “I don’t want to presume. Am I sleeping in your room?”

  Oh, that hurt. As much as she had it coming, his words lanced her chest. “Only if you want to.” He didn’t budge, making it clear that wasn’t good enough. “I want you to.”

  He nodded, and put his bag in her room. When he emerged, he gestured toward the spare bedroom where she’d set up her office. “Mind if I use your computer?”

  Man code for I’d like to hide for a few hours.

  “No, go ahead.”

  A couple of hours later, she was watching the news when the music of his cell phone drifted from inside.

  “Dulce,” he greeted loudly, pleasure apparent. “How are you?”

  On the sofa, she huffed to herself. Dulce meant sweet. She’d looked it up. A woman could torture herself for a very, very long time agonizing over how “sweet” his former lover was.

  But he’d never done Carmelita over the hood of his Porsche.

  So there.

  His low, masculine tone drifted from the room for what seemed forever, and she resisted the impulse to hover in the hallway and eavesdrop. She paid not one iota of attention to the rest of the broadcast, couldn’t have said if the entire state of California had finally slid into the Pacific, but she knew he ended the call at twenty-nine minutes.

  The TV droned on, and she stayed put. Congratulated herself on not storming in there, wrapping her hands around his throat, and demanding to know what they’d discussed.

  Does he miss her? Does he already regret spilling his guts and getting silence in return?

  She heard him talking again moments later, perhaps leaving a message for the Realtor. After he went quiet, restlessness propelled her to wander into the office. Julian, who had at some point changed into shorts but no shirt, was surfing the Internet, reading an article, brow furrowed in concentration. His cell phone sat at his elbow.

  “Hey,” she said, ogling his muscular chest and washboard abs.

  Turning, he blinked at her. “Oh, hey. Sorry if I abandoned you. I found a couple of old articles on the murders Shane told us about.”

  “Oh? Anything helpful, maybe something that strikes a chord?”

  “Not really. It’s just horrible, imagining what the victims suffered and thinking about their families. I wish I could do more.”

  She went to stand beside his chair and linked her arms around his neck. “You’re doing all you can. Stop tormenting yourself.”

  “If I’d gone to the police all those years ago—”

  “No. If you play that game, you’ll drive yourself crazy. You didn’t know then what you do now, so it’s all moot.”

  “Maybe. But it hurts to think what I might have averted for other victims.”

  “If the Vines men are guilty. You have a theory at this point, nothing more.”

  “Don’t forget the body count.” He scowled up at her. “And the threats against you.”

  “Which might have been solely due to my part in the case Derek lost.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you doubt it.”

  “Yeah. Too much coincidence.”

  Pulling up an extra chair, she sat and skimmed the article on the computer. “The second boy,” she mused, “the one never identified. How can it be that nobody reports their child missing?” But she knew the answer.

  “I think he was a runaway, or technically a street person, since they estimated his age as in his early twenties. All of the others have been local—victims of convenience. The killers don’t have to look too hard.”

  “God, how creepy. Like a nest of spiders lying in wait.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why not use street people exclusively?”

  “They like them pretty and clean,” he said ominously. “Easier to find what they want in clubs, where booze is flowing and inhibitions are loose.”

  “Jesus, you should’ve been a cop.”

  “Told you, Mama wouldn’t hear of it.” Glancing over, he gave her a tentative smile. An olive branch.

  Seizing it, she smiled back. She hated the distance that had sprung up between them this afternoon, and wanted it gone. “Well, it’s the police department’s loss, fire department’s gain.”

  He closed the article and poked around for a while longer, checking out other stories as she watched, content to simply sit with him. He didn’t find any other articles, at least not the ones he was looking for. Just as he shut off the browser, the phone on her desk rang, giving her a start.

  She picked it up, aware of his eyes on her. “Hello?”

  “Grace?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, this is Shane Ford. Is Julian there?”

  “Just a moment.” She handed over the phone, whispering, “It’s the detective.”

  He stuck the device to his ear. “Shane, what’s up? Uh-huh. Ah, shit, no way,” he groaned. “Where?”

  Her skin prickled as she listened, on pins and needles, already dreading what news the cop had for them. After a couple more minutes, Julian pressed the end button and exhaled a deep sigh.

  “They found another one. A male, but he doesn’t fit Brett Charles’ description—wrong hair color. They think he’s a kid named Joey who disappeared while hiking four months ago, but they have to wait on a positive ID. Dismembered, like the others.”

  She swallowed the burning sensation in her throat. “Where was he found?”

  “A mile from where the first two were discovered, along the Cumberland in a shallow grave. A lady out walking found the remains this afternoon when she threw a ball for her retriever and he didn’t come back. She found the dog digging at something . . . and, well, you can guess the rest.”

  “Oh, God, how awful.”

  “You know what? We can’t solve this sitting here, tonight. Why don’t we cuddle on the couch with a glass of wine and forget about all of this for a while? How does that sound?”

  “Heavenly,” she said, standing. “I’ll grab a nice bottle of Ledson if you do the honors.”

  “Deal.”

  She was acutely aware of his presence as he followed her into the kitchen, smelling faintly of cologne and sex, puckering her nipples. Trying to ignore his effect on her libido, she yanked a bottle of Chardonnay out of the fridge, grabbed the corkscrew from a drawer, and handed them over.

  While he uncorked the bottle, she fished two wineglasses from the cabinet and in no time, they were engrossed in a cable program on the end of the world in 2012. What that said about them, she didn’t care to guess.

  During a commercial, perhaps sensing her curiosity, he said, “Carmelita called me earlier.�
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  “Oh?” Right, like she hadn’t been dying to know every detail.

  “Yep. She finally has definite dinner plans tomorrow night with Konrad, the guy she’s been after.”

  But the one she really wants is you.

  That tidbit would never cross her lips.

  “Good for her. What else is going on?”

  Since I could have grown a frigging garden in the time you spent on the phone.

  “Not much. She gave me an update from home, said she talked with my oldest sister and Mama wants me to come for a visit, though Mama won’t say so. Carmelita’s family is bugging her, too, so she suggested we drive together, save expenses on gas for the trip.”

  “I’ll bet she did.” Whoa, that came out sort of nasty.

  He craned his neck to study her face. “Why do you say it like that?”

  “You two are close. I’m the interloper, ‘Jules baby.’ Do you think the idea of your taking a trip home with her thrills the shit out of me?”

  A grin split his face. “You’re jealous.”

  “You’re damned right,” she sputtered.

  Cupping the back of her head, he gave her a tender kiss, lids heavy, dark eyes glittering. “I’m not going anywhere with her, and you’re the only one I plan to take home to Mama, my bella. Never forget it.”

  That was dangerously close to the declaration of love he’d made by the pond, but for some strange reason, it didn’t frighten her like before. Instead, the thought of being his one and only wrapped around her, steeped in the warmth of his body curled around hers.

  This felt good. Right.

  “Want to go to bed? I’m pooped,” she said.

  “Me, too.” Taking her hand, he led her to the bedroom.

  In short order, they were naked and snuggling—and his erection was springing to life against her thigh. Electric tension, fraught with desire, hummed between them. They needed, but it was softer, more languorous, not the animal intensity of before.

  Covering her with his body, he settled between her thighs and entered her, linking their fingers together. He made love to her with gentle passion, coaxing them higher, higher, until they shattered and he poured himself into her. Held her close to his heart.