by Sarah Hegger
“Okay.” Slow and easy does it. “Why don’t you tell me what I did in high school that has you bent out of shape?”
“What do you mean?”
There she went again, with the duck and weave.
“What did I do?” Josh leaned over until she had nowhere else to look but right at him. “Why are you pissed at me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You seriously don’t know?”
“I seriously don’t know.” She glared at him; he held her gaze. “Tell me.”
“I’d rather not.” She tilted her ski-jump nose and turned her head.
What a ball breaker. Josh laughed to himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” She played it cool, but Josh bet she seethed inside, dying to demand if he was laughing at her and nearly killing herself not to.
“We should be looking for Portia,” she said.
“You’re a woman; you can look and talk at the same time. Now tell me what I did.”
For a moment, she wavered. “I don’t think so.” She shook her head.
“Why not?”
With her pencils sacrificed to the rainstorm, her hair curled and writhed down her back in a tortoiseshell mass. He wanted to touch it to see if it was as alive as it looked.
“We called a truce,” she said in a reasonable tone. “I don’t want to get into anything. I want to find Portia and go home.”
“Doesn’t a truce mean trusting …”
She made a slicing motion with her hand, clearly meant to shut him up. It worked well. “Anyway, like you said earlier, it’s long in the past and it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Except Josh got the distinct feeling it still did. He parked the car halfway down the main street of Willow Park. “Where do you want to start?”
Josh had barely finished clipping her seat belt when her head dropped back and her eyes closed. Exhaustion clung to her face in a slack-jawed pallor. They’d combed Willow Park from one side to the other. He’d worked his phone like he was launching the space shuttle, but in the end he drew a blank. It was now well past the witching hour and they’d given up for the night.
Holly hadn’t come quietly. There had been one more street and one more person to ask until, finally, the sidewalks rolled up and the good families of the neighborhood went to their beds. Alone on an abandoned street in a dead neighborhood, even Holly was forced to concede defeat.
Joshua slid into the driver’s seat.
In sleep, her face relaxed. The delicate bone structure made her fascinating, as opposed to classically beautiful.
It was the sort of face that grew on you. Not a pretty face, but a smooth oval that owed its charm to glorious skin and a sinful mouth. Her mouth was made for kisses and laughter and sliding over skin. The way she compressed those soft, generous lips into a grim line was a crying shame.
A woman like Holly snuck up on you. You started out thinking she was passably attractive. Then you watched the play of intelligence, humor, and life march across her features and she transcended to fascinating. Until, one day, you couldn’t remember a time she didn’t knock you on your ass. As a teenager, renowned for only dating the prettiest girls, his interest in her had confused him. As a man, he could see she had the sort of looks to keep a man entranced.
She got under his skin. Folded into the seat of his car, she resembled a shapeless bundle of sweats, but Josh had spent most of the night watching the sway of her ass. She moved like a set of steel drums laid down a smooth reggae beat in her head. A fluid glide to a silent rhythm rocked her hips from side to side and drew his eyes like a lodestone. His sweats hung tantalizingly low on her hips. He wanted to run his tongue along the line of the waistband and dip beneath. He wanted to bury his face between her thighs and draw in the unique scent of her.
“Oh, shit.” Now he had wood and the timing was so off, it made his head hurt. He banged his head against the headrest to shake some of those dog thoughts out.
She snuffled in her sleep, deepening the creases between her eyebrows. She frowned too much. Holly carried a heavy load.
He wanted to lighten it for her, not make things worse by hitting on an exhausted, worried woman.
What was the deal with the sister? There was a lot here he didn’t know, and it made him determined to find out. He’d been tangled up in enough needy women to recognize the yawning pit of Portia. There wasn’t enough love, nurturing, or tenderness to fill the endless cavern of need.
Holly, on the other hand, kept everyone at arm’s length. If there had been any way to avoid accepting his help, she would have jumped at it. As it was, she’d gone along grudgingly, bitching and taking shots at him all the way.
“I didn’t sleep with your sister,” he’d said earlier tonight. Josh wasn’t sure she believed him.
She’d posed the question and turned away with a speculative gleam in her molasses eyes when he gave her the answer.
He wasn’t sure what was happening behind those dark-as-sin eyes. And he really wanted to know. He wanted her trust and he’d spent the night trying to earn it.
Her head slipped and he carefully rearranged it so her neck wouldn’t get stiff.
Why was he making this his problem again?
He let his fingers linger on the warm velvet of her skin for a moment.
Idiot. He slipped the car into gear and eased onto the deserted streets. The tires made a silky hiss against the road. Some misguided sense of chivalry had him in this up to his neck. And yet—and this was the real shocker—he didn’t mind.
Life had lacked a certain purpose lately anyway, and what better distraction than a feisty, pint-sized burr of attitude, full to choking with repressed emotion and secrets. It should have been enough to have him running screaming into the hills.
He couldn’t say he had a type. He did know what he didn’t want. He didn’t want a ball breaker, a reactionary basket case with so much baggage it clattered along behind her like the chains of Jacob Marley.
Laura. Another face he hadn’t seen in years, though it was never far from his thoughts. Another damsel who needed rescuing. Only he’d fucked that one up six ways to Sunday.
Holly made another of those soft snorts.
Except here he was and, apparently, quite happy to stay for a while. He’d do better this time.
He checked his watch. It was almost four a.m. and the highway reverted to raccoons and litter. As he eased over the bridge, the traffic got busier. Even at this time, there were still some hearty party animals on the go, but it had quieted down substantially. The car’s engine echoed loudly in the concrete tomb of the parking garage.
His passenger didn’t stir.
Josh stuffed her wet things into the gym bag and tossed it over his arm. He walked around the car and eased open the passenger door.
She was curled into a tight ball that made him smile. Man, she was a bite-sized bundle of tangled-up trouble. And still, he reached in and carefully hoisted her into his arms.
She was surprisingly solid for such a small woman. It must be the weight of the massive chip on her shoulder.
He eased into the lobby, where Philip counted down the last few hours of his graveyard shift.
Philip hit the elevator button for him and smiled at Josh’s passenger like an elderly uncle.
“Good night,” the old doorman whispered as the elevator doors swished shut.
Josh put her down to open the door to his condo.
And Holly woke up.
Being Holly, she went from sleep to full alert in under point two of a second and came up swinging. “What the hell are you doing?”
The pit of his stomach dropped.
Her cheeks flushed and she braced her arms akimbo. Her hair was flattened against her head on one side, making up for it by springing free and wild over the rest of her head. She looked certifiable. She looked like she was going to hand his balls to him.
“I’m not doing anything.” Exhaustion slammed him. From the other side of the door, hi
s bed called. “You fell asleep in the car and I carried you up here.”
“You should have woken me. You had no right to put your hands on me.” She twitched like an angry cat.
“You were fast asleep. I was trying to be nice.” He reached for his last scrap of patience.
“I’m not some helpless, frail female who needs a big strong man to sweep her into his arms and make her problems disappear.”
Josh leaned back and straightened the crick in his back. Big strong men also got sore backs from carrying ungrateful women up several floors in the middle of the night. Enough with this crap. He was being a goddamned gentleman here, and a little appreciation would be nice.
“You know what, Holly? Fuck it.”
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened.
He’d shocked her. Good. He opened the door to his apartment and strode in, leaving it open for her. He would grab a couple of hours sleep before he got up to train. After that, she could get back to giving him crap.
“What does that mean?” She trailed him into the condo, still looking bellicose.
Josh shrugged and didn’t look at her. If he did, he might give in to temptation and wring her neck. If he could work up the energy, he might actually feel taken advantage of. He had given up his night to take her where she wanted to go, followed her around like an obedient serf, and asked how high when she said jump. He’d been insulted, mocked, and challenged every step of the way. She’d even called his XK-E a penis. He loved his car. It had taken him months and months to find it and even longer to have it restored.
“It means what it says. Fuck it.” He hauled two bottles of water out of the fridge, slapped one on the counter for her, and downed his in almost one gulp.
“Close the door,” he said over his shoulder as he strode down the corridor. Just fuck it. “Towels are under the basin in the bathroom and the sheets on the bed are clean. Knock yourself out.”
Holly winced as the door slammed behind him. Oops.
Perhaps the last bit had been rather rude? Okay. She hadn’t behaved well at the end there. Actually, bitchy might come closer to the truth. And while she indulged a brief masochistic foray toward truth, she would have to concede her behavior for most of the night might, possibly, be judged as less than stellar.
He’d been rather wonderful tonight. Patient, understanding, and compassionate, and the thrust and parry of their verbal sparring had been a welcome distraction. Other than those first few moments in the bar, Josh Hunter had been nothing like the arrogant jerk she’d gone to school with. To be fair, she hadn’t made much effort all those years ago to get to know him. The Josh Hunter who had given up his night to help out an old school adversary was the sort of man it was hard to keep at arm’s length.
He’d completely taken her by surprise with the carrying thing.
She’d been asleep. For the first time in more years than she could name, Holly had been safe and warm and cherished. It had been such a sublime feeling, like floating on a happy cloud. She’d woken to find herself engulfed in unadulterated Josh. For a moment, she’d wallowed in the flood of sensations.
Hard on the heels of reveling came the sensory overload of the warm, citrus smell of him, the luxurious press of soft fabric over hard muscle beneath her cheek and the sure embrace of a pair of powerful arms. At which point she’d panicked.
She was really mad at herself. She wasn’t supposed to want to curl up like a kitten and have Josh make her purr. In her imaginary world, her meeting with him had gone differently. She’d been poised and calm, having concluded a multibillion-dollar deal or received a Nobel Prize for her groundbreaking work in economics. In her scenario she was cool, aloof, and cutting. Also, in her world, Josh was sixty pounds heavier and losing his hair.
What didn’t happen in Holly land was the emotional roller coaster she’d been on for almost twenty-four hours now. In her little fantasy, she was not fluctuating rapidly between arousal and distrust, gratitude and suspicion, and like and despise. It was rather exhausting, and she might have overreacted.
“I’m sorry,” she called out to the shut door. “I got a fright and took your head off and I’m sorry.”
Nothing.
Holly turned away and let out a soft whistle of appreciation. The old loft had been turned into an open-plan condo with exposed brick walls and large industrial ductwork running along the ceiling. One side of the condo boasted floor-to-ceiling vaulted glass windows facing Lake Michigan. A stainless-steel and granite kitchen ran along the opposite wall. The furnishings were minimal. The big leather couches looked comfortable, and the dining room table crouched ready to seat any number from one to twelve.
One or two large modern canvases took pride of place on the bare brick walls. Holly promised herself a closer inspection in the morning. She turned in a circle and took it in. The condo was beautiful, but there was a sense nobody lived in this space. The kitchen counters were clutter free and spotless; there were no socks or coffee cups left for someone to clean up.
Holly grabbed the bottle of water and wandered over to an open doorway. It was an office, dominated by a massive oak desk. Again, ruthlessly tidy and contained. The top of the desk was clear of paper and a laptop sat front and center on the leather blotter.
She crept to the next door and saw a bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it was a showpiece. She eased her way into the room.
All white bedding contrasted sharply with the deep mahogany sheen on the furniture.
Holly slipped off her shoes and put them carefully beside a formidable tallboy. She stopped and bent to neaten them up. It didn’t help. Her soaked black Converses stuck out like a set of dog’s balls in the pristine perfection of the room.
A large vase of lilies made dramatic sweeps against the dressing table.
“Ah, bugger.” The mirror was not her friend. Her hair hung like a tattered old mop head down her back. Dark, tired smudges underlined her eyes like a raccoon’s, and Josh’s clothes hung on her as if she were a child playing dress up.
It wasn’t good.
She edged around the jamb of a door set beside the mirror and peered inside. A black marble and glass bathroom, large enough for a decent frat party, glared at the intruder. The cool floor caressed her feet as Holly tiptoed across it. The shower bristled with chrome. Spigots, showerheads and faucets gleamed at her. It was too much to hope for a simple on/off lever.
Holly turned away, defeated, and slunk back into the bedroom. A shower would have to wait until the morning. Portia would have to wait, too, and as much as she hated to admit it, she needed sleep. Outside the bedroom window, people were still out and about. The thick glass deadened sound in the condo.
The bed wasn’t exactly welcoming her with its arctic white, but Holly was past the point of caring. The apartment was cool and comfortable after the humidity of the night, and her feet carried her to where they wanted to be. She should get undressed, but she was warm and dry in her borrowed finery and the idea died instantly. Holly flipped back the duvet and slid beneath in one quick movement, trying not to touch too many surfaces on her way in.
She gave a small whimper as expensive orthopedic support met her tired body. The sheets were clean and fresh, and a goose down duvet wrapped around her like a maternal cloud. At least she was sure it was goose down because it cradled her as close to heaven as she could get right now.
Tomorrow she would find Portia and deal with a pissed-off stud muffin. And if she, somehow, managed to achieve half of that, she may as well give world peace a crack.
Chapter Eight
Holly woke up still tired and with a dead weight in the center of her chest. She lay still, listening to the small sounds of someone, probably Josh, moving about on the other side of her bedroom door. The events of the previous day filtered back to her. She had to find Portia, and find her today. With a groan, she rolled over and grabbed her phone.
Fourteen missed calls, thirteen of them from Emma and one from Steven.
Holl
y suppressed a twitch of guilt. She’d barely waited long enough to leave Steven a message yesterday before heading for Chicago. Steven got rabid about roaming charges, so she texted instead. Holly kept it brief, explaining where she was and that she’d be back in a day or two.
Emma answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Em.”
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
Holly jammed the harsh words back down her throat. Worry made Emma unnecessarily brusque. Holly rubbed her gritty eyes before answering. “We were looking for Portia last night. It got very late, so I was probably sleeping.”
“But you didn’t find her?” Emma’s voice wobbled.
“No, Em, we didn’t,” Holly said softly, not wanting the threatening tears to start on the other end of the phone. “I’m going to try again today. I promise I’ll call as soon as I have something.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Are you okay?”
Emma heaved a laden sigh. “No, I’m awful. I’m nearly sick with anxiety. I think I might even have an attack. I haven’t slept since Portia left.”
Holly opened her mouth to ask why, if Emma had been so concerned about Portia, it had taken three days for her to tell Holly her sister was gone. It seemed unkind; instead, she asked, “Did you get the message I left last night?”
“Yes.” Emma’s voice got higher and more overwrought. “Your car was stolen?”
“Uh-huh, and everything in it.” Holly kept it calm.
“Oh my God.” Emma paused. “Everything?”
“Yup.” Holly tried to stretch the cricks in her back. “Clothes, money, and my passport.”
“What are you going to do?” Emma whispered.
“I’m going to need your help.”
“Me?” Emma’s voice rose on a squeak. “What can I do? I’m here in London and you’re all the way over there in Chicago.”
“Em.” Going into a screaming frenzy wouldn’t help this situation any.
“You know I’m not good at this sort of thing, Holly. You know that about me; it distresses me.” Emma cranked up the panic.
