White Hot

by Sandra Brown

  He applied the merest pressure, but she reacted with a start and a soft gasp. Reflexively she rocked her hips slightly forward and then back. And when she did that, he groaned with near-unbearable pleasure. He was there, right there, snug against the cleft of her ass, and she was moving in a mind-blowing rhythm against him.

  When she came, he leaned into her even more, pressing her firmly between himself and the door. She rolled her forehead against it, breathing in rapid pants, until even the smallest shudders ceased, and the tension ebbed, and she became still.

  He removed his hand from beneath her skirt and smoothed it back into place. Then he rested both hands on her waist, giving it occasional squeezes to let her know that he could be patient.

  It was a full minute before she turned around to face him. Her hair was a wreath of damp unruliness, the perfect frame for eyes the color of the strongest whiskey ever to make a man drunk, and a mouth that he hadn’t had nearly enough of. Fine beads of sweat dotted her upper lip.

  Smiling, he wiped off the moisture mustache with his fingertip. “Only when you’ve really exerted yourself.”

  “If you touch me again, I’ll kill you.”

  Stunned, he took a step back. “What?”

  “I think I made myself clear.”

  He realized now that the fire in her eyes wasn’t arousal but a rage that was almost primal in its intensity, as though if he ignored her threat and touched her, she would indeed go for his throat.

  “I mean it,” she said. “Do not touch me.”

  Infuriated by her tone, he said, “You didn’t seem to mind my touch a minute ago. Want me to get graphic?”

  “I want you to leave.”

  With a broad sweep of his hand, he motioned her away from the door, exaggerating his efforts not to make physical contact. He yanked open the door, then stopped and looked back at her.

  “Who are you really angry at, Sayre? Me or yourself?”

  “Get out of here.”

  “You knew it was going to happen.”

  “Go.”

  “The minute we laid eyes on each other, we both knew it was inevitable.”

  She shook her head furiously.

  “You wanted it to happen, and you liked it.”

  “I did not!”

  “No?” He reached out and dabbed her lower lip with his thumb, then showed her the bead of blood on the tip of it, picked up from the spot where she’d bitten herself.

  Leaning down close to her face, he left her with one whispered word.

  • • •

  Huff, lying flat on his back in the hospital bed, eyes closed, heard someone enter his ICU. “Who’s that?”

  “Your gifted physician.”

  “Took you long enough,” Huff grumbled.

  “You’re not my only patient,” Tom Caroe said.

  “I’m not your patient at all.” Huff swung his bare legs to the side of the bed and sat up. Cursing, he pulled the cannula from his nostrils. “I hate being tethered to all this crap.”

  The doctor laughed. “Be glad we didn’t run a catheter up your pecker.”

  “Not a chance in hell of that happening. Think you could rustle up some food?”

  Tom Caroe reached into the pocket of his baggy trousers and took out a wrapped sandwich. “Peanut butter and grape jelly from my own kitchen.”

  “What the hell? You said you’d bring dinner.”

  “Huff, men who have heart attacks at two in the afternoon don’t usually have meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy at ten-thirty that night.”

  Huff snatched the sandwich from him, unwrapped it, and demolished it in three bites. “Get me a Coke,” he said through a mouthful.

  “No caffeine.”

  “That nurse, the real ugly one, took my cigarettes.”

  “Not even the great Huff Hoyle could get away with smoking in an ICU.”

  “I donated money to this hospital, and I can’t smoke in it?”

  “There are oxygen tanks all over the place,” the doctor pointed out.

  “I’ll go downstairs to smoke.”

  “I’d have to take you off the monitors, and that would send everyone running in here with a crash cart.” Caroe looked at him shrewdly. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  Huff shot him a baleful look. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “This was your idea, Huff. So if you have to go without your rich food and smokes, it’s your own fault. How long do you plan to drag it out? The nurses are already scratching their heads, wondering why a cardiac patient has such healthy vitals. I can’t keep up the pretense for long.”

  “When could a heart attack victim feasibly make a miraculous recovery?”

  “A day or two. I could conduct some tests tomorrow—”

  Huff poked him hard in the chest. “Nothing painful or invasive.”

  “I could tell your family that I found only minimal infarction as a result of this attack, that it was minor, a wake-up call for you to modify your diet, stop smoking, start exercising, et cetera.”

  “If you throw in that part about diet, Selma will start feeding me shit.”

  “That’s the price you’ll have to pay for faking a heart attack.”

  “What’s the alternative?” Huff snarled.

  “I could eat crow and say that it wasn’t your heart at all, but only a severe case of indigestion and acid re-flux, which scared you and fooled the rest of us.”

  Huff thought it over. “It would be easy to believe that a quack like you had got a diagnosis wrong, but let’s stick with the mild heart attack. I’d like one more day in the hospital. Just for show.”

  “Of all your shenanigans, this one takes the cake. Why’re you doing it?”

  “What’s it matter to you? You’re getting paid.”

  “Cash, don’t forget.”

  “Have I ever?”

  Put in his place, the doctor laughed nervously. “I’m not trying to butt into your business, Huff. Just wondering.”

  “I have my reasons for wanting to look fragile. And you couldn’t be more right. Those reasons are none of your goddamn business.”

  Tom Caroe was as unscrupulous as any man Huff had ever met, and that was saying something. Huff had become the feared man he was by being generous with bribes but stingy with information. He wasn’t about to discuss with Caroe his reasons for putting on such an elaborate charade.

  “If you’re not going to give me anything more to eat, go on, get out of here,” Huff ordered him. “Try not to kill any of your patients before you leave for the night.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Remember, nothing invasive. Nothing up my ass or snaking through a vein. Only X-rays, stuff like that.”

  On his way out the door, Caroe pointed to his nose. “Don’t forget your oxygen.”

  Huff replaced the cannula, then lay back down and settled his head into the pillow. A low laugh rumbled out of his chest, which he turned into a cough in case a nurse happened to pass by.

  Damned if he hadn’t pulled it off. He couldn’t have done it without Tom Caroe’s help, but one phone call had been all it took to get the doctor’s cooperation.

  Ever since he’d been informed of Danny’s death, he’d been nagged by several problems. They’d circled him like buzzards around a carcass, and no attempt at batting them away had been successful. Periodically one would light on him, pluck at his subconscious relentlessly until another swooped down to take its place.

  First, naturally, was the loss of his son. Regrettable. Sad. Tragic even. But Danny was gone and there was nothing he could do about it. He would miss Danny, but it was senseless to dwell on a situation he couldn’t change.

  Then there was the matter of Chris. Huff was thoroughly put out with him over his failed marriage. Where had he been while his wife was down in Mexico humping pool boys and getting her tubes ligated? Humping the likes of Lila Robson.

  Huff didn’t give a flip about Chris’s marriage and, in fact, hadn’t
given it even odds of lasting as long as it had. But he’d wanted a grandbaby out of it before it collapsed. The crib in the attic remained empty, and that chafed him constantly.

  But it had been Sayre’s return that had made him sit up and take notice of just how much control he’d lost. He’d once called all the shots. Nobody did anything without his permission. In every situation, he had decided which way the wind was going to blow. He had controlled his family with a tight and inescapable fist.

  Somewhere along the way he’d let that control slip. Where Sayre was concerned, he’d lost all control. It was damn past time to regain it. But before he could get control, he had to get her attention, and in a big way. So he had faked a heart attack, and it had worked to keep her in town.

  As he lay there, in the quiet of the ICU, he smothered another laugh, thinking of the plans he had for Miss Sayre Lynch Hoyle.

  Fortunately, she was playing right into them.

  chapter 15

  When Beck arrived home, Frito bounded out to greet him and dropped a soggy tennis ball at his feet. “Sorry, boy. I don’t feel like playing tonight.”

  What he needed tonight wasn’t a dog but a punching bag that he could pummel with his fists Rocky-style for a couple of hours. Only then—possibly—would he have taken the edge off his frustration.

  But Frito was persistent, and Beck decided it was unfair to take his bad mood out on the dog. “Okay, but only a few times.”

  Fifty fetches later, Beck was worn out. “I’m beat, Frito. Besides, it’s past your dinnertime.”

  At the mention of food, Frito ran up the porch steps ahead of his master. He nudged the screened door open with his nose and went inside. By the time Beck reached the kitchen, Frito was sitting in front of the refrigerator, his luxuriant tail sweeping the floor, his long tongue lolling outside his mouth in anticipation.

  Beck went to the pantry instead and opened the bin where he stored dry dog food. Frito whined. On Sundays and Wednesdays, he got soft scrambled eggs for supper. He looked at Beck as though to say, Have you forgotten what day this is?

  “Not tonight. Tonight it’s kibbles. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” He dumped a healthy portion of food into the large bowl on the floor.

  Frito ambled toward it, gave it an unenthusiastic sniff, then looked up at Beck with imploring eyes and whined again.

  “We’re out of eggs, okay? This is expensive, nutritious, vitamin-enriched food that starving dogs in China would love to have. Now eat it and stop complaining.”

  Frito, deciding that this was as good as it was going to get, dipped his head into the bowl and began crunching the nuggets. But as Beck opened the refrigerator to get a beer, Frito glanced into it, and when he saw the eggs neatly lined up in the tray in the door, he looked at Beck with reproach.

  “You’re too smart for your own good.”

  Beck had the same problem. Sometimes he was too smart for his own good. From Sayre’s angry reaction to his and Chris’s conversation about her, he deduced that she wasn’t over the breakup with Clark Daly. Not entirely. And that was irritating Beck like a pebble in his shoe. It was also baffling. Daly was a burnout, an alcoholic, a disappointment to everyone who’d known him in his glory days. Why was a successful woman like Sayre Lynch still hung up on him?

  It was maddening . . . as was just about everything about her.

  Frito emptied his water bowl with one last slurp. “Finished? Go take care of your business, and then I’ll lock up for the night.” Frito went out the back door.

  The single-story Acadian house had two bedrooms. The larger of the two had an adjoining bath, so Beck used it as the master bedroom. The other was furnished as a guest room, but he never hosted out-of-town guests, so he rarely went into that room except to get something from the closet where he stored seldom-used items and out-of-season clothing.

  The house wasn’t fancy by any stretch, but it was comfortable. He liked the friendly creaks of the hardwood floors and the layout of the rooms, which allowed for a lot of open space and large windows. Being no gardener, he retained a lawn service to keep the grounds from reverting to swamp. A lady came twice a week to clean, do his laundry, and stock the kitchen with staples and frozen casseroles she made for him herself.

  He lived a bachelor’s existence.

  He stripped and got in the shower. Bracing his hands against the tile wall behind the faucets, he bowed his head low beneath the nozzle and let the water beat against the back of his neck.

  “I never should have touched her.”

  When Sayre had grabbed him by the neck and given him that defiant kiss, he should have let her have her little victory and walked away. But he couldn’t leave it alone. Couldn’t leave her alone. And what happened after that . . .

  Don’t think about what happened after that.

  But of course he did. About a dozen times. Long after the water in his shower had turned cold, he continued to replay the episode in his mind without overlooking or shortchanging one single erotic detail.

  When he finally left the bathroom, Frito was already lying on his rug at the foot of the bed. “All done?” The dog yawned and lay his head on his front paws. “I’ll take that for a yes.”

  Beck secured the house for the night, then got into bed. He was tired but not sleepy. From the darkness, problems popped out at him like jeering clowns in a fun house ride.

  Chris and the investigation into Danny’s death.

  Huff and what impact his heart attack would have on Hoyle Enterprises.

  Charles Nielson and all the work to be done before that matter was settled.

  Sayre. Sayre. And more Sayre.

  He’d only met her yesterday, yet already she’d brought more turmoil into his life than any woman ever had. She spelled bad news to him for reasons too numerous to count. Getting involved with her would jeopardize all the hard work, all the time and effort he had invested in the Hoyles.

  But Sayre couldn’t mess up his life without his full cooperation. In order for her to damage the groundwork he’d laid, and consequently to wreck his future, he would have to give her an opportunity to do so, and then be a willing participant in bringing about his own downfall.

  Therefore the solution was simple: Stay away from her.

  But his resolve was a hell of a lot weaker than his desire. Now that he had experienced her passion, how would he be able to stay away from it?

  His last thought before falling asleep was I never should have touched her.

  It was also his first thought when his cell phone rang less than an hour later.

  Then, immediately remembering Huff’s heart attack, he rolled over to grab the phone off the night-stand. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Merchant?”

  “Yes? Who’s this?”

  “Fred Decluette.”

  He was one of the night foremen at the foundry. Beck jackknifed into a sitting position. This wasn’t going to be good news.

  • • •

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he sped to the parish hospital and entered the emergency room at a run.

  There to meet him was Fred Decluette, who had worked for Hoyle Enterprises for thirty-something years. He was built like a fire hydrant and was about that sturdy. Tonight he looked nervous and queasy, and had a death grip on the cap he was twisting between his hands.

  From his shirt collar to the cuffs of his khaki work pants, his clothes were stiff with drying blood.

  “Thanks for coming, Mr. Merchant. I hated like heck to bother you in the middle of the night, but I didn’t know who else to call. I figured somebody from upper management should be notified. I couldn’t raise Mr. Hoyle, Chris that is, on the emergency number. Got his housekeeper out of bed. He wasn’t home, and she didn’t know where he’s at. And with Mr. Huff being here in the hospital his-self—”

  “It’s all right, Fred. I’m glad you called me. What happened to Billy Paulik, and how bad is it?” He was hoping against hope that the employee’s injury wouldn’
t be commensurate with the amount of blood on Decluette’s clothing.

  “Awful bad, Mr. Merchant. I figure Billy’s gonna lose his arm.”

  Beck took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “How did it happen?”

  “He was operating one of the conveyors for a guy who’s on vacation. He was tracking a drive belt that wouldn’t stay centered.”

  “While the machine was running?”

  Decluette shifted his feet uneasily. “Well, yes, sir. You know, unless it’s a real bad problem, we don’t shut a machine down. So it was still moving. Billy’s sleeve got caught in the mechanism. He couldn’t reach the switch to shut it off. Damn thing pulled his arm right into the track. One of the other men got to the switch and stopped it, but by then . . .” The foundry foreman swallowed with difficulty. “We didn’t even wait on the ambulance. Just scooped him up and carried him here ourselves.”

  He motioned to three other men who were sitting in waiting room chairs, heads down, looking as shaky as their foreman and just as bloody. “Billy’s right arm was hanging by a thread from his shoulder. Moe there had to hold it on, else it might’ve come clean off.”

  “Awful bad” was an understatement. This was a catastrophe. “Was he conscious?” Beck asked.

  “When we first pulled him out, he was screaming something terrible. I’ll never forget the sound of it. Like something inhuman. Then I think he must’ve went into shock. Anyhow he stopped screaming.”

  “Have you spoken with a doctor?”

  “No, sir. They rushed Billy back there, and that’s the last we saw of anybody, except that nurse yonder at the desk.”

  “He has a family, doesn’t he?”

  “I called Alicia. She ain’t got here yet.”

  Beck placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You did your best for Billy. I’ll take over from here.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, we’d like to stick around, Mr. Merchant. Men came in to cover the rest of the shift for us. We’d like to see if Billy’s gonna pull through. He lost a lot of blood.”