The Heat Is On

by Jill Shalvis

  He couldn’t help himself.

  “You get off on watching women eat?” she asked, looking amused.

  “Not usually,” he said, having to laugh at himself. “Apparently, it’s just you.”

  A flash of amusement, and then regret, crossed her face, and she put down her next roll. “Listen. I said I was sorry about the Siberia comment, but—”

  He nudged her fingers back to her food. “It’s okay. It was to be a one-night thing, I get it. But you could have just said so, you know.”

  “I should have. I’m sorry. But I really have been to Siberia, you know. I used it because it seems like the farthest possible place from here…” She gestured to the beach over her shoulder.

  “Why use it at all?”

  “Because sometimes guys don’t take rejection well.”

  “I didn’t exactly get rejected,” he reminded her.

  “Because you stalked me on the beach.”

  He laughed, and she smiled. “Okay,” she said.

  “Not exactly stalked, and obviously I want to be here or you’d be walking funny.”

  He arched a brow.

  “My signature self-defense move is a knee to the family jewels.”

  He winced. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “No need. Like I said, I want to be here.” She paused. “With you.” She took a sip of her tea and hummed in pleasure.

  “Bella,” he said, staring at her mouth. “I love that you love food, and that you seem to experience everything to its fullest. I really love that, but you’re killing me here with the moaning.”

  She stared at his mouth in return. “I’d say I’m sorry…”

  “But you’re not.”

  Slowly, she shook her head, and when he let out a low groan and had to shift in his chair—she got to him, dammit, like no other—she smiled and broke the spell. “The tea is peach mango,” she said. “My sister makes tea like this.”

  “You ever get homesick?”

  “Only for the tea.” She paused. “Okay, maybe sometimes for the people. They miss me. A lot.”

  “They love you.”

  “Yes, well, I’m very lovable.” She smiled again, her gaze holding his. “So, Detective…”

  “So.”

  “You know all about me, and yet all I know about you is that you feel protective over girls you sleep with, and have a food fetish.”

  He ignored the protective thing. Fact was fact. “No, I have a watching-you-eat fetish. There’s a difference.”

  “Don’t distract me,” she said, scolding him. “It’s your turn.”

  “To what?”

  “To tell me about you.”

  BELLA SMILED WHEN JACOB just stared at her. The detective was far more comfortable dissecting her than himself.

  “What about me?” he finally asked, his eyes shuttering a little bit.

  “Well, you could start with why you were one of my blind dates. You don’t seem like the blind-date type.”

  “Is there an easier question?”

  “That is easy,” she said.

  He was quiet a moment, studying her. “You might not like my answer.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay, the guys at the P.D. thought it would be funny to sign me up for the singles club.”

  “You mean, without your knowledge?”

  “Yes.”

  He was right. She found she didn’t like the thought of that at all. She picked up another California roll. “So you didn’t want to go out with me.”

  Letting out a long breath, he reached across the small table for her hand, entwining their fingers, his thumb running slowly over her knuckles in a little circle that was unbelievably soothing.

  And arousing.

  “Bella?”

  “Hmm?” She lifted her gaze from their fingers.

  “Did I seem all that unwilling to you?”

  His gaze was clear, open and honest…and heated.

  She remembered the night before, how he’d looked at her as he’d slid in and out of her body in long, slow strokes while murmuring hot, erotic words in her ears, holding her gaze prisoner as he’d taken her over… “No,” she whispered, squeezing her thighs together beneath the cover of the table. “You didn’t seem unwilling.”

  “One thing you should know about me. I never do anything I don’t want to.”

  She looked away and cleared her throat. “So, are you the youngest in your family also?”

  “The oldest of four boys. I was born and raised here.” He lifted a shoulder. “I’d guess you’d say I’m your polar opposite. I like roots.”

  She didn’t correct him, tell him that she was beginning to see the light on that subject. That she’d never disliked the idea of roots, she’d just not felt the slightest urge to cultivate them. Until now anyway.

  “My brothers are here in Santa Rey—or least two of them are. Wyatt’s air force, and in Afghanistan, but we think of this as home.”

  “You’re close to them then?”

  “Whether we like it or not,” he said with a dry smile that spoke of easy affection and an easier love.

  It made her feel a little wistful. It also tweaked that odd sense of loneliness that had been plaguing her of late. Sure, she could go home and live near her family, but that wasn’t the answer for her.

  She hadn’t found the answer yet. And wasn’t that just the problem. “What about your parents?”

  “Retired and living in Palm Springs. I try to see them several times a year.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Sweet?”

  He said this as if it was a dirty word, and she smiled. “What’s wrong with being called sweet?”

  “Not something I’m accused of all that often.”

  She bet. Hot? Yes. Big and bad? Yes and yes. But the sweetness he had buried pretty deep. Still, it was undeniable. “I have to tell you, I’m sitting here, trying to figure out why your friends thought you needed help enough to set you up with the singles club.”

  “It was a joke.”

  “Rooted from what?”

  “Christ, you’re persistent.”

  “Uh-huh, it’s my middle name. Spill, Detective.”

  He let out a low, slow breath. “I live the job.”

  “Lots of people live the job. Hell, I live and eat the job.”

  “Cops are…different. We go to work and tend to see the worst in people every day, and sometimes we face things that make it hard on whoever’s waiting for us at home.”

  “Things like a bullet?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Or the business end of a knife, or a hyped-up druggie determined not to go in peacefully, whatever.”

  “That makes you very brave,” she said softly. “Not a bad relationship risk.”

  “But there are the long, unforgiving hours. People really don’t like the hours.”

  “By people you mean women,” she said.

  “I’ve had two serious, long-term relationships, both of whom walked away from me because of the job.”

  “Were you a cop before you dated them?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then that was their fault.” She squeezed his hand. “Not yours. You shouldn’t have to change who you are for a relationship, Jacob.” She cocked her head and studied him for a minute, seeing more of the story in his eyes and taking a guess. “So, actually, when it comes down to it, a blind date is right up your alley. Little to no danger of getting too attached, the anonymity of being strangers, et cetera.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ironic. Here was the first guy who’d tempted her to stick around in a damn long time, and he wasn’t looking for more.

  The pizza arrived, steaming hot and smelling as delicious as Jacob. Almost.

  She dug in with a huge bite, and moaned again. “God, this is good.” She licked cheese off her fingers. “So why were you waiting for me on the beach? I doubt it was to find out how many siblings I have, or that I have a healthy appetite.”

  H
e was watching her suck the cheese off her fingers, but he answered her question without trying to bullshit her, or misdirect. “There’s news on the case.”

  She swallowed and looked at him. “Tell me.”

  “Have you had any odd phone calls or letters or anything out of the ordinary going on?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Did you know a Seth Owen?”

  The name took her a minute, and she stared at him as shock hit her. “The dead guy. It was Seth?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know his last name,” she whispered, covering her mouth. “Seth was date two of eight.” Oh, God. He’d been a nice guy, friendly and sweet. He loved puppies and his mom.

  And he was dead.

  Dead on her back stoop, holding flowers. Her stomach rolled, and she pushed away her plate.

  Jacob waited, eyes warm and patient while she struggled with control.

  “I keep thinking I could have prevented this,” she finally said quietly. “If I’d only looked earlier, maybe called 911 sooner—”

  “No. Bella—”

  She looked away, toward the ocean, her happy place. The sun was a huge ball of orange fire on the horizon. The late breeze was soft and gentle, but still she shivered.

  Because suddenly she was cold, very cold.

  “I didn’t recognize him this morning,” she murmured. “But I never really saw his face, just his back.”

  And his blood.

  “He was so nice. I just didn’t— We didn’t click.” She met his gaze. “I was looking for the click.”

  She hadn’t found that until date number eight, as they both knew.

  Jacob’s eyes held hers, dark and filled with things, things she didn’t intend to spend a lot of time thinking about if she could help it. “I’m sorry. Thanks for dinner, but I have to go.” She surged to her feet, needing to bake, needing to be anywhere but here.

  He stood up with her, but she shook her head. “I’m okay, really. I just have to…go.”

  Now.

  Yesterday.

  He was standing close, looking a little protective and a whole lot intense, but when he reached for her, she took a step back.

  He dropped his hand. “Bella.”

  “I’m okay,” she whispered.

  Not arguing with her, he nodded slowly, his see-all eyes taking her in carefully.

  “Look, I’m sure you’re used to this…murder thing,” she said. “But I’m going to need some processing time.”

  “Understandable.”

  She ran her hands down herself, realizing she didn’t have any pockets. Or money. Hell, she was barely dressed. “I don’t have any cash, but I’ll—”

  “I’ve got it, Bella.”

  “See? Sweet.” She hugged herself, her fingers brushing over the material of his shirt. “And your shirt. I promise I’ll get it back to you—”

  “It’s okay.”

  She nodded, grabbing her towel and backing away from him and the table. “Thanks for…” Everything. “You know. Coming by, feeding me, et cetera.”

  “Bella—”

  She didn’t stick around to hear what he had to say.

  Couldn’t. She needed to blot out the images of that innocent man bleeding on the shop stoop. She needed some time to untangle the newly complicated knot that now represented Jacob. She needed to breathe, to find some sort of center.

  She needed to bake.

  5

  BELLA WALKED BACK TO Edible Bliss to find Ethan sitting on the steps that led up to the two apartments above the shop. Unable to summon the most basic of manners, she stared at him and sighed. “Didn’t I already give you the better part of my day?”

  “You had two calls.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, you left the window open in the shop’s kitchen—” He gestured above his head. “So when the phone rang, I could hear the machine pick up. Mrs. Windham wants a three-tiered lemon birthday cake for her pug for next Wednesday, and Trevor wanted to see if you want to go for a sail.”

  “Is that why you’re here, to play assistant?”

  “Victim has been identified,” he said. “Seth Owen.”

  Grateful to Jacob for breaking the news first, she nodded and hugged herself. “Date number two.”

  Ethan pulled a small pad from his pocket and wrote something down. “From Eight Dates in Eight Days.”

  “Yes.”

  Ethan made another note. “And you hadn’t seen nor heard from him since you went out?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She sighed when Ethan lifted his hand and looked at her. “He called me, asking for another date. I reminded him of the rules, that we weren’t supposed to go out with anyone again until all eight dates were over.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he’d call after all eight dates, if I was interested.”

  Ethan was watching her carefully. “To which you replied…?”

  She sighed. “That I’d be moving out of the area.”

  Ethan arched a brow. “You blew him off.”

  “I—” She hesitated. Yeah. She had. “He was a perfectly nice guy, I just didn’t feel any sparks.”

  And now he was dead.

  “So why was he at Edible Bliss?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Good enough, thanks.” Ethan pocketed his pad. “I’ll be in touch.” He moved past her, and when Bella turned to watch him leave, found Jacob behind her.

  The two men exchanged long looks. There was some sort of silent communication, then Ethan nodded and walked away.

  “What was that?” Bella asked. “That whole conversation you just had without words? And you followed me.”

  “Yep.” Ignoring her first question, he brushed past her, grabbing her hand as he did, pulling her up the stairs. At her door, he held out his hand. “What?”

  “Your key.”

  She stared at him.

  “I want to look inside,” he said. “And make sure you’re safe.”

  The thought that she might not be hadn’t occurred to her. She stared at her door and shivered.

  “I’m not trying to scare you,” he said quietly. “But you need to be aware of your surroundings. Have an escape route, always. When you walk up these stairs alone at night, you don’t have a lot of choices on this small landing.”

  “I can defend myself.”

  “How?”

  “I’d kick him in the nuts.”

  He nodded. “Good. But you might need a backup plan. I can show you some moves, if you’d like.”

  Yes. She’d like to see some of his moves.

  Especially if they were anything like the moves he’d shown her last night.

  “Key?” he repeated.

  She hesitated, knowing he wasn’t going to like this.

  He took in her expression. “Tell me the door’s locked, Bella.”

  “It’s locked.” She let out a low breath, then stooped and pulled the key out from beneath the doormat.

  He stared at her as she dropped it into his hands. “Are you kidding me?”

  She lifted her chin. “I’ve always felt safe here.”

  Until now…

  “Jesus.” Shaking his head, he unlocked her door and handed her back her key. Hands on hips, he silently dared her to put the key back beneath the mat.

  She didn’t. She almost wanted to, just to see what he’d say.

  Or do.

  She was pretty sure he could see that particular wheel turning in her head, so she resisted.

  He looked at her for another beat, then shook his head again. “Stay here.”

  She pictured him walking through her tiny seven-hundred-square-foot apartment like something out of a 007 movie, and wasn’t surprised that when he came back to the opened doorway, he was tucking his gun into the back of his jeans. “Any boogeymen?”

  “All clear.” He stepped aside to let her in, nodding to the two huge duffel bags lined up against the wall in the living room. “Going somewhere?”
>
  “Not quite yet.” She nudged one of the bags with her toe. “I don’t usually unpack.”

  He lifted a brow.

  She was used to that look. It was the genuine bafflement of someone who’d centered his life around one place, someone who’d made a home for himself. And she’d seen his house. It was big and open and…guy. There was a large, comfy couch and a huge TV. He’d had sports equipment lining his foyer and dishes in his sink. It’d been warm and lived in, and had reflected his personality.

  It’d definitely been a home.

  She’d not really had a home in years, and never one she’d made for herself since she tended to leave before she wore out her welcome. She realized that she was a contradiction—wanting to belong, yet doubting it would ever happen. But it was who she was. “It’s easier,” she said. “This place came fully furnished. I’m just borrowing the space.”

  He absorbed that, looking as if he might say more, but he didn’t. And she was glad. She thought maybe they could have a good thing, and she was afraid to hope that this one time, she’d be able to stick around for a while.

  He walked past the tiny kitchen table, upon which sat her ratty old notebook.

  Last night, she’d written in her journal. It wasn’t a typical journal filled with thoughts and expressions, but held notes of her cooking adventures. Desserts were truly her happy place, and she could think about them, or write about them, all day. She’d meant it when she’d told Jacob that she didn’t follow recipes, instead using ratio, temps and conversion rates permanently in her brain. Mostly she went with her gut, and with the formulas she knew worked, things like her 1-2-3 method for sweet-crust pastries, which meant one part sugar, two parts butter and three parts flour.

  But at the end of the day, if she’d done something new, she liked to scribble it down, and she did mean scribble.

  Since she was always in a hurry, her handwriting was pretty much chicken scrawl, and illegible to anyone but her.

  “Practicing your Greek?” he asked, raising a brow, proving her point by being unable to read her writing.

  “Make fun of my writing all you want,” she said, lifting her chin. “Maybe those are secret recipes. Maybe I use a special decoder ring. You can never be too careful.”

  He flipped the notebook closed. Beneath it was a shopping list.