Too Hot to Hold

by Stephanie Tyler

  During their conversation, her fingers had itched to pull out a pen and take notes, but her mini-recorder would do just as well.

  She smiled as she switched the recorder to the off position. Shecould run with the big dogs in her world. Whether or not she could do so in Africa remained to be seen.

  For right now, she had a more immediate urge.

  The Porsche—Nick’s Porsche, a 911 Turbo that was more than four years old but still in prime street condition—was parked toward the back of the lot, near her car, in a less vis-able area. He’d backed into the space and that alone had her shifting her glance around the lot in a way that made the all-too-familiar alarms go off in her head.

  What are you thinking? You can’t steal his car.

  I just want a ride, her inner juvenile delinquent cajoled. And yes, it was a beautiful car. It was also unlocked and there was no alarm system. The temptation roiled through her, thick and hot, and somehow this was going to make things better.

  She still carried Aaron’s all-purpose pocket Leatherman utility tool with her—mainly for sentimental purposes, but it would come in handy now. She strolled casually toward the back of the car, crouched down low to the engine and looked around.

  She had the tool—now for the wires. Luck was on her side in the form of a4?4 parked next to Nick’s car. She eased over to it, loosened one of the lights from the roll bar and took the wires she needed.

  Back at Nick’s car, she jimmied the lock carefully to get to the engine. There would be no scraping paint or scratching. Not on this beauty.

  From there it was simple, the directions Aaron had given her all those years ago running through her brain, her hands working overtime as though they had a charge of their own—Run a wire from the positive side of the battery to the coil, then use the screwdriver to cross over the negative and positive leads on the coil.

  The engine cranked right over, a deceptively low purr with a backside kick that made her smile.

  Less than a minute and a half and she was inside the car. Not her best time by far, but she hadn’t exactly come prepared for this, hadn’t expected to feel this need tonight.

  As the engine rumbled, she ran her hands over the sleek dash, caressed the wheel with its smooth black leather and inhaled the scent—of car and man—felt it race through her blood the way it had when she was fifteen and stealing hot cars made her a hot commodity.

  Yes, she was going to do this. In the fingerless racing gloves Nick had left on the passenger’s seat.

  When she shifted gears, the throttle hit her right between the legs, an unexpected charge of engine and exhaust that told her he’d dirtied up his princess with headers to run like a race car.

  She went out the back entrance of the lot, past her own waiting car, and took the short route to the nearest highway, where she could really open it up, could run away from Nick, from Aaron. From everything.

  The walls were closing in fast on her real life, but here, in this car, on this highway, she was just a fifteen-year-old girl with no responsibilities to anyone but herself.

  You should tell Nick Devane everything.

  But it wasn’t in her nature to share that kind of information—thanks to her ultimate distrust of authority, law enforcement and the system in general. From childhood, she’d learned that secrets were best kept to oneself.

  Why didn’t you call the police, honey? When’s the last time you saw your mommy? Tell us and we’ll help you…

  She hated Aaron for bringing all this on her, had no desire to have her past slammed back in her face because of a phone call and a safe deposit box. She already dragged it behind her like some kind of heavy albatross she couldn’t quite cut away.

  As a reporter, she knew that the best way to blow a lead was to let too many people in on it. It was the same idea here. No, she’d deal with this herself if Nick wouldn’t help her.

  Halfway down the open stretch of road, the engine began to sputter—of course the man would have a fuel cutoff anti-theft device installed.

  And of course he’d have installed it so it was hidden, or else she would’ve seen it during the wiring.

  She moved the car smoothly toward the side of the road, realized that she’d have no way to get herself home now, except walk.

  She’d covered at least twenty miles in the short time span, thanks to this beauty’s speed. And as she put her head back against the headrest, hands in his racing gloves and still on the wheel, the driver’s-side door opened swiftly.

  Nick was standing there, staring down at her, and no, that couldn’t be a good sign.

  She was so busted, but she’d learned that the best way to handle these situations was to remain calm.

  Obviously, Nick had learned that as well.

  “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” he asked as he leaned one arm against the open door and held out the other to help her from the car.

  Her own car was parked behind the Porsche. Obviously, Nick believed in an eye for an eye.

  She attempted to slide by him and found herself pinned against the side of the car, Nick’s arms on either side of her effectively locking her in.

  She could still feel the heat, the vibration from the car’s rumble somewhere deep inside of her. She could feel the heat coming off Nick as well, a mix of anger and desire, and she jutted her chin up toward him, refusing to give in to either emotion. And failing.

  When he spoke, he leaned in close, nearly whispered in her ear, “First you try to blackmail me and then you steal my car.”

  She didn’t bother to deny the first accusation. “I borrowed your car. I was planning on returning it.”

  “How do I know that’s true?”

  “If I were going to steal it, I would’ve ripped out the wires under the wheel.”

  “You don’t know who you’re messing with, Kaylee.”

  “Then tell me.”

  He ran a thumb over her bottom lip before he spoke. She fought the urge to do the same to him. “Aaron was AWOL—he was working in the jungles for the highest bidder. He was a mercenary. You’re never going to find the information you want. The Congo’s a dangerous place.”

  “And you’re just as dangerous, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “You don’t scare me,” she said.

  “That’s because I’m not trying to.”

  Still, her breath came fast, her belly tightened and her throat went dry. But that reaction wasn’t caused by fear. “I’m seeing someone,” she heard herself say, even as he moved in closer to her, his hand dropping down to the curve of her butt. “We’re almost engaged.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here with me?” The low purring growl caught her between inhales, made her breath hitch audibly.

  “He doesn’t know anything about me.”

  “He doesn’t know you steal cars?”

  “He doesn’t even know how to make me come.”

  Nick’s mouth tugged at the corner, but he didn’t smile, not fully, even as his other arm wove its way around her waist to pull her closer to his body, and God, the heat raced through her like a fever she couldn’t control. “Does anyone know how to make you come?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” he said gruffly, then released her. “Go home, Kaylee. Forget you ever met me.”

  Forget you ever met me.

  From the way her body had reacted to him, she knew that was never going to happen.

  Kaylee, why do you do this to yourself?” Carl Van Patterson, her boyfriend of nearly a year, stood in the doorway, watching her rifle through the box of Aaron’s personal effects a half an hour after she’d lost sight of Nick’s car on the highway.

  “Sorry. I know it bothers you.” She shoved the top onto the lockbox quickly, but not before putting the tape of Nick’s story in there and tucking the patch he’d given her inside the pocket of her shorts.

  “It bothers me that you can’t get
past it.”

  “Growing up was complicated,” she told him as she put the box on the upper shelf of the closet—out of sight, out of Carl’s mind, hopefully. It was never far from hers. “You know that. We were much more than husband and wife.”

  “I know that you missed another dinner with my father and our business associates,” Carl reminded her, and yes,shit, she’d forgotten. Or else it was another case of selective memory, something that always seemed to happen whenever she had to attend events of any kind with Carl.

  “I’m sorry. I had to work.”

  “That damned job again.”

  “That damned job is one of the reasons you were initially attracted to me. Or did you forget that?”

  Carl was wealthy, a lawyer and the son of an even more prominent lawyer—possibly a soon-to-be congressman, if the polls were correct. Carl himself was on the fast track to that same political world—but now he feared her being a reporter might cause too much friction, be a conflict of interest.

  So I won’t report on politics then, she’d told him time and time again.

  He’d already tried to warn her, gently, that when they got married, she’d have to retire from reporting, and she’d told him that she had no plans to marry anyone or give up her career.

  So far, he hadn’t believed her.

  So far, she’d never once agreed to actually consider his marriage proposal. “You know my past is going to come out, Carl. Especially when you decide to run for office.”

  “I told you we can bury that.”

  “I have no intention of doing that.” She fought the urge to tell him about wiring Nick’s car that evening and realized that she wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. She’d been in the mood to be alone, to go over the tape of her conversation with Nick.

  She hadn’t expected Carl to be waiting for her at her apartment.

  “Sometimes it sounds like you’re almost proud of what you used to do,” he continued, the frustrated look crossing his face the way it always did when this subject was broached.

  She stared at Carl’s face and wondered again how she could get herself involved with someone who’d been attracted to her wild side and later wanted to tamp it down. “I’m not ashamed of where I came from. I don’t know why that’s such a problem. It used to be a turn-on for you that I had a record.”

  “A sealed record, Kaylee. You were a juvenile delinquent, not a hardened criminal.” Carl shook his head. “Records like that are sealed for a reason. To let you get on with your life—so your past doesn’t haunt you.”

  “Yes, well, too late for that.” With her back to Carl, she fingered the worn patch Nick had given her, the one Aaron had ripped off his clothing, judging by the frayed ends.

  The notification that her ex still had her listed as the sole beneficiary in his will had been nearly as shocking as the phone call. Add to that the enormous amount of money Aaron appeared to have left behind, if the bankbook he’d put into the safe deposit box was any indication.

  How a man who came from a foster-care background and went straight into the Army could have that much money, doubtfully earned by legal means, made her head spin.

  She wouldn’t touch it, wished she could forget about it, and Aaron himself, the way he’d forgotten about her and fucked anything that moved even when they’d still been together.

  Bastard.

  She hadn’t told Nick that part, because some things were too personal. She was still wounded deeply from those betrayals, even though she’d had her own fantasies and flirtations with other men the years they were married. The years he was away giving the military his love.

  The fact that he’d cheated on her bothered her much less than the fact that her best friend had broken her trust. Badly.

  “I won’t hide my past, Carl. I won’t hide who I am.” She slammed the closet door shut and turned to face him.

  Of course, her job was more covered up than she would’ve liked—she was an investigative reporter, doing the down and dirty kind of work that necessitated her name and image not appear in the paper. So she wrote her articles as K. Darcy and most readers assumed she was a man.

  “I don’t want to have this fight anymore,” he told her, in the same tone he’d say that he didn’t want to stay over at her apartment any longer, that he didn’t understand why she didn’t want to get married. He brushed past her and headed toward her bedroom and she went in the opposite direction.

  Sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, when she felt most alone, she’d do this, wrap a blanket around herself and swing the patio door open. Alone, out on the balcony, she’d stand and look at the city laid out below her and she’d wonder if there was someone out there for her.

  Her body ached for him, this man she’d dreamed about from the time she became interested in boys.

  Aaron had always been more of a best friend than a lover. And in the recesses of her mind, she longed for the man who would come into her world and bring her body to life.

  Carl wasn’t that man. And until today, when Nick Devane’s voice had done more for her than any man’s hands over the years, she’d thought that she was waiting for the unattainable.

  Until today, when she knew she was in trouble. She could still smell the leather scent on her hair, could feel Nick’s grip on her hand as he helped her out of the car, as if she had just taken it for a ride with permission.

  In his eyes, she’d seen the familiar spark of someone who’d had his own brushes with the law.

  She could picture them, a tangle of arms and legs in the car’s tiny backseat, wondered if she’d be the first woman back there and decided she didn’t want to think about that.

  What if I don’t want to forget that I met you?

  She pulled the blanket tighter against the cool spring air and wondered if she’d hit some sort of massive spring fever, if the restlessness overtaking her body was something she’d be unable to ignore for much longer.

  There was only one thing that was going to take the edge off. And it wasn’t going to come from her own touch.

  Meeting Nick was not supposed to be about this—it was supposed to be about getting information on Aaron, discovering the mystery surrounding his death and the money he’d left her. About leaving her past behind her and thinking only on her future.

  A future that if it included Carl Van Patterson might never include her career as a journalist again.

  “Kaylee, are you coming to bed?” Carl’s voice drifted out onto the small balcony. And she stared at the patch and thought about Nick instead of Aaron and wasn’t sure how to tell Carl thatno , she was never going to bed with him again.

  CHAPTER 4

  What if I don’t want to forget I met you?

  Nick had been halfway into his car when he heard Kaylee call those words out to him, and the relentless energy coursing through his body had nearly won out.

  The hotwire had been enough to make him forget the blackmail attempt momentarily, enough to have him nearly take her right on the hood of his car or anywhere else she’d wanted him.

  And shehad wanted him. Had believed he could pull somefucking magic on her body that no one else had ever been able to do.

  For some reason, that made a difference to him. A big difference, and dammit, he didn’t want anything about any woman—especially this woman—to make a difference.

  Just your ego talking, asshole.

  He’d waited until she began to walk back toward the diner’s parking lot after they’d left the park before he’d started to trail her. Just to make sure she got to her car safely, he’d told himself, but fuck it, he’d never been a Boy Scout and the tail was purely a physical pull.

  She’d run her hand over the fender of his car as if soothing a beast and he’d wanted to be under that hand. And he knew in that instant what she was going to do, watched and waited as she’d torn wires from the lights on the4?4 and lit his engine on fire like a pro.

  She’d put the windows down, but hadn’t used the radio.


  She’d put on his racing gloves.

  She’d looked sexy as hell as she stripped them off and handed them to him on the way back to her car, a Mercedes sedan that did not fit her at all.

  Like you know her so damned well.

  No, the problem was that he didn’t know her at all. It was going to stay that way.

  Roaring down the highway, he felt like he had the night of his first mission. Both times were brushes with something that changed his life forever, in ways he didn’t fully comprehend.

  It was so easy to get caught up in the memories, from childhood, from his years before becoming a SEAL, from the missions themselves—easy to get mentally screwed for hours or a day or however long he let them take up residence. Some days they rose up and caught him off guard, until he pushed them back down where they belonged.

  Most nights, he didn’t let himself sleep. He didn’t expect this one to be any different.

  He’d taken his jacket and shirt off on his way up the driveway to the house. The jeans came off the second he hit the door, and this wasn’t anything new or unexpected for him, something done without much thought—or any, no matter if the house was empty or full of company.

  He was convinced that his disdain for clothing came from so much time spent in the hospital as a kid. As a patient, he’d never worn clothes. The doctors and nurses were always stripping you down, knocking you out, and you woke up dazed, balls free and surrounded.

  These days, the only part of that he dealt with well was being balls free.

  Now he deposited the discarded clothing in a heap on a chair in the maze of rooms he called home, part of the first floor of the house where he’d spent his teenage years. A house Dad had left to the three of them when he moved to L.A., left to him and Chris and Jake, so they’d always have a place to come home to, no matter what else happened.

  He opened the windows and the sliding glass doors that overlooked the backyard and stood in the cool night air naked. If he’d been training or on a mission, that would’ve overrode the need to feel something on his skin, pleasurable or painful. His throat ached where the scar was and he rubbed it again and waited for the air to calm him.