MICAH (A California Dreamy Novel Book 3)

by Rian Kelley

  Every day since her arrival she got up at six o’clock, started the coffee, booted her computer, and nibbled on toast as she tapped the keys. Getting started was never her problem. She had a lot of beginnings, even some advanced scenes she hoped to use. It was the development of character and plot that tied her in knots. It was easy to do when it was in the format of a video game, but a novel was so big, long, complex. That morning, she’d vowed not to leave her newest story behind, but to let the characters carry her through to their conclusion. She’d sat for nearly two hours typing out a few words, then deleting them. Scribbling notes on scraps of paper she’d then ignored and allowed to pile up on the kitchen table. She’d gotten up, slipped bread into the toaster, spread them with jam, returned to her seat with the burst of tart cherry on her tongue to inspire her, but was, after only a week, ensnared in her first writer’s block.

  “Doing what?”

  Emme felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. “I was a software developer,” she hedged. Some dreams were like fledgling birds—fragile, delicate. But she was beyond that now, right? Her wings were no longer clipped. She was catching a draft; soon she would be soaring above the clouds.

  “But now you’re not?”

  She’d created the scenarios of some of the most popular video games on the market. Fantasy stuff, with damsels who saved rather than being needy, and did it in clever ways with bodies that served them well.

  She wanted a body like that. And she wanted to play with a body like his.

  Not happening, she told herself. She had to get through numbers one and two on her list—book and body—before she turned herself into a femme fatale.

  That thought made her smile and gave her the confidence to admit, “I’m a novelist now.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Anything I would have read?”

  “Not yet.”

  He nodded like he knew all about it. “Your first? From software developer to author? That’s a big jump.”

  A generalized misconception. A lot of people believed that if you worked in computers you were a wizard with numbers or some other kind of egg-head. Writing and designing in the gaming world was just as creative as any other art form. And it usually paid a lot better. If it hadn’t, she wouldn’t have this next year to explore her dreams.

  “What’s life without a few risks?” She shrugged. “Besides, it’s not as big a leap as you might think.”

  And with that the rotted rung of the ladder that she stood on disintegrated and Emme plummeted toward earth.

  Chapter Two

  Micah had taken one look at her shapely ass in the snug jogging shorts and come to a staggering halt. She wasn’t a tall woman, so her legs didn’t go on forever. But she was stacked and would easily fill the palms of his hands. She had a sassy spunk, a look—cast his way several times across their yards—that said, “It’s daggers at dawn.” That kind of challenge made every cell in his body jump up and bark. And she had hips a man could hold onto. Too bad that was all he’d ever know about her personally. Look but don’t touch. It was the only way he did business. Emme Montgomery, computer whiz kid, the brain behind the brawn at Cyclical Software, the “master of marvel”—a direct quote from Time magazine—was considered AWOL. Her boss, Bruno Gardi, had hoped she was merely throwing a tantrum. A play for something more. Micah had questioned the man himself, but Bruno admitted he had offered Emme a higher salary, extended vacation time, expansive benefits and even a mini mansion overlooking the Pacific, and she’d turned him down. The kind of put down that hadn’t required consideration.

  Emme wasn’t that kind of woman, Bruno insisted. She thought about things. She made careful decisions.

  She had approached Bruno about changing some of the wording in her contract, specifically in regards to creative rights. Bruno had refused. That was eight months ago. She hadn’t spoken of it again and Bruno insisted that Emme’s contract was standard for someone in her position as Chief Software Developer. Still, six weeks ago she’d tendered her resignation with no further explanation other than that Emme Montgomery wanted to pursue other interests.

  And so Bruno had contacted Micah, worried the woman had been feted by the competition. Either she was bailing ship and slipping away with creative intelligence she didn’t own, or she was being harassed and possibly threatened.

  Micah had come to learn that sabotage wasn’t an unusual tactic in the cyber world. There had been thefts and abductions, stalkings and even murder—all substantiated by police investigation and to no small extent in the court room.

  Gaming was a competitive, cutthroat business with literally billions of dollars on the line. Bruno pointed out that Emme was his treasure, more valuable and more predictable than the American dollar.

  Micah had checked into her background. She’d been left standing at the altar more than a year before; she had a famous brother who was also a decorated Marine; both her mother and sister had married in the past year; she was expected to participate in her brother’s wedding in the near future.

  Micah’s sister and partner in their security firm, Crista, decided that Emme had lost one dream—marriage—and had shifted gears, exploring other opportunities. She’d needed a change after loving and losing, and since Crista knew a little more about that than Micah did, he entertained that as a possibility. But he thought it was far more likely that Emme was on the run. This small hamlet in the Sierras was the perfect place to hide. Emme had rented out her condo in San Diego on a long term lease and had set it up so that the funds were electronically deposited. She had no plans of returning anytime soon.

  Novelist. Bruno wouldn’t believe it.

  Micah had been waiting for her, planted here four days ago by Cyclical in order to build his cover. She’d secured the rental on the house using her debit card, creating a trail he had no trouble following. He’d immediately found the house next door—not a hard thing to do as they were in a tourist town in the off season. And for the past six days he had watched over her, and noted her every move. She’d had no visitors, and after the first few days which she’d spent settling in, she’d ventured into the small town in the late afternoons for coffee and, he suspected, just to hear the buzz of other people. She took walks and liked to roam the farmer’s market.

  And he had dragged his feet, which was totally out of character for him. He had stayed close, studied her routines, but he’d have made contact with a subject long before now. And he knew his struggle was both an emotional and physical response to this woman. He wanted her and he wanted to protect her. She was an intriguing mix of innocence and sensuality. He’d witnessed it in many small ways, from the tentative smiles she offered strangers in passing, to the way she handled fruit as she considered their weight, their color, their sweetness. There was an inherent grace in the movement of her body, as well as a languidness that appealed to him. And she genuinely cared about other people, often putting their needs above her own, and that made her vulnerable. During the two weeks he’d had her under surveillance in San Diego, she’d stopped to help others several times—even pulling over on the side of the freeway to offer assistance to a young lady with a steaming radiator. Emme Montgomery didn’t seem to have the awareness of self-preservation or of her sex appeal. And that just ramped up his desire for her.

  But Micah dealt with himself with crushing honesty—it was the only way to not repeat past mistakes. And the truth of it was, Emme reminded him of Felicity. Both women possessed a natural sensuality that fucked with his judgment.

  Just thinking her name put him on edge. He had loved and lost her. He had trusted and been betrayed. And he had held her life in his hands and chosen to let her die.

  It had been the lesser of two evils.

  Felicity had lied. She had stolen. And she had carried out a plan of destruction that had threatened the lives of others. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it possible.

  And maybe Emme was equally nefarious. Was she in the Sierras to ne
gotiate a quantum deal of Cyclical’s merchandise? Or was she scared and on the run?

  Emme seemed as much in need of saving as Felicity had, only he knew that was an impossible task unless the woman was willing.

  And he was done with that, anyway. Cut and dried. Black and white. Stick to the mission: prevent the sale of pirated intelligence. Or protect a woman who had become prey in a niche industry that was full of vultures.

  Emme didn’t seem scared, that was for sure.

  But Felicity hadn’t seemed evil, either. And he hated that this woman had brought him back to the edge of self-doubt. He’d struggled with it for two years but had thought himself beyond it now. With Felicity, his emotions had been involved. He hadn’t seen her duplicity, then hadn’t wanted to believe it. That evolved into real suspicion he could no longer ignore. In the end, he had followed her. But long before that, he’d fallen in love with her.

  And then he wasn’t. It had taken only seeing the victims of her crime to chill his heart.

  He hadn’t been seriously involved with a woman since. He hadn’t wanted it and he didn’t trust his opinion of a women’s character. Not on a personal level. He was stuck. His visceral reaction to Emme Montgomery made that clear. He was hauling baggage that was clouding his judgment. It was time to lighten his load.

  Easier said than done.

  Micah looked at Emme, perched atop the ladder, her chin raised in defiance—“What’s life without a few risks. . .” and the wood flaking under her foot. Damn ladder was so rotted termites would pass on it.

  “Come on down—” He faltered because as she shifted above him her shorts opened to reveal the soft curve of her buttocks. The sight caused an electric response inside his body beginning somewhere near his lungs, which compressed and squeezed out a breath, and shooting straight to his dick.

  And then the inevitable happened. The rung of the ladder splintered and Emme’s hands slid down the rails as she plummeted.

  Micah caught her easily. She was small, soft, and beneath her bravado she’d given herself a fright. He felt the flutter of her heart as well as the generous weight of her breasts as they pressed into his chest. And dammit if his junk didn’t respond before he could talk himself down.

  He was striving to keep this business. To ignore her better attributes and keep a clear head. The woman in his arms, he reminded himself again, was either stealing company secrets or she was running from danger. She was in this isolated town in the western Sierras to either arrange an exchange of intelligence for payment or to hide from a threat. Either scenario was plausible.

  But no way did a woman walk away from the kind of money Gardi had offered. No one needed a change that badly. No, a seven figure salary could go a long way toward healing a broken heart.

  He tipped his head back and took a steadying breath. For one brief moment he allowed himself to enjoy the feminine curves of her body as she leaned into him and then he shifted her in his arms and placed her on her feet. He exhaled, long and steady, and felt his pulse downshift.

  “I’m not that heavy,” she protested.

  “What?”

  “You’re a big man. You’ve got muscle galore. It’s not like hauling me around really makes you huff and puff.”

  “Huff and puff?”

  Emme pulled on the hem of her shirt and adjusted the waistband of her shorts. “I know I’m a little chubby. I plan to change that.”

  “You don’t need to change.”

  “I’m not doing it for you.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed. How had they descended into this hellish conversation? As a rule, Micah did not discuss body parts, weight, or the fit of jeans with a woman. Not even with his sister. Never with their mother.

  Micah turned the conversation around and let a little of his own irritation show.

  “I was expecting thank you,” he explained. “You know, for saving your life—” He let that hang there, prompting her memory in the direction of his heroic efforts, but she detoured into more dangerous territory.

  “Emme,” she said. “That’s my name. I would have told you that a week ago, if you’d asked,” she pointed out. “Or even acknowledged my existence.”

  “That really bothers you doesn’t it?” He smiled, pushing past his ricocheting hormones long enough to enjoy her feminine angst.

  Her head tilted as she thought about it. “Yes, it does. You know a woman can enjoy the view without wanting to put down a deposit.”

  That raised an eyebrow. “Put down a deposit?” He’d never heard that before.

  “Not every woman is on the make. I’m here with a purpose and the last thing that includes is a tryst.”

  “Tryst?”

  “Affair,” she filled in, rolling her eyes in exasperation, and he started laughing.

  “Yeah, I know. I was wondering how the word ended up in the twenty-first century.”

  She frowned and it made her nose wrinkle in a way that was both cute and challenging. He was the source of her unhappiness so naturally he wanted to be the one to make her smile. One of the reasons relationships were so damn confusing—his emotions were always in constant conflict. Want to stay, want to go. Love her or leave her? Trust or suspicion?

  “What kind of book are you writing? Historical porno?”

  “Historical porno?” she repeated, blustering. A tide of red swept up her neck and settled in her cheeks. “Such a thing doesn’t even exist.”

  “Sure it does.” And now he was making it up as he went. “You know, knights and princesses. Harems even. All naked and getting their groove on.”

  “I don’t write about knights. Not anymore,” she said. Not since her knight had left her standing at the altar. Her games had little use for males in the rescue mode anyway. She tried for disdain but it was difficult to look down your nose at someone who was a foot taller. “And I never wrote porno.”

  He nodded. “That’s too bad.”

  Emme expelled a breath that rustled a few loose strands of her hair—hair the color of sunshine—and perched her hands on her generous hips. Hour glass. Yes, she had the perfect, feminine figure he realized and it had a devastating effect on his determination.

  Then Emme yelped and pulled her hands from her hips and held them up, frowning.

  “What is it?” He took a step closer, into her body heat and the sweet smell of her skin.

  “Splinters,” she said the word breathlessly, like she was speaking of a great tragedy.

  Micah took a look at her hands. She had them turned palms up as she inspected the damage herself. They were small, with slender fingers, and were pocked with slivers.

  “Come on.” He took a hold of her elbow and steered her toward his truck.

  “Let me go.”

  “I plan to.” Every good fisherman carried a first aid box.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have a pair of tweezers—”

  “No. Way.” She dug her heels into the ground but Micah just swooped her back up into his arms.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Emme, those need to come out and you can’t do it yourself.”

  “Yes I can.”

  “You’re ambidextrous?”

  That gave her pause, long enough that Micah deposited her on the tailgate of his truck and pulled his tackle box toward them.

  “I have a soft touch,” he promised.

  She snorted. He was sure there was sexual innuendo in it. He could spar with her—he actually liked it, it put a zing in his blood and engaged every male aspect of him, but he could see the genuine anxiety in her flared eyes—but refused to enter the ring. Emme Montgomery needed help not horny.

  He rooted around in the box, pulling out a tray with all sorts of paraphernalia—hooks and weights, Band-Aids and packets of antibiotic cream. He stood in front of her, one leg between hers. Touching, but only a little. Still, his skin felt scorched. The only way she could move was through him, and she seemed very reluctant to make that contact.

  “What are you doi
ng?”

  “Looking for tweezers.”

  She flattened her hands against her knees and managed to flinch only once. “I don’t need tweezers.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I do the rescuing.” Or she wanted to. Needed to. Ethan had stood beside her in the church. He’d done the explaining. Her family had handed back gifts and handed out apologies. And Emme had been glad for it at the time. She couldn’t have done it herself. But she never wanted to be that woman again. Helpless. She wanted to be the alter-egos she created in the cyber world. She wanted to be self-sufficient.

  He laughed. It was soft and he tried to contain it so that he didn’t offend her further, but she heard it and stiffened.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, but there’s no way you can get all that wood out on your own.”

  Wood. Damn it, now he was doing it, talking in sexual undertones. He hoped she didn’t latch onto that word and then investigate. He was having a hard time talking himself down and knew even semi-erect he was noticeable.

  “I thought you stopped rescuing women?”

  “Call of duty,” he returned. It was ingrained in him. Once a cop always a cop. Sort of.

  “You’re a firefighter?”

  “No.”

  “Paramedic?”

  “Nope.”

  She tilted her head and regarded him, but kept her hands firmly planted on her knees.

  “Police?”

  “Maybe.”

  She frowned and her nose did that wrinkle thing that was cute but also damn sexy too.

  “That’s a yes or no question.”

  “Life in charcoals.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “Something my sister says. But I think she’s right. Very little in life is black and white.”

  But he was a stubborn cuss and was determined to cling to the impossible. Emme couldn’t be both work and pleasure. She couldn’t be both innocent and guilty.

  “Really?” she challenged. “Explain.”

  He held the tweezers up. “Turn your hand over.”