The Harder They Fall

by Jill Shalvis

  “I’m really pathetic,” she said to the cat as she hiccuped again. Sighing, she pulled herself upright, stumbled into her bedroom, and grabbed the first shirt she came across. Dragging it over her wet head, she fell damp and exhausted onto her bed.

  She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

  In the bathroom, smoke was rising from the extinguished candles. Attached to the hallway ceiling, the sensitive fire alarm automatically responded to the harmless, drifting tendrils of smoke ... and started to wail.

  All the while, Trisha slept on.

  Eight

  Though it was only midnight, Hunter was deeply asleep, dreaming.

  In space with his crew, he peeked out the window, down at Earth. Far below, scrawled in red lipstick over the planet were the words:

  SO SORRY ABOUT THE LANDING GEAR, HUNTER! I’LL BE HAPPY TO PAY FOR ANY DAMAGES. FONDLY, TRISHA.

  Hunter groaned and turned over. The woman could wreak havoc on his world even while he slept.

  He dreamed on.

  He was back in his duplex in South Pasadena, music blaring, windows rattling. Trisha stood there smiling wickedly, holding up the black leather bikini. He tried to tell her he preferred the soft, ivory chemise, but she couldn’t hear him over the annoying sound of the music.

  But then he realized the noise wasn’t music at all, and he stirred.

  At the continued screech of the fire alarm, Hunter jerked in his bed, unwilling to let go of the dream.

  He thought of Trisha’s fuchsia fingernails, and wondered if she’d painted her toenails to match.

  But the obnoxious shrill of the alarm kept bothering him until the dream faded completely. He sat upright in his bed. When he realized what the sound meant, he came instantly awake. Swearing, he threw back the covers, yanked on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed the portable phone by his bed, and strode to the door. Carefully, he laid a hand against it. Cool.

  With his heartbeat echoing in his ears, he cautiously opened the door. No smoke, no flames, just the earsplitting sound of the smoke alarm.

  Then he realized something terrifying—his alarm hadn’t emitted the noise. It was coming from the floor above.

  Gripping the portable phone, he sprinted through the house, tore out the front door. On the grass, he whirled back, craning his neck to stare through the black night at the upper level.

  No light, nothing. But also no smoke or fire. Still, he had to be sure. Taking the steps three at a time, he knocked on the door.

  But the knock faded away in the blare of the alarm.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, and tried pounding on the door, though he knew it would do no good. He peered over the railing—Trisha’s car was parked in the driveway, perilously close to his own.

  Where the hell was she and why hadn’t she shut the thing off?

  Her front doorknob turned easily under his hand, which only served to rile his temper further. She hadn’t bothered to lock the door.

  “Trisha?” he yelled. Nothing. Except, of course, the god-awful shriek of the smoke detector. That he still didn’t see any sign of smoke or flames went a long way toward relieving him, but why hadn’t she responded?

  Calling her name, he moved through the kitchen, flipping on lights, then ran down the hall and tore into her bedroom. The light from the hall spilled into the room. The lump in the middle of the bed stirred at his voice. “Trisha.”

  Her wild hair emerged from the blanket first, then her confused, sleepy face. “God, what’s that noise?” She covered her ears and stared at him.

  “You’re all right?” he demanded.

  She blinked slowly, her mouth open slightly as she continued to gape at him.

  What was the matter with her? “Trisha?”

  She hiccuped, then squinted as she peered around her as if to make sure she was where she thought she was. “What are you doing in here?”

  He didn’t know whether to strangle her for terrifying him, or to yank her against him and never let go. But his aroused temper had him opting for the first. “It’s your fire alarm,” he said loudly, setting his phone on her dresser. “You’ve done something to set it off.”

  “I—” She broke off. “I did not. At least,” she added in a mutter, “I don’t think I did.”

  Shaking his head, he moved out of her room and back into the hallway. He stared up at the offensive alarm, then reached up and deactivated it.

  Blessed silence filled the house.

  The ache behind his eyes from stress and lack of sleep eased slightly. It came back in a flash when he thought about the deliciously rumpled woman in the bed in the next room, with her wide eyes that were always filled with a curious wonder, her pouty lips that seemed to beg to be kissed, her thick, luscious hair that never stayed in place.

  She turned his world inside out.

  How was she able to annoy him and arouse him at the same time? It had never happened before, and it alarmed him now, since he couldn’t seem to control his response to her.

  He wouldn’t dwell on it, he decided. Not now, in the middle of the night. And he certainly wouldn’t look at her again, not when he knew she was probably at this moment wearing some sexy little number from her store. Probably black, or red, leather or lace, he hadn’t really checked when he’d been worried about a fire.

  Now the only fire seemed to be in his groin.

  As he reentered Trisha’s bedroom he told himself she didn’t drive him crazy on purpose. Yeah, and maybe the alarm had somehow just gone off accidentally.

  Right.

  He knew better, and because he did, he automatically took a deep breath, already on the defensive.

  Which, it turned out, was completely unnecessary. Trisha had fallen back asleep.

  Stretched sideways across the bed, half under her covers and half out of them, she slept on. He stopped in the doorway and let out a little noise of disbelief. “Unbelievable. Trisha.”

  She didn’t budge.

  Stirred by some uncontrollable urge he couldn’t deny if his life depended on it, he moved forward, until his knees bumped her bed. In his dream, she’d been in black leather. Now, in the flesh, Hunter expected something equally erotic, certainly something frilly and feminine, something intended to entice and seduce.

  She’d surprised him—again.

  One long leg stuck out from the sheet, bare and smooth. Her covers, bunched at her waist, revealed her nightwear of choice, and it surpassed even the most sensual of dreams.

  Far sexier than any black silk or lace, she wore a plain white cotton T-shirt ... and she was cold. Oh, God. “Trisha.”

  For an answer, he got a soft snore. Feeling like a martyr, he leaned over her and pulled the covers up to her chin, tucking the blanket carefully around her.

  She turned to her side, trapping his hand beneath her. “I’m sorry, Aunt Hilda, I’ll do better next time,” she murmured softly.

  “Trisha.”

  “I promise—just please don’t send me back.”

  The tense, desolate tone of her voice galvanized him. Hating that her dreams haunted her, he used his free hand to pat her shoulder. “You’re just dreaming, Trisha.” Then he stroked her hair. “Go to a happier place.”

  When she’d relaxed a little, he slowly pulled his hand free, heat spearing through his body when his knuckles accidentally brushed against a soft breast.

  At that moment Duff stalked into the room, went still at the sight of him. Feeling like a molester, Hunter stepped back. Duff passed him, tail pointing straight up, chin lifted. Leaping onto the bed in one fluid motion, he settled proprietarily in the curve of Trisha’s hip.

  Trisha shifted, then whispered groggily, “Oh, Duff, you’re so warm. For a minute I thought you were Hunter.”

  She thought this was a dream.

  Shaking his head, Hunter turned from her. It was that or slip in beside her and give her some of the body heat just watching her had generated.

  Because he still felt uneasy and unsettled about the alarm, he walked
through her bathroom, wanting to check each room. But what he found there told him he had no need to go farther.

  Obviously, she’d had a hell of a time. Water was everywhere, beaded on the walls and the linoleum in the old, unventilated bathroom. The mirror was half-fogged. The scent of the bath still filled the room. Though the candles had all burned out and were cold, it didn’t take a space scientist to figure out that they’d probably set off the alarm when she’d blown them out.

  An empty bottle of wine lay on the floor, next to an overturned glass.

  Frowning, he picked them up and set them on the counter. Without considering the wisdom of what he was going to do, he strode back into Trisha’s dark bedroom. A beam of light from the hallway divided the room, highlighted the bed and her still form.

  “Trisha.”

  No response, but at least now he understood why. She’d drunk herself into a stupor. Not feeling particularly sympathetic since she’d interrupted his sleep for the night—sleep he desperately needed—he reached out a hand to her shoulder and shook her. Actually, he amended to himself, she’d ruined just about every night’s sleep since he’d first moved in, just because he couldn’t stop thinking of her.

  “Trisha, wake up.”

  “No.”

  Though her eyes remained firmly closed, she said this quite clearly, giving him the impression he’d actually woken her. “Yes.” He had no idea if she did this sort of thing often, but the thought that she might was more upsetting to him than he wanted to admit. “We have to talk.”

  She clutched blindly at his arm, her grip tight, desperate. “I already ran the five miles, Uncle Victor. I’m too tired to do the push-ups and sit-ups. Please, I said I was sorry.”

  God. “Trisha.”

  “I won’t make Aunt Hilda mad again, just don’t make me.”

  His stomach clenched. Very deliberately, he sat on the edge of the bed. “No one’s going to make you do anything,” he assured her gently. “I promise.”

  Silence fell. He sensed the change immediately, knew she’d come fully awake by the sudden stillness and tension in her body.

  “I found the fire,” he said hoarsely.

  “Fire?” she mumbled, pushing back her hair and blinking at him sleepily. “What fire? Hunter? Is that you?”

  Who the hell else? “It’s me.” Without thinking, he leaned forward, braced himself on the bed, his hands on either side of her hips. “You were dreaming.”

  “No,” she said flatly, shaking her head.

  “You were,” he insisted. “You said—”

  “Please. I’m fine now.”

  “But—”

  Again she shook her head, violently this time. Her hair flew, a strand clung to his slightly stubbled face. With a hand that trembled, she reached up and brushed it away. “Hunter.”

  The way she said his name made him want to groan, want to bend and take her mouth with his, then take the rest of her as well. He could still feel the warmness of her touch on his face, and he wanted more.

  “Why are you here?” she whispered.

  “The smoke detector went off, and I just reacted, thinking there was a fire. I knocked—pounded—on the door, calling your name, but you sleep like the dead. And dammit, your door wasn’t locked. You’ve got to lock it, Trisha.”

  “Fire,” she said, moistening her lips, her eyes never leaving his face. “I remember you saying something about fire.”

  “I think the smoke from your doused candles in the bathroom set off the alarm.”

  “I’m sorry it woke you.”

  “Why didn’t it wake you?”

  She stared at him for a minute, then flushed. “I don’t know.”

  “I do,” he said quietly. “How often do you down an entire bottle of wine like that?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You could have drowned in that tub,” he said swiftly, realizing just how angry he was. Dammit, didn’t she care about herself at all? Still leaning close, he took her shoulders in his hands. “And I would have found you dead.”

  “No, I—”

  Lifting her clear off her pillows, he pulled her upright, stared deep into her troubled, dark eyes. “Drinking is not the answer, Trisha.”

  “Dammit,” she gasped, fisting her hands against him. “I know that.” Her incredibly expressive eyes filled with tears. “My parents drank themselves to death. Do you really think I could do the same?”

  For a minute he just stared at her. When he let her go, she sank back against her pillows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” She laid her arm over her eyes. “You don’t know much about me except that I drive you crazy, I play my radio too loud, and I won’t move out of your house.”

  “And you rearranged my bumper.”

  Her lips twitched, but when she lowered her arm to look at him, her eyes remained suspiciously bright. “That too.”

  Guilt twisted at him, so did something much more potent, something he couldn’t name. “Trisha—”

  “No,” she said quickly, propping herself against her headboard. “Don’t say anything else. I want you to go now.”

  He’d judged her, quickly and harshly. But it didn’t erase his worry for her. “Are you all right?”

  “For a drunkard, you mean?” Her smile seemed forced. “Of course. How much trouble can I get into in the middle of the night?” At his raised brow, she rolled her eyes. “You’d better forget that question. Just go. Please.”

  He started to object, but what right did he have? Reluctantly, he rose, walked to the door.

  “Hunter?”

  “Yes?” In the dark room, he turned back to her.

  “Did you race up here to rescue me, or your house?”

  “You,” he said without hesitation.

  The light in the hallway highlighted the features of her face and he caught her small smile. “You even look like a hero, standing there like that, half-dressed.” Her voice went husky. “You didn’t put on shoes ... or a shirt.”

  He felt more than saw her gaze run over the length of him, and his body responded so quickly, he felt dizzy. “I was afraid for you.”

  Some of the tension left her. “It’s nice to know that. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  He nodded, turned to go, needing to get out.

  “I didn’t drink that whole bottle of wine,” she whispered as he stepped out of the room.

  Unquestioningly believing her, he closed his eyes and went still. Self-disgust filled him.

  “The rest spilled in the tub,” she explained quietly. “It’s why I got out—well...” she added wryly, “that and the fact that since I hadn’t eaten, and I never drink, it went straight to my head.”

  Why did being wrong have to hurt so badly? he wondered. And why did it have to be so hard to apologize? Or was it just this woman, and the fact that he had to work so hard to resist her?

  “Are you ever going to try again, Hunter?” she ventured quietly. “Try again to trust a woman?”

  “No.” But he moved back into her room, again coming close to her bed. “I judged you,” he said softly. “And it was wrong. I’m very sorry, Trisha.”

  Lifting a shoulder, she shrugged lightly, as if to say, Don’t worry about it. You do it all the time.

  It made him feel sick.

  She was used to being harshly judged, and from the snippet of the dream he’d heard, he knew that went back several years. His heart twisted. No one deserved that, least of all this woman who wouldn’t purposely harm a fly. “It matters,” he said in a low voice. “It matters a lot, and I won’t do it again.”

  “That’s some promise.”

  She doubted his ability to keep it, and he couldn’t blame her. “I mean it.”

  “Nothing’s changed, Hunter. I’m still going to annoy you at every turn.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Don’t lie. Please, don’t lie.”

  “You don’t,” he insisted, not surprised to find that he spoke the u
tter truth. “What annoys me is the way I react to you, when I don’t want to. And it’s not a matter of trusting you, Trisha. I just don’t like to lose control, and I always seem to around you.” There, he’d said it. He’d been brutally honest, as was his custom. Even though he knew, despite their assertions of the contrary, that women didn’t really want honesty.

  But he kept forgetting that Trisha Malloy was unlike any other woman he’d ever met.

  “You resist it too much,” she said. “Why can’t you just go with it?”

  Because it would terrify him. All his life he’d failed in relationships. This time would be no different. He could provide well, as in the case of his family, but he didn’t seem to have much else that interested a woman for long. “Because there’s no point.”

  Though he couldn’t see her exact expression, he sensed her immediate withdrawal. “Of course there’s not,” she said softly. “Because there could never be a future with a woman like me. Not for a man like you. Is that it, Dr. Adams?”

  “No, that’s not it.” His hands fisted at his sides as he dropped his head between his shoulders and studied his bare feet. He didn’t understand what Trisha did to him, why she affected him so.

  Women were like his projects—they came into his life for a short period of time, he enjoyed them, they left his life. On to the next project. Rarely did he look back. He’d certainly never gone back.

  An uneasy feeling stirred inside him. Trisha was different, startlingly so. She didn’t seem to fit into any area of his neat, meticulously planned life. In fact, she regularly destroyed any sort of structure he had, sometimes with just a look.

  As she was doing now.

  Even in the dark, he could sense her swirling emotions. And he knew with every fiber of his being, she wanted him to kiss her into oblivion again, every bit as badly as he wanted to. But he couldn’t, not yet. “It has nothing to do with who you are, or what you do, Trisha.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s me,” he admitted tightly. “It’s the man I am, it’s what I do.”