Wanting You

by Leslie A. Kelly

  The knowledge that he still had to tell them what was going on—they’re gonna fucking kill me—was a constant reminder to keep up the effort. At dinner, he’d focused on his own food; he hadn’t once leaned over and opened his mouth for a sample of her fajitas just so he could wrap his lips around her fork. Watching her own mouth on the damn thing had been bad enough.

  By the time he’d brought her home, walking her to the door and seeing that she got inside safely, he’d been as tense and stiff as an ironing board, and she’d been quiet and a little withdrawn. She’d actually shaken his hand good night and thanked him, not even smiling.

  What, no good night kiss?

  “No way,” he reminded himself.

  Cold vibes sent, message received, and all’s well.

  So why did he feel like such utter shit about it?

  Why did he hate that he’d spent the past three days with her and hadn’t revealed—as far as he knew—that he not only liked her more and more, but he also fucking wanted her with carnal need like nothing he’d ever experienced before?

  Every husky laugh, every irritated thrust of her hand through her hair when it fell into her face, every drop of sweat on her brow when they’d been outside yesterday, the freckles the sun had brought out on her nose, the curves under the jeans, even the cute feet she’d stuck into the boots…everything about her appealed to him. Not to mention screwing with his mind, twisting his guts, and practically making him break the zipper of his jeans.

  And here he was, about to spend another glorious day with the woman he wanted an insane amount but had to pretend he did not.

  “You got this,” he mumbled as he locked his car and went to her front door. “Totally professional. You did it yesterday, you can do it again.”

  Mr. Cool, that was him. Mr. I-am-not-going-to-do-anything-to-make-this-even-worse-or-harder-to-explain-to-my-brothers.

  He had all those great intentions. And then she opened the goddamn door, wearing a short, silky robe that revealed twenty miles of bare thigh, and his intentions went up in smoke.

  “Jesus, Evie.”

  She tilted her head in confusion. “What?”

  He pushed past her into her little house and kicked the door shut behind him. “You always answer the door like that?”

  She looked down at herself. “Like what?”

  “Almost naked?”

  Rolling her eyes, she said, “For heaven’s sake, this is a beach cover-up.”

  Well it looked like friggin’ lingerie to him. It was way too short, and way too clingy on that feminine body. He had an endless view of those legs that he’d dreamed about having wrapped around him. The sash emphasized the slenderness of her waist and those curvy hips. The crisscross front didn’t reveal a huge amount of cleavage, just a tempting curve or two—two, definitely two—but it was enough to make him have to close his eyes and remind himself of everything he’d been saying right before he knocked.

  “Get some clothes on,” he said, knowing he sounded like a gruff asshole but unable to stop himself.

  “You’re early,” she pointed out, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

  That just plumped up those perfect breasts closer to the top of the robe. The fabric tightened against her body, revealing her hard nipples. His mouth watered to taste her, his hands itched to hold her, and the rest of his body just roared to be allowed to get up close and personal with the woman.

  “Evie?” he bit out.

  “Yes?”

  “What time is your appointment this morning?”

  “Nine a.m. Why?”

  “Because I’m trying to decide whether I have time to go back home and take a cold shower or not.”

  Her jaw fell open. Rowan should have smacked himself in the head for being so blunt, but frankly, his brain was a little scrambled. He’d been doing a pretty damn fine job of staying aloof from this woman, but no man was a frigging island. And that “beach cover-up” had one purpose in its silky life, and that was to be torn right the fuck off.

  “Oh, so you like me again?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ve always liked you.”

  More than liked. Wanted would be another way to put it.

  Desired. Hungered for. Dreamed about.

  But until she was ready to put down her pen, which could be mightier than even the Winchester family’s lawyers, he couldn’t do a thing about it.

  “But you don’t want to.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to.”

  “Even after the way you kissed me Monday night.”

  “That’s right.”

  She actually clenched her fists at her sides and shook them. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

  She was pretty cute when she was angry. Not to mention sexy, especially given the way that robe slid down to bare one shoulder as she gave in to her frustration. There was nothing underneath it. He’d bet that could be said for every other inch of her body beneath the slick fabric.

  “It’s all about my book, isn’t it? You have to make sure you don’t let your guard down for too long because of a stupid, unimportant chapter in a book.”

  He gritted his back teeth. “If it’s so unimportant, why do you need to write it?”

  “Why do you care so much?”

  They glared at each other for a second. He could see her pulse fluttering in her neck and the way her breasts rose and fell with her inhalations. His own breaths were deep and fast too. The tension rose, and he waged a serious battle to stop himself from just saying to hell with it, pushing her against the wall and kissing her long, deep, and hard.

  And wet. Oh, God, wet.

  The internal battle raged. He held on to his self-control like a skydiver might cling to a parachute that failed to open, just praying it would come through in the end.

  But doubting it. Seriously doubting it.

  “Enough of this. Are you going to kiss me or what?” she snapped, stepping closer, until her robe brushed his leg, and her bare foot slid between his shoes.

  Say “or what.” Say “or what.”

  Before he could say anything, however, she took the decision out of his hands, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down so his mouth slammed onto hers.

  Well, then.

  His self-control hadn’t failed. He didn’t have to admit to his brothers that he’d kissed her again. After all, she was kissing him.

  So he let her. Oh, Christ, yes, he let her and then some.

  Rowan met the deep, hungry thrusts of her tongue, taking her demands, answering them, and raising the stakes. They tilted their heads to fit better, their mouths glued so tightly even air couldn’t come between them. He dropped his hands to cup her waist, his fingers digging into her soft hips. His fingertips rested on that perfect ass, and she was practically wrapped around him right there in the foyer, with the door open and the neighborhood free to watch.

  He didn’t give a shit. And he suspected she didn’t, either.

  They just continued to devour each other.

  She tasted like bananas and toothpaste. An odd combination. And the best thing he’d ever tasted. Her curves melted into all his angles; they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

  And then she abruptly ended the kiss, stepped back, and lifted a shaking hand to her mouth. He took a half step toward her, but she turned that hand around and slammed it against his chest.

  “You ready to end this ridiculous argument and tell me why you are trying so hard to dictate what I can and cannot do in my writing career?”

  He wanted to. Hell, he wanted to tell her to write whatever she wanted, about whomever she wanted. If it were just him, he’d roll the dice. He sensed she—they—would be worth it.

  But it wasn’t just him. His brothers were involved in this. And fuck if he was gonna do anything that could land them in jail for murder…especially not when they were completely innocent.

  “Are you ready to stop digging into stuff that affects me and my family?”

&
nbsp; She gaped. “How does it affect you and your family? I told you I wouldn’t ask you any questions or try to involve you.”

  “Look, Evie, do you really think the murder of a man who was once like an uncle and Steve’s plunge right in front of my brother make us just uninterested parties? Christ, the tabloids are still printing articles practically accusing Reece of murdering Steve. If the whole thing wasn’t on video, it could have destroyed Reece’s life. I don’t want this shit dragged back up, and neither do my brothers.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do,” he said, his frustration growing because he couldn’t tell her the whole story, and she wasn’t accepting the most basic one. “We will get sucked in. Frankly, I have quite enough old tragedy shoved in my face every year when some asshole points a microphone at me for the standard it’s-the-anniversary-of-your-famous-sister’s-death-how-do-you-feel-about-it? bullshit.”

  She didn’t argue this time. Didn’t open her mouth to promise nothing she wrote would affect him and the rest of the Winchesters.

  Maybe she finally got it. Maybe she finally understood that with a family like his, there really was no way to fly completely under the radar, and just about anything could thrust them back into the most unforgiving spotlight.

  Or maybe she was just tired of arguing about it, didn’t think something personal happening between them was worth giving up a chapter in her book and hadn’t felt like they’d just shared a mind-altering kiss.

  “I should go get dressed,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll be ready to go soon.”

  He sighed, wishing things were different. Wishing he didn’t have to hide something from her, wishing she wasn’t so determined to pick at wounds. He had no right to ask her to give up something important; he knew that. But was one single story really that critical?

  Maybe it was. Maybe he was being an asshole.

  But he just didn’t see any way around this issue between them.

  He couldn’t get romantically involved with someone who might be working to bring down his family, whether intentionally or not. And he supposed she shouldn’t get involved with somebody who was so intent on keeping secrets from her.

  Talk about a mismatch—they were wrong in every way, destined to failure before they even started.

  But damn. That kiss.

  “I need coffee,” he called after her.

  She didn’t turn around, pointing to her left, toward what he knew, from yesterday’s quick visit for her to change boots, was the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

  Today wasn’t starting out very well. Okay, that wasn’t true—that kiss had been one hell of a good way to start a Friday, especially if it could be followed up with a romantic Friday night dinner, a weekend at the beach or exploring the coast under sunny California skies, and having hot, wild sex whenever the mood struck them. Which, he had no doubt, would be often.

  “Coffee, asshole,” he muttered, putting all thoughts of sex and banana-and-toothpaste kisses out of his mind.

  Evie had one of those one-cup-at-a-time makers, so he opened cabinets until he located some coffee pods. He made two cups in a row and poured them together into a travel container he’d found in the pantry. He had the feeling he was going to need it. He’d been with her for five minutes and already every pat on the back he’d been giving himself about how well he’d been handling things had swung around and become a punch in the gut.

  She came back out in ten minutes, dressed and ready to go. He didn’t think he’d ever known a woman who was more low maintenance. She’d obviously swiped on a little eye makeup, and her lips were shiny, but the hair was simply loose and brushed, and her clothes casual. Yet she managed to look stunning.

  God, he was in trouble. This assignment was getting harder and harder by the day.

  And so was he.

  Damn you and your sick life, Harry Baker. You got what was coming to you; did you really have to bring my family down with you?

  “You finished with the coffee maker?” she asked.

  He lifted the travel mug. “Full. Hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Not as long as you left me two pods too,” she said with a faint smile, going over to repeat the same coffee-making process he’d just walked through. He watched as she opened the cabinet directly above the coffee maker, appearing confused. “Where’s the coffee?” She cast him a quick glance over her shoulder. “You holding out on me? Because I need caffeine. You wouldn’t like me when I’m decaffeinated.”

  “I put them right back where I found them,” he said, walking to a cabinet on the other side of the kitchen.

  Her frown deepened. “Seriously? Or are you kidding?”

  Opening the door, he retrieved the box and brought it to her.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Sighing heavily, she shook her head and took the coffee. “I swear, I must be losing my mind. I’m so distracted, I’m obviously sticking stuff in the first place I can find and then forgetting where I put it.” She nodded toward the nearest cabinet, which contained mugs and coffee supplies. “They are supposed to live in there.”

  “That’s what I figured,” he admitted. “I was kinda surprised to find them with the plates and stuff.”

  “I am just so distracted this week,” she said with a slow shake of her head.

  “Not without reason, Evie,” he said, standing close beside her. Close enough to smell her clean skin, close enough that her arm brushed against his when she moved. Close enough that he forgot to breathe.

  He wanted her. Lord, how he wanted her.

  She spun around and went to the fridge to get creamer. Rowan returned to his chair and swigged from his own mug, wishing he’d gotten a big glass of cold water instead. Frankly, he was tempted to walk the couple of blocks to the beach and dive into the Pacific. After that kiss, he needed a cool-off big-time.

  While she finished making her coffee, he asked, “So have you heard anything more from MarcSleazy who set you up for a media ambush yesterday?”

  She frowned. “I haven’t figured out how to handle that yet. Candace has called me four times and has texted me even more than that asking me to get in touch. But I told her I was busy and needed some time. Guess I’ll call her tonight or tomorrow and get it all out in the open.”

  “What will you do if he admits he was also behind Monday night’s setup?”

  She pulled an elastic out of her pocket and swooped her silky hair back into a soft ponytail. On Evie, the simple hairstyle didn’t look jaunty and casual, but rather classic and feminine. Damn, she made everything look good.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I haven’t been able to call Candace back yet. If he is behind it, I can’t keep working with him. Not if he gave out my home address. Not when…”

  He waited. She swallowed and turned back to the coffee maker. Her hands were shaking, and he immediately realized something had happened.

  Getting up, Rowan walked over to her, standing a few inches from her back. “Not when what?”

  She didn’t turn around, stirring cream into her coffee hard enough to break either the metal spoon or the plastic travel mug.

  He reached around her, took the mug, put it down on the counter, and then turned her around to face him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She shrugged. “It’s nothing. Nothing I haven’t gotten used to dealing with over the past several years.”

  “If it’s nothing,” he said in a soft, even tone, even as he tried to ignore that peach scent rising off her swooped-back hair and the pink gleam on her lips, “why don’t you just spill it?”

  Gesturing toward her unzipped purse on the counter, she said, “Just another letter from my friendly neighborhood death-row pen pal.”

  He gritted his teeth and let out a low growl. “Angstrom.”

  “Yes. Candace gave me his latest cheerful correspondence yesterday at lunch. I can’t deny I spent a lot of last night tossing an
d turning, wondering how freely Marcus might be giving out my home address.”

  He hadn’t even paid much attention to the asshole yesterday. Right now, though, he wanted to go over to this Marcus dude’s office and dangle him out a window until he confessed about whether he’d been selling out Evie’s location to anybody who would pay the price.

  Glancing at the letter, he said, “May I?” He figured she was giving him permission to read it by pointing to it, sticking right out of her bag. If she said no, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t grab the damned thing anyway.

  “Go ahead.”

  He retrieved the letter, quickly scanned it, and almost growled. He remembered every word she’d said about Angstrom, including how the bastard had copied her house key—because she’d had a flat tire. There were hidden messages throughout the whole poisonous page. He’d aimed it directly at Evie’s heart, and her imagination, and let it fly.

  Fucker.

  “He writes you often?”

  “Not often. Maybe a few times a year.”

  “You don’t have to read them, you know. You could leave them unopened and forward them right to the DA handling his case.”

  “I always scan them and send him a copy. And my agent keeps a copy. Lots of backups and everyone in the know.”

  Smart. Of course, he would have expected no less.

  “And the originals?”

  “I have a file.”

  “Is it stamped Rubbermaid and lined with a big, green plastic bag that comes in a box marked Hefty?”

  She forced a tiny smile.

  “How about made out of brick, covered with wire mesh, and filled with flaming logs?”