Hotter Than Wildfire

by Lisa Marie Rice

  “I know how you feel.” It was so odd, having this conversation while being held in his arms in his study that had been turned into a hospital room. Somewhere there was a light pinging sound, exactly the sound a toaster would make when the bread was ready.

  “Hmm?” He’d said something while she was completely distracted by—well, by the most incredible male body she’d ever touched.

  Gerald’s company had been full of buff men, often with that bodybuilder’s waddle that was so unattractive and ridiculous. They all cultivated a real tough don’t-mess-with-me air, but it turned out it was all a bluff, because Harry Bolt had beat three of them, hands down.

  She could feel why he had prevailed. Instinctively, one arm had gone around his shoulders, her other hand braced on his chest. She’d never felt flesh like this before, like skin over warm steel. He was built like a racing engine, muscles long and lean, wrapped around big bones.

  “I said, I know how you feel. I know what it’s like to feel weak, barely able to stand. It’s horrible. I hated every second of it, and I didn’t have someone after me. I can imagine how you feel.”

  Ellen’s eyes met his in surprise. He was perfectly serious, sober even. Long grooves in his cheeks, full mouth closed to a thin line, eyes grave. It seemed impossible to her that the man holding her in his arms as easily as if she were a child had been—

  “What do you mean? You were weak? Weak how?”

  Even saying it sounded outlandish. The parts of him she could see and feel—strong neck, the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen, huge sinewy hands—could never have been called weak. He was simply too large a man.

  His mouth turned down and he shrugged one massive shoulder. Ellen dipped and rose with the movement.

  “Got shot up in Af—where I was deployed, about a year ago. Had four operations in as many weeks. Lost sixty pounds. Couldn’t walk for months. Yeah, I was pretty banged up there for a while.”

  Ellen covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry. It must have been really serious. How did you get back in shape?”

  One side of his mouth turned up. “I can’t take any credit at all. It was my brothers who forced me to get back in shape. Sam and Mike. You’ve met Sam, and Nicole. You haven’t met Mike, though he’s been here quite a few times to check up on you while you were out of it. I wasn’t just banged up. I was depressed, too. Probably would have sunk into a sea of self-pity if they hadn’t hired the Nazi to whip me back in shape.”

  “The Nazi?”

  “Yeah. He wasn’t actually German, he was Norwegian. Bjorn. Man, he was pitiless. Two hundred and fifty pounds of pure mean. He came every day for six months and he reported back to Sam and Mike. When I resisted he said he was more scared of them than he was of me. They would have whupped his ass. Me? At the beginning I was lucky if I could stagger a couple of feet before falling straight on my a—er…face.”

  Ellen soaked up the tones of affection when he spoke of his brothers. She hadn’t realized that Sam and Harry were brothers. They didn’t look anything alike, except for both being tall and exceptionally well built. But wait. Sam was named Reston. And Harry’s last name was Bolt.

  “How are you brothers? Same mothers, different fathers?”

  “Blood brothers, not real brothers. Long story. Tell you some other time. But they weren’t the only ones who helped me. You were responsible, too. I’m here because of you.”

  She simply looked at him, too astounded for words. “Me? I never met you before. How could I have had a hand in your healing?”

  “Your voice. I listened to your music endlessly in the night. I think, in a very real way, your music saved my life, Eve.” His deep voice had turned low, his gaze so intense it was like being touched by hands. “I wanted to stay in this world, in this life, to hear you sing. Hell of a thing to say, but it’s God’s truth.”

  “Ellen,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Eve is my stage name. My agent chose it. Eve, first woman, woman of mystery, maybe—I don’t know what his reasoning was. But my real name is just plain Ellen. Ellen—” At the last second, bells sounded in her head. She’d been about to tell him her last name, plunge off the precipice of trust, but she windmilled her arms in her head and stepped back. She trusted Harry, but right now telling him her last name made her feel…almost naked.

  And she was, almost naked.

  In his arms, she was suddenly, acutely aware of the fact that underneath a thin silk sheath, she was naked.

  Harry, on the other hand, seemed to be fully aware of it. He wasn’t fondling her, but he wasn’t pretending she wasn’t in his arms, either. His left hand—his very big and very warm left hand—enveloped her left breast, his right hand curved around her thigh.

  It was the closest she’d ever been to a man in…in years. And to tell the truth, she’d never been this close to such a strong man, such a…a male man.

  There’d been Ben, studying for his accountancy degree, like her. Nice guy, beanpole thin, much more interested in derivatives than sex.

  And Joe, who had a Toyota dealership and was thirty pounds overweight and kept trying to stick what felt like a marshmallow in her.

  Harry felt like another species. Bigger and stronger and tougher and faster.

  He was looking down at her, gaze going from her eyes to her mouth and back. As if gauging whether…

  Oh yeah. In answer to his unspoken question, Ellen tightened her arm around his neck and closed her eyes.

  His mouth was as warm as his hands, only much softer. He tasted absolutely delicious—of coffee and cinnamon and butter. His twisted his mouth slightly, opening hers, and his tongue licked hers.

  She pulled in a startled breath at the electric current that ran through her at the touch. Searing heat that took her breath away.

  It was way too intense and she pulled back.

  His mouth was slightly wet from hers and it was a huge temptation to run her finger over his lips, just to see again how soft they were, the only soft thing in a hard man.

  He lifted his head, just slightly, so that his mouth was only an inch from hers.

  Harry’s eyes were golden flames, burning hotter than the sun.

  “Where were you going just now?” He was so close his coffee-tinged breath washed over her face.

  She had no breath to answer him.

  Oh God. The kiss had electrified her. This was insane. It was just a kiss. It wasn’t as if she had never been kissed before. But it was the most sensuous kiss she’d ever had, almost as intimate as sex itself. And, oh, it had been so long since she’d been held. Since she’d even touched another human being, even the most casual touch, let alone this assault on the senses.

  She erected a small mental barrier against him, against the oh-so-tempting and oh-so-dangerous feelings of sensuality and safety he sparked in her, and stiffened a little in his arms.

  “I, um, I need to get to the bathroom.” And I need to get out of your arms.

  Harry turned and carried her into the bathroom, gently putting her on her feet, holding on to her arms.

  Ellen found that she could stand. The support of his hands felt good, too good, and she took a small step back, away from his grasp. “I hope you’re not thinking of staying here while I use the bathroom.”

  She was painfully aware that she was in the presence of an amazingly attractive man, dressed only in a wrinkled gown, even if it was silk, with bed head and probably moss growing on her teeth.

  Being on the run meant many things, including a loss of dignity.

  Those golden eyes saw too much, understood too much.

  “I won’t stay if you don’t need me.” His golden gaze was keen, he searched her eyes, took a moment to answer. “But I’m going to be right outside. If you need my help, all you need to do is call. I’ll hear you.” He nodded to the sink. “There’s an unused toothbrush and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste there. Soap and a towel are on the counter.”

  “No
moisturizer?” she teased.

  “Sorry. Whoa.” He shook his head, surprised. “Not even a hint of moisturizer. But I’ll buy some later. Nicole can tell me what to buy and where. Or better yet, I’ll have her buy it.” He stepped back out of the bathroom. “Remember, I’m right outside,” he said, and closed the door.

  Ellen used the toilet, then walked to the sink. The bathroom was very large and very spare. All the fixtures were white and the walls were tiled in white. There were white glass-fronted shelves on the left-hand side and a huge shower on the right.

  There was no trace of a woman. Ellen told herself that it was absolutely no business of hers if a woman lived here or even if a battalion of women trooped through his bedroom and bathroom nightly, but she was whistling in the wind because the spurt of relief she felt at seeing his toiletry items—one comb, one brush, one toothbrush, one half-squeezed tube of toothpaste, an electric shaver—on the sink was unmistakeable.

  The brand-new plastic-wrapped toothbrush and travel-sized tube of toothpaste had COMPLIMENTS OF THE HILTON HOTEL on them.

  She eyed the shower, tested her knees, and thought, What the hell. A second later the nightgown was on the floor and she was in the shower.

  Bliss.

  She’d lived in such miserable hovels over this past year. They had reminded her of the places she’d lived in during her childhood and that she had worked so very, very hard to put behind her.

  Hard work, intense study, focus like a laser beam to get her degree while holding down two jobs, all that hard work at her first big job, and yet this past year had brought her back full circle to what she’d fought so hard to escape.

  The dirt-cheap motels as she made her way west, with the rust stains in the toilets and the pubic hairs in the shower. The rented rooms with a grudging trickle of hot water. She knew those kinds of places intimately.

  She’d made a lot of money on Eve’s records, but it had all gone to the company she’d set up to receive the monies. She hadn’t figured a way to draw on the money without drawing attention to herself. Her money might as well have been on the moon.

  So this shower was pure luxury.

  Harry Bolt seemed to have a no-frills approach to décor, but that seemed to be more a reflection of his taste than his pocketbook. He sure hadn’t stinted on the bathroom. The shower stall was ten times larger than her last shower in her rented studio apartment and had six shower heads. She stood under the pounding hot water and let herself go.

  In one of her under-the-table waitressing jobs she took for a few days in a small town near Denver, another waitress had taken a shine to her. The waitress was flaky, a New Ager, but had been kind and warmhearted. She had a bunch of theories about water—that flowing water takes trouble and bad karma away.

  Maybe. Maybe not. But she was sure feeling better.

  Ellen hummed. She always sang in the shower. She sang when she was happy, to celebrate. When she was sad, to cheer herself up. When she was frightened, for bravery.

  Such a mixed blessing her voice and music had been to her, all her life. Her mother had been a lost soul, living on the fringes of the music world, dreaming of making it big while drinking too much and smoking too much and failing to hold down jobs.

  The irony was that her mom hadn’t had much of a voice. There might have been something there when she was young, but by the time Ellen was ten, it had long gone. Cindy hadn’t taken care of herself, in any way. What little voice she had had succumbed to the cigarettes and the liquor and the unhappiness. First her voice had gone and then her life, when Ellen was seventeen.

  And her mother had been so angry that Ellen had been given all the talent in the family. When she was little, her mom dragged her around fairs and open-mike bars. Ellen could sing harmony with a wild boar. Her voice held her mother’s voice up. But then, as she got older, the owners of the bars started wanting just Ellen. But by that time, Ellen had seen enough of the underside of the music world and had discovered math.

  Cool, rational math. So perfect. So shiny and sublime. Always dependable, always. Two plus two always made four. Everything else in her life was unstable, transient, unpredictable. Once she discovered math, there was no going back. She finished high school a year early and in college simply dove into her studies.

  Music was no longer necessary to eat. It became her private joy. In the shower, driving, on walks. A private joy and solace.

  Like now. Stressed and uncertain, scared and without a future, Ellen poured the music out of her like the water from the showerheads, and both cleansed her.

  Out of the shower, it took her only a few minutes to be ready. She couldn’t find a hair dryer, so she simply toweled her hair as hard as she could and combed it. No moisturizer, so once she was dry, she put the nightgown back on, and that was it.

  She placed her hand on the door and hesitated. The shower and the singing had taken her out of herself for a little while, but behind that door was reality, waiting to take a big bite out of her.

  A man who’d saved her life, a man she found almost insanely attractive, was waiting there. For the moment, he’d spread a mantle of protection over her, but she couldn’t huddle there forever.

  Apparently, what RBK did was place women under threat in a new life. Harry Bolt hadn’t managed so far because she’d been wounded. But Ellen could only imagine that he was hoping she’d hurry up and get better so he could get back to his life.

  In a day—two, three, maybe—she’d be on her way. Maybe he’d wait till the stitches were completely absorbed. So maybe she could have as much as a week, feeling the lack of fear like a gentle, warm wind on her face.

  But sooner or later, she’d be out in the cold. Relocated to somewhere improbable, like North Dakota or Wyoming, though if they gave her a choice, she’d choose mild winters and sunshine over snow any time. But still. This, as in so many things over this past year, was out of her control.

  So she’d find herself in some strange town, with a new identity and a new name to get used to. Scared of making friends, working low-level jobs. Keeping her head down. And now, never singing, ever again.

  Her heart beat painfully at the thought.

  This moment, this precise moment, she thought. Remember it. Feeling warm and unrushed, with a paladin behind the door, safe.

  Remember, because it won’t last.

  She pushed the door open.

  There she was!

  Harry nearly dropped to his knees. The sounds coming from his bathroom had been so heavenly, he had to pinch himself to make sure they were real.

  The music coming out of her mouth had been amazing. If a Martian had to find out what humans were like, all he had to do was listen to Eve. Ellen.

  And on top of it, she was herself a beauty, a sort of extravagance of talent. You’d think that having that voice, that ability, would be enough, but no. Who could possibly imagine that a voice like that came out of the luscious mouth of a beauty like Eve? Ellen.

  It was hard to think of her as Ellen. Though maybe not, now that he thought of it. If Eve was going to be a beauty, then you’d think she’d be this big, in-your-face beauty.

  Instead, Ellen had a fresh, quiet loveliness. Unobtrusive and hidden. You had to look twice to see it, though after you did, you couldn’t look away, ever again. Clear, pale, poreless skin; large, uptilted green eyes with heavy lashes; small, straight nose; slightly oversized mouth that made you think of music and, well, sex.

  She was small, slender, with a narrow ribcage, which was strange because when she sang jazz, she could belt it out like a smokin’ mamma.

  She came out of the bathroom hesitantly, first sticking her head out, as if waiting to see if danger lurked, then pushing the door wide open. The movements of a woman who was still afraid, who’d been on the run for a year.

  She was right to be afraid, because that fucker Montez was still after her and would be for the rest of her life unless Harry stopped him. Preferably, stopped him dead.

  Her running days were
over, though. Harry would stand for her.

  Part of the hesitation was over him, he knew that. He’d done everything possible to reassure her, but it was clear that her last memory had been of him running toward her at break-neck speed with a gun, and then she’d woken up in a strange place with a bullet wound.

  The human mind works on all sorts of levels. It is capable of fine sentiments and refined thinking, which is very good while drinking tea and discussing the politics of the day and the latest movies.

  But what saves your life is the primitive part of your brain. The one that takes signals from the world as it is, not as you’d like it to be. The part of your head that pings and sends up smoke flares when dangerous men are around.

  Harry was a dangerous man.

  Harry looked at her through the eyes of a mercenary, a man trained to break people. She was sleek and fit, but slender. She moved with the grace of a dancer, not an athlete. She was extraordinary, with a once-in-a-generation talent, beautiful and graceful—and prey.

  They’d break her in five minutes.

  Her luck couldn’t hold out forever.

  It wouldn’t be luck operating in her life from now on, it would be Harry, and he’d bend the fates his way. He’d bet on himself against any man, and he was highly motivated.

  Not to mention he could always count on his brothers, Sam and Mike. The three of them were unbeatable. You didn’t want to mess with Harry Bolt, especially when he was backed up by Sam Reston and Mike Keillor.

  She was watching his face, trying to take her cues from him, looking a little lost and maybe even scared. His usual expression—or so his brothers told him—was grim. He knew how to scare and intimidate; he had that down pat. But now he needed to hearten.

  A smile, that’s what was needed. And he knew how to do it, too. Tighten muscles at corners of mouth, show teeth…

  By God, it worked! Ellen’s face lightened and she smiled a little in return.

  Step number two, feed her.

  He took her by the hand and turned toward the kitchen. For the first time, he was glad he had a big apartment. When Sam had found it for him, he’d hated it. It was so big and empty, with room after room he didn’t need and didn’t want. It was still mostly empty space, because he’d never taken the time or the trouble to decorate.