Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  Del turned toward her and tapped on the glass. “Dibs on the top bunk.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched up in an automatic smile. She got it. “Oh. You’re going to rent Wally’s place?”

  Del edged past her and moved to the spot she’d vacated, looking in on the living area. “If we can come to an agreement.”

  “For how long? Wait—you said you heard from the States. Ethan Ward?”

  He nodded, dug a hand into the pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a keyring. He slotted a key in the door and unlocked it. “Rang me about an hour ago. I’m in.”

  The grin he shot over his shoulder before he slid the door open stripped her defences bare.

  “You got through? They’re coming out to film?” She hurried inside after him, considered removing her shoes but after one look at the grimy, sand-speckled floor, she changed her mind.

  Del poked through the kitchen, opening and closing doors. “Ethan and his crew are arriving later in the month. I haven’t heard any more of the details. His people were going to call my people.” He yanked open a cabinet and removed a cast iron skillet, holding it up to the tiny window over the sink for closer examination. “All very Hollywood, as you’d expect.”

  Running a fingertip over the dusty counter top, Shaye grimaced. “Now you’ve got to clear it with West and your dad?”

  He placed the skillet back where he’d found it and shut the orange painted door, then straightened to pin her with a stare. “Can I count on your support?”

  Shaye leaned a hip against the counter, folded her arms. “It’s just going to be you and Ethan in the kitchen, right?”

  He frowned, mirroring her posture at the counter’s other end. “You know, I’m not a hundred percent sure. I’d assume most of the time it’d be me and Ethan. But the crew would want a glimpse of the restaurant in action.”

  “Ugh. Not cool. I hate the idea of being in front of a camera.”

  “Your mom was an actress; didn’t you ever want to take to the stage or screen?”

  “Mum says the camera adds ten pounds to skinny women, thirty to the rest of us.” She twisted a strand of her ponytail. “I always thought it a miserable way to live, worrying what lumps and bumps the camera would show. So, no, I never wanted to be an actress.” She let go of her hair and fiddled with the hem of her top. “But my little bit of vanity won’t get in the way of Due South’s need for good publicity.”

  “The camera’ll love you, you’re beautiful.”

  He moved closer, and her scalp prickled as a static charge zipped between them.

  “And I happen to like your lumps and bumps. The camera mightn’t see the real you, but I do.”

  She should’ve shoved him aside with sarcasm. A “Puh-lease” and an eye-roll. Del didn’t see her as anything but a pain in his ass. Or, since her ego could use a boost, she conceded he was attracted to her—in an I have boy bits, you’ve got the corresponding girl bits kind of way. Guys like him called women beautiful the same as they labeled a sports car or a fine cut of sirloin.

  She opened her mouth to say, “You don’t see the real me at all,” but he closed the remaining distance to zero. Words spun away as he touched his lips to her cheek. It wasn’t quite a kiss—but definitely not a brotherly peck. Just a soft brush of his mouth, the last kind of touch she expected from the bad-ass Del Westlake.

  And it stopped her heart for a second.

  He pulled away far enough for her to see her dazed expression in the endless blue of his eyes.

  “Tell me no.”

  Shaye blinked. “Huh?”

  “Tell me not to kiss you.”

  She breathed him in. A hint of soap with a whiff of petrol he must’ve spilled while refueling the bike, but mostly sun-warmed male skin, throbbing with testosterone.

  Her hand trembled, and she placed it on his chest, spreading her fingers wide over his shirt. Heat burned through the thin cotton fibers and the rapid thud of his heart throbbed against her palm, beating in time with her own.

  “Please kiss me, Del.” She slid her hand along his collarbone to his neck, skimming over the first prickles returning along his jawline, fingertips tingling. “Pretty please.” She raised her other hand to cup his face. “With a damn cherry on top.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, and her heart flipped in a series of summersaults. God, that smile. Those eyes. Him.

  Swaying forward on tip-toe, she tilted her chin. He misjudged the angle of her mouth and bumped her nose.

  “Smooth move, Hollywood,” she murmured.

  The rumble from his throat could have been a laugh or a growl. Didn’t have time to decipher it before his mouth descended on hers—hard, hot, and very, very smooth.

  He kissed like a man starved, and she was a dessert bar. The flicker of his tongue against hers danced fire through her resistance. She melted, pouring herself into him. Her fingers thrust into his hair—keeping his lips locked in place. She opened to him, holding nothing back, offering him control to wield as he liked. And he took control, sealing their mouths together as if it would take a crowbar to part them.

  Closer. More. Deeper.

  He surrounded her with hard warmth, and she held on, the feel of her body—breast to thigh pressed tight to his—doing liquefying things to her bones.

  Not just a kiss. Not even close.

  Then she was sitting on the countertop, Del’s big hands gripping her butt from where he’d lifted her. Her fingers clawed his shoulders, her legs hugging his hips, pulling him in, locking his lower body hard against her, and his mouth—ohdearGod—the man kissed like a demon and angel combined. To hell with just a kiss; she’d become a glutton wanting more.

  She wrestled up the hem of his shirt, sliding her hands across miles of silky skin, tracing down the strong line of his spine. He pulled away, teeth catching her bottom lip in the softest of nips. Del repeated her name twice before her brain registered his mouth wasn’t returning. Blue, blue eyes had turned a smoldering shade of thundercloud grey.

  “Shaye. We can’t.”

  The length of steely male trapped between her legs said oh yes we can.

  She shifted her hips fractionally, rubbing against him. His ragged moan nearly compensated for the ache spiraling up from her core. His hands tightened on her and stroked down her thighs. Then he backed away.

  “God.”

  Del’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he stood watching her. Watching her want him, panting for him like an inexperienced school girl who’d never been kissed before. Hah. The joke was on her—because she never had been kissed like that before.

  Her cheeks burned as they continued to stare at each other.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  “Why?” Because she was inexperienced and waaay out of his league? Because while in her head that kiss would’ve registered off the Richter scale, for him it was more meh than earth-shattering?

  Del must’ve caught the indignation in that one word, since his lips curved again in that damn sexy smile.

  “Now I’ve had a taste of you, cupcake, I want more. Not only the frosting.” He gestured down at himself, and like an obedient little hussy, she followed with her gaze.

  Holy hell, the man packed some serious equipment in those jeans. Some seriously heavy-duty equipment. It took her at least five seconds to drag her gaze up to eye level.

  She cleared her throat. “Maybe I want more than frosting, too.”

  Like the whole damn island’s supply of frosting spread over his naked bod.

  He rubbed his neck with a palm. “I can’t offer you anything more than a—”

  She hopped off the counter and jabbed a finger at his stomach, which hurt, dammit, because the man had some rock hard abs under his shirt. “I’m not asking for more than a…”

  His eyes hooded and flared hot, and her voice stuttered to a halt.

  “More than a quick fuck?” he said quietly. He grabbed her hand, cupping it loosely in his. “You’re not the type of girl
who should hook up with a guy like me.”

  “As I’ll only be a quick, mindless fuck, right?”

  He squeezed her fingers then, and let go. “Nothing like that. But tell me, how many years did you continue to send me letters when I left Oban?”

  Oh, crap. He’d received the pages of handwritten letters she’d sent? She tilted her chin. “I forget.”

  “Up until you were fifteen. They stopped after your father died.”

  “You never answered a damn one.”

  “No.” He shook his head, but his eyes never left hers. “I didn’t know what the hell to say to you. We weren’t buddies like West and Piper were. I couldn’t understand why you kept sending them. Little tidbits of island gossip. What books you were reading. What the other kids did during the Christmas holidays. I finally figured it out.”

  “Did you?” Her voice flattened. She remembered now. The first Sunday of the month was write to Del day, the sad-eyed boy she’d hoped to make laugh again.

  “You couldn’t let me go.”

  “Then. I couldn’t let you go then. I was a kid, and I guess I held on to you the same way I’ve held on to all my favorite childhood books and my Barbie doll collection. I won’t be holding on to you this time.” She forced her lips into a smile. “Sorry to pop your giant ego. Hell, when you leave after the wedding, I won’t even send you an e-mail.”

  He chuckled. “Giant ego aside—sex complicates things. Especially for people who work together.”

  She arched a brow. “I haven’t even decided if I want to sleep with you.”

  “Smart girl. You should slap my face now and walk away.”

  She tilted her head. “This, from a man who’s probably slept with more than one employee in his life…Is there something else going on here? Is there—?” The thought blazed into her mind like napalm. “Is there someone else? In LA—”

  Del flinched, closed his eyes for a moment. Ohmygawd. Of course the man had someone else. He wasn’t a monk.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  “I was seeing someone before I flew out here—it’s complicated.”

  “Calling a relationship complicated is a cop-out. You’re either in a relationship, or you’re not.”

  “I’m not. Though I’m warning you, I’m a bad bet, so don’t get attached.”

  His eyes clashed with hers, but there wasn’t any deception in them, only finality. Topic shutdown initiated. He brushed past her and crossed the kitchen to the single bedroom, poking his head through the open doorway. “Haven’t slept in a bunk since West and I used to fight over your brother’s top one.”

  Shaye joined him. The bedroom contained one double bunk and a couple of battered dressers. Perfect for a little family get-away, interesting choice for a single man planning to rent the place. Her cheeks ignited, imagining the two of them rolling around on the bunk bed.

  “I never saw you sleep in Ben’s top bunk.” She kept her gaze well away from his.

  “West being two years older and Ben’s mate, he scored that right whenever we stayed over. I got it once, though—they dared me to run naked along Honeymoon Bay beach late one Friday night.”

  “That was you?”

  His gaze zipped to her, and she giggled.

  “Kidding,” she said.

  Del grinned, and the power of this unexpected truce between them punched heat fast and low into her belly. Such dangerous territory. She retreated out the door and walked back toward the kitchen.

  “Ah, cupcake?”

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  “You might want to…” He demonstrated by brushing his hands down his butt and giving her a pointed look. “That counter I nearly had you on needs a clean.”

  Her face grew even hotter. From a dusty bottom or from the truth of his words? If they hadn’t needed to return to Due South for evening prep, likely he would’ve had her there on the counter. Dust or not.

  She stalked outside, swiveling to face away from him while she swiped the dust off her pants.

  “You could always volunteer to be a one-woman cleaning crew. Kind of like a house-warming gift.” He stepped onto the deck with her and locked the door.

  “Do your own cleaning, Hollywood.”

  He shrugged and jogged down the steps and across to the bike. She couldn’t help but stare at the long line of his body moving so gracefully.

  “Worth a try.” He shot her another knees-to-Jello smile.

  Shaye snorted but walked over and grabbed the helmet he offered. She jammed it on her head then climbed onto the bike, her teeth clenching as their bodies fitted snugly together.

  Dammit.

  She knew exactly what she wanted to give him for a housewarming gift. And it had nothing to do with cleaning and everything to do with his kitchen counter, the faded green couch, or even the double bunk.

  Chapter 8

  Claire ambushed Del before he’d opened Due South’s back door. He’d dropped Shaye off and returned the bike and key, and if his brain hadn’t been fogged with the constant replay of their smoking-hot kiss, he might’ve spotted his mother sooner.

  “Del? A word, honey?” she called out from the cottage gate.

  He glanced down at West’s dog, Donny, a one-eared Staffy cross, curled up in his basket.

  “You could’ve given me a warning bark or something, buddy,” he muttered. Donny tilted his head to one side and whined. “Too little too late.”

  He strode across the parking lot. Might as well get over whatever lecture she had in mind. Bill probably complained about Del running out earlier, instead of slaving alongside the old man.

  “Bridge ladies still there, Mom?” he asked when he got within talking distance.

  “They’ve all gone; it’s safe.” Claire smiled, tucking a strand of greying hair behind her ear. “Your father’s napping in his room, but I wanted to catch you before dinner service.”

  “I need to get—”

  Claire held up a palm. “I know, Del, and I won’t take much of your time. But if I put off asking this anymore, I’ll completely lose my nerve.” She chewed on her bottom lip, something she hadn’t done since Lionel got so sick.

  His gut cramped, searing away all the feel-good fuzzies of finally getting his hands and mouth on Shaye.

  “Just ask, Mom.”

  She sucked in a huge breath and gusted it out. “I want you to take a blood test to see if you’re donor compatible.”

  The brain fog froze to ice crystals, and he stared numbly at her earnest expression as she continued talking.

  “West and I have been tested, but we’re not suitable matches. Bill’s on the public donor system, but a family member’s his best chance.”

  “You expect me to donate a kidney?” Sure, it wasn’t a completely unforeseen request. Not with West and his mother’s covert glances every time he and Bill were together.

  “Honey, I don’t expect you to do anything. I hoped you’d want to.” She sighed. “I know you and Bill still have issues, but he’s your father.”

  “Lionel was more my father than Bill Westlake.” He could barely say the words.

  She flinched then straightened her spine, planting her feet wide in her now you’ve made me mad stance. “And what do you think Lionel would say about this if he were still alive?”

  “But he’s not.” His stepfather not being around remained a dull ache behind Del’s breastbone.

  “No, and my heart grieves for him every day. Here’s the thing—Lionel called you son, and he meant it. I know you loved him, that you would’ve donated a kidney or any other body part to save his life.”

  He nodded, unable to put into words the measures he would’ve gladly gone through to save his stepfather’s life. The ache transferred into a sharp, stabbing pain. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Do you remember what he did to you the first time he heard you bad-mouthing your father to one of your buddies?”

  He’d called Bill an ignorant asshole
who didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. That’d been a few weeks before the end of his senior year, when he discovered his father wasn’t flying out to see him graduate. “Got me up at 5:00 a.m. every day for a month to run five miles with him.”

  “The next time he caught you running your mouth about Bill, it was ten.”

  Del couldn’t hold back a smile. “Lionel was one tough sonofabitch.”

  Claire just looked at him.

  Del hooked his fingers into a belt loop. “Shit. I’ll take the damn test.” He glanced up at his mother’s face. “But I’m not making any promises about handing him my kidney on a platter.”

  She squeezed his arm. “One step at a time. Remember what Lionel used to say, ‘Don’t go looking for trouble—’”

  “Because trouble already has your name and number, kid. Yeah, yeah.” Impulsively, he bent down and kissed her cheek. “Look, I need to talk to Bill and West about something tonight. Why don’t you make that peach cobbler Bill loves, soften him up a little.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Funny, I remember cobbler being more your favorite when you were a boy.’”

  “Maybe I haven’t lost my taste for sweet things, after all. I’ll stop in after service later.”

  He turned toward Due South, his mind circling around the memory of tasting Shaye’s kisses—the sweetest things ever.

  ***

  “Think you nailed it,” said Shaye.

  Del glanced at her as they crossed the parking lot to Due South.

  “Nobody threw anything, swore at anyone, or threatened to cut off a body part,” she added. “The Westlake family negotiation skills are improving.”

  He grunted. While Bill hadn’t been ecstatic at the idea of Ethan Ward presenting Due South in a less-than-positive light, West, Claire, and even Shaye, had changed his opinion with very little drama. A scary indicator that his father had lost some of his iron-clad will to run things his way.

  After a few minutes of swapping arguments, Bill had thrown up his hands. “If West thinks it’s a good idea, we’ll run with it.”