Naked Pursuit

by Jill Monroe

  Beside her, Owen donned his jeans, and she raised and lowered her arm as he slid the jeans in place. The backs of her knuckles grazed the hair-roughened stretch of his thigh as he slid the denim up his legs. Her mouth dried. How many times had she stroked those muscled thighs last night? Straddled his hips? When you were with a man built like a statue to honor the gods, you caressed and tongued and—

  “You gotta give me a break.” His voice was ragged and raw.

  Stella met his gaze. “What?”

  “C’mon. You’re looking at me like you want to touch me.”

  Hell, she wanted to do a lot more than touch. Her gaze lowered to his chest. Solid and dusted with hair. Perfect. An image of her working down the fly of his jeans flashed through her mind and all her senses reacted.

  A memory? No, more like wishful thinking in the present. Because working down the fly is what she would have done last night. And after she’d slid the zipper down, she would have shoved the soft material off his hips just far enough to free his cock. She’d have licked his collarbone. Nipped his skin with her teeth. Trailed her tongue down his body until she reached his—

  “Like that. Don’t do that,” he hissed between his teeth. “I’m doing everything I can to...”

  “To what?”

  “To not lift you onto my shoulder, carry you into that bedroom, drop you on that mattress and make up for what I don’t remember.”

  “Owen, I—”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t say my name. You say it like a moan. Don’t look at me like you want my hands all over your body.” He gripped her shoulders and his gaze locked with hers.

  There was hunger there. Hunger for her.

  “I want you, Stella. But not like this. So I’m about to suggest something I’ve never thought I’d suggest—let’s find your bra.”

  Perspiration beaded on her forehead. Damn, she needed both of them to be fully covered. Head to toe. In one of those long flannel granny robes. Something completely unsexy—a housecoat.

  She spotted the dark silk of her bra on the dresser in the bedroom, a pocketknife beside it. Stella quickly reached for the lacy wisp of fabric.

  Owen turned his back to her as best he could. Which was kind of sweet since she’d been beside him completely naked since they woke up together. She stifled a groan when she spotted the marks on his shoulder.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She’d scratched him. The signs of her nails were crisscrossed along his back. Stella had never marked a lover before. Sex in the past had been mutual pleasure. A release of natural bodily desires. Nothing so carnal or primal.

  Last night must have been something.

  “Stella?”

  “It’s just that I...appear to have...scratched you.” Facing up to her own primitive behavior last night was a little shocking. She’d allowed emotion and cravings to take over her judgment—and she’d apparently enjoyed the hell out of it. The feeling was foreign and uncomfortable and just a tiny bit intriguing. She gently touched one of the red welts. “That doesn’t hurt too bad, does it?”

  He flinched at her touch, and her hand dropped away. “I’ll live.”

  She slipped the bra strap over her left shoulder, but the right strap dangled in two pieces. The pocketknife explained that.

  “Well, we weren’t naked when we were handcuffed. My bra strap is a major casualty from last night. I’ll need you to tie it.”

  Owen turned, but she rotated away before she could spot his eyes. She just didn’t need that distraction at the moment.

  He tied the ends together and she was finally covered. Mostly. Her shirt was around here somewhere. Stella began to scan the room, but something else caught her eye. “There’s a note in here, too. My bra must have been covering it.”

  He lifted the paper from the dresser and unfolded the next note. “‘Don’t trust Larissa Winston.’ Does the name mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Me, neither. Let’s grab the rest of these notes and see what we can figure out. We can line them all up on the table and try to piece them together like a puzzle.”

  “Good idea. There don’t appear to be any more in the bedroom,” she said.

  They returned to sitting area, but this time Owen didn’t reach for her hand. She ignore the fact that she even noticed.

  Another note waited on the TV, and another near a discreetly tucked away minifridge. They found their shirts near two overturned wine glasses lying near a curved bench by the large bay window. She slid into her shirt while he tugged a polo over his head.

  “You had the easy one,” she told him.

  He lifted a brow. “Oh?”

  “I have buttons. Or, at least, three of them.”

  Sometime last night, he or she or both of them had grown too impatient for buttons and ripped the shirt from her body. When had she ever felt such need? Now that was something she regretted not remembering.

  You could always make a new memory.

  No. Get dressed and get out.

  Chagrin and agony filled his groan.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I must have taken my shirt off before the cuffs. I can’t get it on now.”

  She reached for the pocketknife. “Raise your arm,” she instructed, all doctorly and so professional. Yeah, professionally cutting off this man’s shirt. She pried out the blade and cut from sleeve to hem.

  Afterward, Owen reached for the buttons and fabric of her shirt, while her hand dangled from the cuff. “It’s only fitting I cover you up,” he said.

  Her breath stuck in her chest when his fingers brushed against her skin as he did up the top button. She could barely breathe as he reached the last remaining button. The sleeve of her right arm flopped between them, the fabric ripped and torn to accommodate the handcuff. His left sleeve was also torn from end to end. A damning testament to their craziness the night before.

  The evidence of her need for him made her feel vulnerable and defenseless. Stella hated feeling so weak.

  “It’s going to be okay, Stella,” he said.

  Her breath left her in a whoosh. It was exactly the right thing to say. She nodded, suddenly feeling not so alone. “Kiss me.”

  His head lowered and then his lips brushed across her lips in a slow, sensual caress. “I woke up wanting you, and that has never gone away,” he said against her mouth, and her knees began to shake.

  “Our bodies remember what our minds don’t,” she uttered.

  He tongued the seam between her lips and her mouth parted. He gently entered her mouth, and their tongues met and slid against each other. She breathed him in, sunshine and cedar, and she breathed him in some more.

  She lifted her arms to link them behind his neck, but the weight of his arm pulled at her elbow and broke the sensuous spell around them. He dropped a kiss on her cheek and rested his chin on the top of her head. Stella let her head fall against his chest and closed her eyes. Their breathing and the hum of the blower unit were the only sounds.

  “You want to go out?” he asked. “I’m only here for a few days, but...”

  She pulled away to look up into his hazel eyes, more a playful green now than brown. “Out? Like on a date?”

  A knock sounded at the door and they broke apart, only to be slapped against each other once more. “We gotta get out of these cuffs,” he said.

  “I don’t want anyone to see us like this. It’s probably housekeeping. I’ll just tell them to go away.”

  She padded to the door, Owen, of course, on her heels. “Hi, uh, we’re good. We don’t need anything,” she said, trying to inject a note of cheerfulness into her voice.

  “Stella? Stella Holbrook?”

  A wave of alarm plunged through her. Beside her, Owen stiffened.

  “It’s Larissa Winston. From last night. Is Owen with you?”

  The warnings from the three notes flashed through her mind.

  You’re in danger.

  Only trust Owe
n.

  Don’t trust Larissa Winston!

  Everything they’d written to themselves was coming true.

  4

  “DID SHE SAY LARISSA?” Stella whispered, just to double check that she’d heard correctly.

  “The woman from the note?” Owen whispered.

  Stella pressed her ear against the door. She heard the woman talking in a raised voice with the housekeeper. “I need you to open the door. I think my friends are hurt.”

  “If this isn’t your room, I cannot open the suite,” the housekeeper replied.

  Stella squeezed her eyes shut. Thank you, rules.

  “Something could really be wrong. Do you want that on your conscience?” Larissa said.

  “Well...”

  Sweat broke out along the back of Stella’s neck. “We’ve got to get out of here.” But she didn’t move. Couldn’t. She ran through her medical-school mantra in her mind. Detach. Focus on moving forward. Know what you’re doing.

  Owen backed away from her, and the slack in the chain between them leveled. “I’m not the one wasting time listening at doors.”

  Her mouth fell open. “What?”

  “Stop checking out my body and hustle.” He tugged her to his duffel bag and stuffed what he could inside.

  Her entire body stiffened. “I’ll show you hustle.” She dragged him behind her to the balcony. Maybe they could hide out there if this Larissa person managed to get the housekeeper to key the enemy into their suite. Stella plucked up the notes that she could reach on their way, and spotted her slip-ons. Yes!

  They’d left the drapes open when they’d checked the Dallas skyline. Owen pressed the Close button and the drapes began to move. “It will provide us cover,” he told her. “Move. Try to tap into your survival instinct.”

  Jerk. She’d spotted a few jerky moments earlier, but pegged that as banter. Now she knew it was part of his personality. But his words got her moving. Stella crossed the threshold with Owen right behind her. He ushered her to the side so they’d be blocked from anyone entering the room. Plastered against the balcony wall, she strained to hear if the door inside their suite had been opened. Only Owen’s breathing and the call of a lonely bird interrupted the silence. Then, click!

  “Someone just opened the door,” she whispered.

  Owen scoped out the ground below them. They might be on the second floor, but it was a long way down. “Only way out of here,” he said. Then Owen tossed his duffel bag over the railing.

  She backed away from him, palms out. “Wait a minute.”

  He pulled her the three quick steps toward the railing. “If I’m going over, then you’re going over.”

  “Do you know the probability of breaking your arm or your leg from a fall at this height?”

  He kicked his leg up and straddled the railing. “Do you?”

  “Well, no, but— Whoa!”

  Owen gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. Then he lifted her up and over. “Don’t worry. I do this all the time. Grab the post and wrap your legs around it. Then shimmy down.”

  Her fingertips dug into the railing until she found the post by feeling with her feet. One of her shoes fell off, making an icky plopping sound when it hit the concrete. That could be my head.

  “If you fall, aim for the grass. Not the sidewalk.”

  “Thanks. That’s very helpful,” she said between gritted teeth. Stella worked her way down the railing post, giving her inner leg muscles the workout of a lifetime (though she suspected they’d also received a workout last night). Then she shimmied like no one had ever shimmied before.

  “You got it, Doc. But can you hurry it up a bit?”

  Why had she thought he had a killer bedside manner? She must have been delusional. At least she didn’t have to wobble down the railing post barefoot holding a pair of cowboy boots like Owen. It would have made the trek downward much tougher. Good. He deserves it.

  About two feet off the ground, she loosened her grip and allowed herself to free-fall to the grass.

  When Owen reached the ground, he grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her into the shadows of the brush, where she fell across his lap. Stella tried to scramble away, but he put a finger across his lips, and she nodded. See? She did have a survival instinct.

  Above their heads she heard voices followed by footsteps and finally the closing of the balcony door.

  Her shoulders sagged in relief. They were safe. “I cannot believe you tossed me over the balcony like that,” she whispered. “What if I had fallen?”

  “I would have let go and you could have landed on top of me. I’m happy to cushion your fall, Doc.” He wiggled his hips. He was cushioning her right now.

  “You were above me,” she pointed out.

  “I’m heavier.”

  “That’s not how gravity works.”

  He winked at her. This was the guy she’d chosen last night? Really?

  “If you’re done riding around on my buckle, I could put on my boots.”

  She shoved off him. Detach. Detach. Detach. “I think there’s a park not too far from here. To the south.”

  “Good idea. You grab your shoe and I’ll grab my bag. Ready?”

  She nodded and he gave her hand a squeeze.

  “Go!”

  They sprang into action, slowing only so she could slip on her shoe and he could grip the handle of his duffel bag. The fingers of their cuffed hands twined together as they ran along the sidewalk surrounding the courtyard and out into the parking lot. They moved together as one, but Owen was in a lot better shape than she was. Five minutes into their sprint, Stella began to suck in breath and her pace slowed.

  “I know you want to check out my ass, Doc, but we need to hurry now,” Owen called over his shoulder.

  “For the last time, I am not scoping out your ass.” She had, but that was definitely over. For sure. But his words did add more angry energy to her stride, and soon they were crossing through traffic and ducking into the tree-shaded park.

  She’d never been so happy to see a wide-open iron gate. Although the park wasn’t busy, several office workers dressed in business suits and heels were enjoying the sun during a break in their busy day. Surely no one would try to confront them here, out in the open, and with witnesses.

  Owen slowed the NASCAR-type speed, probably so they wouldn’t draw attention from the others milling around, and led her to a red-painted park bench. She plopped down on a piece of rough-hewn wood, gulping in air and trying discreetly to rotate her feet in an effort to ward off any cramps in her calves. She’d start cardio training tomorrow. No later than Monday.

  Owen didn’t even appear all that winded. Must have been all the running and jumping and hauling of equipment. He was probably the kind of guy who called other guys dude or bro. Cowboy boots and handcuffs? What the hell had she been thinking? Exactly the kind of reckless and wild guy she’d never go for in a million years.

  Except last night, a tiny voice inside her head taunted. Those tiny voices needed to mind their own damn business.

  “It’s okay if you want to freak out.”

  “I don’t freak out. I never freak out.”

  “I think in this situation, you’re allowed to freak out.”

  “Thanks for the permission.”

  “Not permission. I’m freaking out, too. It would be nice to have some company.”

  She smiled. Right, that’s why she’d chosen him. Because he made her laugh.

  A person could never count on autumn in Texas. Temperatures could hover in the high eighties or drop down to the cool forties. Today the sun shone brightly over her head, a gift before winter truly took over. But Stella couldn’t admire the tiny park they’d found. Instead she willed her heart rate to even out because who knew what they’d be doing next? More running, probably.

  Owen stretched out his long, jeans-clad legs beside her. She had to hand it to the man. In less than two minutes he’d managed to annoy her so much she’d scrambled over a seco
nd-story balcony. A real accomplishment because she never let anyone goad her into losing her cool. A skill she’d learned from both her parents and received praise for from her professors at— Wait a moment...

  She twisted in the seat to face him. “Were you being a jerk back there because you knew I’d respond better to that?”

  His eyes widened. “Who, me?” His voice was all innocence and confusion.

  “Don’t mess with me. You figured me out.” Which was actually kind of impressive. Her dream was to work as an emergency room doctor, and a good portion of the battle in the ER was gaining the trust of scared patients so they’d focus not on the injury or the pain but on healing. A portion of the battle she’d never really mastered. In a word, her bedside manner sucked.

  But with just a few (irritating) sentences, Owen had gotten her to stop worrying about handcuffs and people chasing them, and instead on getting out of the hotel room to safety. There was more to this guy than a great set of abs and a smile that made panties melt. He—

  Nope. Not interested in hidden depths. Or layers. Surface emotions only, thank you. The man beside her was gorgeous, yes. Clearly she’d hit the sexual jackpot last night, but that was it. Take the money and run.

  “If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t hard figuring you out,” he told her with a sexy shrug of his shoulders. “Prickly people are the easiest.”

  Stella stiffened. “I’m not prickly.”

  He flashed her a look.

  “They’re the easiest because prickly people never see themselves as prickly. That’s why you get a response out of them when you give it right back. They’re outraged someone could be so...prickly.”

  Stella opened her mouth to argue, and then quickly shut it. “You realize you put me in a no-win situation just now. If I argue, then I’m somehow proving I’m prickly. But if I agree...”

  “Then you’re admitting you’re prickly. Honestly, it was easy. I spotted flashes of it in the bathtub this morning.”

  She would have complimented him on his approach, but the man beside her in no way needed any kind of encouragement. Girls had probably been sharing their dessert with him in the school cafeteria since the fifth grade. As teenagers, those same girls probably couldn’t wait until Sadie Hawkins dances to snag this guy. “Anyway...thanks,” she finally mumbled. Because not saying anything at all would be...prickly.