Take Me Harder

by Jackie Ashenden

  He should. He really should. But now she was scarlet, almost as red as her hair, and her eyes were like bright golden coins, and that was so much better than the tight, repressed look that had been on her face before. The one that seemed like she was bracing herself for some kind of blow.

  Now she was all burning and passionate and…hot. Very fucking hot. And he just couldn’t help himself.

  “Do you want to hear about my plan or not?” she asked flatly.

  Actually, no, he didn’t. He’d much rather talk about why she was blushing and whether she thought about what had happened in the VIP room as much as he did. Whether she might want to come over here, get in his lap, and give him another one.

  But that wasn’t why he was here.

  Jesus, being good sucked.

  Rush sighed and picked up his bourbon. “Yeah, okay. Tell me about your goddamn plan.”

  —

  Ava didn’t know which made her more angry—the casual way he’d brought up that stupid lap dance again or how easily he’d managed to figure out her motivations for pursuing Jimmy Troy.

  She didn’t like being easy to read. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed. As if she’d missed something. As if she’d been driving blithely along an open road thinking she was in charge, only to look down and find his hands on the wheel.

  It was unacceptable.

  But of course, the only way to regain control was to get a handle on the hot tangle of emotions knotting somewhere behind her breastbone and untangle them. Smooth them all down and pretend nothing whatsoever was wrong.

  It didn’t help that she was also blushing like a fool. Not for the first time in her life, she wished she wasn’t a redhead with fair skin that betrayed her every single emotion, whether she wanted it to or not.

  So she looked away from his disturbing gaze and reached out for the glass of bourbon, focusing on that instead. She’d been telling him the truth: as a rule, she didn’t like hard liquor. But God knew she needed something to steady herself.

  The glass was cool against her palm, the liquid inside it a deep amber color.

  “Okay, so here’s what’s going on,” she said, swirling the alcohol gently around. “That anonymous tip I told you about? It was about Mom’s death.” She lifted the glass and took a sip, nearly coughing as the liquid burned down her throat. No sir, she did not like bourbon. “The guy told me that they’d arrested the wrong person. That someone connected with Jimmy Troy’s arms ring had done it on Troy’s orders.”

  Rush frowned. “And you believed him?”

  “I…don’t know. Which is why I have to at least investigate to get some idea about whether he’s telling the truth or not.”

  “Why would Troy want your mom dead?”

  She fiddled with the glass. “I don’t know that either. Could be that she was investigating him or that she had something on him.”

  “Fuck. Did he have any proof?”

  “No. And that’s what I need. I need confirmation that Troy ordered Mom’s death.”

  “And how exactly were you planning on getting this confirmation?” Rush’s drawl was annoyingly sexy and she couldn’t seem to make herself stop noticing it. “You’re just going to wander up to Troy and say, ‘Hi. Oh, by the way, did you kill my mom?’ ”

  Her fingers tightened on the glass at the mocking edge in his tone. “No, don’t be stupid. I was going to get the names of at least one of his contacts, then assess the situation. Decide how I wanted to proceed from there.” She lifted the glass again and took another swallow.

  Rush was watching her from across the table, the look on his blunt, handsome features enigmatic. The glitter of his eyes disturbed her, though she didn’t quite know why. She was also quite painfully conscious of his booted feet on the seat beside her, his legs encased in worn blue denim mere inches from hers.

  It was his proximity that was knocking her off balance. That was the problem. Everything would be so much easier if he wasn’t—

  So damn hot? So damn sexy?

  Ava gritted her teeth. Yes, that. No wonder she’d steered clear of men, if this was the effect they had on her.

  No, not men, idiot. Just this one.

  He said nothing, but he didn’t look away, and she had no idea at all what he was thinking. “And how are you going to get the names of his contacts?” he asked eventually. “If I don’t give them to you, that is?”

  Yes, well, that was the issue, wasn’t it? She couldn’t get them, because every avenue she’d tried, she’d ended up being stonewalled.

  But there was one other option.

  “Actually,” she said, “I was thinking of driving out to Troy’s ranch and maybe taking a look around.”

  Rush let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Ava said nothing, blinking at him.

  “Holy shit, you’re not kidding.” The lazy amusement that always seemed to be lurking around his mouth vanished utterly. “Jesus. Are you fucking insane?”

  She lifted her chin, defensive. Okay, so it was a risky plan, but it was the only one she had. “I wasn’t going to go in there as a cop, and I wasn’t going to actually talk to him. He’s got a massive spread with a lot of staff, so I thought if I pretended like I’d lost my way, I could talk to someone, get some names of people who are out there regularly. I didn’t think it was that bad a plan.”

  But the look on Rush’s face clearly begged to differ. He lifted his glass, drained it, then thumped it back onto the table. “Number one, he would know if someone randomly turned up at his ranch asking questions, and if he found out you’re a cop, you’ll die. Number two, that’s even if you could get one of his staff to talk, which you won’t. Number three, see number fucking one.”

  He’s right. It’s a terrible plan, and you know it.

  She did, but she didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to admit that what she was contemplating was far too dangerous and that if anything happened to her, it would leave her father absolutely alone.

  He would never forgive her, and worse than that, he would never forgive himself.

  Like he’d never forgiven himself for the death of his wife.

  Could she really pile that on him as well? Then again, what was the alternative? Letting her mother’s murderer—if that tip was true—go free?

  Fury rose up inside her and she reached for the glass again, draining it like Rush had drained his, thumping it back on the table too. “Number one.” She held up one finger. “My mother was murdered, and if that dealer didn’t kill her, I want to know who did.” She held up a second finger. “Number two, if Jimmy Troy ordered it, then he hasn’t answered for his crimes, and I want his head on a plate.” She held up a third finger. “Number three, see number fucking one.” The bourbon burned in her gut, a steadying, warm influence. “Oh, and number four, I don’t care what you think.”

  Rush’s gaze narrowed. “So this is all about vengeance.”

  “No.” She brought her hand down hard onto the table, a small part of her knowing she was being a bit too vehement and yet the rest of her not caring. “It’s about justice.”

  He studied her for another long moment, then looked pointedly at her glass. “Want another bourbon?”

  She meant to say no, she truly did. But what came out was, “Damn straight.”

  Oh, hell.

  Rush held up his hand and did that clicking thing with his fingers again, and right on cue the waitress came running, staring at him like she wanted to eat him alive. And no wonder, since he was looking extremely edible. God, with his scars and his lazy smile and those incredible eyes, he was any woman’s sexy bad-boy dream come true.

  What are you doing? You weren’t going to go there with him again, remember?

  Well, she wasn’t going anywhere with him. She was just looking, because she was a healthy red-blooded woman and she appreciated a sexy-looking man. Certainly nothing more than that.

  Since when have you appreciated sexy-looking men?

  True,
she didn’t tend to look at members of the opposite sex, because, well, she hadn’t seen any she liked. She wasn’t picky. No, she just had…standards.

  Rush Redmond–sized standards.

  “Bullcrap,” Ava muttered, blinking when she realized she’d said it aloud.

  Rush’s mouth quirked, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the shape of it, the sexy curve of his bottom lip and the scar that pulled at it. “What’s bullcrap?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Same again, Katie.” He didn’t look at the waitress as he ordered, keeping his gaze squarely on Ava. “You’re after justice, huh?” He paused. “What about if I helped you with that?”

  Her breath caught, shock rippling through her. “What do you mean, help me?”

  “I can’t give you my list, honey. It’s too dangerous for you to be messing around with. But I know these bastards. If you need confirmation that Troy might have been involved with your mom’s death, I can try and get that for you.”

  Ava blinked at him, feeling like she’d been hit over the back of the head with something hard. “Why? Why would you do that for me?”

  He let out a long breath. “I have some…confirmation of my own I need to get hold of. And it looks like the same group of people might have it. So if I’m going to be looking into that, I may as well look into your mom’s death too, right?”

  Ava didn’t know quite what to say. “Rush, I—”

  “No, don’t thank me,” he interrupted. “I’m doing this because I don’t want your death on my conscience and I sure as hell don’t want your father blaming me for it. It’s total self-interest, believe me.”

  She stared at him. Her earlier anger at him was still simmering away, and yet now that he’d offered this to her, it seemed petty to keep hold of it.

  At that moment the waitress came back with more bourbon, and in lieu of saying something, Ava reached for a glass, toyed with it for a second, then downed its contents, hoping to drown the complicated tangle of emotions knotting inside her.

  “I thought you didn’t like bourbon,” Rush murmured.

  She didn’t want to look at him for some reason, but her stupid brain had other ideas, so she did. A kind of shudder went through her as his gaze caught hers.

  God, he was so hot, just sitting there all relaxed with his head back against the seat, watching her from underneath spiked gold lashes. The color of his eyes was brilliant, sparks of green glowing in the depths, and that mouth of his curled in a sexy half smile…

  Something kicked hard inside her, a pulse of heat, making her feel dizzy. Though maybe that was the alcohol. She’d only just come off night shift, and belatedly she remembered that she hadn’t had a chance to have dinner before she’d come out to meet him.

  Oh boy. What an idiot. This was important, this was about her mom, and yet she was letting alcohol and Rush go straight to her head.

  “I don’t,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as thick as she feared it did. “But you told me to drink it, so I’m drinking it.” She pushed the glass back toward him. “Maybe I need another.”

  “Hmmm. Not sure you do. Can be mean if you’re not used to it.”

  “I’m fine.” A lie. She wasn’t fine. She kept thinking about him in ways she shouldn’t, which wasn’t okay. Not when what she should be thinking about was the fact that he’d just offered to help her get the evidence she needed to convict her mother’s murderer.

  God, what was wrong with her? Maybe it was just the years of sexual frustration catching up with her, though being a virgin had never particularly bothered her before.

  He laughed softly. “Maybe you’re fine now, honey. But not if you have another one of those.”

  The patronizing tone in his voice irritated her. “How would you know? You don’t know my life.”

  “Uh-huh. Go out drinking with your cop buddies a lot, do you?”

  “I don’t go out drinking at all,” she said primly. “I’ve got far better things to do with my time.”

  He tilted his head, his eyes glinting. “Such as? Shooting up tin cans in the gravel pit?”

  It felt difficult to breathe, as if the air had suddenly become full of liquid. She remembered those weekends out in the gravel pit Rush had taken her to, watching as he’d lined up the tins for her to use as target practice during his shooting lessons. His warm laugh as the unfamiliar recoil on the gun had made her drop it. His encouragement as she’d lined up the shot. His whoop of triumph the first time she’d actually hit a can…

  Ava reached for her glass again, only to find it was empty. Dammit. “We shouldn’t be talking about me. We should be talking about finding out who really killed my mother.”

  “But you just said that I don’t know your life.” He raised his glass, watching her as he took a slow sip of the bourbon, and she found she couldn’t look away from the length of his powerful throat as he swallowed. “Just trying to remedy that.”

  You idiot. You’re drunk.

  No, she wasn’t. She’d only had two bourbons. Who got drunk on two bourbons?

  She put her hand out, intending to push down on the table and stand up, but somehow she missed the table, her hand coming down on heat, denim, and a hard-muscled shin instead.

  Not expecting it, she flinched away like she’d accidentally touched a hot stove, only to have his low, husky laugh roll over her.

  “It’s okay, you can touch me. I won’t bite.” His gaze was lazy from beneath half-closed lashes. “Not unless you want me to.”

  I want you to.

  What? No. Of course she didn’t.

  Her hand burned where she’d touched him, the imprint of his shin on her palm like a brand. Surreptitiously she scrubbed it against her thigh to get rid of the feeling. “No, thank you.”

  “Go on. It’s just my leg.” He gave her a slow smile that ignited something inside her. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to touch.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Great. Now she sounded like an outraged virgin. Which was what she was, of course. She just didn’t want him to know that.

  “Why not? You scared?”

  Scared? Her? Of touching him? As if!

  Somewhere inside, she knew he was playing with her and that she was letting him. But that part of her hadn’t had two shots of bourbon in quick succession on an empty stomach. It didn’t have something to prove either.

  Instead she held his gaze. “I’m not scared,” she said…and put her hand very deliberately back on his shin where it had been.

  Heat again. The rough feel of denim and the hardness of his leg beneath her palm. She let her fingers rest there, pressing down on the taut muscle under her fingertips.

  “There,” he murmured. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  She frowned, trying to pull herself together and not focus on the fact that this was the first time she’d touched a man like this. Just because she could. Just because she wanted to.

  Oh, so you want to, do you?

  Wait. Yes…No. God, she didn’t know. This was insane. She needed to think more about what he’d just offered her and less about him. The chance to find out whether Jimmy Troy had ordered the death of Lauren St. George, and if so, maybe the chance to bring the bastard to justice.

  “So,” she said determinedly, clearing her throat. “About this offer of yours.”

  But Rush’s expression had changed, become fixed, staring at her, the glitter of his eyes even more pronounced. “On second thought, perhaps you’d better not put your hand there.”

  Annoyed again for no good reason, she scowled at him. “Why not?”

  “Because what you did to me in the VIP room, you’re doing again.”

  Oh. That. Yes, she remembered that. Vividly. But surely not just with her hand. It wasn’t even anywhere near his…sensitive bits.

  She gave an awkward and rather shrill-sounding laugh. “Don’t be silly. I’m only touching your leg. Not even your—”

  Rush sat forward with a suddenness that
took her utterly by surprise. As did the strong, warm fingers that reached under the table and circled her wrist. “You don’t believe me?” The color of his eyes was vivid in the light, his lashes bright gold. “Here. I’ll show you.”

  And with inexorable strength he drew her hand up from his shin—forcing her to lean forward across the table–and slid it over the hard expanse of muscled thigh, right up until her palm was over his fly. Then he pressed it down.

  Her gasp was a helpless, shocked sound, her gaze riveted to his now only inches away. Riveted to the heat in it, vivid green sparks among the intense blue. Oh God, was she doing that?

  Because there was no mistaking the firm ridge under her hand. It wasn’t just muscle this time.

  If she hadn’t had all that bourbon, she would have pulled her hand away as quickly as she could. But she had and she didn’t. She kept it exactly where it was, looking into his eyes, their faces inches away from each other, both of them bent over the table.

  “Am I doing that?” she heard herself ask breathlessly, like an idiot.

  “What? Is that you getting me hard?” His voice sounded rough, harsh. “Yeah, it is. So unless you want to get under the table and do something about it, I suggest you move your hand.”

  Get under the table. Do something about it.

  Oh boy. She could do that. It would be so easy to slide off the seat, get under the table, pull his zipper down…

  Rush cursed, a vicious sound, and she realized with a sudden, dizzying insight, that it wasn’t only desire in his eyes but anger too. He was not happy about his hard-on, that was obvious.

  Great. Talk about a mood killer.

  Ava jerked her hand away, obscurely hurt even though it shouldn’t matter to her whether he was happy about it or not. “Well,” she said thickly, “I guess that’s my cue to leave.” She stood up, only to have the room tilt. She reached out and grabbed the table to steady herself.

  Rush cursed again, muttering something rude about virgins who couldn’t hold their liquor.

  “I may be a virgin,” she mumbled, feeling the need to defend herself, “but I can certainly hold my liquor.” Something was telling her she shouldn’t have admitted to the virginity thing, but it was too late. She’d said it now.