by Calista Fox
His Adam’s apple bobbed ever so slightly as he swallowed hard. He told her, “I don’t exactly provide the kind of services you’re thinking of.”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
They stared at each other. At a complete impasse.
While Scarlet would guess he had more than his fair share of admirers and likely gave his affection to one every now and then, she didn’t take him for a womanizer. And given that he wasn’t the least bit concerned about having a new woman at his place, unexpectedly, and he was accustomed to cooking and picking up after himself, she would venture to say there was no revolving door to his bedroom.
He didn’t seem like the type. Even if he was too damn hot for words and made her want to strip him bare and crawl all over him.
She had no idea how much time ticked by as they were both swimming in each other’s eyes. But he eventually stepped away and said, “Don’t forget the mushrooms.”
Scarlet didn’t exactly snap to attention. In fact, she felt a bit boneless and much, much too warm for comfort. She tended to the veggies, then had no choice but to haul her sweater over her head and drop it onto her stool. She wore a white tank top for extra layering, and even that felt too clingy, too oppressive.
If she had any sort of excuse for opening the refrigerator door, she’d just stand there and let the coolness wash over her.
Sam took note, naturally. But didn’t say a word. Instead, he checked on his roast. Then tossed the green beans and almonds into the pan with the caramelized onions. Scarlet put herself to good use—and welcomed the distraction—by trolling the kitchen for plates and flatware. Napkins.
She set the table as Sam finished up dinner. He served while she poured more wine. The puppy expressed mild interest in the festivities and ambled over. It touched her heart that he wasn’t just a lonesome ball of fur on his thick pillow.
Sam set out bread and she tore off a hunk for the mutt, who gobbled it down. His appetite was growing by leaps and bounds.
Not that Scarlet could blame him. Her stomach grumbled at the incredible scent permeating the house. She hadn’t eaten since Spokane many, many hours earlier. But it wasn’t the delicious aroma that had her so ravenous. It was definitely Sam.
She had to tamp down that particular craving, though. Focus instead on dinner.
“This looks incredible,” she said of the feast spread before her. “And smells even better.”
Sam surveyed the bounty, then told her, “I didn’t think to put out a salad.”
“Screw the salad.” She speared a baked potato with her fork and hoisted it onto her plate. “That’s just a waste of space in my mind.”
He grinned. “Careful there, darlin’. I’m starting to like you.”
She couldn’t resist the flirty look she threw his way as she said, “Feeling’s mutual, cowboy.”
And Scarlet was suddenly dying to know if he’d do anything about it.…
EIGHT
Sam had been 100 percent certain he knew what the hell he was doing from the moment he’d taken the tow call.
Now?
Not so much.
Scarlet was alluring. Riveting. Tempting.
So very, very tempting.
Which he tried not to think of as he passed the butter, sour cream, and chives for her baked potato. Then carved the roast.
He wasn’t a man to get spun up over a beautiful woman. Granted, it’d been a long time since he’d seen one this beautiful. Even longer since his testosterone had shot into the stratosphere upon first glimpse. Then there was the matter of his gut twisting when he’d gotten all caught up in feminine tears and empathy.
Trying to put it all on the injured Lab would be reasonable. Sam himself was all messed up inside over the beating the dog had taken. What kind of sick motherfucker would do such a thing?
But aside from being wrapped around the axle by the woman with loads of verve sitting across from him, Sam was also feeling the bonfire low in his groin that hadn’t burned in years. He’d nearly forgotten how all-consuming it could be. Hadn’t felt it even when he’d been prowling his way through Manhattan after Cassidy had been killed in the car crash.
Mostly he’d used sex that first year without her as an attempt to counteract the insidious hell he’d been thrust into. Even though he and Cassidy had only been together six months before he’d proposed and she’d gotten pregnant just a month after their engagement had been announced, he’d loved her to the point of distraction.
And when she’d been taken from him—his child as well—he’d gone numb inside. Had stayed that way on some levels. Not even fully realizing it until Scarlet Drake had slipped out of the SUV and he’d gotten a good look at all that silky red hair, those vibrant green eyes, her curvy body.
Christ, the curves this woman possessed … They made his pulse race and his cock strain against the button fly of his Levi’s.
She’d snagged his full attention from the get-go. But then she’d gone and taken her sweater off while cooking and now she was driving him wild with plumped-up breasts that crested the low neckline of her tight tank top, the thin straps resting on her bare shoulders. Her nipples were tightened into enticing little buds and it was pretty much all he could do to keep from foregoing dinner, taking her in his arms, and whisking his thumbs over the taut peaks, making them harder.
That wasn’t all that lit him up. The honey-colored skin exposed was soft and satiny looking. She had a narrow waist and shapely hips. A great ass.
Sam couldn’t help but wonder if Michael had already enjoyed it. His stepbrother hadn’t gotten into the particulars when he’d phoned, since he’d been about to board an airplane. He’d only told Sam that Scarlet would likely be hot on his trail, because she hadn’t dug up anything substantial on Michael to help her case along.
And that was what Sam really ought to concentrate on. That she was prying into his personal affairs.
Though he was interested in prying into hers as well.
He asked, “What do you like so much about being a fraud investigator?”
She set aside her wineglass and said, “I’m obsessed with recovering jewelry, art, antiquities … anything, really, that’s reported stolen or lost and doesn’t turn up somewhere for resale.”
“And how do you track down these items?”
“With help from my friends.” She smiled craftily. “One of my best friends, Bayli Styles, is a research nut. Plus, I’ve built a global network of black market and auction house contacts. Library and museum curators. Special agents in the insurance industry who can confirm whether private sales have been made or if new policies have been taken out on missing pieces.”
“Now that actually does sound fascinating. Not to mention dangerous.”
“Yes, there is that.” She sampled the venison, her eyes growing wide. “Wow, this is spectacular.”
“Glad you like it.”
He didn’t press her further as she enjoyed more of the roast, though myriad questions still rambled through his brain.
Apparently, through hers as well, because she washed down a bite with some wine and then asked, “So about this inheritance of yours. Where it’d come from?”
Sam chuckled. She was like a dog with a hambone. He told her, “Mitcham had a brother. Phil Bert. Funny little man. Hated being called Phil. Hated Bert. But together, Phil Bert was just fine. Suited him, too. He was quite a character. You would have liked him.”
“So … not as intense and intimidating as Mitcham?”
One of Sam’s brows lifted. “You’ve met my stepfather?”
“Not in person. I phoned his office early on in my investigation. We spoke for all of five seconds, I’m sure. And it wasn’t a pleasant five seconds.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to be. He doesn’t like being under fire. Doesn’t appreciate anyone second-guessing him.”
“Like father, like son.” The corners of her mouth quivered, as t
hough she held back a smile at the mention of Michael.
Sam opted to latch on to that nugget. “So you and my stepbrother … The two of you are involved?”
“I wouldn’t say that. Not so much.” She polished off her green beans and sipped more wine.
Sam said, “He told me you had a couple of drinks together last night.”
She eyed Sam steadily. “What else did he say?”
“Nothing more. Just that you were looking into the stolen goods.”
Scarlet took a deep breath, her chest expanding. Sidetracking Sam’s thoughts for several seconds and sending a shitload of blood to his cock.
Her gaze unwavering, she said, “We did more than have a couple of drinks. I woke up in his bed this morning.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” Envious? Yeah. That was a huge possibility. But surprised? Nope.
Sam told her, “Michael has exceptional taste. He’s selective, make no mistake. Can go extensive periods without sex until he finds just the right woman. I’m sure he wanted you from the moment he laid eyes on you.”
She bypassed her seemingly customary minimal wine sip and downed a bigger gulp. Then asked, “And what about you? Do you go extensive periods without sex?”
Sam’s jaw tightened at the invasive question. He had a very cut-and-dried answer, yet wasn’t certain it was one she’d want to hear. But did that really matter?
Pushing his empty plate aside, he confessed, “I was much less selective after my fiancée died. More interested in quantity versus quality. All based on desperation, really.”
“Oh?”
He didn’t like the grilling. Oddly, didn’t put a stop to it. He told her, “At first, I was desperate to forget how much I loved Cassidy. Later, I was just desperate to feel. Something. Anything.”
Scarlet’s gaze dropped to her food and she picked at the remnants with her fork. Not eating it, though. Like she’d lost her appetite.
He’d heard the pain in his voice and could see it disturbed her. But there was something more. And he experienced a peculiar surge of dark pleasure when she told him, “I understand that sort of desperation. I felt it myself when my parents passed away. I was twelve.”
“And what became your vice?” he asked, instantly pulled into her trauma.
Her gaze snapped up and met his. Burned through him as she said, “Danger.”
“Scarlet…” His brow furrowed. His gut clenched.
“I instantly lost the fear of death.” Her eyes misted. “Because if I died, then I could join them. We could all be together again. A family.”
He let out a long breath. Rubbed the sudden knot at his nape. “What did you do?”
She tilted her chin, almost defiantly, and told him, “I started sticking up for the kids in my school who were being bullied. If someone got pushed around, I pushed back, instead of just walking away and letting it be another person’s problem. When I saw someone doing something suspicious or underhanded, I confronted them. But I also got a rush by taking more physical risks. You know, like standing in front of a speeding train to see if I could hold my ground or if I’d chicken out. Obviously, I always chickened out. But … trains became an addiction.”
His stomach twisted further. “Why trains?”
She broke the eye contact and stared off into the other room, as though debating how much she wanted to share. Or rather, how much she was capable of sharing. He suspected that was more accurate.
Sam knew from his own emotional tug-of-wars to just sit and let her take her time. Not force anything.
And eventually, she did come around. Her gaze returned to his. “My parents were killed in a train wreck,” she said. “A horrific one. They were in Europe investigating a case for the law firm my father worked for; my mother was consulting. They’d booked rail tickets from Switzerland into the Czech Republic in early spring. Living in Montana, you know how massive accumulations of snow can shift when the sun melts it and then the temperatures dip and freeze the banks, then more flurries build on top.”
“Oh, Jesus.” He had a good idea where this was headed.
She said, “They were on a mountain pass when either the give of all that accumulation or the vibration of the tracks triggered an avalanche. Took out the midsection of the train within seconds. Completely obliterated it.”
Sam’s heart wrenched. “They were in one of those cars.”
“No. Unfortunately.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “Unfortunately?”
“Yes. Had they been, they would have died instantly. Instead, they were in the back. So they likely saw the avalanche as it hit. And then when it did, the inertia plowed the train off the tracks and over a cliff. Dragging both ends with the middle. My parents were alive when they plummeted several thousand feet. With no way to escape. They were trapped. And they must have been terrified, because they couldn’t save themselves or anyone else.”
Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks.
Sam shoved back his chair and went for the box of tissues, depositing it on the table at her elbow.
He returned to his seat. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Scarlet. I know you were devastated by their deaths. But to torture yourself over details like—”
“You didn’t do the same?” she challenged. “Still don’t?”
“Cassidy died in my arms.” That was all he said.
“Then you understand how deep hopelessness can cut. How it makes you do reckless things.”
He stared hard. “Tell me you’re not reckless anymore.”
“I’m not,” she said with conviction in her velvety tone. “What happened on that road this evening wasn’t recklessness. It was self-preservation. I knew slamming into that elk would have hurt much worse than putting my vehicle in a snowbank.”
“That’s very true.” He probed further, “What about with Michael?”
Scarlet gave a small smile through her tears. “That wasn’t recklessness, either, Sam. It was passion. Somehow, I sensed he needed to experience it as much as I did. You said yourself he’s selective. And he said he hadn’t been with anyone in a while. I believed him.”
Sam nodded. “He wouldn’t have any reason to lie about it.”
“Nor would I when I told him I hadn’t been with a man in two years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“A hell of a long time,” she corrected.
“Yeah.” He got to his feet again, the subject matter hitting a bit too close to home in too many ways. He took his plate to the sink and rinsed it.
Scarlet joined him with her dish and then they cleared the rest of the table in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
For Sam, it was troubling to be so candid. To home in on such touchy topics. He didn’t know this woman. Not really. Yet oddly, it seemed as though he did. He connected with her. Wasn’t quite so guarded with her. Maybe that was what truly unsettled him.
Or maybe it was because she felt his pain. Understood it. Lived with her own agony.
If he wanted to take the analysis a step beyond all that, he would concede that it wasn’t just envy that had flared within him when Scarlet had confirmed she’d slept with Michael. Guilt had also edged in on him. Because even though he’d fucked numerous nameless, faceless women during his grieving stages, none of those empty encounters had meant anything to him.
So now the guilt encroached because with Scarlet, not only did he want to make love to her—not fuck her just for physical gratification, but also because he knew that with her it would mean something.
She’d already infiltrated his senses, ignited his desire, touched places inside him that had been off-limits and sealed from the moment Cassidy’s eyelids had dipped and she’d drawn her last sliver of breath.
He’d been shattered.
Time helped to fix some of the broken pieces, yes. People either caved when faced with tragedy or powered through. They might not be the same person they were before. They might even turn on themselves—as Sam had with his sexu
al exploits and Scarlet with her daredevil ways.
He’d never condone his actions. But when the dust settled, what was most critical was what rose from the ashes.
And in all honesty, all Sam had wanted from the day he’d finally shaken off some of the turmoil and emerged from his abyss was to be a better man. To be the man Cassidy had fallen in love with, had trusted with her heart. Had trusted with her baby.
The accident had not been Sam’s fault. A drunk driver had run a red light and T-boned their car. Like Scarlet’s parents, there’d been nothing Sam could do but watch in horror.
Yet because he’d been behind the wheel, he’d heaped a shitload of blame onto himself. Still felt a great deal of it. Knew it would never fully go away.
At the end of the day, however, he knew all Cassidy would want for him was to go on. To tuck the memories away and start living again.
He had no doubt Scarlet’s parents would want the same for her.
Sam understood. Though it was never that easy.
Which was why this complexity of being instantly and vehemently attracted to Scarlet was such a catch-22 for him.
He wanted her.
But he didn’t want to want her.
Because that felt like a betrayal. Even when he logically knew it wasn’t.
He also knew there was no point in stewing over it. She was here to investigate a crime. He had nothing case cracking to contribute. She could ask him all the questions she wanted; he didn’t have any pearls of wisdom to impart. That put them at a stalemate—times two because he wasn’t willing or ready to do anything about the erotic sensations crawling through his veins.
So he stuck to safer territory, asking Scarlet, “Do you want pie? It’s apple with vanilla ice cream and cinnamon.”
“I saved some room.”
“Smart girl.”
When they sat down again—this time in front of the roaring fire—she reminded him, “We were talking about Phil Bert, but I don’t think I got the whole story.”
“Right,” Sam told her. “So Uncle Phil Bert was a horseman and that’s probably why we hit it off so well. Instantly. I spent a lot of time with him, learned a lot about horses, did some jumping, discovered I had a knack for training, and essentially just enjoyed being on his property.”