Down & Dirty: Romantic Suspense Series (Dirty Deeds Book 3)

by AJ Nuest

  Her posture stiffened the closer he got, but she didn’t back down from him. Hell, she never did. And all the pain, and fear, and—Christ, the way she consistently went out of her way to disregard every damn warning he gave her, shoved up from that place he’d shut down years ago and crackled through his chest like the brilliant spray off an illumination grenade.

  “You shouldn’t have come to get me.” A gasp hitched in her throat as he grabbed her hips and hauled her right up against him. Clasping her cheek, he yanked her to his lips and kissed her long and hard and fierce. Filled with everything he couldn’t say. The burdens he’d never been able to set down. The gut-fisting desperation that always raged inside him.

  Her hand covered his, and he pulled back, cupped the other side of her pretty face and kissed her again. Even though the moment wasn’t about sex. Even though his kiss didn’t have anything to do with desire or hunger or the attraction he always fought to deny whenever she got too close.

  It went deeper somehow. Was more raw and open.

  And his hand to Christ, was one of the most powerful moments he’d ever shared with another living soul.

  Keeping her right where he always wanted her, he eased away and rested his forehead against hers. There. If that didn’t convince her he only had her best interests at heart, nothing would. “Thank you.”

  “Wow.” She cleared her throat. Shivers wracked her body, and she bit her bottom lip as if to stop a smile. “You’re welcome?”

  Damn, she was beautiful. Her skin so perfect, she should’ve been roped off somewhere so people could pay admission just walk past. Drive the point home with her non-stop confidence and killer body, and was it any wonder he’d been tripping over his own damn feet since the second she’d circled into his path?

  Her lashes fluttered as he swept his thumb across the gentle slope of her cheekbone and—

  Froze.

  But it wasn’t merely his heart that stopped beating. It wasn’t only his lungs that forgot how to pull air. The howling wind, the snow, gravity, the whole fucking universe came to a screeching halt at the bright red streak he’d left on her face.

  No. His fingers tightened in her hair as he straightened. Worry leaked into her eyes, and she frowned.

  No, no, no! This…this, right here was exactly why he shouldn’t want her. Why she didn’t belong anywhere near this case or with him. All this time, she’d been hurt and stood here bleeding in his arms while he got bound up in his own stupid shit.

  In one deft move, he ripped open the zipper on her jacket, flipping the lining inside out as he yanked the leather down her arms. Where? How bad was it? Tearing back the Velcro on her Kevlar vest, he worked her long-sleeved shirt up and over her head and threw both items to the floor.

  “Oh, dear God.” She slid her hand between the open sides of his jacket and patted his chest, but he shoved her assurances aside to run his palms up and down her ribs. “Okay, calm. Ben, stay calm. I just got clipped, it’s no big deal.”

  Stay calm? Whirling her around by the shoulders, he searched her back and then cursed as his eyes landed on the bullet hole sliced across the top of her hip. No big deal?

  Reaching around in front, he popped the snap on her pants and she jerked to attention as he peeled them down her legs. Once again, she was wrong. This skipped right past the explosive aftermath of an IED to the nuclear fallout of a weapon of mass destruction.

  “Um, yeah.” Crossing her arms over her sports bra, she aimed a sharp brow at him past the delicate slant of her shoulder. “This is not how I imagined you undressing me by a long shot.”

  Blood. He shoved his hands into his hair, knelt and punched her pants down to around her boots. It coated her right leg, had soaked the leather. But, thank Christ, based on the gash splitting the stretchy black boy shorts gloving her ass, it didn’t appear as if a bullet was lodged in the wound.

  It was impossible. She was impossible. Just about the time it seemed they were finally making some headway, the woman found a new way to drive him batshit crazy. His temples pounded as he stood and scooped her into his arms. Her tired sigh warmed his neck and her head fell back to his bicep as he rounded the fridge. And the worst part was, he understood why she hadn’t said anything without even having to ask.

  She’d been worried about him. Worried he’d either yell at her for getting hurt or have some other freaked-out negative reaction. Kicking open the bathroom door, he walked her inside and stood her in front of the mirror. So instead of putting herself first like she should’ve, she’d opted to bleed the entire ride in.

  Alone. In a blizzard. Taking the chance she’d be better off risking unconsciousness and toppling her bike than confiding in him.

  For fuck’s sake. Of all the devastating scenarios that decision could’ve lead to, the idea he’d forced her into a lie of omission gutted him worse than the rest. Shrugging his jacket down his arms, he threw it over the shower door. He didn’t want her picking up on his cues to guard her words as if she had no choice but to join in his stupid crusade.

  He knew the hell of living too much inside his own head. When it came to Adder, Ben had been doing the exact same thing to her since day one. And the guilt hitching a ride on that brain fart came a very close second to getting disemboweled while being bound and stretched on a rack.

  “Okay, you’ve done your duty.” She shook her head, hands braced on the sink as she toed off her boots. “Just find me the First Aid kit and I got it from here.”

  Exhibit A. Irritation triggered the muscles in his jaw. He pulled a deep breath and counted to ten. But there was no way he was abandoning her over some goofy idea he might get upset.

  He’d sewn himself back together more times than he cared to count. He wasn’t leaving her to that suckish nightmare after living the same experience in the field. If he did, the woman was liable to black out and crack her head open on top of everything else. “It might need to be stitched. If it isn’t cleaned right, infection could set in.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Stepping on the hem of her pants, she lifted one knee and then the other to shuck them off her feet. “I can do it myself.”

  Bullshit. A scowl tightened his brow as he opened the linen closet and leaned down to snag his tactical trauma kit off the bottom shelf. Why would she even suggest such a thing? The angle was all wrong. She’d never be able to see what she was doing.

  Depositing the kit near the toilet, he sat on the lid and tugged her between his legs. It didn’t matter. Over everything else, he wanted her to know she could rely on him. That she could trust he had her back despite whatever words he could or couldn’t say.

  He slipped his fingers inside the lacy waistband of her shorts and she slapped her palm down so fast, he flinched.

  “I said…I got it.”

  Narrowing his gaze, he tilted his head back and searched her face.

  What was she doing? A dangerous force gathered momentum, demoting every ounce of anger he’d ever dealt with down to the irritating buzz of a gnat.

  Uh-huh. There was no fucking way.

  He respected the hell out of her strength. Always had, from the first day they’d met. But witnessing it in action had taught him well and good how to recognize when she was faking it, and the soul-crushing fear in her eyes took care of the rest.

  She was afraid. But whether she’d taken more damage than she’d first let on and didn’t want him to see it, or this was a simple case of her being nervous to look weak in front of him was not open for discussion.

  She’d been hurt because of him. Because of his inability to see the truth. He’d never once admitted defeat in the face of those circumstances and he wasn’t about to start doing so now.

  Especially with her.

  Circling her wrist in his fingers, he carefully lowered her arm to her side. “I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

  The second he let go, she smacked her hand right back in place. Jesus. “No, that’s not it.”

  Closing his eyes, he dragged another deep
breath and slowly exhaled. Christ and all the saints in Heaven, give him strength. Without fail, the woman knew how to test him harder than a cross country trek through enemy terrain. At high noon. With no place to hide and not a cloud in sight.

  Curling his fingers around her wrist, he stayed locked on her face and removed her hand a second time. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Ben, no.” She batted at his hand as he reached for her side.

  “Stop it.” He clamped his knees around her thighs as she tried to turn away.

  “Why can’t you just let me deal with it?” Panic laced her voice, pushing the octave higher and louder, and terror knocked him sideways as he tried to wrestle her hands out of the way.

  Shit, this was bad. She wouldn’t be fighting him so hard if it was nothing more than scratch. But every angle he tried to get at her, she easily blocked his moves.

  Son of a bitch, she was fast. Securing her razor-sharp elbows against the threat of denting his larynx, he finally jack-knifed to his feet. “It’s important!”

  In the stunned silence that followed, a tear tumbled over her lashes, only to hit her flawless skin and trickle down the blood he’d left on her cheek.

  Goddamn it, no. A fissure zigzagged through his chest cavity, destroying muscle, shattering bone, and was something he’d be a smart man to remember moving forward.

  Standing blindfolded before a firing squad had nothing on being the cause of her tears.

  “It’s important, Tanner.” Sliding his palms up her arms, he tugged her close and dropped his lips to the top of her head. Her hair held the same fruity, sun-streaked paradise scent he’d caught at the wedding. She still fit against him in a way that made him want to never let go. “You’re important.” To me…

  She softened in his arms. Lifted her hands to around his waist and dug her fingertips into the muscles in his lower back. But it was the small sob warming his skin that nearly sucked him under.

  Christ, he was an ass. What she needed was comfort. To be reassured. No, he’d never been good at that sorta thing but, for her, shouldn’t he at least give it the ol’ hero’s try?

  “There is nothing you can say that’s gonna make me walk away from you, Tanner.” He cupped the side of her head, his other arm cradling her shoulders. “Whatever this is, we’ll handle it. Together.”

  She huffed hard enough to warm his skin. A step back from him, and relief nearly returned his ass to the toilet seat as she nodded. “Okay. But if we’re doing this, I’m gonna need that drink first.”

  Chapter 12

  God. Could she possibly be any more dense?

  Toes braced the edge of the toilet lid, Tanner used the damp hand towel Ben had given her to scrub at the dried blood creasing the back of her knee, up higher to clean the underside of her thigh.

  She should’ve known this was coming. For God’s sake, after that mind-blowing lip lock the man had laid on her in his kitchen, she should’ve known there was no way he’d ever let her patch herself up on her own.

  Thank you, her ass.

  Leaning forward, she flipped on the cold water, chest to her knee as she rinsed out the towel in the sink. Ben had packed so many emotions into that kiss, his concept of gratitude made a heart attack seem like a hiccup. She couldn’t name a single time anyone had ever “thanked” her like that before.

  And the one thing she’d walked away with? The thing that killed her more than anything else? He’d just taken another step in opening up to her, and the moment was every bit as passionate and sweet as it had been transparent and sincere. During those few precious heartbeats, he’d actually convinced her that nothing else existed but the two of them. Her clothes had all but been begging to fling themselves off her body…up until he’d done that very thing and the beautiful moment they’d been sharing had disappeared.

  Wringing out the water, she shook her head and twisted off the tap. Hell, maybe she deserved the trouble that was about to come thundering back through that door. In about ten seconds, he was going to look at her differently. Anyone who ever caught a glimpse of her scars always did. And while she’d been forced to deal with everything from suffocating pity to a horrified disgust, in Ben’s case, she already knew exactly how he’d react.

  He’d see her as frail. Breakable. A single glance at everything she’d been hiding and his protective instincts would kick into hyper drive, and he’d demand she step back from the case.

  It was perfect. Her focus fell to the twisted terrycloth she gripped so tight her fingers had gone numb, and she shook out the wrinkles to hold the towel in front of her face.

  Yep, she’d ruined it. She balled up the soggy material and slapped it into the sink. Just like she’d ruined her family, and just like she was about to ruin her chances of Ben ever thinking of her as anything other than weak.

  Movement caught the corner of her eye, and she turned to find him looming in the doorway, no room left even though he’d camped one shoulder against the jamb.

  Dear God. Straightening from the sink, she slowly lowered her foot to the floor.

  Somewhere along the line, he’d forgotten to take off his holster, and with the way that black leather framed his pecs, the matching bruises angled across his jaw and running the tiered eight-pack sheathing that weird bar code tatted down his ribs… The guy was like this gritty, quasi-futuristic action hero who’d just walked off the back lot of a set.

  Her mouth dried as she roamed the tight shift and flex of his stomach—for no good reason other than he appeared to be breathing—past the line of dark-blond hair that arrowed down inside his frayed waistband to the two glasses dangling in his hand.

  Index and middle fingers slipped inside the rims, he remained holding up the doorway, the firelight behind him flickering inside the amber hue that bottomed both glasses with two inches of aged Scotch.

  Right. No way that looked like enough alcohol to her. “You bring the bottle?”

  Pushing up from the frame, he swung his other arm forward, and she sent up a silent hallelujah as a fifth or more sloshed around inside.

  He entered and set bottle near the sink, offered her one of the drinks and then washed his hands as she cannonballed the whiskey in one smooth shot.

  Thank you, the brilliant minds at Glenfiddich. The mellow burn bypassed her empty stomach for her bloodstream. She shivered and pursed her lips to blow a flammable breath. Her nipples peaked against her sports bra, and she crossed one arm over her chest at the same time warmth spread and dulled the bone-deep throbbing in her hip.

  Better. If nothing else, at least the registered blood alcohol content helped her trembling subside.

  Drying his hands on a clean towel, Ben turned and straddled the toilet lid. One end whipped through the air as he slung the terry cloth across his shoulder, veins popping and the Special Forces emblem decorating his bicep swelling to the size of a melon.

  Um, hello? Since when had he become the poster boy for the Body Mass Index Chart?

  “All right, come on.” He waved her between his spread thighs. “You get any paler and I’m afraid shock’s gonna set in.”

  No, dammit. She wasn’t ready. After all the bickering, they’d finally turned a corner, and now he was about to hit rewind and it would be like nothing had ever changed. The thought alone was enough to make her heart pound harder than the night she’d base-jumped off the Burj Khalifa in Dubai.

  His shoulders fell. He swiped his hand down his face and then cocked a brow.

  Fine. Why delay the inevitable? Stepping between his knees, she spun around. If she was serious about the two of them exploring a little one-on-one in the sack, it was only a matter of time before he found out. At this point, maybe it was better she just skip the fun part and move right on to disappointment before anything too sticky developed between them.

  God knew, she had plenty of experience dealing with that particular emotion. Should’ve been old hat by now.

  He tugged the edge of her panties down her rump and she squeezed her eyes close
d as everything stilled. Yep. And not only that, it really was sorta scary how her brain had opted to go on permanent hiatus.

  Instead of leaving that bottle on the sink, she should’ve kept it with her in preparation to down every drop of hard liquor within reach.

  One breath came and went from her lips. Then a second and…nothing. No contact, no words—big surprise—not the slightest sound. Hell, if it hadn’t been for the ticker tape of telepathic curses clicking through his head, she wouldn’t have even known the man remained in the room.

  Great. She mentally tossed her hands in the air. Now what was she supposed to do? Normally, there was some sort of immediate response. A gasp, a hiss, a reassuring pat on her arm. But for him not to do any of those things made the silence deafening, and the longer she waited, the thicker and heavier it became.

  Maybe he was grossed-out. Trying to come up with the right thing to say. Or, the more viable option, he was taking a beat to get his temper under control before he accidently stuck his foot in his mouth. She couldn’t know for sure without risking a glance at his face, and at the same time, there was no way she could bring herself to look over her shoulder and check.

  Whatever the impact, the end result would be too damn crushing.

  “There was a fire,” she finally blurted and then rolled her eyes. No shit, Sherlock. As if the hardened, thatched skin crawling across her hip and down the outside of her right butt cheek could’ve been attributed to anything else. “My parents’ house burned down when I was sixteen.”

  And since the cat was officially out of the bag, he may as well go right on ahead and stare. It wasn’t like she gave two craps what her burn marks looked like. In fact, if the call were hers, the damage would’ve been much, much worse.

  It was what they represented that always had her fighting to shove words past her closed throat. The memory of that frantic search through the blistering heat that made it impossible for her to draw air. The grief, the boiling rage, the unfairness she’d had to face after working herself nuts to keep everything together.