by Lisa Dyson
Jeans, she noted, her eyes widening, he’d zipped but not buttoned.
Oh. My.
Warmth swept through her, fast and furious, stealing her breath, her thoughts.
She wished it would take her inhibitions, too. Her doubts.
Averting her gaze to somewhere less...dangerous...she worked moisture back into her mouth. Then checked out the symbols once more. Honestly, they were like a magnet, drawing her attention again and again.
Heat still stinging her cheeks, she opened her mouth to say something clever and charming, only to cringe when all that came out was a croak more often associated with Kermit the Frog than a highly intelligent, confident woman.
She tried again, this time managing a breathless, “Hi.”
So much for dazzling Kane with her wit and tantalizing conversation. Good thing she wasn’t here to talk.
He looked beyond her as if searching for the reason she was there. Finally, his gaze settled on her, his green eyes giving nothing away. “You lost, Red?”
Red. That was the tired and unoriginal name he’d christened her with upon their first meeting a few weeks ago. She supposed it was better than Freckles. “No.”
“Then the building had better be on fire and you woke me to save my life.” The implicit threat in his low words wasn’t the least bit softened by the huskiness of his sleep-laden tone.
“It’s after noon,” she said. “Time to wakey-wakey.”
“I work nights. I don’t wakey-wakey until at least 2:00 p.m.”
“I worked last night, too. But I’m up and dressed. And pleasant.”
“This is you being pleasant?”
“I’m extremely pleasant,” she snapped before getting herself under control. She inhaled, counted to five, then exhaled slowly. “I realize we haven’t seen the best side of each other.” Only because he brought out the worst in her. The man was infuriating. How Sadie could even tend bar for him was beyond Charlotte. “But suffice it to say, I’m an incredibly nice woman.”
He stared at her, obviously not believing it. And he kept right on staring, as if he had all the livelong day to stand there.
She crossed her arms. Tapped her foot. Felt the minutes tick-ticking away.
Dropping her arms, she huffed out a breath. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
Un-freaking-believable. Taking matters into her own hands—the best way to get things done—she shoved open the door and brushed past him. “Anyone ever tell you you’re rude?”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a condescending smirk. “You’re the one who barged into my apartment without being invited, little girl.”
Little girl.
She stayed rooted to her spot, her scalp prickling, a lump forming in her throat. Sadie had called her little girl when they’d had their fight two weeks ago. It’d been a huge, ugly blowup. One Charlotte was afraid they might not be able to get past.
Then again, she was still mad enough she wasn’t certain she wanted to get past it.
And she wasn’t a little girl. She was a fully grown, competent, independent woman. Wasn’t she here to prove that?
She couldn’t let Kane get to her. Yes, he was an ass. An ill-mannered, overgrown rebel without a cause. He was everything she didn’t want in a man. Cocky. Arrogant. Snide.
She didn’t like him.
She didn’t have to. Not for this.
Kane walked into the tiny kitchen, granting her a view of the Aztec tattoo on his broad back—a large bird, its wings outspread across his shoulder blades. Black flames dripped from the wings, licked along Kane’s spine, which served as part of the narrowing tail. It ended in a sharp point between two fingerprint-sized indentations above the waist of his jeans.
She rubbed the pads of her thumbs against her forefingers. Wondered what it would be like to press them there. To have all of that skin, those lean muscles under her hands.
Wondered if she had the courage to find out.
She rolled her head like a boxer preparing for round one. Guess she’d soon know.
Charlotte set her purse on the table by the door, then joined him in the kitchen where he poured distilled water into a large, and expensive, coffeemaker.
“Need any help?” she asked, trying for cheerful but falling somewhere in the vicinity of aggrieved.
He didn’t even glance her way. “Don’t make me call the cops to come and haul you out of here.”
She puffed out her cheeks. The least he could do is look at her. She hadn’t wiggled into these jeans for her health. Was probably damaging a few internal organs by wearing the tight denim. Not to mention how bad her feet hurt. But the overall effect was worth it. The stupid heels added to her considerable height and the dark jeans made her legs look endless, cupped her butt and gave the illusion she had hips—no easy feat. Her shirt was silky and cut low enough to give a glimpse of her black lace bra. She’d straightened her hair, taken time with her makeup.
She’d been cursed with too many cute genes to ever pass for beautiful, but right now, she looked hot. Sexy.
Kane was obviously too blind to notice.
Leaning back against the counter, she subtly arched her back, held on to the edge with her hands, pushing her chest out. “Your apartment is...” She glanced around. “Uh...nice.”
Lovely. If you liked worn, beige carpet, walls that needed a fresh coat of paint—preferably something other than the current dingy yellow—and a kitchen straight from the 1970s, complete with orange Formica counters. At least it was clean. Then again, he kept O’Riley’s, the bar downstairs, his bar, spotless.
A point in his favor.
“You’re very neat,” she blurted.
Biting the inside of her lower lip, she winced. Neat? Was that the best she could come up with? Next thing she knew she’d be complimenting him on his straight teeth and bringing up the weather.
Oh, sure, now he looked at her, when she was blushing and mentally kicking herself. Not just looked, either, he studied her, rather intently. “Are you off your meds or something?”
She giggled—giggled, for God’s sake—the sound forced, high-pitched and way too loud. Why did flirting have to be so hard? It was as natural as breathing to Sadie. You’d think that was the kind of genetic trait that could be passed from sister to sister.
Charlotte swatted his arm, meant for it to be playful, but ended up hitting him hard enough to make her palm sting. He didn’t so much as blink.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, seemingly unable to bring her tone back to its normal range. “I just meant that, well, you’re so...” Rough. Hard. Dangerous. She gestured to him in all his bare-chested, tattooed glory. Let it go at that. “I thought you’d be—”
“A slob?”
“No,” she breathed, the lie like a stone in her throat, choking her. “I mean, maybe I’d briefly considered you’d be...less tidy. With a motorcycle in the living room, a pet boa constrictor and a closet filled with scarred leather jackets.”
“Stairway’s too narrow for my bike,” he said solemnly. “But who says the other two aren’t true?”
She swallowed. He was probably kidding about the snake. Still, she stepped closer to him, kept an eye out for any sudden, slithering movements. “Anyway, it’s nice. That you’re tidy. Did you learn that in the military?”
In the act of getting a coffee mug from an upper cabinet, he paused. “I never told you I was in the service.”
“Everyone knows. Small town. No secrets.” Though seeing him now, he seemed a far cry from a spit-shined soldier. “Do you miss it? Being a Marine?”
He looked at her as if she’d just slapped his face and called his mother ugly. “I was a Ranger. In the Army.”
“Ranger. That’s Special Forces, right?”
He grunted.
So charming.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I always get them confused. Is it one grunt for yes, and two for no?”
No smile. No glint of humor in those green eyes. Nothing. He simply watched the coffeemaker as if it held the answers to life’s most pressing questions. Since he refused to notice what a fetching image she made, she straightened. She needed a few more sessions at the yoga studio before she could hold the arched pose for any length of time, especially after a twelve-hour shift in the E.R.
Covering her mouth with the back of her hand, she yawned so hard her eyes watered. A shift that was quickly catching up with her.
She wandered into the living room. His apartment was small, maybe half the size of her own, with a view of the empty armory building next door and the Dumpster in the alley.
She continued her exploration, trailing her fingers over the back of a checked high-back chair when he stepped into the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb, the angle causing his stomach muscles to clench, the ridges clearly defined. Steam rose from the mug in his hand as he sipped his coffee, his biceps rounding with the movement.
Now that was somebody who knew how to pose.
She felt his gaze on her, steady and searching, as she crossed the room, so she put a bit of sway into her walk, and wished there was more to see, to pretend to study, but the man put the minimal in minimalist. Other than the ugly chair, the only furnishings in the room were a small, flat-screen TV on top of a scarred wooden end table and a lumpy floral couch. No knickknacks. No decorative pillows or throws. No pictures or personal effects at all.
She glanced down the small hallway. The door to the right was shut—bathroom?—the other, at the end of the hall, open far enough to give her a glimpse of his bed, the covers rumpled, the pillow still indented from his head.
She imagined him getting out of that bed, tugging his jeans on, cursing and muttering about people interrupting his precious sleep.
Was the bed still warm from his body? Were his sheets soft or crisp? Did his scent linger on the pillow?
She crossed to stand in front of him. Funny how now that he looked at her, she felt more vulnerable, exposed, though he was the one only half-dressed. She had no idea what to do, what to say to get him to cooperate with her. That was the problem with not making plans. No road map. She needed one. Her sense of direction sucked.
“Uh...I’m...uh...thinking of getting a tattoo,” she said.
He raked his gaze over her, from the top of her extremely smooth hair to the tips of her ridiculously high heels. “That so?”
Did he have to sound condescending? So disbelieving?
“That’s so.” She edged closer, breathed in the rich scent of coffee, the spiciness of his soap, surprised by how pleasant she found the combination. “Did they hurt?” she continued, her tone husky. Breathless.
He shrugged. Lifted the mug to his mouth again, almost clipping her on the chin.
She wanted to swipe it out of his hand, throw the damn thing against the wall. Couldn’t he see she was flirting with him? The least he could do was reciprocate, especially when she was so out of her element.
Hard not to be when he was the epitome of physical perfection. She should have known he’d look like some freaking underwear model.
While she was too tall. Too thin. With small breasts and more angles than curves.
She’d have to make sure they kept the lights off when it came time to get naked.
When he lowered his arm, she touched the tip of the sword on his biceps. Traced her fingertip up the sharp line to the flame. His skin was warm. Softer than she’d expected.
“What does this one mean?” When he didn’t answer, she tried a teasing smile, one that would bring out her dimple—and hopefully loosen him up a bit. “Or did you just think it was pretty?”
His body went rigid. “In some cultures it symbolizes judgment.”
“Judgment,” she whispered almost to herself. “I would have thought you’d choose a different emblem, something more...antiestablishment. Skull and crossbones or a hand with the middle finger sticking up.”
“What are you doing?”
His question startled her, the low timbre of his voice causing gooseflesh to prick her arms.
She licked her lips. His eyes, following the movement, narrowed to slits. “Wha—what do you mean?”
He looked pointedly at her hand still on his arm, her fingers caressing the smoothness of his skin as if of their own will.
Her first instinct was to leap back, to put as much distance between them as possible. But that would defeat the purpose of her visit, wouldn’t it? She could do this.
She’d come too far to back down now.
Charlotte flattened her palm against his biceps, and he tensed, the muscle flexing momentarily before relaxing. “I’m touching you,” she said softly, smoothing her hand up his arm and settling it on his shoulder.
Oh, please don’t let my palms start sweating. Not now.
“Why are you touching me?”
Seriously? You’d think it was the first time the man had been hit on by a woman. Jeez. “Because I want to.”
Determined, and more than a little terrified, she laid her other hand on his opposite shoulder and held his gaze, annoyed and deflated when his remained steady. She wanted to fluster him, for him feel a fraction of the nerves, of the crazy energy, she felt whenever they were together.
Thanks to her high heels, it was easy, incredibly easy, to link her hands behind his neck and tug his head down. Her heart pounded painfully. Good Lord she hoped she didn’t have a coronary. Not now, not when his mouth was inches from her own, his breath mingling with hers.
She brushed a soft kiss across his mouth. Leaned back, her stomach in knots. But Kane didn’t jerk as if she’d tossed acid in his face, didn’t push her away as if she were some leper come to spread her disease. Didn’t treat her as if she were unattractive. Unwanted.
As James had when she’d kissed him.
Kane simply watched her. Patient, curious and waiting for her next move.
Emboldened, she stepped closer until their thighs touched, her breasts pressing against his chest, his warmth seeping through the silk of her shirt. She wished he would take the initiative, would sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his bed. That he’d take control and show her how this was done.
He didn’t move.
She should kiss him again, a real kiss, one with tongue, but she was frozen, unable to move. Unable to think. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her want to curl into herself, to slink away. But she wasn’t a quitter. The only way to get what you wanted was to go after it.
And what she wanted was Kane.
“Take me to bed,” she told him, albeit a bit shakily. “Now.”
* * *
WHY HIM?
Kane sighed, the movement causing his shoulders to rise and fall, which in turn caused Red’s breasts to brush against his chest. She didn’t have a lot going on in that department, but she had enough for his body to notice.
Hell.
Reaching behind his neck, he tugged her hands apart, then set her away from him. “Sorry, Red. Not interested.”
He went into the kitchen, but not before seeing the hurt, the embarrassment, cross her face.
Not his problem, he told himself, pouring more coffee into his cup. It wasn’t up to him to soothe or coddle her. She’d come here, had come to him. He hadn’t asked for her attention or her clumsy attempts at seduction.
She stomped after him, the embodiment of a woman scorned, complete with narrowed eyes and red splotches coloring her cheeks. She’d come to him and obviously wasn’t in a hurry to leave.
“What do you mean you’re not interested?” she asked, s
ounding incredulous. Disbelieving. “You’re a man. I’m a woman.”
Sipping his coffee, he looked her up and down. Her hair, red as a clown’s wig and stick-straight, fell past her shoulders. Heavy makeup hid the freckles on her nose and upper cheeks. She’d done something to her eyes, had lined them in thick black, used dark shadow on the lids then coated her pale lashes with what looked to be several layers of mascara. Her lips were a glossy pink.
She looked like a kid who’d gotten into her mother’s makeup.
“Just what I meant,” he said. “Not interested.”
Maybe he’d been a little bit interested a few minutes ago. She was right about one thing; he was a man. And she had been plastered against him. Not that skinny women with bad attitudes did much for him, but her hands had been soft on his arm, her fingers warm. And, he had to admit, she smelled good, really good, her perfume subtle and sweet. A contrast to her do-me heels and the permanent scowl she wore around him.
Practically vibrating with fury, she slapped her hands on her hips, the move tugging her shirt open and giving him a glimpse of smooth, creamy skin and the edge of a lacy black bra.
His body stirred. It was that damn man thing again.
“Oh, no. You are not doing this to me. Do you have any idea how long it took me to straighten my hair?” she asked, jabbing at her head hard enough to drill her finger right into her brain. “I can’t breathe, my feet hurt and I paid one hundred dollars for this stupid push-up bra.”
He let his gaze drop to her chest for one long, lazy moment. When he raised his eyes back to hers, she swallowed visibly. He smirked. “You might want to get your money back.”
She blanched before color rushed into her cheeks. She opened her mouth, no doubt to lay him flat, but then she shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, which, admittedly, did some interesting things to those small breasts.
On second thought, maybe that bra had been a good investment.