Up In Flames: Body HeatCaught in the Act

by Lori Foster

  Insane, he insisted to himself. But his pulse continued to riot and his lungs constricted, and only a small part of that reaction was due to lust. Hell, he shouldn’t even have felt lust. It hadn’t been that long since she’d wrung him out.

  But he looked down at himself and, sure enough, he was already semihard. What could you do with a woman who affected you so strongly, except keep her close and make sure she didn’t have the chance to affect any other man the same way?

  Delilah paused, bit her lip, stared at nothing in particular and then smiled and began typing again. Mick shook his head. She amazed him, amused him, and she turned his libido red-hot.

  Not wanting to startle her, he said softly, “Am I interrupting?”

  She glanced up, then held one finger in the air, indicating she needed him to wait.

  He should have been annoyed. They’d finished making love for the first time and she’d sneaked away to write, and now had the gall to make him wait. He smiled. No woman had ever treated him as she did, and damned if he didn’t like it. Probably because her reactions, her responses, were all so real. Delilah didn’t have a deceptive bone in her body. She said what she thought, did as she pleased, and that meant she could be trusted—the most appealing factor of all.

  Mick sidled closer and stood behind her. He moved her heavy hair off her nape and used his thumbs to stroke her.

  Delilah froze, then twisted to face him. “Um...I can’t write with you there.”

  “Why not?”

  She frowned, then turned off her monitor. Shadows closed in around them. “It makes me jittery for anyone to look over my shoulder. I don’t want you to read anything out of context and think it’s lame.”

  “I wasn’t reading,” he explained, still holding her neck easily between his hands. “I was considering the possibility of dragging you back to bed.”

  Delilah faced the computer again, her hands in her lap, her head bent forward. Finally she said, “I’m running behind, Mick. I need to finish up this scene, okay?”

  “It’s almost morning.”

  “I know. But the scene is there now, in my head.” She twisted again, this time in a rush. “I’m sorry. I know this probably seems odd to you. But writers write...whenever. And I do have a deadline that is quickly closing in.” She shrugged. “I’ve never had anyone live with me, so I’ve never had to not write when I wanted to. Know what I mean?”

  Mick grinned. She meant that she didn’t want him to interfere with her writing, but was trying to be tactful. He said only, “How long do you think you’ll be?”

  Again she shrugged. “I don’t know. As long as the words are coming, I want to keep at it. Once this scene’s done, I’ll have some free time before I need to start the next one.”

  A thought occurred to Mick: if she stayed up all night writing, perhaps she’d forget about the damn funeral, and he wouldn’t have to deceive her. “Okay, sweetheart. You take your time, okay?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. There’ll be times when I’ll be gone all night working.” Even in the dim shadows, he saw her scowl and had to fight from laughing out loud. “I’m sure you’ll be understanding, too, won’t you?” he teased.

  Very grudgingly, she muttered, “I guess.”

  “Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She continued to stare up at him. “Since you’re here anyway, will you give me a good-night kiss?”

  “My pleasure.” Mick made it a kiss to singe her eye-brows—and felt himself burned instead. In that moment, he wondered if he’d ever get enough, if a lifetime of tasting and touching her would ever satisfy him.

  He had his doubts.

  “Wow,” she said when he lifted his mouth. “You think I can work a kiss like that in with a murder scene?”

  Mick stared at her blankly and she waved her hand toward the computer. “That’s where I’m at in the book. All your talk about Neddie and connections and conspiracies gave me an idea for the murder scene. Do you think my hero would stop in the middle of trying to chase down the escaping madman to kiss the heroine?”

  Mick shook his head. “If the heroine was you, I’m sure of it.”

  He saw the white flash of her teeth, then heard her chuckle. “You’re outrageous. Now go on before I totally lose my train of thought and end up with them making love in the middle of the street instead of doing the responsible thing.”

  Thinking of the “responsible thing,” Mick pushed any remnants of guilt from his mind. He’d do whatever was necessary to protect her. “Take as long as you need,” he said. “Good night.”

  As soon as he turned away, he heard the tapping on her keyboard resume. Madmen and making love and responsibility. Somehow they were all tied together with Delilah, and probably with her research pal, Neddie Moran, and the shooter, Rudy Glasgow, and the robbery.

  All Mick had to do was find out how.

  His mind filled with possibilities, both intimate and protective, so it was no wonder he slept fitfully. He had just awakened again when he felt Delilah slipping into bed beside him. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was only an hour or so until dawn.

  Turning toward her, he slid his good arm beneath her head and murmured sleepily, “Did you finish your scene?”

  “Yes.” She snuggled down, fitting herself to him as if they’d been doing this for most of their lives. That’s how it was with Delilah, natural and comfortable and right. Her hand settled on his chest, her fingers twining in his body hair, caressing. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “You didn’t.” Mick pressed his mouth to her crown, drawing in the sweet scent of shampoo and Delilah. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “You should have been sleeping.”

  “I’ll sleep with you.” He felt her smile against his chest. “What were you doing in the jewelry store, honey?”

  Startled, she looked up at him, then with a shrug, nuzzled into his side again. “I was researching.”

  Their voices were both low, mere whispers over the hum of the air conditioner and the lazily twirling ceiling fan.

  “What kind of research?”

  Her fingertips sought and found his nipple, toying with him, making him stiffen even while half-asleep. “In this book,” she whispered, “the hero has to break into a jewelry store and steal something that the madman is after, before he can get it. So I was trying to see how I’d break into that store if I was a madman.”

  Mick chuckled. “Neddie couldn’t tell you how to do that, huh?”

  “He told me a lot of things, gave me a lot of ideas, but not details on a robbery.” She pressed her face against Mick in a show of emotion. “I’d contacted him about it, and even left a message, but he hadn’t returned my call. I realize now that he probably couldn’t.”

  Shit. If she’d left a message on a machine, then that could be the link that had led them to her. Mick squeezed her closer. No way in hell would he let anyone hurt her. “What exactly did you say on the message?”

  “Mick.” She rose up on one elbow to look at him. “I do like talking to you in the middle of the night like this, but—”

  “Actually, it’s morning,” he said softly, pushing a curl away from her face.

  “That’s my point. I really would like to get some sleep.”

  He chuckled. “No sparing my tender sensibilities, huh?” That made her frown with concern, and he added quickly, “I’m just teasing.”

  “Are you sure? Because I guess I could stay awake and talk more about this if you really wanted to.”

  “Actually,” he murmured against her mouth, “I was thinking about sports.”

  She again pushed away, peering at him through the dark with interest. “Are you an athlete?”

  Snorting, he said, “Hell, no.”

  “You don’t lik
e sports?”

  “I have no idea. I just never played any.”

  “But all little boys play baseball and football and—”

  “I didn’t.”

  She seemed to have forgotten all about sleeping, and her frown was back. “Well, why not?”

  He didn’t want to talk about his childhood, about his mother’s shortcomings. Not now. Preferably not ever. “I was thinking about a sport you taught me.”

  Despite his best effort, there was an edge to his tone, a deliberately forceful change of subject that she picked up on. She might often be obtuse to her surroundings, but Mick found she was very attuned to him. It unsettled him, and turned him on.

  She cupped his jaw in a gesture so tender, his heart ached. “What,” she asked, lightly touching the corner of his mouth, “have I taught you?”

  “Riding.” He rasped the word, forcing it past an emotional lump in his throat, desperate to change his ache to a physical one, one that she could easily appease.

  In the next instant, Delilah kissed him—everywhere. The emotional and the physical commingled, a variety of needs that stirred him on every plane.

  After she rolled the condom onto him, she mounted him with a smile and leaned down to kiss his mouth. She slid her body onto his with a snug, wet fit, and whispered wickedly, “Giddyap.”

  * * *

  Delilah groaned as she managed to get one eye open. Her entire body ached in places she hadn’t known she had. And her butt was cold.

  She forced her head up and saw that Mick had kicked the covers to the bottom of the bed. Her front, curled into his side, was warm enough. But her behind faced the air conditioner and was numb with cold.

  When she looked Mick over, gloriously naked, she quickly heated. Until she noticed the alarm clock.

  “Noon!”

  Beside her, Mick groaned and he, too, opened one eye. “What is it?”

  “I overslept!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled, and tried to draw her close again.

  “But Neddie’s funeral! I’ll never make it now.” She couldn’t be sure, but Mick looked very satisfied over the situation. Del frowned. “Did you keep me awake all night on purpose?”

  Both eyes opened and he stared at her breasts. “Yeah.”

  “Mick!”

  “I’m not into making love with comatose women, so of course I had to keep you awake.”

  “Oh.” She subsided, but only a little. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “All I did,” he informed her, reaching out to smooth his hand over her hip, then her belly, “was mention riding.” He glanced up, his dark eyes unwavering. “You’re the one who did the rest.”

  Because he was right, and because his hand felt too good on her body even now, she flushed. “I feel terrible,” she admitted.

  Mick cupped his fingers between her legs, fondling, seeking. His voice morning-rough, he crooned, “I think you feel very nice.”

  She frowned at him and said, “I’m sore, so forget it.”

  His smile made him look like a pirate. A dark sexy pirate, set on pillaging. “I’ll be understanding,” he promised, “and run you a nice hot bath. I’ll even get the coffee.” Then he added deliberately, “But forgetting about it is impossible.”

  “Mick.” She said his name on a sigh.

  His tone, his look, turned serious. “You’re about all I can think of these days.”

  She melted. And she wasn’t that sore, she decided. But he’d taken her words to heart and slid out of the bed. He stretched, careful of his wounded shoulder, and she sighed yet again at the sight of him. Much more of this, she thought, shaking her head, and I’ll begin sounding like a wounded coyote.

  “Since it’s already too late to make the funeral, would you like to come with me today?” He looked expectant—and just a bit too watchful.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I need to set up something with a therapist for my shoulder.”

  “I thought the doctor said to give it two weeks first.”

  Mick shook his head. “I can’t wait that long.” He flexed his right arm, winced, and added, “I don’t like being less than a hundred percent.”

  He started out of the room and she scurried after him. He detoured into the bathroom, so she had to pull back. Damn, he shouldn’t be pushing himself. But how could she stop him? He far outweighed her and had double the stubbornness she possessed.

  She waited in the hallway until she heard the bathwater start. She called through the door, “Mick?”

  The door opened and he snagged her, pulling her inside. He looped his left arm around her waist, kissed her pursed mouth and said, “You soak while I get coffee. I’ll shower when you’re done.”

  “You’re supposed to be resting!” she said, trying for a stern expression.

  “Making coffee won’t tax my meager strength, I promise.” He kissed her nose and swatted her on the behind left-handed. “Now, soak.”

  “Take your medicine!” she yelled to his back.

  She was submerged in the hot water, letting it ease her aches and pains, when Mick came in carrying two mugs of steaming coffee. To her disappointment, he’d pulled on jeans, and she frowned at him. “No fair me being naked and you being dressed.”

  He handed her a cup of coffee. “It’s the only way I can guarantee we’ll make it out of here today.” He grinned and added, “Otherwise I’m likely to join you in the tub. You’re a helluva temptation.”

  She ignored his outrageous compliment and sipped—and moaned with pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Oh, that’s good.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear. I’ll take over all the coffee duties.”

  “You could just show me how to do it.”

  “I’m not quite that trusting.”

  Wondering just how trusting he might be, she splashed him. “So you’re saying you don’t like my coffee, either?”

  “I had a hairless chest before drinking it.”

  Del tried to feign insult, but she ended up laughing instead. “Okay, so I made it stronger for you. I thought all men wanted their coffee strong and black.”

  He nodded. “So you know a lot of men with iron stomachs, impervious to the cold, fearless and reckless and invincible?”

  “No, but that’s how I write them,” she teased.

  Sounding far too serious, he asked, “Is that the kind of man you were looking for?”

  Del considered getting serious, too. She considered telling him he was exactly what she’d been looking for, even though she hadn’t realized it until she met him. Instead, she shook her head. “I know the difference between reality and fiction, but I don’t have much experience with men’s preferences. And for the record, I wasn’t looking. I didn’t really think there was room in my life for a man, not since I’ve kinda thrown myself into my writing.”

  Mick put the toilet lid down and sat. “You really enjoy writing, don’t you?”

  Her need to write wasn’t always a pleasant one. “I suppose it’s a love-hate relationship. I feel the craving to write almost all the time. Sometimes it’s inconvenient. People think I’m dumb because I plot a lot. They consider it daydreaming, and write me off as being too fanciful. But I doubt I’d feel like me if I wasn’t writing.”

  She hesitated, then tilted her head to look at him. “I hope you can understand. There’ll be a lot of times when I’m trying to listen, but my mind will go off track. And I get up a lot at night to write. It seems like as soon as I try to sleep, my brain starts churning and I just can’t shut down.”

  “I’ll persevere.”

  “It doesn’t mean I’m not aware of you. It doesn’t mean you’re not important.”

  “I understand.”

  His acceptance was just a tad to
o quick, making her suspicious. “Do you? Not many guys I’ve dated have.”

  He gave her a measuring look, then asked, “Have you dated many?”

  “Sure. In my younger days, when I was curious about things.”

  “Things?”

  She grinned. “Sexual things, though the sex was never enough to keep me...engaged for long. I outgrew my curiosity and my fascination with men. These days, writing is more interesting, and more important than any guy—especially when I have a deadline, which I almost always do.” She thought about that, and added softly, “Of course, those guys weren’t as important as you.”

  Mick looked down at his coffee cup for a long moment. “Because I protected you?”

  “Partly,” she agreed. “No one has ever tried to protect me before. You blew me away, putting yourself in line for a bullet.”

  “What about your folks? Surely they’re protective.”

  “I guess.” She idly soaped her arm, thinking about her family. “They’re wonderful, and they love me, but with two older, more serious brothers, I’m kind of the odd duck.”

  Mick didn’t say anything to that, just continued to encourage her with his silent attention.

  “You can imagine how they all reacted when I told them I wanted to be a writer.” She laughed, remembering. “They told me to get serious, and when they saw that I was serious, they worried. Especially whenever I did research. Now, though, they’re really pretty proud.”

  “Are you close with them?”

  “Oh, sure. And my brothers are great. They’re both married and have kids and houses. They still worry on occasion, but meeting you would probably fix that.”

  Mick went still. “Did you want me to meet them?”

  She’d rushed things, she realized, and said, “Not yet.”

  He frowned. “You said I’m different than the other guys you dated.”

  “Well...yeah. I never invited any of them to move in with me.”