Hot Ice

by Cherry Adair

  “You brought me a present?” Oh shit. Proof he felt guilty that he was going to give her the brush-off. That made it worse, and made her appear pathetic. She looked down until her vision cleared and she was positive that when she spoke her voice would be steady. “Thank you.” She shot him what she hoped to God was a remote, easy smile. “I do love presents.” Ironically, she couldn’t remember when last she’d received one.

  She reached inside as he lingered near the foot of her bed. Great. Not exactly subtle. “A teddy bear?” A huge white bear wearing a pink tutu and the glittering spill of the Blue Star diamonds around its fuzzy neck.

  “The necklace, I’m afraid, has to be returned,” he told her. “But you have permission to hold on to it until then. And the bear—well, I was limited to the hospital’s gift shop. It was either ballerina bear or doctor donkey, and I didn’t think your prize belonged on an ass.” He smiled. “Hospital patients should have something to hold on to during their incarceration.”

  I want to hold on to you. She tucked the bear wearing a $75 million necklace beneath the covers next to her and spent a few moments arranging its arms to her satisfaction. All the while feeling Hunt’s X-ray eyes boring into her brain. I’m fine that you’re leaving, she tried hard to project. But she didn’t feel fine at all. She felt as though Godzilla was ripping a hole in her chest while eating her brain.

  Far from feeling joyous and happy as portrayed on sappy Valentine cards, she felt like crap. One-sided love was the pits. She decided from now on she’d enjoy a nice long stretch of celibacy. For, oh, ten or twenty years. Because, damn him, he’d ruined her for any other man.

  She stuck her hand back in the bag, pulled out a can of 7-Up, and gave him an inquiring glance. “From a czar’s diamonds to 7-Up? You’re a very eclectic guy.”

  “The diamonds weren’t mine to give,” he pointed out. “The soda is, in case you’re still nauseous.”

  Having him holding her head while she threw up was a once-in-a-lifetime experience she didn’t care to repeat. “I’m not.” She noticed that he was gripping the footboard with both hands. His knuckles were white. It did not bode well. “But just in case I am later,” she assured him cheerfully, “I’ll put it right here.” She set the can on the bedside table and stuck her hand back inside the bag.

  Honest to God. The man was going to present her to death. And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could sit here with him so close and not want to grab him and hold him tight, or ask him coolly to please be humane and leave while she still had a shred of dignity left.

  She wished to hell he’d just kiss her good-bye and go! He must realize just how damn cruel, not to mention rude, it was to drag this out for so damn long. Fine. Good. Great. The man didn’t owe her anything. They’d been lovers for a while. Great lovers. Stupendous lovers. But there’d been no promises made. She hadn’t expected any promises to be made. Then again, she hadn’t expected to fall in love with him either. So much for expectations.

  She frowned down at the weird feel of something inside the paper sack, and pulled out a blue freezer bag. Interesting. Confusing, but interesting. Inside were half a dozen not-quite-frozen orange Popsicles.

  What on earth . . . Holy crap! These were some of the things he’d given his mother before she—“Oh. My. God.” She shot Hunt a look of horror. “I’m dying?”

  “Jesus, no! Of course not.”

  Good to know, but somehow dying seemed easier than watching him awkwardly lead up to the kiss-off moment. “Well, that’s certainly a relief. Did you guys figure out what Morales had in all those crates?” she asked a little desperately, inserting the one Popsicle she’d taken out back in the freezer bag, then setting it on the bedside table.

  “It’ll take months of painstaking work to process the contents,” Hunt told her, stroking his palm along the curved edge of the footboard. “Just because a crate is stamped ‘Crayons’ doesn’t mean it came from Crayola.”

  He’d stroked her body like that. The memory made her nipples tighten beneath the thin cotton of the hospital gown. “What about everything in his secret room?”

  “Loaded and en route to Consolidated Underwriters. They can figure out who gets what. They said your commission check would be suitably impressive.”

  She wasn’t particularly interested in what was sure to be a seven-figure check. She was now taking very shallow breaths just to participate in this sham of a casual conversation. Perhaps he’d leave when he noticed she was turning blue? “Vegas still standing?”

  “Missile defused and out of commission, thanks to you.” Hunt started to pace. Another very un-Hunt-like thing for him to do. If she had an ounce of compassion to spare, she thought, she’d put him out of his misery and spare him the awkward good-bye.

  Unfortunately—for him—she needed these last few minutes to look her fill. She had to store up memories for when she lay on her stupid, four-hundred-thread-count sheets beneath the cashmere blankets. Alone.

  She felt the cool air of the room caress her bare back. And wanted his hands there to keep her warm. She wanted to put her hands on him. All over him. “Were you shot?”

  “Knife wound,” Hunt said dismissively. “I’m not nearly as interested in my condition as I am in yours, love.”

  Was that the British condescending “love”? The casual love, or a term of endearment love? Or—God this was brutal. It was like going bald, one plucked hair at a time. Why couldn’t the damned man just shoot her?

  Okay, be a big girl, she told herself. A big girl clinging to a teddy bear. Damn! I can do this. Stay casual, stay aloof.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” she said with forced cheer through the clog in her throat. “My days as a spy were an eye-opener, and I—”

  “Shut up.”

  He came around the end of the bed, sat down beside her on the narrow mattress, gathered her in his arms, and a moment later had pressed his lips to hers. The gentle pressure of his thumb on her chin caused her to open her mouth to him. But she kept her tongue to herself. Really. This was incredibly unfair.

  Hunt lifted his head, his eyes hot as hammered silver. “Stubborn. Kiss me back,” he murmured fiercely.

  So he wanted to play with fire, did he? She wound her arms about his neck and felt a thrill of triumph as he groaned deep in his throat as she kissed him back. Slowly, delicately, she slid her tongue into his mouth, gently exploring. Loving the taste and texture of him. Memorizing each texture, each subtle flavor. Her fingers threaded through his hair, holding his head exactly where she wanted him as his tongue played with his in choreographed perfection.

  A sigh left his body, as if he’d been holding his breath, and he kissed her back, pressing her onto her back against the thin hospital pillow. “I missed you,” he murmured against her mouth. “Missed you abominably.”

  Her lips curved. “Like the snowman?”

  “I certainly felt that cold without you.”

  Taylor wanted him so badly, she ached with it. She allowed herself a few seconds of prolonged contact that her heart and soul cried out for before she managed to pull away and said with commendable steadiness, “I don’t think you should kiss me anymore.”

  His eyes narrowed. How could gray look so hot? “Really? And why is that?” Because it had taken just one look at him, one touch of his hands on her bare skin, and she knew that she’d never forget him. That she’d stay in love with Huntington St. John for the rest of her natural life.

  That was a very long time to miss someone. The thought depressed her. He waited with an uncanny stillness as she fumbled for an answer. She had a million and none. “Because . . . just because.”

  “God, you’re a stubborn woman.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  With a small shake of his head, he pulled her into his arms again, his mouth coming down on hers this time with hungry possession that brooked no argument. She whimpered softly as his tongue came out aggressively to meet hers, demanding a response that was there for his t
aking. Was his heart pounding as fast as hers? She couldn’t tell where she stopped and he started.

  After several heavy heartbeats, she wrapped her arms about his waist, not too tightly, not as tightly as she would have liked, pressing her face to his shoulder.

  “Please don’t,” she whispered, her voice a raw, broken thread. “You have to—” Go. Please, she begged silently, make it quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Go. Leave. Instead she whispered, “Stop.”

  “Open your eyes, Taylor,” he said, pulling back, his voice soft but inexorable. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

  She could deny him nothing, and blinked away the tears clinging to her lashes, knowing he’d see that her eyes were awash in pathetic tears.

  “What is it, darling?” he whispered, his beautiful, elegant hands framing her face, pushing her hair away from her tear-dampened cheeks with a tenderness that made her heart ache unbearably. “What brought this on?”

  “I just want to get out of here,” she said desperately. “And don’t you have to get back to—wherever?”

  “I have to get back to whomever,” he murmured, his mouth close to hers.

  “Look,” she told him. “Much as I’d love to have sex with you once more before you move on to greener pastures, this is neither the time nor the place.” She couldn’t take much more of this. She really couldn’t.

  “You’re right, it isn’t the time, or the place. But don’t mistake sex for making love.”

  The sharp blade of his words was so finely honed that it took several seconds for Taylor to feel them pierce directly into her heart. Well, that was plain enough. She tried to summon a smile to send him on his way with no regrets, but it was a dismal failure.

  She met his gaze, making no move to break free of his hands, still cradling her face. “Let go of me,” she begged. Having this last taste was almost more than she could bear.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, “I can’t do that.” He eased her into a sitting position, pulled the thin cotton gown back over her shoulder where it had slipped, then used his thumb to wipe away the moisture on her cheek. “Is this the same woman who bashed me over the head and handcuffed me to a bed?” he asked ruefully, his gray eyes hot and filled with . . . Taylor had no idea what.

  She was more confused than she’d ever been in her life. She’d been so braced for the thanks-but-no-thanks speech that she wasn’t prepared for this different script.

  He continued to brush her cheek with his thumb. “The same woman who tried to knee me in the balls the first time I touched her breast?”

  “You deserved it at the time. What’s your point?”

  He chuckled as he pulled her into his arms. “The point is,” he said against her hair, “stop fighting it. Stop fighting me.” His warm hands slid possessively up the cool skin of her bare back beneath the skimpy hospital gown before he slanted his mouth down on hers. His tongue teased her lips open in an almost desperate, searching kiss.

  Still confused, she held herself stiffly, willing herself to think of other things.

  He lifted his head a fraction, his eyes blazing with banked passion and a hint of laughter. “You’re supposed to kiss me back, love.”

  Without giving her time to answer, his mouth caught hers again. She lost what little reasoning abilities she thought she still possessed as his kiss melted both her brain and her resolve. She tightened her arms about his waist and met the thrusts of his tongue with moves of her own. She couldn’t think, and she couldn’t fight it anymore.

  This last kiss would have to sustain her for a long, long time. With a low moan she sought his tongue with hers, losing herself in the heady thrusts and parries. Her fingers fisted in the back of his shirt, feeling the play of his muscles beneath the fabric. They kissed until she was giddy and breathless.

  Too soon, he lifted his head. It took every scrap of Taylor’s willpower not to whimper and drag his mouth back to hers.

  “You told me once that you had no defenses against me,” he told her softly. “Well, the feeling is mutual. I have no defenses against you either. I’ve fallen in love with you, Taylor. Jesus,” he laughed ruefully, “I can’t believe I’m actually quoting a song here, but you light up my life in ways I could never have imagined.” His smooth, firm lips brushed hers as he tightened his strong arms around her.

  He stroked a large hand over her hair, then cupped the back of her head. “Crazy in love,” he whispered hoarsely. He put her away from him and gave her a rueful, amused look. “That look of pained disbelief is hardly encouraging, darling. Maybe this will convince you.” He lifted himself off the bed and retrieved a folded envelope out of his back pocket.

  Taylor tucked her hair behind her ears with shaking hands and watched him curiously as he tore open the flap. “What is it? A letter of reference?”

  “As a matter of fact—yes.” He picked up her left hand. “Marry me, my love,” he said softly, opening a velvet jeweler’s box, then sliding a ring onto her finger.

  Taylor glanced down at her hand. The subtle gleam of the diamond looked softly romantic even in the harsh lighting. It was the most beautiful ring she’d ever laid eyes on, four-prong, old-fashioned cushion-cut. Simple, old-fashioned elegance.

  Without drawing a breath, incapable of drawing a breath, her eyes flew to his.

  “It was my mother’s.” His expression was very still as he watched her intently, and Taylor realized that the cool, sophisticated man she knew was nervous. “If you hate it,” he began gruffly, “we’ll get something that suits you better—”

  Her throat got tight, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a minute. Her fingers fisted defensively. “This suits me perfectly! I love it.”

  He was sitting still, an intense look of shuttered hope in his gray eyes. As if waiting . . .

  Taylor lifted her hand and traced his stern mouth with a fingertip that trembled with the depth of her emotions. “I love you.”

  He grabbed her, holding her tightly against him. She could hear the rapid pounding of his heart. Racing urgently, as if something had frightened him. But nothing could ever frighten a man like Hunt. “Thank God,” he said gutturally against her hair. “Thank God.”

  He held her away from him, his fingers cupping her shoulders. He smiled, and Taylor’s heart soared with the joy of it. “As soon as possible,” he told her gruffly, “I’m getting you out of here.”

  “So you can have your wicked way with me?” Taylor asked, stroking his arm.

  “That too. We’re going to Paradise.”

  She loosely curled her arms over his broad shoulders and smiled at him. Because she could. “Anywhere with you will be Paradise.”

  “Paradise Island? The place your sister is frolicking in the surf right now?”

  They’d talk about Mandy, Taylor knew, soon. But right now was just for the two of them. “Ah, hot sunshine. Cool water. And you.” Her smile widened. “Paradise indeed.”

  “The island is one of T-FLAC’s training facilities,” he told her officiously. As all business as a man could be when his eyes were molten and his hands were stroking her naked bottom. “If you’re going to insist on working with me, you have to be suitably trained to go into the field.”

  Her eyes widened. “Into the field? Really? Oh, Lord. That is so—”

  “Not really true,” he interrupted. “You’ve been offered a job training our operatives in all things nefarious as far as B&E, and safecracking goes.”

  “Ah, man!” Taylor pulled him closer and leaned her forehead against his while she shifted her hips closer to him. “That is so tame, so lame, so . . .” She shrugged off the thin hospital gown. Thanks to him untying it in back, it fell around her waist, leaving her quite naked in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows.

  “Unfair,” Hunt murmured, pushing her naked body back onto the pillows.

  Taylor wound her arms about his neck, laughing up at him. God, she loved this man. “What if someone comes in?” she whispered against his mouth as he ben
t to kiss her.

  “Stuck one of your lock picks in the keyhole.” He nibbled her jaw.

  Her heart smiled. “As long as you used the right tool for the job.”

  He wrapped his strong arms around her, stretched out beside her on the narrow bed, then pulled her against his body. “You’ll have to teach me.” The only thing that would’ve made it better was if he was under the covers with her.

  “We’ll teach each other,” Taylor told him, her tongue tracing the contour of his lips. “I’ll teach you to smile more often, and how to open safes.”

  “And I, my love, will teach you that there are far more exciting things to do than scaling buildings and leaping across rooftops.”

  Taylor nuzzled her nose against his neck. She loved the smell of him. She sighed with sheer, unadulterated joy. “I know,” she said happily. “Like learning how to shoot a gun, and how to defuse a bomb. Hey! How about teaching me to fly a helicopter?”

  Taylor loved Hunt’s smile, and she found that she loved his laughter even more. Even better, she knew she’d hear it for years and years and years to come.

  ALSO BY CHERRY ADAIR

  On Thin Ice

  Out of Sight

  In Too Deep

  Hide and Seek

  Kiss and Tell

  Hot Ice is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by Cherry Adair

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-345-48463-5