The Heat Is On (5 page)

“I keep thinking I could have prevented this,” she finally said quietly. “If I'd only looked earlier, maybe called 911 sooner—”

“No. Bella—”

She looked away, toward the ocean, her happy place. The sun was a huge ball of orange fire on the horizon. The late breeze was soft and gentle, but still she shivered.

Because suddenly she was cold, very cold.

“I didn't recognize him this morning,” she murmured. “But I never really saw his face, just his back.”

And his blood.

“He was so nice. I just didn't— We didn't click.” She met his gaze. “I was looking for the click.”

She hadn't found that until date number eight, as they both knew.

Jacob's eyes held hers, dark and filled with things, things she didn't intend to spend a lot of time thinking about if she could help it. “I'm sorry. Thanks for dinner, but I have to go.” She surged to her feet, needing to bake, needing to be anywhere but here.

He stood up with her, but she shook her head. “I'm okay, really. I just have to…go.”

Now.

Yesterday.

He was standing close, looking a little protective
and a whole lot intense, but when he reached for her, she took a step back.

He dropped his hand. “Bella.”

“I'm okay,” she whispered.

Not arguing with her, he nodded slowly, his see-all eyes taking her in carefully.

“Look, I'm sure you're used to this…murder thing,” she said. “But I'm going to need some processing time.”

“Understandable.”

She ran her hands down herself, realizing she didn't have any pockets. Or money. Hell, she was barely dressed. “I don't have any cash, but I'll—”

“I've got it, Bella.”

“See? Sweet.” She hugged herself, her fingers brushing over the material of his shirt. “And your shirt. I promise I'll get it back to you—”

“It's okay.”

She nodded, grabbing her towel and backing away from him and the table. “Thanks for…”
Everything.
“You know. Coming by, feeding me, et cetera.”

“Bella—”

She didn't stick around to hear what he had to say.

Couldn't. She needed to blot out the images of that innocent man bleeding on the shop stoop. She needed some time to untangle the newly complicated knot that now represented Jacob. She needed to breathe, to find some sort of center.

She needed to bake.

B
ELLA WALKED BACK TO
Edible Bliss to find Ethan sitting on the steps that led up to the two apartments above the shop. Unable to summon the most basic of manners, she stared at him and sighed. “Didn't I already give you the better part of my day?”

“You had two calls.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you left the window open in the shop's kitchen—” He gestured above his head. “So when the phone rang, I could hear the machine pick up. Mrs. Windham wants a three-tiered lemon birthday cake for her pug for next Wednesday, and Trevor wanted to see if you want to go for a sail.”

“Is that why you're here, to play assistant?”

“Victim has been identified,” he said. “Seth Owen.”

Grateful to Jacob for breaking the news first, she nodded and hugged herself. “Date number two.”

Ethan pulled a small pad from his pocket and wrote something down. “From Eight Dates in Eight Days.”

“Yes.”

Ethan made another note. “And you hadn't seen nor heard from him since you went out?”

“I didn't say that.” She sighed when Ethan lifted his hand and looked at her. “He called me, asking for another date. I reminded him of the rules, that we weren't supposed to go out with anyone again until all eight dates were over.”

“And?”

“And he said he'd call after all eight dates, if I was interested.”

Ethan was watching her carefully. “To which you replied…?”

She sighed. “That I'd be moving out of the area.”

Ethan arched a brow. “You blew him off.”

“I—” She hesitated. Yeah. She had. “He was a perfectly nice guy, I just didn't feel any sparks.”

And now he was dead.

“So why was he at Edible Bliss?”

“I don't know.”

“Good enough, thanks.” Ethan pocketed his pad. “I'll be in touch.” He moved past her, and when Bella turned to watch him leave, found Jacob behind her.

The two men exchanged long looks. There was
some sort of silent communication, then Ethan nodded and walked away.

“What was that?” Bella asked. “That whole conversation you just had without words? And you followed me.”

“Yep.” Ignoring her first question, he brushed past her, grabbing her hand as he did, pulling her up the stairs. At her door, he held out his hand. “What?”

“Your key.”

She stared at him.

“I want to look inside,” he said. “And make sure you're safe.”

The thought that she might not be hadn't occurred to her. She stared at her door and shivered.

“I'm not trying to scare you,” he said quietly. “But you need to be aware of your surroundings. Have an escape route, always. When you walk up these stairs alone at night, you don't have a lot of choices on this small landing.”

“I can defend myself.”

“How?”

“I'd kick him in the nuts.”

He nodded. “Good. But you might need a backup plan. I can show you some moves, if you'd like.”

Yes. She'd like to see some of his moves.

Especially if they were anything like the moves he'd shown her last night.

“Key?” he repeated.

She hesitated, knowing he wasn't going to like this.

He took in her expression. “Tell me the door's locked, Bella.”

“It's locked.” She let out a low breath, then stooped and pulled the key out from beneath the doormat.

He stared at her as she dropped it into his hands. “Are you kidding me?”

She lifted her chin. “I've always felt safe here.”

Until now…

“Jesus.” Shaking his head, he unlocked her door and handed her back her key. Hands on hips, he silently dared her to put the key back beneath the mat.

She didn't. She almost wanted to, just to see what he'd say.

Or do.

She was pretty sure he could see that particular wheel turning in her head, so she resisted.

He looked at her for another beat, then shook his head again. “Stay here.”

She pictured him walking through her tiny seven-hundred-square-foot apartment like something out of a 007 movie, and wasn't surprised that when he came back to the opened doorway, he was tucking his gun into the back of his jeans. “Any boogeymen?”

“All clear.” He stepped aside to let her in, nodding to the two huge duffel bags lined up against the wall in the living room. “Going somewhere?”

“Not quite yet.” She nudged one of the bags with her toe. “I don't usually unpack.”

He lifted a brow.

She was used to that look. It was the genuine bafflement of someone who'd centered his life around one place, someone who'd made a home for himself. And she'd seen his house. It was big and open and…guy. There was a large, comfy couch and a huge TV. He'd had sports equipment lining his foyer and dishes in his sink. It'd been warm and lived in, and had reflected his personality.

It'd definitely been a home.

She'd not really had a home in years, and never one she'd made for herself since she tended to leave before she wore out her welcome. She realized that she was a contradiction—wanting to belong, yet doubting it would ever happen. But it was who she was. “It's easier,” she said. “This place came fully furnished. I'm just borrowing the space.”

He absorbed that, looking as if he might say more, but he didn't. And she was glad. She thought maybe they could have a good thing, and she was afraid to hope that this one time, she'd be able to stick around for a while.

He walked past the tiny kitchen table, upon which sat her ratty old notebook.

Last night, she'd written in her journal. It wasn't a typical journal filled with thoughts and expressions, but held notes of her cooking adventures. Desserts were truly her happy place, and she could think about them, or write about them, all day. She'd meant it when she'd told Jacob that she didn't follow recipes,
instead using ratio, temps and conversion rates permanently in her brain. Mostly she went with her gut, and with the formulas she knew worked, things like her 1-2-3 method for sweet-crust pastries, which meant one part sugar, two parts butter and three parts flour.

But at the end of the day, if she'd done something new, she liked to scribble it down, and she did mean scribble.

Since she was always in a hurry, her handwriting was pretty much chicken scrawl, and illegible to anyone but her.

“Practicing your Greek?” he asked, raising a brow, proving her point by being unable to read her writing.

“Make fun of my writing all you want,” she said, lifting her chin. “Maybe those are
secret
recipes. Maybe I use a special decoder ring. You can never be too careful.”

He flipped the notebook closed. Beneath it was a shopping list.

Also nearly illegible.

He grinned. “So you do have a fault. You can't write worth shit. Ever think of taking up medicine?”

“Hey.”

He just smiled at her, and it pretty much diffused any righteous indignation she might have mustered.

He came up close and swept a stray strand of
hair back from her face. “You're going to lock up behind me.”

She saluted him. Her little attempt at levity. When he didn't smile, she rolled her eyes and nudged him in the chest. His very hard, very warm chest. “I'm a big girl,” she said softly, leaving her hand on him. Maybe she even gently ran her hand from one pec to the other. She couldn't help it, he was built. And the way he was standing over her, big and bad and protective, doing his cop thing…

“Bella.”

And God, his voice, all low and warning, and completely sexy.

He wanted her again.

And he didn't want to want her again.

Well, welcome to her club. “Thanks for making sure I got home okay,” she said. “Did you check my closet for monsters?”

“Your closet's monster free. So's your shower. Nice underwear, by the way.”

She'd hand washed a bunch of it and had left it hanging in the shower to dry. She grinned. “Did you like the black lace?”

“Yeah, I liked the lace. And the yellow satin thong and matching bra.”

Her nipples got perky. This was becoming a habit. She wondered if there was documentation of Pavlovian response involving sexily voiced innuendo and nipples. There should be.

Then he leaned in and put his mouth to her ear.
“And while I bet they look hot on you, they're not my favorite. At least not on you.”

She'd left her hand on his chest, and her fingers involuntarily fisted in his T-shirt. “W-what is?”

Backing her to the door, he put a hand on either side of her head against the wood and let his knee touch hers. “Nothing at all.” Oh, God.

His thigh slid in between hers, and desire skittered across her belly, heating her from the inside out. “Yeah?”

His mouth skimmed her jaw. “Oh, yeah. But back to keeping yourself safe.” He had her pinned to the door, their bodies flush. She couldn't have fit one of her wafer-thin phyllo pastry sheets between them. She squirmed, trying to get even closer, and discovered to her delight that either his gun had moved to his crotch, or he was hard.

“Do you remember what I told you, Bella?” He ran his lips over her jaw and she let out a helpless moan. “Um—”

He nuzzled just beneath her ear, and she lost her concentration. “Don't keep the key beneath the mat?” she managed to say. “Before that.”

“You told me—” His mouth was on her neck. He drew on a patch of skin and sucked. “Oh, God, Jacob.”

“Told you what, Bella?” He dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat.

“T-to have an escape route.” God. God, she needed another taste of him. Just one. “You're it tonight, Jacob. You're my escape.” She lifted her mouth and he met her halfway. His hands slid from the wood to her, one cupping the back of her head, the other sliding down her body with a new familiarity that thrilled, and as he devoured her mouth, she couldn't hold back her moan.

He reached for her shirt—
his
shirt—pulling it open, making his hands comfortable on her bare skin, gliding them up her bare thighs, over her back, making her moan again. She felt those fingers catch on the back tie of her bathing-suit top, a light tug, and then it loosened over her breasts. “Jacob?”

“Yeah?”

“My bed's about ten steps away.”

His fingers went still. Then he kissed her lips softly and dropped his forehead to hers, breathing heavy. “This can't happen,” he said.

She rocked against his raging hard-on. “Hate to break it to you, but your body is in disagreement.”

He looked down at his hands. One cupped her breast, his thumb slowly rasping back and forth over her nipple, making it stand up to attention for him, his other was spread wide over her hip, his fingers beneath the material of her bikini bottoms. He still had a hard thigh thrust between hers, and with a muscle ticking in his jaw, he closed his eyes.

Bella's hands had been busy, too. Her fingers were curled in the waistband of his jeans, heading for the hidden treasure. When she wriggled them, he groaned. Grabbing her wrist, he dropped his head to the door, hard.

“What are you doing?”

“Knocking some sense into myself.” He opened his eyes and stepped back, face tight, body tense, erection threatening to burst the buttons on his Levi's. “I'm leaving now.”

“But—”

His hot gaze swept down her body one more time. He pressed in close, kissed her hard and just a little bit rough, and loving it, she kissed him back in the same way, but then he was pulling free, shaking his head as he moved away. He shoved his hands into his pockets as if he didn't quite trust himself. “We can't— I can't sleep with you while this case is open.”

“It's not your case.”

He let out a long, slow breath, as if struggling for control. “You need to be careful with what you're saying to me. Only last night, you wanted me to think you were moving to Siberia.”

This was unfortunately true. “Yes, but there's something I didn't anticipate.”

He just looked at her.

How to explain that last night, when he'd been pulling off her clothes, his hands everywhere on her, both demanding and somehow gentle at the same
time, she'd been aware even then that being with him was going to be different.

Better than anything she'd known.

It'd scared her in the heat of the moment. But now, she wanted to experience it again.

Just one more time…

The fact was, in the dark of the night, he'd made her body sing the Hallelujah Chorus, and in the light of day her body wanted a repeat. “We seem to have a little chemistry problem.”

He didn't move, but she could see the agreement in his eyes. Plus, he was still hard. Gloriously hard. Her fingers itched to touch, and she reached for him to do just that, until his words stopped her.

“How long are you staying in Santa Rey?”

“I don't know. Why? Trying to figure out if this still qualifies as a one-night stand?” She smiled. “Because I have no problem with a two-night stand. Maybe even a three-night stand if you play your cards right. And by the way, I don't have an aversion to daytime sex, either.”

He ran his gaze over her features. Finally, he turned to the door.

“Let me guess,” she said to his back, fascinated by the play of muscles as he reached for the handle. “This time it's you who's moving to Siberia?”

When he looked back at her, the heat was still in his gaze. His mouth barely curved in a hint of a smile, testosterone leaking from his every pore. “No. I stick, remember?”

“Then?”

“Maybe I'm just giving you time to absorb what's happened.”

“The murder?”

“The fact that we're drawn to each other like a moth to the flame. The fact that it's only a matter of time before I get you in bed again—if you're still around. And this time, there'll be no pretty lies at the end. It is what it is.”