A Little Too Hot

Chapter Twenty-One

“I WANT TO go home,” I say for the thousandth time, swirling my glass of wine and staring into the vortex. I’ve been trapped here for two weeks, and I don’t know how much more I can take.

Blake turns from the stove, where he’s sautéing shrimp in butter, and gives me a sharp look. He’s been more irritable the last few days, and I hope I’m finally starting to get under his skin as bad as he’s under mine. “You know that can’t happen.”

“If you keep me here much longer, you are the one whose life will be in danger,” I say with a tip of my head at the knife block.

His jaw clenches the way it does when he’s getting frustrated. “My job is to—”

“Keep me safe,” I cut in. “I know. But I swear to God, I’m going to stab you in your sleep if I have to stay in this cage for the next six months.”

He takes the two steps across the floor to the other side of the island and leans heavily against it, his gaze fixed on me. “Jonathan is missing, Sam.”

Spots flash in my eyes as all the blood drains out of my head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you. But you need to understand. This is serious. As long as there’s any chance he’ll be cleared, Arroyo in jail barely slows down his network. But he knows they’ll desert like rats on a sinking ship if he’s convicted. He’ll do whatever it takes, and right now his focus seems to be on keeping you quiet. Until he’s neutralized, we have no choice but to keep you here.”

I can’t breathe. “Where is Jonathan?”

“We don’t know.”

My mind spins, trying to find a rational answer. “He plays down in L.A. a lot. He’s probably down there on a gig.”

“I’m sure it’s something like that.” He says it, but I can tell by the way his brow furrows that he doesn’t believe it.

“Have you talked to Ginger?”

His lips press into a line. “She doesn’t know where he is.”

Something kicks hard in my stomach. “I want to talk to her.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t let you do that.”

I jump off my stool and level him with a glare. “I want to talk to her.”

He just looks at me.

I spin in a circle, tugging on fistfuls of my hair as a black haze of panic settles over me and pounds in my throat like a second heart. “I have to help my friend,” I choke out on the edge of a sob.

When I look back at him, I see sympathy in his eyes, but the rest of his face is set in determined stone. He’s not budging.

I turn for my room as tears start to track down my face.

The sun is setting over the bay, crimson and purple streaks in the sky, as the lights of San Francisco begin to shimmer on the water. I sink into the armchair near my door and draw my knees to my chest, pressing my face into them. Did Ben do something to Jonathan? Is he okay?

God, please let him be okay.

There’s a knock on the door. “Sam?”

I ignore Blake. If something happened to Jonathan, it’s his fault. I wouldn’t be here in this hell if it wasn’t for him. This is all his fault.

“Sam, open the door. You need to eat.”

I grab my book and hurl it at the door. It hits with a solid thunk and flutters to the floor.

“Sam,” he tries again, and I know he has a plate, because the smell of shrimp is seeping through the door.

My stomach growls, but I ignore him.

Finally, I hear him move down the hall.

I sit and stare out the window as the sky goes dark, and little by little the city across the bay becomes brighter as it comes to life.

I follow the lights of the Bay Bridge and my eyes trace the lines of streetlights in the city to the area where I think Benny’s should be. Why did I ever let Jonathan talk me into working there? If I’d never taken that job, we’d be at his apartment right now, curled on the sofa watching Doctor Who.

I have no clue what time it is when I finally change and get ready for bed. I brush my teeth and slip into my black silk nightshirt, buttoning the middle three buttons, then crawl into bed and close my eyes, determined to sleep. But between my worry for Jonathan and my growling stomach, I can’t.

After I’ve stared at the ceiling for the better part of forever, I get up and go to my door, cracking it open and poking my head out. The living room and kitchen are dark, the only light from the full moon, shining through the picture windows. I move silently to the kitchen and flick on the stovetop light. The clock on the microwave says it’s 2:00 A.M. I blow out a sigh and pull open the fridge. There’s a plate of shrimp scampi over pasta covered with cling wrap on the shelf. It looks amazing, but I’m not going to give Blake the satisfaction of eating it. I grab a bag of baby carrots and squirt some ranch dressing into a bowl, then slide onto a bar stool at the counter.

“You set off the motion detector,” Blake drawls from the stairs. He’s in gym shorts and a T-shirt that’s bunched around the shoulders, as if he hastily threw it on . . . which makes me wonder what he sleeps in. He moves to the box for the alarm system on the wall near the elevator and punches in a code, then leans against the door frame, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and watches me eat. Finally, I can’t stand the weight of his gaze. I glare up at him and catch him mid-ogle, his eyes slipping down the front of my thin nightshirt. I realize I didn’t button it all the way up, and one or both of the girls very well may be in full view, but I don’t move to fix it.

He catches his lower lip between his teeth and pushes away from the door, moving to the window and looking out over the bay.

“I know this is hard for you, Sam. If there was any choice, I’d let you go,” he tells the window, “but we just can’t risk it. We can’t risk you.” He turns to face me, leaning his hands on the back of a kitchen chair, and his eyes lock on mine, pleading with me to understand.

I don’t. All I feel is blind rage, and all I want is revenge.

I bite the tip off my carrot more forcefully than I need to. My eyes flick to him and find him watching me, his lips parted and his eyes ravenous as they fight to stay on my face. And that’s when I see my opening.

I dip my carrot again, then slide it deep into my mouth. As I pull it back, I roll my tongue over it and my eyes flutter closed. I suck it deep again and moan.

I smile at his obvious discomfort as his fingers curl hard into the wood of the chair back, and I swear he stops breathing for a second as I bite off the tip.

“I’m going for a swim,” I tell him, slipping off the stool and skipping down the stairs.

When I emerge onto the deck, it’s a bright night, a full moon hanging high in the sky. Maybe it’s the cool night air, or maybe it’s because it really dawns on me what I’m about to do, but as I flit down the path toward the pool, I shudder. I flip the switch to the underwater light near the door of the bathhouse and the whole pool suddenly glows, sending ripples of blue light over the surrounding shrubs, the bathhouse, and me.

When I get to the pool edge, I nearly lose my nerve. I stand here, my back to the house, working to control my breathing before reaching up with shaking hands and flicking open the buttons of my sleep shirt. I let it fall open and instantly the cool air pricks my bare nipples into hard nubs and pebbles my exposed flesh with goose bumps. The shirt slides off my shoulders and flutters into a silky puddle on the pool deck at my feet, and I’m standing in nothing but the black mesh thong Blake picked out for me.

In my head my hastily conceived plan involved taking that off too, then boldly strutting down the stairs of the pool. But I can’t make myself do it. Instead, I keep my underwear on and dive in with my back still to the house.

From under the water, I see Blake on the balcony, standing back in the shadows near the French doors. When I break the surface, I float up and swim slowly to the other end, where I turn and sidestroke back to the deep end.

And the whole time, Blake watches.

The underwater lights reflect off my body in the undulating waves and leave nowhere to hide. But that’s the point. I want to torture him with what he can’t have. Half an hour later, when he’s leaning heavily on the balcony rail, his eyes still glued to me, I know I have.

Braver now, I slink up the steps and out of the water, and move to the outside shower on the side the bathhouse, in full view of the balcony and Blake. I wait until the water’s throwing off a cloud of steam, then step in. As I lather my body, I feel the caress of Blake’s gaze. When I rinse and open my eyes, he’s still watching. I shudder despite the scorching water.

I finish and dry myself off, then reach for my sleep shirt, sliding it on and fastening only one button, just below my breasts. It flutters around me as saunter up the walk to the back door of the house, and when I step through into the poolroom, Blake is at the base of the stairs.

“Did you have a nice swim?” His eyes smolder and his drawl is thick and low, and I know Plan Drive-Special-Agent-Blake-Montgomery-out-of-his-right-mind was a raging success.

My shirt slips off my shoulder as I close the door behind me, nearly exposing my breast, and I do nothing to stop it. “I did, thank you.”

He doesn’t move aside as I stride toward the stairs, and there’s no missing the war that’s waging inside him. I slow, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do. Finally, he reaches for my shoulder, hooking a finger under the edge of the silk of my shirt. A rush skitters through me as he pulls it slowly back, exposing more skin. He’s made his decision, and now I have a split second to make mine before my body makes it for me. My plan was to tease him until he was crazy with need, but right at this second what I know is, if he takes me across the room to his bed, I’m not going to stop him.

His knuckles slide over my bare skin, creeping my robe a fraction lower. I bite back the moan that tries to claw up my throat. But just before my breast slips free of the black silk, his jaw tenses and he lifts the edge back onto my shoulder, covering me. “We need to talk.”

Without another word, he spins and strides up the stairs, two at a time, as if, despite his words, he can’t get away from me fast enough.

I button a few more buttons as I follow, and when I crest the top stair, I find him on the other side of the kitchen island, his hands braced on the granite countertop. I step up across from him and he fixes me in his fierce gaze. “This isn’t a game, Sam. You are in real danger. You have been since you set foot into Ben Arroyo’s club.”

I nod, my expression all candor. “Those boots were an accident waiting to happen.”

He leans on his elbows. “Our tech team decrypted some of Arroyo’s computer files. Pictures.”

There’s sudden pressure in my chest, as if something hard and cold is caught in there. I slide onto a stool when I feel my legs shake. “Of . . . ?”

“There were cameras in the dressing room at the club, Sam,” he says, his eyes dropping from mine as his jaw tightens.

“The . . .” But then I get what he’s saying and I feel my eyes widen. “The dressing room?” I say, my breath catching. “Oh, God. Pictures of . . . us?”

He moves around the counter toward me, apparently no longer needing the barrier between us. “I’m sorry.”

“But I don’t . . .” I cringe at the thought of Blake seeing pictures of me naked in the dressing room after the little stunt I just pulled at the pool. I can’t even make myself ask if that’s what he saw. “Why would he . . . ?”

“We don’t know for sure, but there were some shots of a girl who danced there. She apparently went missing about two months ago, a few weeks after we pulled Nichols out, but she remembers her.” He pins me in his intense gaze. “This girl had loose family ties, just like you, and it was a while before any of her friends reported her missing. It’s starting to look like your boss might be involved in trafficking more than just drugs.”

The blood runs out of my head, and the lights seem to go suddenly dim as the room spins. “Oh, God.”

“We’re looking for anything that will tell us where that girl disappeared to. We’re going through the information we’re pulling off Arroyo’s computer as it’s decrypted, and we’re combing through the pictures of the other girls to see if any of them might be missing as well. But, Sam . . .” He cringes. “There were notes on his desk. They appear to have been about you. It looks like he might have been negotiating with a buyer.”

“For me? He was going to sell me?” I drop my face into my hands when spots form in my eyes and my whole head starts to buzz.

“I didn’t want you to know the full extent of what he’s done. I didn’t want you to know the danger you were in. But Arroyo is evil incarnate, Sam. And it’s not just the missing girl and Weber. He’s hurt thousands of people. He needs to be taken off the street, and you’re the person who can do that. All you have to do is tell the court what happened that night.”

“Will you be able to find that girl?” I ask, my face still in my hands. I can’t help thinking of Sabrina from the shelter. I can’t imagine she could ever be whole after what happened to her. If Ben did that to someone . . . or worse, I want to kill him.

“We’ll work with the FBI and try to put the pieces together.”

A wave of dread surges through me. “She’ll already be ruined by then.”

“We’re doing everything we can, Sam,” Blake says.

All I know is I have to do something. I can’t just sit here. I rip my face out of my hands. “Let me to talk to Ben.”

Blake fixes me in a narrow-eyed stare. “No. That’s absolutely not going to happen.”

“If he’s got Jonathan and he knows where this girl is, maybe he’ll tell me something that would help us find them.” Even as I say it, I know how stupid it is, but I feel so helpless.

He slides closer and his hard expression softens into something sympathetic. “Sam, he’s gone to great lengths to keep anything incriminating hidden. And I think you’re forgetting he tried to have you killed to keep you quiet. He’s not going to tell you what happened to Jonathan or that girl because you ask nicely.”

Everything inside me pulls into a hard knot. “I wasn’t planning on being nice.”

“No, Sam,” he says with a shake of his head and a little bit of a wild look in his eye. “You’re not talking to Arroyo.”

“I’ve got to do something!”

Blake grasps my shoulders gently. “Just help us put the bastard away.”

I close my eyes and breathe a slow breath to stop my shaking. After a minute, when I can speak, I open my eyes and look up at him. “Just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you want.”

For a several beats of my racing heart, he doesn’t move. But finally, he lifts a hand and sweeps the hair off my face with a finger, tucking it behind my ear. His finger continues its gentle path along the line of my jaw. It’s only when his thumb brushes over the scar on my cheek that I realize it’s damp with tears. He slowly leans closer, so I can feel his breath on my forehead. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he says. “That’s my first priority. But I’ll find Jonathan. I promise. And we’ll do everything we can to find the girl.”

I’m shaking again, but this time it’s not from rage. I lay my hands on his chest, knowing I should push him away. But I feel the beat of his heart, almost as fast as mine, and it makes me want to pull him closer instead.

He steps back and his gaze locks on mine, those blue eyes pleading for something, but I’m not sure what. Before I can sort it out, he spins for the stairs and disappears.

It’s a long time before I can move, but finally I stagger to my room. And as I lay on the bed, trailing my fingers along the lines that Blake’s fingers took, there’s one thing that’s suddenly crystal clear. I still don’t trust him, but he’s not the enemy.

I’m just not sure what that makes him.