A Little Too Hot

Chapter Thirty

WHEN I STUMBLE out of my room, shorts and a tank top over my swimsuit, it’s after ten and Cooper is just pulling a pair of Eggo waffles out of the toaster.

“Morning, Jezebel,” he says when he sees me.

“I thought I was Pork Chop now.”

He shrugs.

I go to the kitchen and pour my coffee, but just as I take my first sip, I hear the telltale clank and rattle of the elevator. I spin, sloshing my coffee onto the floor, as the door slides open. My breathing goes a little shaky as Blake steps out, wondering how this is going to go.

But then he smiles.

The tiniest of whimpers escapes my throat with the flood of relief.

“Tell me that Cooper didn’t feed you Eggos,” he says, glaring at him.

“Cooper didn’t feed her anything,” he says from the armchair through a mouthful of waffle. “Figured she was all grown up and could feed herself.”

Something sparks in Blake’s eyes as he moves toward me, where I’m busy holding up the kitchen counter. “That she is,” he murmurs with a secret smile as he brushes past me.

His touch leaves me vibrating.

He pulls a carton of eggs out of the fridge, then rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. “Omelet?”

“Um . . . yeah. That sounds good.”

Cooper comes back to the kitchen and hands his empty plate over the counter to me. “I guess my job here is done. I’ll grab my stuff and get home to the missus.”

He disappears down the stairs, and I look at Blake, wondering if we’re going to talk about what happened before he left. He’s cracking eggs into a bowl, and before I can think how to start that conversation, I hear Cooper on the stairs.

I take my coffee into the living room and try to figure out how I should be acting right now. But I end up just standing here in my daze.

“So . . . if everything’s under control,” Cooper says, splitting a glance between Blake and me, “I’ll be on my way.”

“Goodbye, Cooper,” Blake says without looking up from his work.

Cooper shoots him a scowl from the elevator as the door slides shut.

I move to the coffeepot, directly behind where Blake is working, and lean on the counter. “Where were you?”

“At the office, mostly,” he says without turning.

“Are we . . . okay?”

He stops working and gives me a slow nod. “Arroyo’s accountant turned.”

“What?”

His eyes brighten as he turns to face me, and a smile breaks over his face. “It’s almost over, Sam. Arroyo’s screwed seven ways to Sunday. We came up with blood trace in the hall, where you say his goon threw the towel, and now we’ve got his accountant. The coroner puts the time of death in the window when you saw him in Arroyo’s office, and your testimony will put Arroyo in the room as his guy was exiting with blood on his hands, so that’s a lock. But even if he somehow manages to walk on the murder charge, we’ll get him on racketeering.”

There’s a second where I don’t even really hear what he’s saying, because, in his excitement, he’s so stunningly beautiful. And when he scoops me into his arms, lifting me clean off my feet and spinning us in a circle, I go dizzy with the feel of him and the smell of him . . . and the fact that he just spun me in a circle. My head swims and I wobble a little as he sets me on my feet and smiles down at me. He steadies me with firm hands on my shaking shoulders as I get my bearings.

I blink and give my head a shake. “So, is it done? I can go home?”

His glow fades a little. “I’m sorry. No. Not yet.”

“Why?” I ask, confused. “If you’ve got his accountant?”

He lets go of me and his mouth presses into a tight line. “We’re still going with the murder charge first. Arroyo knows it will be your testimony that puts him and Weber together in his office at the time of death. He’s not going to back down.”

“What about that girl? Does the accountant know what happened to her?”

He gives his head a small shake. “We haven’t been able to get enough from the records to even determine if Arroyo was responsible. I had Nichols pull together some more pictures I need you to look at.”

Any relief I was feeling about Ben’s accountant is instantly gone. “Anything,” I say. “Whatever you need.” My chest aches as I take my coffee to the living room and settle onto the sofa.

He goes to his messenger bag and pulls out a file, then sits on the sofa next to me. “These are FBI profile pics on people they’re tracking for human trafficking who are known to have been in California in the last year. It’s a long shot, but we have reason to believe Arroyo might have brought in a buyer to . . .” His jaw grinds tight with barely contained loathing. “. . . look at you. If any of them look at all familiar, that will at least give us a place to start.”

He spreads five glossy black and white photos on the coffee table, and I feel my face scrunch in disgust immediately. Because the one in the middle is Creepy Asian Guy.

“That one,” I tell Blake. “Nora called him Mr. Chang. Said he was some VIP or something. He wanted me to take my top off.”

Alarm flashes in Blake’s eyes.

“I didn’t,” I say when it’s clear that’s what he’s thinking. “I walked out.”

“Did he say anything else?”

I shake my head. “No. He was gross and I left.”

“When did you see him? Do you remember which night?”

I rest my forehead in my hand and try to think, but separating one night from the next is hard. They’re all measured in degrees of Blake . . . whether he was there or not, whether he touched me. “It was . . . I think it was the first night you came back to the club after we . . .” I rub my eyes so I don’t have to lift my head and look at him. “No . . . it was the second night. The night before you arrested me. He was my private right before you.”

He plucks the photo up and pulls out his phone. “She says Sayavong was at the club . . . it would have been . . . May ninth, I’m pretty sure.” There’s a pause as he studies the picture. “Yep, and a current whereabouts. He’s Laotian, but he has residences in Central America and the U.S.” He sinks back into the sofa. “And if you can pass the info along to Morgan over at the Bureau and get him on it . . .” He trails off and listens. “Thanks, Coop.”

When he lowers the phone, his gaze is intense. “I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if we hadn’t gotten you out of there when we did.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. I feel sick at the thought. I remember the way Creepy Asian Guy looked at me, how it made my skin crawl, and what Ben said to him. Let’s get this done before you sail. If Benny’s hadn’t gotten raided the next night, what would have happened?

“Can you remember anything else, Sam? Anything at all?” Blake presses.

“Ben walked the guy from the VIP room to his office. Before the door closed, Ben said, ‘Let’s get this done before you sail.’ ”

Blake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Sayavong flies in and out of the country. He’s on the FBI’s watch list, so we have all his flight information for the last few years. Unless . . .” He taps his index finger on his chin. “Maybe that’s how he moves his cargo . . . in containers. Arroyo might have been talking about a commercial ship.”

He’s back on the phone a second later, filling Cooper in on his theory. He stands and moves to the balcony as they work out a strategy to search shipping records, and I go to the kitchen and finish chopping the bell peppers. Blake is still on the phone when he comes back in and fires up the burner. He pours some egg into the pan and swirls it with is wrist. “He probably didn’t use one of the bigger shippers,” he’s saying to Cooper. “They have too many checks and balances . . . too much government oversight.”

I layer the veggies into the omelet, and when the egg starts to set, Blake adds the cheese, then folds it expertly. He gives me a playful shove with his hip and shoos me into the living room. “Yep. I think we should start there and work our way up,” he tells Cooper, flipping the omelet in the pan.

I sit, and that’s when I see Trent and Lexie’s wedding invitation, still on the coffee table. I’d forgotten about it, with everything else that happened.

I pick it up and flip it over in my hands, then slip it out and read it over again. There’s a pang in my heart I don’t expect as my finger trails over Lexie’s name. I really wish things were different. I wish I hadn’t said the things I did. I wish I could be there for her.

I slip her note out of the envelope and unfold it.

Dear Sam,

I know there’s nothing I can say to make up for the way things happened between us. I should have been honest with you when I realized I was in love with Trent. I was just so scared and confused. I thought being away from him in Rome would clear my head and make me see that what happened between us before I left was just a huge mistake. But it did the opposite. The longer we were apart, the more I realized what a big part of me he is. The more I realized I wasn’t whole without him.

It killed me not to be able to tell you this. Especially when you and he started spending time together. But I honestly didn’t know how he felt. I thought he regretted what we’d done and was trying to move on, and a part of me was happy it was with you, because I knew how you’d always felt about him.

Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I want you to know I didn’t plan any of it, and neither of us ever meant to hurt you. I miss you, and I wanted so much to talk to you before the wedding. Your mom said you’re away where you can’t be reached. I hope it’s somewhere fascinating, like Tibet. Whenever it is that you get this, just know that I so wanted you by my side for the wedding.

Miss you. Love you.

Lexie

I sit, staring at the note until the cushion next to me depresses. I look up to see Blake with a plate in each hand, and his expression all concern.

“Let me guess. The ex-boyfriend and his stepsister?” he says.

“Bingo,” I say, setting everything back on the coffee table.

He hands me an omelet. “Eat.”

I blow out a heavy sigh and take the plate. “Thanks.”

We eat, and when we’ve finished, I take our plates back to the kitchen and rinse them.

Blake brings his coffee and crosses to the stairs. “When you’re done,” he says, “come down.”

My gaze locks on his and he gives me that cocky almost-smile as he disappears down the stairs.

His bedroom’s down there.

I can’t stop my eyes from flicking at the stairs every few seconds while I finish cleaning. Once I have the dishes in the dishwasher, I follow him downstairs and find him in the middle of Kankû-dai. I watch, mesmerized, as he finishes.

“You ready to try again?” he asks after his final bow.

“Considering I really want to punch something, sure. Why the hell not.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I think we should stick with kata until your shoulder’s better.”

“My shoulder’s fine.” I give him my best smirk. “Just admit it. You’re scared of me.”

His face goes all serious and his eyes darken. “Everything about you scares the hell out of me.”

We just stand here staring at each other for the better part of forever, and I feel my breathing get rough and my insides churn with the need to finish what we started the other night.

Finally, he lowers his lashes. “So . . . Kankû-dai, or Kankû-shô?”

“I want to spar.”

His eyes flash back to mine. “You’re sure your shoulder is ready?”

I step closer. “I’m ready.”

He gives me a look. “Your wish, my command.”

I take a deep cleansing breath, then bow.

He bows then starts to circle slowly to his left. I follow his movements, but I can tell he’s waiting for me to make the first move.

“Don’t you dare go easy on me,” I warn, “because I’ll beat your ass at your best.”

He tips his head and a smile ticks one corner of his mouth. “Be careful what you wish for.”

I drop to a crouch and swing out with my leg, but Blake deflects my kick easily.

“I’m rusty,” I mutter under my breath.

He counters with a punch to my sternum, but I deflect it and spin, connecting with a kick to his knee.

We trade a few punches, then I lunge, but he twists out of my grasp. We circle a few more times, exchanging blows, which we both deflect. I go low for his legs again, and this time I get enough of his knee to take him down. But before I can get ahold of his leg to pin him, he’s rolled over his shoulder and is on his feet again.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he taunts.

“Be careful what you wish for,” I say, singsonging his words back at him.

He tips his head, his eyes sizing me up, looking for my weakness. He seems to zero in on my shoulder, taking a few jabs that I’m forced to deflect with my right arm, but then he takes me by surprise when he swings out with his leg, buckling my knee and dropping me to the floor.

I roll backward over my shoulder and spring to my feet, unleashing a kick that connects with his sternum and rocks him back on his heels. He stumbles against the pool table, and I’m on him in a heartbeat. But before I can get a grasp on him, he hooks an elbow under my leg, lifting me completely off the ground. He spins me and pins my back to the green felt.

He’s breathing hard as he hovers over me, his body wedged between my spread legs and his hands planted on either side of my shoulders, and I see the struggle behind his eyes. Beads of sweat trickle along his neck, disappearing under the brushed cotton of his T-shirt.

I lay here, frozen like the rabbit in the headlights, waiting for him to decide. He continues to hover over me for what feels like forever, his hot breath and the ravenous look in his eye turning my insides into a quivering mass.

But then something in his eyes changes. The fire is still there, but a shadow of resignation creeps over them and his jaw tightens with his growing resolve. He pushes off the pool table and slowly backs away, his hands in the air as if surrendering . . . maybe to his better judgment. Certainly not to me.

When I can move, I sit up and straighten my tank top.

He leans against the back of the sofa, catching his breath, and rubs a hand down his face. But then his eyes lift to mine. “What did the note say?”

“What?” I ask, wishing my thoughts were as easy to straighten out as my clothes.

“The wedding invitation . . . there was a note.”

“Oh.” I take a breath, trying to focus. “Lexie . . . my friend . . . she wants me there . . . at her wedding. She says she’s sorry for how things played out with Trent.”

“Is that what this was about?” he asks, gesturing to the pool table, and it takes me a second to get my head around what he means.

“God, no!” I say when I realize. “I am so over Trent.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, his gaze caught somewhere between fire and ice.

I lean my hands on the edge of the table near my knees. “The thing with Trent is, there’s not really much to get over. It’s not like we were ever all that serious, you know?”

He bites his lower lip, and it makes me want to bite it too. “Whether he was serious or not, you were. You waited a long time for him.”

“But it’s not like we ever slept together or anything,” I say with a shrug, lowering my lashes.

“I thought you said you were together for eight months.”

I hear the surprise in his voice, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. I glare at him to cover my mortification. “I told you. He was in love with someone else.”

He blows out a tense sigh and moves around to the front of the sofa, sinking into it and staring out the window at the pool below. “Are you . . . ? Have you ever . . . been with anyone?” he asks the window.

I slip off the pool table and move to the end of the sofa. “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking.” I’ve had sex exactly four times. Once with the guy I gave my V-card to, twice with a guy I dated for a month or so after that, and once with Jonathan. None of them rocked my world like Blake did in the pool.

He lifts his eyes to mine, and I’m not sure, but I think it’s relief I see in them. “I’ve only ever been with Vanessa . . . my fiancée. We were together for over a year before we even slept together.”

I lower myself onto the other end of the sofa and tuck a leg under me so I’m facing him. “I think it’s nice that you waited. You were in love. It meant something.” Part of me has always wished I’d waited for that—for someone who loved me.

He shakes his head slowly. “It wasn’t that. We just never . . . it wasn’t like this,” he says with a wave of his hand between us. “I’ve never been on fire like this for any other woman.”

My heart skips. “You’re on fire for me?”

He hangs his head, but his smoldering gaze stays locked on mine. “Burning alive.”

I shift deeper into the cushions, bringing my other knee up and drawing it to my chest. “But even if you were never on fire for her, you loved her.”

He bobs a small nod. “I did. She was my first, and I thought she’d be my last.”

“Do you still . . . I mean, if she wanted, would you . . .” I trail off and drop my forehead onto my knee, cringing at myself.

“No.”

I lift my head and see in his eyes that he knows exactly what I was trying to ask. “No?”

“No. She was smart, and we shared a lot of common interests, but—”

“Karate?” I interrupt, because, for some reason, I need to know if he rehearsed that move on someone else, or if it was just mine.

He gives his head a slow shake. “Our commonalities were less . . . physical.”

My heart slams into my rib cage at the flash of hunger in his eyes as he says that.

“I loved her,” he continues, “but what I know now is that there was never any real passion. When she broke it off, it hurt, but looking back, there was also an underlying sense of relief . . . on both of our parts, I think.” He shifts on the sofa so his elbows are on his knees and hangs his head between his shoulders. “I could have married her, and we could have been happy for a while, but I think at some point we both would have figured out something vital was missing. It was like all the parts were there, the heart, the lungs, the flesh and bone, but that intangible thing that makes something alive was missing, if that makes any sense.” He lifts his head and fixes me in his most intense gaze. “I don’t feel that way with you.”

My heart simultaneously aches and pounds as I slide closer. Slowly, I lean in and press a kiss to his lips. When I pull back, I hope he can see the inferno burning inside of me too. I stand and walk out the French doors, down to the pool, where I swim until I don’t have any energy left to do anything stupid. And then I swim some more.

BLAKE AND I have been mostly tiptoeing around each other for the last week, since the pool table incident. His mood has been lighter, but he’s keeping his distance. I’m not sure what that means.

Jenkins was here this morning when I got up, and I sort of freaked out a little, thinking I scared Blake off again. But I guess he’s just at the office for a few hours. I can’t help but hope that means we’re getting closer to the end of this.

It’s after five, and I’ve got a leg hooked over the arm of the living room chair, staring mindlessly at some really bad sitcom on the TV that has Jenkins nearly rolling on the floor laughing, when Blake steps out of the elevator. He’s got a black garment bag over one shoulder, a grocery bag dangling from the other hand, and a spark in his eye.

“Your girlfriend here was telling me you’re some kind of gourmet chef,” Jenkins says from where he’s sprawled on the sofa.

“No,” I say, annoyed, standing from the chair. “I said I was hungry and I wished Blake would get home and cook me something.”

I expect Blake to rebut the girlfriend remark, but he doesn’t say anything. He just shoots me a smile, and something stirs in my chest.

“I’m waiting for my invite, Montgomery,” Jenkins jabs.

Blake drapes the garment bag over the back of the chair on his way to the kitchen. “I’ve seen you eat, Jenkins. There’s enough in this bag for the two of us, or the one of you.”

Jenkins flicks off the TV and hauls his ginormous frame off the sofa. “This place is boring me to death anyway. I’ll go find a pizza.”

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” Blake says as he unpacks the bag.

“It’s an elevator,” Jenkins growls, punching the button.

“Later,” Blake says, flicking him a wave without looking up.

“So . . . ?” I ask, leaning on the counter opposite him once Jenkins is gone.

His eyes flick to me. “So . . . what?”

“You’re in a good mood.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m always in a good mood.”

“You are never in a good mood. What’s up? Am I finally getting out of here?”

The playfulness leaves his expression as he turns to unload stuff from his bag into the fridge, and I brace myself for bad news. “Look, Sam. I know how hard this has been for you, so . . .” He turns back and looks at me. “. . . yes.”

I just stare at him for a second, confused. “Yes?”

A slow smile creeps across his face and his eyes spark. “Yes.”

My eyes widen and my heart starts to race. “It’s over?”

He gives his head a slow nod. “For all practical purposes. Arroyo has pled out. His accountant gave us everything we needed. He knew he was going down on something, so he pled to the racketeering charges in exchange for dropping the murder charge.”

“So, what happens now? I mean, if Ben has pled out, what does that mean for me?” My heart thrums in my chest. I want this to be over. I want to go home. And as much as I want those things, I also want to kiss Blake again. If it was over, could I do that?

“The judge accepted the plea bargain. The murder charge is off the table.”

“Which means . . . ?”

“On my advice, the powers that be have agreed to keep you under protective custody for another week, just to be sure Arroyo’s satisfied you’re no longer a threat, but then you’re free to go.”

My heart simultaneously soars and sinks. I’m free. And so is Blake. Will he go back to L.A.?

He steps around the counter, gazing down at me. “So, you said when this was over you wanted to swim in the ocean. Are you ready to face your fears?”

I gape at him. “Oh my God! Seriously?”

“Seriously. It’s all arranged.”

I slide onto a stool, because if I don’t, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from breaking into some manic happy dance. “Diving?”

He nods, giving me a sexy half smile. “Snorkeling.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he says, taking another step closer and resting his hands on the arms of my stool.

I’m simultaneously terrified and excited, and I buzz with the burst of adrenaline. “I guess if a shark eats me, we don’t have to worry about Ben anymore.”

“My job is to protect you from all the things. That includes sharks.” When my eyes find Blake’s face again, his expression is amused. But it’s not amusement that dances in his eyes. It’s something hungrier. More possessive.

I draw a shuddering breath as he leans toward me. Can we?

His cheek brushes mine as he presses closer, his mouth at my ear.

I wait, my heart pounding.

“It’s almost over.” His voice is low and raw, and his breath in my hair pebbles my skin into goose bumps.

He pulls back, his eyes on fire, and I think the answer is yes. We can. But then shrugs off the arms of my stool and moves back to the kitchen.

And it’s a long time before I can breathe.