A Perfect Storm (24 page)

She shook her head. “I don’t
want to sleep.”

Spencer could see the wheels
turning. So she no longer minded kissing—that didn’t change anything else,
not her past, and not the fact she was drunk.

Besides, he couldn’t delay
things any longer, not here, out on the street, exposed to
danger.

He looked out the back window
but saw no one and nothing. Was Dare still following them? If so, Spencer
couldn’t even imagine what he’d think.

He lifted Arizona back to her
own seat. “Sorry, honey, but I need you to put your seat belt back
on.”

“But—”

“I’m done arguing, Arizona. Just
do it.”

She resettled herself with angry
movements. “You’re a real killjoy, you know that?”

Spencer fought a reluctant grin
as he put the truck in gear and pulled back out to the road. God help him,
it was getting more and more difficult to play this game.

And with every minute, it felt
less like a game anyway.

Everything about her appealed to
him, especially her independence. She went after what she wanted, whether it
was a new knife, a fight with a scumbag like Janes, or…a devastating kiss
with him.

If it weren’t for the danger, he
would have loved watching her work. She pulled off the “look at me, I’m so
helpless” act to perfection. But when necessary, she was ballsy to the
extreme, with the skill to back it up.

He didn’t hear from Dare again,
but he assumed he still followed.

Taking a disjointed route back
home took longer but felt safer. No way in hell would he lead anyone to his
place.

By the time they reached his
driveway, Arizona was almost asleep. She’d curled up toward the passenger
door, her long hair hanging down to hide her face, her arms folded around
her middle, her sandals discarded on the floor.

Sexy. Like a slumbering
kitten—but with sharp claws.

“We’re here,” Spencer softly
told her.

“Whoop-de-doo.”

Okay. Not so asleep after
all.

“Let’s go.” He got out and
walked around to her side of the truck, but she’d already opened her door
and started a zigzagging stride up the walkway. Barefoot. The turbulent
night air swirled around her, lifting her long hair and sending leaves to
scuttle past her ankles.

Rushing to grab her purse and
sandals, Spencer caught up to her and took her arm. “You’re
hammered.”

“Yeah, the booze is sort of
sinking in, ya know? I feel it more now than I did when I first left the
bar.” Then she paused, looked toward Marla’s and gave an exaggerated wave.
“Hey, neighbor!”

Spencer turned his head around
in time to see a curtain drop. He did not need this conversation tonight.
“Keep going.”

“What? You don’t want to chat
with your lover?”

God, no, he didn’t want that.
Unless Arizona became his… He put the brakes on that provocative thought.
“Inside.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.
Thank you, sir.”

His mouth twitched again. “I am
not that bossy.”

“Ha!” She nearly knocked herself
over with that exaggerated exclamation. “Bossy, and arrogant, and a…a
tease.
”

Hauling her into his side,
Spencer supported her while they went up the porch to the front door. “You
need sleep a whole lot more than you need anything else.”

“But we were going to eat
cake.”

He got the door unlocked, opened
it—and she almost fell inside. “That’ll have to wait.” Giving up, he scooped
her into his arms.

“Wait.” She straightened her
neck to look around. “You’re going to carry me? Seriously?”

Shrugging, Spencer looked down
at her, their faces close. “Seems easier than rolling you to
bed.”

“But since we are going to a
bed…” She touched her forehead to his. “I can think of better things to do
than…” She burped, then snickered. “Sorry.”

“Right. Hold that thought.”
After pressing her head to his shoulder to remove a modicum of the
temptation, he kicked the door shut and started forward.

Through the silent, dark house,
Spencer carried her—and he enjoyed it. A lot. Probably too much.

“Not the couch?” she asked when
he passed it.

“Not tonight, no.”

“I don’t want to sleep in your
guest bedroom,” she rushed to say.

“I know.” He hugged her just a
little. Sooner or later he’d find out why she hesitated to use the room.
“I’m taking you to my bed.”

“Really?” Her arms tightened
around his neck, and she whispered, “Change your mind?”

“No.” But God, he wanted to.
Holding her like this felt…right.

And dangerous.
To him and her, both.

The steady drumming of her
heartbeat, the lush press of her breasts to his chest, her warm thighs over
his forearm…all combined to ramp up his awareness.

With regret, he let her legs
slide down until her feet touched the tiled bathroom floor. He dropped her
sandals and set her purse on the vanity. “Why don’t you do…whatever you do
before bed, and I’ll be right back.”

She lounged against the sink.
“Where are you going?”

“To lock up. I’ll just be a
minute.”

“Okeydokey.” She closed the door
on him.

Taking his time, Spencer turned
the dead bolt on the front door, checked the windows and then went to his
bedroom to turn down the bed. He’d just finished when Arizona
emerged.

Her hair was damp around her
face, so she’d splashed it—but hadn’t removed all her makeup. She stopped in
front of him, swaying just a little.

He tipped up her chin and
examined the place where she’d been hit. Even in the dim light, he saw the
darkening bruise that colored the side of her mouth and along her
jaw.

He touched it with his thumb. “I
hate it that you got hurt.” Again. Under his watch.

Damn it, he wanted to protect
her, not let her suffer more abuse.

Her mouth tilted. “I’ve had a
lot worse, so quit worrying about it.”

Her breath smelled of
toothpaste, and her eyes looked dazed. “You’re not making this any easier on
me.” Bending down, he brushed his mouth over the bruise. She started to lean
into him.

Before he got carried away,
Spencer said, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” and he left for the
bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth, too.

Because he didn’t completely
trust her not to bolt on him, he left the door ajar and listened for her
while he did a rush job of preparing for bed.

Less than two minutes later he
came out to find her curled on her side in his bed.

The jean skirt lay crumpled on
the floor.

She hadn’t even bothered to get
under the covers.

His heart punched hard at seeing
her like that—deeply asleep, in his bed, wearing only black panties and an
insubstantial tank top that hugged her lush curves.

Drawn to her, Spencer approached
the bed, stood at the side of the mattress and took his time looking over
every inch of her. A fully naked, well-posed centerfold model couldn’t have
been more tempting.

Silky panties barely covered
her, leaving much of her smooth hips and bottom on display. His hands curled
with the need to touch her, to stroke over that honey-colored
skin.

She had her long, sleek legs
bent at the knee, one drawn up to expose her almost like an invitation.
Visually he traced the rise of her proud shoulder, down the dip to her tiny
waist and then back up again to the curves of that sexy backside.

Physically, he wanted her so
much he hurt.

And emotionally… God, he choked
on the thick emotions, they so overwhelmed him.

Because he had to touch her, he
aimed for safe ground and drifted his fingertips through her hair, tucking
it back so he could better see her beautiful face. Leaning down, he pressed
a gentle kiss to her brow. She felt baby soft and smelled woman warm—an
intoxicating mix.

Now, right at this moment, she
was dead to the world, at peace, her expression utterly relaxed.

Young.

Carefree.

All the things she should
be—even when awake and aware.

If she saw him standing there
with a jones, admiring her in her sleep, she’d probably deck him. Grinning
over that probability, Spencer dropped his hand and took a step back, then
slowly opened the snap to his jeans and slid down the zipper past his
erection.

He would sleep with her, he’d
hold her, but he would not take advantage.

There wasn’t anything he could
do about the boner except suffer it.

Would she still want him in the
morning?

Without drink clouding her
judgment, would she still be able to push past her demons and overcome her
reservations to take what she wanted?

And if she did, then
what?

All his reasons for not
indulging that final intimacy still remained. Taking her, being inside her,
would only make it more difficult to do what was right—what was best for
her, what would be honorable for him.

Because her past skewed her
perception of any intimate relationship, Arizona didn’t—
couldn’t
—know her own
mind. Her history hampered clear thought and insight the same way too much
alcohol did. He shouldn’t take advantage of either.

Spencer shook his head. All the
arguments made sense; they were valid, of course. But he fought a losing
battle, and he knew it.

In her unique, kick-ass way,
Arizona personified temptation.

Pulling the covers out from
under her, he tucked her in and turned out the low light. What would she
think when she awoke with him in the morning?

Anticipating her reaction, he
skinned off his jeans, put those and her skirt on a chair, and in boxers
only, he stretched out beside her.

She didn’t stir.

Though Arizona wasn’t a fragile
woman, she was so much smaller than him, her bone structure slight in
comparison. He slid an arm under her head, another around her waist, and
pulled her up close against his body so that he spooned her.

Amazingly enough, wrapped around
her protectively, affectionately,
lovingly…
it was the most comfortable
he’d been in a very long time.

* * *

I
CY RIVER WAS CLOSED
over her head, but she kicked hard and broke the surface
long enough to gulp in much-needed air. Fierce rainfall stung her face;
laughter sounded over the thunder. A bright flashlight beam hit her in the
eyes, momentarily blinding her.

Panic sank its claws deep, but she fought
it off.
Think, Arizona,
think.

Her next breath was the most immediate
need, but, God, the river pulled at her, and without her arms to help,
staying afloat was not only awkward, but nearly impossible. She choked on
dirty water, shivered from the bone-deep chill.

Where was the shore? Which way and how
far?

And if she made it there, then
what?

They’d only throw her back in.

Probably with the added disadvantage of a
bullet or knife wound.

Suddenly the chatter, the heckling, even
the laughter stopped. Despite the rushing sounds of the river and the night
and the raging storm, the loss of human words clamored against her
brain.

Thighs screaming with exhaustion,
despondency strangling her, she broke the water again—and saw a skirmish on
the bridge.

It so surprised her that she went under
again and swallowed a mouthful of the foul water. She kicked, but her legs
felt leaden. Her lungs screamed, her shoulders ached so horribly from the
unnatural pull of the tight bonds…

So tired that every muscle in her body
cramped, she almost gave up—and then a splash sounded near her. Forgetting
to kick her legs, she went under once more—and strong arms closed around
her.

Fear surged, giving her renewed
strength.

“Shh,” he said as he pulled her toward
shore. “I’ve got you now. I swear it’s okay.”

A man, big and so incredibly strong that
he controlled himself and her against the deep tug of the river.

But who, and why?

Unwilling to trust anyone, she
head-butted him, making him curse. But he didn’t loosen his secure
hold.

Oh, God, oh, God…

She kicked, and her heel connected a few
times but gained her nothing. Thrashing, fighting, she did everything she
could to get free, and still he dragged them nearer and nearer to the
shore.

The moment his feet touched ground, she
felt it. Seconds later hers did, too.

She didn’t scream, didn’t call out or
cry. Instead, she did everything in her physical power to get
free.