Brash (13 page)

When she smiled, he did too.

“I was really laying it on thick—I was so angry and confused. Anyway, just as I was going off on how impossible that idea was, a dark brown cat came out from behind one of the gravestones. Right hind leg clearly broken. And it hobbled over to me. Lay down next to me. It . . . wouldn't leave me. After the service, my dad and I took her to the vet. The doctor said another day and he wouldn't have been able to save her leg.” She was thoughtful for a second, maybe remembering the cat; then she inhaled deeply. “That day I'd started out feeling hopeless and angry, but by sunset I felt like maybe I had a purpose. I could save someone's life, even if I couldn't save my mother's.”

He knew exactly what she was saying. He didn't have a cat appear to him, but that's what fighting had done for him. Given him a purpose. Granted him forgiveness.

“Do you believe that cat was your mother?” he asked.

She shrugged, smiled softly. “I don't know.”

“I guess death can make us believe some strange shit, do some strange things.”

“Like fight an endless battle?”

It was as if the sounds around them had been ripped away and only stark, awful silence remained. Grace was staring at him as she took a sip of her margarita.

“We're talking about Cass now, right?” he asked, breaking the quiet. “Not the ring?”

She shrugged.

“That what you think I'm doing? Fighting an endless battle over what happened to her?”

She sighed. “I don't know. It popped into my head. I'm not trying to peg you or fix you or diagnose you—” She started to laugh.

Cole did too. Couldn't help himself. “Well, that's good to know.”

“I'm just trying to understand you. Not all that smart of a thing to do or say between two people with conflicting goals. But there it is.”

For several long seconds, Cole just stared at her. Such a pretty woman, lips and cheeks flush from the heat of the chiles, and eyes that didn't judge him, only questioned him. Wanted to know him, she'd said. Why'd she have to be the way she was? All the things she was? Making him think and question? And wonder . . .

He glanced down at his phone. “It's nearly eight thirty.”

“Is our coach about to turn into a pumpkin?” She gave him a gentle smile.

Damn, he didn't want the night to end. “Helicopter's scheduled for nine.”

She placed her napkin on her nearly empty plate. “We should get going, then.”

“Yeah.” He pulled out his wallet. Maybe he could hurt his ankle again. Stay in the pink room for a few more days.

“Hey,” she whispered.

He looked up.

“Smile, Cole Cavanaugh,” she said brightly. “The sunshine is good for your teeth.”

He took her hand and led her out of the restaurant.

Sun's gone to bed, Doc. And goddamn, if we could get out of here unscathed, that's exactly where I'd love to take you.

*   *   *

Grace felt good. Warm. Relaxed. No doubt courtesy of the margarita and the man sitting next to her in his beautifully restored blue Mustang convertible. But when he pulled up near the airstrip where they'd landed earlier and killed the engine, her heady buzz turned into a solid, deep ache. She didn't want to go. Her body had started to grow accustomed to him. This fighter. This man who was both simple and complex, kind and brutal.

Her eyes caught on the Cavanaugh helicopter
in the distance. The Long Horn shone blue under the stark moonlight. It was waiting. Ready to take her back home where she belonged. Ready to take her back to reality. But she didn't want to go. Back to the investigation. To all she hadn't told Cole. To the pull of the truth—to her father's potential past deeds.

But she had to. She had started to open her door when she felt Cole's hand on hers. It was strong and warm, and she gave it a gentle squeeze as she turned around to face him one last time.

He looked contemplative. A struggle was going on behind those dark eyes of his. “You okay?” she asked.

“I want to go with you. Walk you to your door and all that.”

A soft smile touched her lips. “That's very nice, but you have an all-day training session tomorrow.”
And I have a meeting with Sheriff Hunter
. “I think you should go home.”

“I don't have a home.”

He sounded so comically down that she laughed. “Yes, you do.”

“It's a hotel.”

“And probably a beautiful one. Go get a good night's sleep, Cole.”

He released her hand, drove his fingers through his hair, and growled.

“What?” she asked.

“I'm not tired.”

Her lips twitched. He sounded like a petulant boy. A boy with lots of muscle and a significant amount of body art. For a few seconds she allowed herself to wonder just how much body art he had. And if there were any pieces he kept hidden.

“If I fly with you,” he said, pulling her from her thoughts, “I'll sleep on the way back.”

Tempting. So tempting. “You're not thinking.”

His eyes darkened. “You're right.”

Tendrils of delicious heat snaked through her. And without forethought, she reached out and touched the bruising under his left eye. “You need to rest. We want to make sure this doesn't happen again.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Something she'd never seen before. A thread of vulnerability, maybe. Then he turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. Grace gasped. Not loudly, just a quick intake of breath, but Cole heard it and his nostrils flared.
Friend
. Why was she calling him that? That's not what they were—what they were becoming.

It's because that's all you should be. Where can this possibly go?
He's shown you what he is. An endless battle . . . a scarred brother. A man who sees no end to his struggle. And then there's you . . . secretive . . . scared . . . keeping so much from him.

She let her fingers move gently over his face to his jaw, then to his neck. The look he gave her turned her blood to lava. Hot, hungry, uneasy. A
warning that if she kept touching him he was going to touch her right back.

Heat pooled low in her belly as she stared at him. It was as if she had no control of her actions when she was this close to him. As if her mind had been severed from her heart and instincts. Her hand stole around his neck and she leaned in and kissed the bruise beneath his eye. When he groaned, she did too. Panic and lust were flaring within her. She wanted him, wanted to be touched by him—wanted to kiss him—but she was also scared of going down this road again. Another charming bad boy who lived in the moment—or in Cole's case, the past—and didn't want to look to the future. But what was that future? For either of them? She eased back a few inches, gazed into those intense black eyes.
You started this, Grace. You touched him first. You kissed him . . .

And then his mouth was on hers and she forgot the world outside even existed. Forgot anything she'd thought before or questioned. His kiss took her, captured her, owned her. Made her knees weak. He tasted like the sugary mint Maria had placed on the table with a copy of his credit card receipt. It was delicious. He was delicious. She wanted to crawl up on his lap, wrap her legs around his waist, run her hands into his hair. And before she could stop herself, think, or reason, she did exactly that.

Forget that the car wasn't all that big or accommodating. That the top wasn't down and her head skimmed the cloth. Forget that the chopper waited in the distance, and Cole needed rest and recovery. His hands were on her waist, his fingers dipping underneath her tank top. Her belly twisted with need and her underwear was wet. She'd never felt this charged in her life and kissing him just wasn't enough.

His hands skimmed up her lower back, the rough pads of his fingers against her hot skin. She groaned against his mouth, drove her tongue inside and tasted him. More sweet. More mint.

His fingers worked the clasp of her bra, unhooking it in seconds. She was free, her nipples beading—waiting for his touch. But instead his hands continued up her back to her shoulders. And then he was taking off her shirt. She only noticed because he tore his mouth away.

His incredible mouth. God, his lips were full and talented. He wasn't one of those eager guys who slobbered all over you or tried to ram their tongue down your throat. Oh, he wanted her. She could feel the hard length of him every time she pressed herself closer. Impressive. She moaned at just the thought—the hope. God, could they do it in this car?

Her shirt was off. Bra too. She was naked from the waist up and loving the cool air on her skin.

“Oh, Doc,” he uttered on a near growl, pressing her back ever so gently against his steering wheel. His eyes—black and glittering with possessive hunger—raked over her. “You are one gorgeous woman.”

Breathing heavily, Grace watched him. Watched as his hands went to her neck, his fingers tracing over the two cords of muscle, then over her collarbone. She wanted to scream at him:
Hurry up! Damn you. Hurry up! I'm going crazy here. I want more. You. Hands on my breasts. Mouth on my nipples. I want to be licked and bitten and—

Her thoughts disintegrated as he filled his hands with her, as he massaged her breasts, first gently, lovingly, then hungrily, his teeth gritted. Her sex felt heavy, tight, so wet. She felt madness touch her mind. Never in her life had she wanted anything more than this man.

“Look at you,” he ground out, his fingers finding her nipples. He pinched them both lightly.

Grace cried out, ground her hips against his erection.

“You've changed my mind about pink, Doc,” he said, tugging, pulling, circling.

“Oh God!” This was insane. She was going to lose her mind. Or come. Right here in this car.

Her hands went to the button of his jeans. She needed him, needed to feel him.

But he stopped her. Left one of her breasts and
gripped her hand instead. Their eyes met and locked.

“What's wrong?” she asked through labored breaths. “You don't want me to touch you?”

“Fuck, yes, I want you to touch me,” he said through tightly clenched teeth.

“Then let me.”

“No. Fuck.” He took her hand and guided it to her breast. The breast he'd abandoned. “I can't. Nothing. Not until this fight is over.”

Realization dawned, and she shook her head. “Then let's stop. Both of us. I can't—”

“Oh, yes, you can,” he said fiercely. “And you will.” He flipped the button of her jeans and rammed the zipper down. “Touch your breasts, Grace. Show me what you like. Show me what my mouth should be doing.”

Confusion warred with inexplicable desire inside her. She hated that he could have nothing and she was going to have everything. But he was determined and she was too far gone to fight. As she squeezed her breasts all the way to the nipples, flicking them, rolling them, Cole dipped into her underwear and found her slick, wet folds. His nostrils flared and he cursed.

“Someday,” he began in a guttural tone, “this hot, wet pussy will be mine. Jeans off. Underwear torn by my teeth and discarded on the floor.” His fingers sank between her lips and found her
swollen clit. “First I'll lick you. Every inch. Until my throat ain't dry anymore. Then I'll ease my tongue up inside you until you cry out.”

Grace was one fully charged power line ready to explode. His fingers played her clit as she played her nipples. Flicking, circling, pinching. Cream trickled from her sex onto the backs of Cole's fingers.

His eyes turned so black the pupils disappeared. “I have to know. What I'm missing. No, that's not right. What I can look forward to. My prize when I win.” His thumb rested on her clit as he slid two fingers inside her. “Ah . . . fuck, Grace. Oh, baby. How'd you get so hot?”

But Grace couldn't speak. Not in any real way. Moans, cries, hopes to give more, take, yes . . . Her body was his. He was pumping inside her, his thumb pressing against her clit. The build was glorious and greedy, and she came, pumping her hips, forgetting her breasts, just gripping on to whatever she could for support. Her cries were loud and shocking, and didn't recede until he eased his fingers from her and pulled her tight against his body.

They remained that way, heavy breaths in a car with fogged-up windows, for long seconds.

“Stay,” he uttered. “No, fuck, don't stay.”

She laughed softly. Or she thought she did.

“I want you. If you stay . . .”

“Don't, Cole,” she said. If he really asked her,
she would. She was in no position to refuse him anything. Her body was still screaming. Not for another release, but for him. Inside her. All night long. “Can't. Belle and work.”

“Okay, then I'm going with you.”

She shook her head. “No. Please.” She pushed off him, into her seat. She zipped and buttoned, then reached for her bra and tank. “You need to focus. You need rest.” As she yanked her tank back on, she swore she heard him mutter, “I need you,” but she refused to acknowledge it. “And maybe we need to get our bearings. That was . . . intense.” She scrambled out of the car.

Cole was beside her in an instant. His jaw was as tight as the rest of him. But he took her hand as he walked her over to Deacon's helicopter. He gave a
Hi
sign to the pilot, then helped Grace inside. She strapped herself in, feeling hot and uncomfortable.

He stepped back, his eyes locked with hers. He looked ready to explode, and she wondered if abstaining included not touching himself. She thought that was probably the case. The more sexually frustrated, the better.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

“Say hi to Belle for me,” he said.

“I will. In the morning. She's staying at my neighbor's. Rest, okay?”

His nod was clipped. “Safe flight.”