Authors: Megan Crane

Make You Burn (19 page)

BOOK: Make You Burn

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Whistling to Baxter to follow, she retraced Travis’s steps through the courtyard and into the building. Her dog might be small, but he had a lot of bite and she felt more confident with him at her side. If Travis tried anything, she had no doubt that Baxter would sink his teeth into the guy’s leg, and the idea of him squealing in pain gave her a tiny bit of joy in what was turning out to be a very crappy day. Although more than likely he’d just kick Baxter in the teeth.

She stepped inside—he hadn’t bothered to shut the door—and although there was no immediate sign of him besides his backpack on the kitchen floor, her home already felt different. It felt…compromised.

The rooms at the back of the gallery were far too many for just Billie. In theory there was plenty of room for a housemate, but that wasn’t the point. She hadn’t advertised for one, and if she had, a guy like Travis would be the last person she’d get. She got the feeling that even if they were sharing one of the mammoth French Quarter mansions, she still wouldn’t be able to relax with him around. He’d stalked inside like a tiger and the sensations he sparked inside her were not at all unpleasant, despite her head telling her to be on guard.

The sound of doors opening and closing had her heading down the corridor in search of him. She found him, much to her annoyance, in her bedroom, staring into her wardrobe. And although she should have told him to get the hell out, she took her sweet time in announcing herself, choosing instead to take a moment just to look. Her earlier assessment of “hot” didn’t really do him justice. He had dark hair—not short, but by no means long, either—and dark stubble to match. Never before had she found a beard attractive, but his wasn’t long and bushy, and on him, it worked. So much so she had to swallow to stop from drooling. The dark leather jacket only enhanced his appeal, perhaps because it was so far from anything her ex-husband would ever have worn.

Pity he was such an ass. Not in the same way as her ex perhaps, but an ass just the same.

She cleared her throat and forced her itchy hormones back in their box. Now was not the time for them to awake from hibernation.

“This room is mine,” she said, folding her arms and glaring at him with more bravado than she felt as he turned to look at her with his dark, smoldering eyes. She shivered despite herself and almost forgot to add, “If you insist on staying, you’ll have to choose from one of the others.”

He took his time replying, his gaze sliding downward, scalding her body as if he’d actually touched her. For a moment she thought he was going to object—tell her that not only would he share her house but also her bed—but eventually he shut her wardrobe and nodded. “I always preferred the one next to this anyway.”

She swallowed. Of all the rooms in the house, he wanted to choose the one right next to hers? How would she sleep knowing he was mere meters away? Still, she was hardly in a position to argue and if it would get him out of her personal space, well, that was a start.

“Fine.” She stepped back and gestured for him to leave. The only good thing about having Travis right next door was that she could keep an eye on him. Or was that a bad thing?
Argh.

Surprisingly, he obeyed, stalking past her and smirking again as he did. She hated that she caught a waft of some raw, masculine cologne, which sent ripples of need through her body, rousing places she’d given little thought to over the last year. How ironic that the first sign of life down there had sparked because of a man who seemed intent on messing up her life. Why were the sexiest guys, the best-looking ones, always the biggest jerks?

He didn’t head straight for his room, instead going into the kitchen, and she found herself following. Her hackles rose as he opened the refrigerator and leaned inside, giving her a perfect view of his perfect butt.
Oh help me, God!
Had any guy she’d ever known looked so damn fine in faded jeans? Her thighs involuntarily clenched.

“No beer,” he said as he straightened.

Despite the traitorous hormones rushing through her body, she shook her head. It went against the grain of every single cell in her body not to be hospitable, but then again she hadn’t invited him to stay here with her. “Nope. Sorry. But there’s a bar next door.”

She wished he’d go back to it. He had to be one of the Deacons that had been hanging around The Priory the last few days. Sophie had given her a brief history of the motorcycle club—apparently it had disbanded around the time of Katrina—and informed her that it would be unlikely any of its members would hang around after her father’s funeral. But, dammit, it looked like she’d been wrong on that account. Billie needed to go see Sophie, make sure this guy was for real. For all she knew he could be anybody. He hadn’t shown her any proof that he owned the building, but something—maybe the way he’d leaned into her face when he told her no one tells him what the fuck to do—made her cautious. He was like a wild animal and she didn’t want to make any sudden moves.

He smiled wickedly and leaned back against the counter, looking her over again, making her feel aroused and insulted all at once. “I know it. The bar and this place used to be my home.”

“Is that right?” She wondered about Travis Sinclair. He had the leather jacket, the swagger in his step and the don’t-mess-with-me attitude of a biker, but there was something about him that didn’t fit the image. He wore no patches like a couple of other guys she’d seen hanging around next door, but that wasn’t it. There was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “And where is your home now?”

She waited for him to tell her it was none of her fucking business, but he shrugged off his jacket, hung it over one of the odd chairs that sat around her kitchen table, and then pulled back the seat and straddled it. “Tallahassee,” he said as he leaned down and yanked a laptop out of his pack. It was a flashy MacBook Air—not at all the type of computer she’d expect of a biker. He didn’t even glance her way as he put it on the table in front of him, lifted the lid and tapped his boots against the tiled floor as he waited for the computer to spring to life.

No idea where Tallahassee was—geography had never been her thing—she vowed to google it later. Leaning back against the kitchen counter, she wiped her palm across her brow, feeling hot and more than a little bothered. Being warm in itself wasn’t unusual in New Orleans or in Western Australia where she came from, but the weather had nothing to do with the rise in her body temperature. And that disturbed her.

Her eyes zoned in on the bad-boy ink that traveled the length of his sculpted and tanned forearms, and the heat that had been simmering inside her boiled over.

Until this moment she’d have said she wasn’t a fan of body art—personally, she preferred her art on walls or in gardens—but Travis’s tattoos changed her opinion. And that was bad, because with her divorce only recently official, the last thing she wanted in her life was another man who thought he could walk all over her.