Sparking the Fire (22 page)

A panicked flapping started in her chest. “What about them?”

“Bill Solberg called me.” Bill had been Ryan's agent, but they'd parted on less-than-amicable terms after Ryan went against his advice and poured his money into a space opera that flopped at the box office.

“What did he have to say for himself?”

“That Ryan was behind the leak.”

Molly's heart jolted. “Ryan's a power player, but even he wouldn't be behind a full-scale hack. It was traced to some server in Russia, Cal.”

“Not the hack, the leak. Ryan used the hack to cover his tracks. He arranged for someone to release the photos and blamed it on the cloud service breach. According to Bill, those pics were never part of it. But—”

“I was in the middle of a bitter divorce and my husband saw an opportunity to make me suffer. He knew I'd fall apart. He—he . . .” The rest stuck in her throat, the full extent of Ryan's betrayal stinging her like hornets.

That. Penis.

“Maybe Bill's just trying to get payback on Ryan, but I don't think so. He knows what a poisonous snake his former client is and he thought you should know. I'm so sorry, hon.”

Molly drew a shuddering breath. “Doesn't change the facts, Cal. He was always a dickweasel. Now he's a lying, petty, malicious dickweasel.”

She pressed hard against the pain knotted behind her breastbone. She had thought there was nothing more her ex-husband could do to hurt her, but there you have it: Ryan Michaels, the gift that keeps on giving.

Those pictures had made her a target, fueling online vitriol from strangers and male smirks in studio meetings. Those pictures had brought her low and fucked her career. Those pictures had humiliated her grandmother to the point that she refused to speak to her only granddaughter or even share that she was dying of lung cancer.

Those pictures—
oh, God
. Had Ryan hated her that much?

“Molly, I'm sorry,” Cal was saying, her voice muffled by Molly's thudding heart. “I thought you should know, but maybe I should have waited and told you in person.”

“No. You did the right thing.” She tried to inhale but her lungs were incapable of filling. “It's just a shock, is all. I—I need to go now.”

“Okay,” Cal said tentatively. She clearly hated the idea of dumping and dashing. “Call me later?”

“Sure.” She clicked off.

And threw the phone clear across the yard, where it split into several pieces. Part of it landed in the herb garden. Another shard found a new home in the koi pond. Shit.

Shit shit SHIT.

She'd have to dig that out before the fish were poisoned. Fucking Ryan had dealt enough destruction already.

“Hey, Hollywood,” a deep voice intoned. “No diva tantrums allowed.”

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

E
yes that could put Wyatt six feet under twice snapped up, and too late, he realized that he might have made a mistake in being so flippant. Something was majorly off here.

“What's wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Just me being my diva self,” she snapped at Wyatt as she snatched at a pair of pink running shoes and stabbed her feet into them. Her eyes flickered to the remnants of the phone she'd chucked with a vengeance, and she seemed to waver before settling on a course of action. Sunglasses on, baseball cap pulled down, she marched to the gable of the house.

He was in her space in a CFD second. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but I'm heading out for a run.”

He was sensing a little attitude here. At eight in the evening, the July sun was hanging low on the horizon. Darkness always crept up quicker than expected. “Little late for that.”

“Don't care.”

“Wait a minute. I'll change.”

“Really, Wyatt?” She shook her head, her mouth pinched in disgust. “Don't bother. You stay your same, surly self.”

Okay, subtext thrown down, not in the least bit understood. The female brain was not his superpower. Protecting this woman was. He'd missed her. To the point that he'd taken on inventory and an extra shift at the bar last night so he wouldn't have to be reminded how much he missed her.

“Wait here,” he ordered.

She chose to ignore him, but the view sure looked as good going as it did coming.

Ninety seconds later, dressed in shorts and running shoes, he was assessing the street where he lived. Tonight it was its usual tree-lined and car-packed self, but angry blonde–free. His next-door neighbor, Mrs. Gish, was sweeping her front porch. Cleanest spot on the block, bar none.

“Evenin', Mrs. G. See any short blondes running like their head's on fire?”

Mrs. G pointed her broomstick toward the lake, four blocks off. Made sense. Ideal place to put out the flames.

He caught up with her a block from the lake path, a V of sweat already painting the back of her shirt. Falling into step with her, he hauled labored breaths for a few. He'd sprinted to make up the distance.

She didn't acknowledge him, just kept that pin-you-to-the-wall focus he'd seen her display on the set. Her body maintained excellent form, economical in movement, nothing wasted. Her disguise kept her anonymous, and he let the pleasure of that soak in. Out in public together, but no one knew or cared. They were just a couple on a Thursday evening running along the lake in the most beautiful city in the world.

Molly might be pissed, but Wyatt was feeling pretty good. Like he was where he was supposed to be.

She stopped so quickly that he'd already run a few steps and had to course correct on a dime to face her. Hands on hips, chest heaving, she stared at her feet as if they had committed the cardinal sin of daring to be . . . feet.

Then she howled at them, a gut-wrenching bellow. A couple walking their dog backed up toward the relative safety of the large body of water.

Wyatt let her scream. Whatever was making her mad, it was best she let it out.

She paced a few steps forward, a few back. He would have loved to pull her into his arms, rip off her sunglasses, and see all that fire in her eyes. But she needed the mask.

Maybe they both did.

She poked the air between them with an accusatory finger. “If you say something about how cute I look when I'm angry, you will not live.”

Wouldn't dream of it. If a woman had reason to be angry, then cute didn't enter into it.

Fists clenched on her hips, she stalked away from him, disgust in every step. Pivoted and stalked back. Getting her some time with the gym's punching bag moved up his list. For now, he was happy to stand in. Whatever she needed.

“If those pictures had been of a naked guy,” she spat out, “he'd be getting claps on the back and compliments on the size of his dick. Not that it was anything to write home about. Definitely a shower, not a grower. Fucking double standards . . .” She growled and gripped her hips tight enough to bruise. “I'm sick of it. Of getting paid less, of having male studio executives look at me in horror when I express an opinion, of being punished because I trusted the wrong person.”

The urge to touch her was overwhelming, but he resisted. There was a fair to decent chance she would bite his hand off. He could take that, but this was something she needed to work through, and pouring on the platitudes would not convince her. Protectiveness blazed in his chest, yet he made his arms like rods so they wouldn't enfold her.

With a nod of decision, she spun on those pink running shoes and started back the way they had come. And because it was his mission in life to protect her while torturing himself, he stayed with her, two steps behind, watching that Hollywood booty all the way.

B
ack at Gage's, Molly pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and leaned against the porch. Wyatt stood a few feet off, stretching his calf muscles on his cooldown. And he had the gall to be shirtless. Boy, was she pissed as all hell at him and his glorious sun-baked chest and lickable copper-colored nipples. She knew he was just convenient, but she was spoiling for a fight.

Say something, asshole. Anything.

He obliged. “Want to tell me what has you hate-running?”

“Oh, it talks.”

“Even at risk to my health.”

The run had not calmed her down in the slightest. Fury was barging through her veins, frustration at all the assholes who had dared to cross her making her muscles rage beneath her skin. Missy Hickson, who wore the same red polka-dot dress to the tenth-grade harvest dance when she knew Molly had planned to wear hers.
Asshole.
The driver of the Bentley who cut her off on the 110 that time, forcing her to sideswipe another car and lose her waitress job.
Asshole.
Her parents, who died in that jeep crash while helping cure Zambian orphans of river blindness.
Assholes.
(Not the orphans, her parents. She really missed her parents.)

“You don't want to make me angry.”

“You mean it could get worse? You scared people
into
the lake.”

She was expected to smile at that, she supposed.
I'm fine, absolutely fabulous, never fucking better.
But she wasn't feeling much like America's Fallen Sweetheart today. She was feeling like a raging bitch.

“Watch you don't use up your word quota, Wyatt. Wouldn't want you to have some sort of aneurism with the effort it takes to communicate with me.”

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her. “It's easier this way.”

“It's easier when you act like a jerk with the name, rank, and serial number bit?”

“Easier for everyone if we don't do this.”

“Do what? Be civil to each other? Friendly?” She stepped closer and touched his chest. Bad idea, because,
sizzle
. “Am I that much of a threat that a kind word to me might make you lose control and jump my bones?”

He covered her hand with his own, rough and warm against the glistening wall of his bare chest. This close to him, she inhaled clean sweat and male menace. Beneath her fingertips, his heart beat quick and vital.

The usual Wyatt Fox smoldering ensued. Gah! Fine, she'd say what was necessary. “I found a new place.”

“Where?”

“It's a condo near the studio with beefed-up security. I'll be out of your way and you'll only have to put up with me for brief spurts on the set.”

Those crystal-blue eyes flamed. “You think it's a chore for me to spend time with you, Molly?”

“You've made it clear I'm just your duty. Well, duty performed, Marine. You're off the hook.”

He pushed her back toward the narrow passageway that separated his house from Gage's, and pinned her to the wall, huge and furious above her.

“Off the hook, Mol? Where you're concerned, there's no such thing.”

His lips lowered to her mouth and took possession, and it seemed possession was catching. One hand cupped her ass, drew her up and against him. His other held her head in place for his deep, brutal kiss. She was drowning, and he was both pushing her under and keeping her afloat.

He drew back, his mouth harsh with lust. “Did that taste like duty?”

“Tasted like a kiss-off.”

He clearly wanted to argue with her assessment—her lie—but he probably didn't want to give her any encouragement. His palm coasted down her sweat-drenched arm and locked with her hand. With a weirdly sexy bafflement, he looked at the clasp of their two palms together, as though he needed to convince himself of the possibilities in that small gesture.

Holding his hand, she felt the curious sensation of something fitting into place. Panicked, she jerked away, but he yanked back. In one swift movement, he lifted her against him and positioned her, straddling his hips.

She might have helped.

“C'mon, baby,” he rasped, as graveled as the ground beneath their feet. “Give it to me good.”

So she did. She kissed him angry, pouring the pain of that revelation about Ryan and the photos into her assault. She bit his lip, ate at his mouth, tugged at his beard. And he took it.

Shocked at her behavior, she drew back. This wasn't fair to him. He'd been her rock, and here she was treating him like a sex object.

“Wyatt, I—I'm sorry.”

“I'm not.”

Without realizing they had moved, she found her back flat against the back door to his kitchen. Which he pushed through and kicked closed, because apparently releasing her was not an option.

Her heart punched painfully against her ribs. She kissed him again, relishing his taste now that her fury was no longer ruining her appetite. He kissed back, all while continuing forward, ruthless, a man on a mission. Through the hall (decked out with a disturbing quantity of Cubs memorabilia), up the stairs, into the . . . bathroom?

Only then did he put her down. He rolled back the shower curtain—Cubs, again—and turned on the faucet.

“Wyatt, what the hell?”