Sparking the Fire (30 page)

“This has been an unexpected summer.” His gaze strayed to Roni, his heart with it.

“She'll come around,” she said quietly. “That girl needs you.”

“Does she? 'Cause it seems like she's getting along just fine with everyone but me.” Yep, petty jealousy was this year's black.

“You're the one who connected with her first. She's worried about getting close because losing
you
, her blood connection to her father, would be the hardest.”

His sigh was borne of a year's frustration. “She's not gonna lose me. Any of us.”

“She'll figure that out.”

Tired of talking, he cupped her ass to lift her close, slanted his mouth over hers, and took what he needed. She surrendered, but only for a few seconds.

“Wyatt, your niece is literally a few feet away from us. Brady's upstairs. Not here.”

This sneaking around was sexy but it was also exhausting. He was thirty-four years old, for fucking out loud.

“I need a night with you in a bed, where I can do unspeakably illegal things to you, not scraps in the backseat of a car on blocks in my garage.”

“You'd better not be knocking the Camaro.”

“Babe, you deserve better than a quick fumble.”

She scoffed. “Quick? Ha! You are slower than a snail on top of a turtle. I've never met a guy who takes his time like you do.”

He pinned her against the sink. “You're complainin'?”

“Merely making an observation.”

She slipped out of his grasp, sat back at the table, and picked up a script. Peeking up at him through her lashes, she gave his body a thorough inventory. He'd been half hard with her in his arms; now he sprang to full mast under her scrutiny.

“This sucks,” he muttered, sounding very like his fifteen-year-old niece.

Cue that impudent grin. “Guess you shouldn't have started the hot, illicit affair on your home turf, then, should you have?”

Cheeky. He went to lunge at her, but Brady walked in, and any hopes of escaping another day without the balls of blue scooted out the door.

•   •   •

ThighTickler:
Tell Gage you have a friend in town tonight. You're staying at a hotel, good security.

HollywoodBooty:
What's the plan, Marine?

ThighTickler:
Wear something hot. A disguise.

HollywoodBooty:
Mysterious. Where are we going?

ThighTickler:
No more questions! Car will pick you up at eight. Stay fierce on the set, babe.

Wyatt walked into the bar and took a seat at the end. Busier than five years ago, its clientele appeared to consist mostly of out-of-town suits looking to get laid by other out-of-town suits. He checked his phone again. Two minutes early, but then he was never late.

Placing his palms on the bar, he popped his head up and sent a glance over the other barflies. No sign of her. He'd made sure there was no one around at home to see the car he'd arranged to pick her up—Roni was having a girls' night with her aunts; Brady and Gage were working. The planets were aligned. They might never get another chance like this.

He tried not to infuse too much meaning into those words.

A Coke bottle appeared before him.

“From the lady at the end of the bar.” The bartender looked skeptical, as if the notion of laying a drink on a stranger in a crowded bar was the weirdest thing he'd ever come across.
You have much to learn, my friend.
He waited for Wyatt's nod of acceptance.

Wyatt raised the bottle to his lips and took a sip, the sweet nectar slipping down his throat easily. He loved the cool slide of the sugary sweetness better than any beer or scotch. He'd never been a drinker, preferring to remain in control. A Coke had always been his treat during those days on the grifters' road with Billy and Logan. Not that Billy would ever buy his son a treat, but Logan would slip him one when Billy wasn't looking.

Bottle in hand, he slid off the stool and took a stroll down the bar until he reached her usual spot.

Holy hotness, Batman.
Tonight, the role of rock chick will be played by Molly Cade.

A sleek black wig, short leather skirt, sheer lace top, and spike-heeled boots made up a vision for the ages.

He gripped the back of the empty seat adjacent, the only way he could stop from touching her.

“Is this seat taken?”

She lifted . . . green-tinted eyes shining through long fake lashes. If he didn't know her intimately, he would never have guessed that one of the most famous women in the world was sitting in a hotel bar in Chicago trawling for a good time. A brief flare of panic pinged his chest at the notion that she might be discovered. Exposed. What they were doing was risky.

Sexy as hell, though.

She let her gaze catalog his appearance. Not his usual faded denim and tee look, but a button-down Oxford and dark-rinse jeans because he'd wanted to make an effort. Lights of appreciation popped in her eyes before she blanked to stranger.

“I'm waiting for someone,” she said with just the right amount of attitude directed at either her tardy date or the boor with the sorry pickup lines.

He grabbed the purse holding the empty seat and slung it over the back. “His loss.”

“As soon as he arrives, you'll have to leave.”

“
If
he arrives.” He settled in, adjusting his position to accommodate his hard-on. Ten seconds in her presence, and he was already sporting a plank in his pants.

“Are you always this bossy?”

“When I see something I want.”

She practically disjointed her eyeballs trying not to roll them to the back of her head. So, it was clichéd. Wasn't that the point? Her snooty/surly act made him happy/horny.

It could only get better. “Are you from out of town?”

There it was, the pull of amusement on her mouth. She was having as much fun as he was.

“Passing through.” She smoothed a hand along her skirt and let it rest on the bare band of thigh that the leather failed to cover. He had never wanted to touch something so badly.

So he did.

Knuckles first, a light graze over that peachy skin. Her breath hitched, she clamped down on her lower lip, and the quiet stretched between them, not uncomfortable but filled with delicious anticipation. One thing he liked about Molly was she wasn't a silence-filler.

“You in town with the convention?” Most of these guys looked like conventioneers.

“I'm actually with the band. I manage them.”

Course the rock chick was with the band. “How do you do that?”

She shrugged, parted her thighs so his hand slid along of its own accord and dipped between her legs under the cover of the bar. “I'm all things to them. Den mother, whip cracker, confidante, lover. Fragile egos in the entertainment business. Takes a village.”

“And you're a one-woman village.” He bet the band just loved her.

“How about you?” she asked. “Do you live here?”

He moved his foot so it snagged the bottom rung of her stool. The bar was crowded, and the action raised his thigh and hid his wandering hand from any nosy patrons' gazes.

“I do now. Just completed my last tour with the marines.”

Her eyes flashed. He'd gone off script and introduced an unexpected element: the truth. Or the truth as it had been five years ago.

“We're thankful for your service,” she said with the perfect amount of sincerity.

He moved his hand higher, higher,
there,
until his knuckle brushed . . . oh Christ, she was bare. Her grip on the wineglass tightened.

“How thankful?”

She shifted in her seat, giving him better access, and inclined toward him. The plump curves of her breasts above the lacy bra cup strained perilously. “Isn't serving your country its own reward?”

“Not really. I joined up to score with chicks.”

Her laugh was a blast of sun, its distinctive sound making his heart soar, his mind flail, and heads turn. It was too recognizable.

She pushed her body onto his knuckled index finger. Her eyes fluttered closed. Taking her pleasure, that's what she was doing, and he had never seen anything so hot.

But exciting as it was, he didn't want to share her. No one would see, but he wanted to capture her cry with his mouth when she came. Tonight would be for them alone.

He kept his voice low. “Not here.”

She blinked, as if coming out of a trance. Things had escalated more quickly than he'd intended. Patience was usually his greatest asset. Waiting was ingrained in him—for the perfect target, the squad callout, the right moment to share Roni with his family—but with Molly, he didn't want to wait. He didn't want to play games anymore.

He just wanted her. Now.

This worried him. If he couldn't rely on his patience, what could he rely on?

He extracted his hand from her skirt, his billfold from his jeans, and slapped some bills down on the bar. He gave her the purse and clasped her hand, absorbing her shiver, enjoying the sheer rightness of it. How good it felt to claim her in public, even though they were both in disguise. What would that be like for real? Claiming
the
Molly Cade, telling the world she was his woman.

Crazy talk. She didn't want that because she couldn't handle the gossip or anything beyond a summer affair. The only difference from five years ago? Now she screamed his name when she came. Really, he was little more than a glorified bodyguard. Dressing up in a monkey suit to accompany the star to a movie premiere was not part of Wyatt's skill set.

Tonight, he would pretend.

Hand in hand, they walked through the crowd toward the lobby. One of those Art Deco jobs, it was recently refurbished and a lot more expensive than it was five years ago. He selected 12 on the panel and didn't dare look at her to see if she remembered—or didn't.

That would have killed him.

Once on the right floor, they headed to their room, that room, still holding hands, but not rushing like before. At the door, he put the card in the lock, and Molly placed her small hand over his knuckles.

“Wyatt,” she said softly.

The last time they'd been here, she never said his name. She hadn't known it. He knew hers because he'd seen her in the show at the Ford Oriental Theatre around the corner. Desperate to escape himself and willing to suffer a musical to support his Who fandom, he had gone alone and surprisingly enjoyed it, captivated by the actress who played Tommy's mother. Her voice had rung sweet and strong, curling inside him and smoking through his blood. Later that night, wanting to embrace his solitude a little longer, he'd gone into a nearby hotel for a drink, and there she was at the end of the bar, swinging her leg and drawing him in. A quirk of fate.

Chatting up women was not in his wheelhouse. He'd landed stateside three weeks before and was thinking of re-upping. Too many memories of Logan and Sean driving him back to the desert, widening the chasm between Wyatt and the Dempseys. Every room, a photo. Every gathering, a story. Every bar, a song.

But not this bar. It was just Wyatt, the bartender, and the redhead he'd seen taking a bow not more than an hour ago. Molly Cade, the playbill had said, with a list of her credits, mostly dramas with titles that meant nothing to him.

He didn't talk to her that night.

But he did the next, after he had gone to see her show again. After he had summoned the courage to approach her. On one side of his ledger, he had kills; on the other, saves. Some people would say both sides required bravery, but none of that came close to the brass balls needed to walk up to a woman as beautiful as Molly Cade and speak.

“Wyatt,” she said again, back in the present. Rock Chick Molly with her jet-black wig and fake eyelashes and green cat's eyes. This was easier when they didn't know each other; now every word and action was weighted with significance.

“I thought it would be the same,” he murmured.

A shadow crossed her face. “That's what you want? What it was like before?”

Did he? It was certainly safer.

He cupped her neck and said what was in his heart. “I want you. Just you.” The woman, not the part.

A small sound escaped her, impossible to decode, but he loved it. He wanted to drink that sound, imprint it on his soul, play it over and over. The games were fun and sexy, but stripped of their costumes, they were just two people with chemistry and a connection that had a mind and momentum of its own.

He pushed the door open and steered her inside. He didn't go for the lights, but the open curtains allowed a street-lit glow to permeate the room.

“The bathroom is—”

“I remember,” she said, amusement warming her voice.

She went in and turned on the light, but left the door open. He sat on the bed, watching greedily as she changed from Rock Chick to Molly.
His
Molly
.
The wig, the contacts, the clothes—all of it fell away, and in its place, the real deal was revealed. There was something very intimate about watching a woman strip bare like that. Sure, she did it on the big screen for the more demanding roles, but here, now, in this room, he felt like he was witnessing a private moment. Her in the light, him in the shadows.

She strutted out of the bathroom and stood naked before him, a riot of heaven and curves.

“Nice shirt.” Her fingers grazed the pink fabric. He had wanted to look good, show her that he washed up well and she needn't be ashamed of him. As if a shower and a button-down shirt could make him worthy of this woman.

“Now, Marine. You've got the room, the bed, and the woman of your fantasies for the night. However are you going to use this time?”

 CHAPTER TWENTY