Sparking the Fire (8 page)

A low engine purr perked up his ears. Sounded like Eli's Merc pulling into the spare space in Wyatt's double garage. Chicago's former mayor was touchy about parking his precious motor on the street, so Wyatt usually left the spot open when he knew Eli would be venturing forth from the tony confines of Lincoln Park to the earthier hood of Andersonville. Beck's birthday party was today, a cookout hosted by Gage, and everyone was coming over.

Not feeling ready to be social—he had a whole afternoon ahead for that—Wyatt stayed put. A car door slammed. Soft footfalls sounded.

Not Eli, and definitely not Alex, who was never subtle in announcing her presence. He turned his head and got a surprising eyeful of color: peach-colored fabric skimming gold sandals and toes painted pink with red starbursts.

He heard a caught breath, an appreciative whistle, then one raspy word: “Beautiful.”

Fuck, he'd recognize that voice anywhere.

He rolled out from under the car and stood to face his visitor: Molly Cade in the flesh. She stood at the entrance to the garage, the early afternoon sun bathing her in a corona of light, looking like an angel descended to earth. He tried to blink away the vision but no amount of clenching and unclenching his eyelids was producing sense out of this mirage.

She barely glanced at him, all her attention focused on the car. Eyes adjusting, and brain catching up, he let his gaze skim her body dressed in an ankle-length dress that hugged her breasts and flared out over her waist.

He was running out of synonyms for gorgeous when it came to this woman.

“A '69 ZL1,” she said by way of greeting, because apparently explaining her presence wouldn't be happening. “Is it yours?”

She wore that dress, was the barometer by which he had measured every woman in the last five years, and she had the 411 on cars?

Someone up there hated his guts.

“You know your autos.”

“My granddad was a mechanic. He had a '68 RS. Blue with white stripes.”

He reached for a rag on the workbench, hyperconscious of his grease-streaked appearance. Of the throb in his blood. Of pretty much everything. “What happened to it?”

“Sold when he died. It wasn't in as good shape as this.” She moved toward the car and stopped.

“Go on,” he said gently, curious to see how she would treat it. For some reason, knowing that was more important than knowing the why of her presence here today. What idiot questioned manna from heaven?

She traced a slender finger along the hood. “Do you drive it?”

“I've taken it out a couple of times. She's still dragging and needs a new transmission. A couple of the kids from the foster home program I work with are helping me out.”

She stayed put, her hand glancing the shiny surface. “Gage chased me down at the academy the other day and invited me. Told me to park around back. He said your brother's party was a spur-of-the-moment thing and no one would mind an extra warm body.”

Tossed off casually as if the owner of the body was irrelevant. Well, someone did mind an extra
hot
body. He vowed to strangle Gage at the earliest opportunity.

Needing the time to compose himself, he continued wiping the engine grease off his hands. Slowly. One finger at a time.

“Your car's here,” she said after several long seconds of awkward silence. “So you live here, as well?”

“Next door to Gage. He lives in the house we all grew up in with his guy, Brady. Alex used to live there, too, before she moved in with Eli.”

At the mention of Alex, her brow crimped. “I know Gage is fine with me here and your sister-in-law is apparently a fan, but how much resistance can I expect from the others?”

Interesting that she didn't see fit to comment on Wyatt's opinion, likely because she thought that showing up looking like God's gift to the lust-struck idiot cut him from the equation. “Like we said, mostly Eli, though I'd watch out for Kinsey, who's the suspicious sort. She works in PR. And Luke and Beck are pretty gung-ho about protecting the family. If they perceive a threat, they'll come out of their corners, gloves on, fists up.”

A smile curved those kissable lips. “So pretty much everyone. But guns blazing isn't your style?”

“I prefer a quiet life.” And Molly Cade, whether it was a six-day fuckfest or a ten-week movie shoot, was not conducive to a quiet life.

Truth be told, he wanted to show her off, shout from the rooftops that he had once attracted a quality woman like this. But then he recalled that their past connection was a tool she was using to get what she wanted now.

“Might be best if you kept our previous acquaintance on the down low. See if you can win them over with that charm of yours. If it looks like you're using our history together to get an in, then your chances plummet.”

“Is that what you think? That I'm trading on our prior acquaintance to wrap you around my little finger?”

“Woman, I know you are.”

A furrow dug between her eyebrows as she wrestled with a response. And hell if the one she came up with didn't surprise the shit out of him.

She laughed.

“It
might
have crossed my mind.”

Damn, she was some kind of special. He loved that she didn't try to cover.

He threw the dirty rag on the workbench. Took a step toward her. “What else crossed your mind?”

“Well, my scheme involved a lot of eyelash fluttering”—quick demo—“coquettish turns”—hands on hips with a jaunty shimmy—“and flirty touching.” Her hand glanced across his right bicep, over Logan's tattoo, shocking him to a shiver in the ninety-degree heat. “You've clearly been immune so far. I was about to unload the big guns at the academy the other day when your brother showed up.”

“Put a crimp in your evil plan, huh?”

She lifted one beautifully rounded shoulder. “Well, he caught up with me and put the plan back on track.”

“Lucky.”

“Incredibly. But then evil plans often need a little luck to succeed.”

Unsure how it happened (okay, he'd gladly erased the gap), he found himself standing close enough that he could have cradled her cheek with his dirt-embedded palm and gone in for the kill. Hell and damn, she was one fine woman, her beauty arousing his beast. A shower might remove his surface grease; it would take electroshock therapy to bleach his brain of the filthy thoughts running riot in his skull.

Time slowed and he chose to let the moment ride. It was the marine snipers' motto:
suffer patiently, and patiently suffer
.

“Tell me about the big guns in this evil plan of yours.”

Her caught breath moved her breasts in a way that made him swallow.

“I might have gone with the nostalgia card. Reminisce about the good ole days in a certain hotel with a certain marine.”

His body hardened. Nostalgia often had that effect.

“And if that didn't work?”

“Next on my list of dastardly deeds?” She looked thoughtful. “I might have recruited my hands, see if those big muscles were as hard as I remembered.”

Do it, baby. Check. Them. Out.

She did, and shit, was that a whole other level of good. Soft palms caressed his pectorals, strayed briefly to his nipples, and settled on his shoulders.

“And if the plan still came up short?” His voice had gone husky. Intimate.

“You mean, if it wasn't evil enough?”

He nodded, no longer able to shape anything close to words. Her beauty was seeping into his bones along with her fleeting touches. Those summer-storm eyes flashed with a heady brew of power and desire.

“I would have unleashed my secret weapon.” She leaned in and whispered, “Operation Feel the Beard.”

“That's your secret weapon?” He felt his beard every day, and he could say with 100 percent certainty that it was fairly low on his list of ways into his good graces. “I think you're overestimating the beard, Hollywood. Now, if you were to feel another part of—”

She felt his beard. Sweet effen Christmas.

Her touch was a caress that started out soft, but increased in intensity as she moved her hand over one side of his jaw, then the other. A moan of pleasure slipped out before he could stop it.

She snatched her hand back. “Not working?”

“Not yet,” he rasped. Barely. “I'll let you have another shot, though.”

Her fingers returned to his jaw, exploring the underside, tracing a path through the softer growth. Each time her delicate finger pads made contact with his skin, zings of sensation traveled all over his body. What would it be like if she raked the hair on his head? Everywhere else?

Her eyelids had fallen to half-mast, this beard-feel moment seeming to affect her as much as him. Gently, he tipped up her chin with a knuckle, and she seemed to bloom under his touch. Like he was sun and rain to this withered plant. But really, he was the weed who came alive when their skin connected.

Another stray thought cut through the lust haze: it couldn't possibly be as good as before. He held on to that. Needing the safety net because, if it came anywhere close to matching their previous encounters, he'd be a goner.

He should not graze the delicate line of her jaw.

He should not stamp his erection on her belly, telling her with his body what he could never say in words.

He certainly should not close those last few millimeters to her lips and take the one thing he'd wanted since the moment she had strutted back into his life.

Pity the bad ideas always felt so damn good.

“I couldn't stay away,” Wyatt admitted before he could bite it back. “Took the job. Had to see you.”

Her breath hitched. “To satisfy your curiosity.”

“Satisfied is a word that don't make sense between you and me.”

“So you lied.”

“You zigged.” He leaned in, breathed her deep. “I zagged.” He rubbed his beard against her jaw, the truth setting him free. So good to admit his need at last. A soft sound left her throat, more than a whimper, less than a groan. Working hard not to touch her with his dirt-streaked hands, he fisted the roof of the Camaro, caging her in on either side. “Gotta do what's necessary to fight evil in all its forms.”

Every primitive impulse in him fired, and he lowered his lips to hers to let her know just how evil this was. How one kiss could incite and engulf, a flashover that destroyed everything in its path. Because she had to learn.

Those soft, sweet lips of hers should have recognized the peril, but it seemed Molly Cade liked living dangerously. The hands that should have pushed him away clutched at his shoulders. The words that should have ended this before it started never came. All he heard was a low-throated moan of encouragement, and he was lost.

Any concerns that kissing her couldn't possibly live up to his memory were blasted into dust by that first, hot joining.

Better.

Sweeter.

Hotter.

God, how? Kissing her was like realizing that your world until now was monochromatic. Color sparked behind his eyelids and traveled all over his body, setting off mini-explosions of bliss. Some guys didn't bother to take the time, but Wyatt loved kissing. Loved the build. Loved that deep, wet connection, and how it mimicked what would come later when he drove into her hot, slick heat.

Her moan was the sound of amazement that, even after all these years, it could still be so good. Her palms found his face and rubbed his beard again, more sure of her power over him. She liked it. Just as she would like it when he rubbed it against her inner thighs and used it to bring her off.

There was an excellent chance he was going to take her on the hood of his Camaro. And while that might be a dream come true if he were a horny fourteen-year-old—ah hell, a horny thirty-four-year-old—it was not how a classy woman like Molly Cade deserved to be treated. Neither was it appropriate with his family due to descend any second.

He pulled away. It killed him a little.

Make that a lot.

“So, Molly, you ready to meet the Dempseys?”

“Y
owza, you look gorgeous!”

Molly smiled her thanks at Gage as she walked into his backyard, prepared to wow all the Dempseys with her sincerity and nonthreatening vibes. Beautifully landscaped with roses, azaleas, and an herb garden, the space had a tall wall shielding for privacy on one side. A water feature spilling into a koi pond looked like it had been naturally formed, its soothing trickle the perfect soundtrack on a hot summer day. One corner hosted a large picnic table with colorful cushion-layered benches, while a fire pit sat in the other. Community would be important to the Dempseys, and a pang of longing hit her at the thought of them eating, laughing, and loving in this urban sanctuary.

Better that than the pangs of a different kind currently working over more sensitive areas of her body. Her legs shook because she was nervous, she insisted, and not because she'd just gone ten rounds of mouth-to-mouth with Wyatt and emerged flattened.

It was a truth universally acknowledged (and universally despised by women everywhere) that as men aged, they tended toward improvement in their appearance. Their bodies filled out. They grew into the hard planes of their faces. Some of them even had the nerve to acquire more rakeable hair. While women sagged, developed wrinkles, and had to go to increasingly longer and more expensive lengths to maintain the status quo, men cruised by, looking
distinguished
.

So it should not have surprised her that years later, Wyatt Fox would have taken the word
more
and redefined it. Lantern jaw more square. Blue eyes more devilish. Muscles more . . . muscular. And don't get her started on the beard—the man was a lumbersexual fantasy made flesh. But it was just plain ridiculous that his kiss was even better than she remembered.

One minute she'd been working her flirt, the next she was intoxicated by everything Wyatt: the rough fingers, the hard body, the damn beard. Fine, they'd made out on top of a Camaro. Time to archive that and put on her other cap: businesswoman Molly Cade. She had a family to win over.