The Heat Is On. Jill Shalvis
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in this case, she got to him. Bella, with those slay-me eyes, heart-stopping smile and tough-girl attitude, got to him.
“Jacob?” she whispered.
“Yeah.” They knew each other’s first names, that they both liked adventure and seafood and that they had physical chemistry in shocking spades. He’d held her, he’d touched her. Hell, he’d had his mouth on every inch of her.
He knew he liked her.
A lot.
That had been the biggest surprise, he thought, considering the fact that the guys at the P.D. had signed him up for the date in the first place. As soon as he’d realized he’d been set up, he’d canceled out his singles club profile, but there’d already been one date planned and it’d been too late to cancel on her.
Bella.
He wasn’t sorry. Or he hadn’t been until she’d walked away sometime before dawn. He’d told himself that had been for the best and, considering her line about moving to Siberia, had figured he’d never see her again.
And yet here she sat, in the middle of his crime scene, looking anxious and stressed. He’d never been able to walk away from a perfect stranger, much less a woman he’d had panting and coming beneath him, so with a sigh, he reached for her hand. “Bella.”
Her fingers, icy cold, gripped his. In complete contrast, she kept her voice even. Guts. She had guts.
“I have a little problem, don’t I?” she asked.
He found his lips curving slightly. “Little bit, yeah.”
Letting out a long breath, she pulled her hair out of its messy ponytail. Wild waves immediately fell in her face. “I tend to do that, you know,” she said, trying to corral the hair back into the ponytail holder. “Walk into problems.”
Shit, he did not want to know this. “Define ‘problems.’”
She blew out another breath.
“Bella.” He waited until she leveled him with those eyes. “Dead-people problems?”
“Oh, my God. No.” She rubbed her temples. “I really should have stayed in Cabo. That’s where I was before this. The kayaking was good, and I was learning how to make the most amazing strawberry-and-honey friand—”
“Bella, about the dead-people problems.”
“Right. Sorry. I tend to talk when I find gunshot victims.”
“Again,” he said carefully. “Does this happen often?”
Her gaze met his. “You’re a cop.”
“Detective.”
She nodded. “I guessed cop or military last night.”
She’d made him? “How?”
She sent him a wry smile. “Have you met you? You give off this I’m relaxed vibe but really you’re totally alert, taking in everything around you.”
He took another deep breath and let it out slowly, considering his response. Last night she’d been wearing strawberry lip gloss, her sweet, seductive lips full and curved in an open, easy smile. Her eyes had been warm and welcoming. This morning her lips were bare, and no less kissable for it, but she was breathing a little erratically, and the pulse at the base of her throat was racing.
Dammit.
He’d been a cop since college, a detective the past five years, and he never, ever got used to the punch of empathy when dealing with a victim.
Question was, was she really the victim? “You work here at Edible Bliss.”
She nodded, her light brown wavy hair bouncing into her eyes again. Yesterday he’d loved that hair flying free around her when they’d been cuddled up on a Jet Ski, her arms wrapped tight around his middle.
Even later, that gorgeous hair had trailed down his body…
Don’t go there, man. “You’re the pastry chef,” he said.
Another nod. “My lone talent.”
He didn’t believe that. Last night might have been nothing more than a really great one-night stand, but he’d seen a lot of sides to her. She was adventurous as hell, tough as hell and sexy as hell.
She had layers, lots of them. No way was she just her job the way he was. “You found the victim on the stoop when you got to work,” he said, wanting to clarify.
“No. He wasn’t there when I first came in.” She paused. “Someone shot him.”
Yes. Right in the forehead. At close range.
“Shot him dead.” Her voice was a little hoarse. “There was blood…” Her eyes went a bit unfocused, and her tan faded to gray. “Huh. I see spots. Black spots. Do you?”
Shit. He pressed her head down between her knees, his hand curled around the nape of her neck. Last night her skin had been warm and silky. Today it was cold and clammy. “Breathe,” he commanded softly.
“I’m sorry.” She grabbed a shallow breath. “I don’t like blood much. You’d think I’d be used to it, given that once I was an assistant to a butcher in Rome, but I’m not. Used to it. God.” Reaching out blindly, she grabbed on to the leg of his jeans and held on. “God, Jacob.”
“Keep breathing,” he murmured, stroking the ten der skin of her neck with his thumb. “Slow and deep.”
She did her best to comply, sucking in air in a shuddering gulp. “That’s it, Bella. Good.” Again his thumb swept over her.
“I’m really sorry about the whole Siberia thing,” she whispered, eyes squeezed shut, her hands tightly fisted
“Just keep breathing.”
“I shouldn’t have said Siberia. I don’t even like Siberia. I didn’t—I just don’t do the long-term thing, I’m not good at it, and you seemed—You’re a long-term guy, you know? I didn’t want to mislead you—”
“Shh. It’s okay.” Was he a long-term guy? He’d always thought so, but his last two relationships had fallen apart and both his ex-girlfriends had put the blame square in his lap, citing his job, the hours and the danger. So he’d begun to wonder about his long-term potential.
Then he’d gone out with Bella.
He’d been pissed off about the setup, but prepared to make the best of the situation. He’d figured he’d have an okay time, then go home and watch a late game.
Instead, he’d been instantly entranced by Bella’s easy smile, sweet eyes and take-no-prisoners attitude.
He could use more of that, all the way around.
And yet here they were, at a murder scene. He knew she was tough, and he hoped she was tough enough for this.
“There’s a freaking dead guy on the back stoop,” she said out of the blue. “And I nearly tripped over him. Can you imagine? I actually asked him if he needed anything.”
His thumb made another gentle pass over her creamy skin. He couldn’t help himself.
Which was why he couldn’t be on this case. “Bella, don’t. Don’t tell me anything more.”
“I was here for an hour and a half before I saw him,” she whispered, not listening. “Do you think I could have—”
“No.” His voice was low but firm. She couldn’t have saved him. He believed that much. He looked around them. There were two uniforms and two plainclothes; himself and Ethan Rykes, Jacob’s sometime partner. Also Ramon Castillo had just arrived, their detective sergeant.
Shit.
Castillo was a tough son of a bitch who went by the book. Jacob swore