Secrets and Desire: Best-Kept Lies / Miss Pruitt's Private Life / Secrets, Lies...and Passion. Barbara McCauley
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through his hair. “You got any wood for that?” he asked, hitching his chin toward the fireplace.
“A little. In a closet on the back deck.”
“Get me a beer, I’ll make a fire and then, whether you like it or not, we’re going to discuss your ex-lover.”
“Gee,” she mocked, “and who said single women don’t have any fun? You know, Striker, you’ve got a helluva nerve to barge in here and start barking orders. Just because…because of what happened last night, you don’t have the right to start bossing me around in my own home.”
“You’re right,” he said without a trace of regret carved into his features. “Would you please get me a beer and I’ll get the firewood.”
“I might be out of beer. I didn’t pick any up at the store.”
“There’s one left. In the door of the fridge. I checked earlier.” The empty bottle on the coffee table stood as testament to that very fact.
“When you practiced breaking and entering,” she muttered as he kicked back the stool and made his way to the deck. She opened the refrigerator again and saw the single long-neck in the door. The guy was observant. But still a bully who had barged unwelcome into her life. A sexy bully at that. Her worst nightmare.
She yanked out the last beer, twisted off the top and, as he carried in a couple of chunks of oak to the fire, took a long swallow. The least he could do was share, she decided, watching as he bent on the tiled hearth, his jacket and shirt riding up over his belt and jeans, offering her the view of a slice of his taut, muscular back. Her throat was suddenly dry as dust and she took another pull from the long-neck. What the hell was she going to do with him? She’d already bared her soul and her body, then, after insisting that she wasn’t interested in him, kissed him on the street as if she never wanted to stop, and now… She slid a glance toward the cracked door of her bedroom and in her mind she saw them together, wrapped in the sheets, sweaty bodies tangled and heaving as he kissed her breasts. Her heart pounded as he pulled at her nipple, his hands sliding down to sculpt her waist as he mounted her, gently nudging her knees apart, readying himself above her, his erection stiff, his green gaze fiery. Then, eyes locked, he entered her in one long, hard thrust—
He cleared his throat and she was brought back to the living area of her condo where he was still tending to the fire. Turning, she blushed as she realized he’d said something to her. For the life of her she couldn’t remember a word. “Wh-what?”
“I asked if you had a match.” His gaze was on her face, then traveled down the short corridor to the bedroom. Amusement caused an eyebrow to arch and she wanted to die. No doubt he could read her embarrassing thoughts.
“Oh, yeah…” While she’d been fantasizing, he’d crumpled old newspaper and stacked the firewood, even splintering off some pieces of kindling.
She took another swallow, handed him the bottle and hurried into the kitchen where she rummaged through a drawer. Don’t go there. You’re not going to tumble into bed with him. Not again. You’re not even going to kiss him again. You’re not going to do anything stupid with him. No more. She found a pack of matches and tossed them over the counter to him, all the while trying to quell the hammering of her heart. Time to go on the offensive.
“Okay, Striker, so now I’ve told you my darkest secret. What’s yours?”
“None of your business.”
“Wait a minute. That’s not fair.”
“You’re right, it’s not.” He struck a match and the smell of sulfur singed the air as he touched the tiny flame to the dry paper and the fire crackled to life. “But then not much is.”
“You said I could ask you anything when we were in the pub.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Just like that?” she asked incredulously as she snapped her fingers.
“Uh-huh.” He took a long pull from the bottle.
“No way. I think I deserve to know who the hell you are.”
Rocking back on his heels as the fire caught, he looked up at her standing on the other side of the counter. “I’m an ex-cop turned P.I.”
“I already figured that much. But what about your personal life?”
“It’s private.”
“You’re single, right? There’s no Mrs. Striker.”
He hesitated enough to cause her heart to miss a beat. Oh, God, not again, she thought as she leaned against the counter for support. He’d kissed her. Touched her. Made love to her.
“Not anymore. I was married but it ended a few years back.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened. “Haven’t you read the statistics?”
“I’m talking about the reason behind the statistics, at least in your case.”
A shadow passed behind his eyes and he said, “It just didn’t work out. I was a cop. Probably paid more attention to the job than my wife.”
“And you didn’t have any kids?”
Again the hesitation. Again the shadow. His lips tightened at the corners as he stood and dusted his hands. “I don’t have any children,” he said slowly, “and I never hear from my ex. That about covers it all, doesn’t it?” There was just a spark of challenge in his eyes, daring her to argue with him. A dozen questions bubbled up in her throat, but she held them back. For now. There were other ways to get information about him. She was a reporter, for God’s sake. She had the means to find out just about anything that had happened to him. Newsworthy articles would be posted on the Internet, personal stuff through other sources.
With Sam Donahue she’d been trusting and it had backfired in her face, but this time…Oh, God, why was she even thinking like this? There was no this time! There was no Kurt Striker in her life except as an irritating bodyguard her brothers had hired. That was it. He was here because he was hired to be here; she was a job to him. Nothing more.
“Look, I’ve got to get some work done,” she said, motioning to her laptop. “I’ve been gone for months and if I don’t answer some e-mail and put together a new column or two, I’m going to be in big trouble. My boss and I are already not real tight. So, if you don’t mind…well, even if you do, I’m going to start plowing through what’s been piling up. I understand that you think you’ve got to be with me 24/7, but it’s not necessary. No one’s going to take a potshot at me here.”
“Why would you think that?” Striker drained the rest of his beer.
“Because there are too many people around, there’s a security guard for the condos always on the premises, and most importantly, Joshua is safe with Sharon.”
The expression on his face told her he was of another mind. And wasn’t she, really? Hadn’t she, just minutes ago in the parking lot, sensed that someone had been watching her? She rounded the counter as he straightened and crossed the room.
“Look, I do know that I’m in some kind of danger,” she said. “Obviously I know it or I wouldn’t have taken the time to hide the baby. I came back here to try to figure this out, to take the heat off my brothers, to get on with my life and let them get on with theirs. And yeah, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was nervous, that I wasn’t starting to jump at shadows, but I need to sort through some things, get a handle on what’s happening.”
“That’s why I’m here. I’m thinking that maybe if we work together, we can make some sense of what’s going on.” He was close to her, near enough that she could smell the wet leather of his jacket, see the striations of color in his green eyes, feel the heat of his body.
She couldn’t even make sense of the moment. “That might be impossible. I’ve