Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (23 page)

"Hot as hell out there today," she murmured, handing him his and feeling suddenly awkward.

"Yep, N'Awlins in the heat," he said, putting on a perfect accent, causing her to smile at last.

She stepped back, though. There was a little too much charm in that smile, in that husky tone.

She was still feeling the slight rush of anger through her blood, mingled with gratitude that he was there and a feeling that there was a burning deep in the very erotic center of her body.

"You really can go to dinner."

"We can order in, too. Or cook."

She took another step back. "Listen, I'm hot, cranky and miserable. I'm going to shower. I'm feeling like a salt lick." She didn't know why, but she was suddenly sure that the last words had sounded entirely wrong. Salt… lick…

"You're welcome to do the same."

Pop in with me…

No, no…

Was that what he was hearing? Or merely what her mind really meant?

"I'd have to borrow more of Julian's clothing," he said, apparently not taking any of her words at anything but face value.

"Feel free."

"I'll tell you what, let's both shower. Then we can wander over to my B & B, I can get some clothing, and we'll pick up food on the way back here," he suggested.

"All right," she said. She hesitated. "You're staying here again?"

"That's up to you."

 

Her shower felt really good. She hadn't been lying about the heat. And she had felt like a salt lick.

Hot, sweaty, on fire…

She turned the water on harder, pouring shampoo into her hair, sudsing, closing her eyes as she stood under the spray, letting it thunder down. Then she opened her eyes.

And screamed.

 

It was evident that when Julian stayed, he stayed in the guest room. Pieces of his clothing hung in the closet, and a top drawer was filled with clean socks, T-shirts and Calvin Klein briefs. The soap in the shower was something brisk smelling as well, an Irish brand that left a man smelling like a "cool spring wood," according to the commercials.

The day had been a scorcher, and it was good to strip down and step beneath the spray. He'd wondered at first if he should have waited; some of the old places didn't have the water pressure for two showers going at the same time, but the spray came on hot and hard. Standing beneath it, he clenched his jaw, reminding himself that work and raging desire did not mix. He needed to keep his distance, keep a cool head. She was in serious danger, and he didn't dare let down his guard, not with the dead, and certainly not with the living.

A scream.

For a split second he thought he'd imagined it, but then heard it again and knew it was all too real.

He jumped from the shower, dripping wet, naked, and tore through to the main bedroom, sprinting to the bathroom. He went for the shower curtain and ripped it from the steel rod.

Nikki screamed again as she turned, stunned at the sound of the ripping curtain.

"What?" he cried, seeing nothing at all terrifying.

"What are you doing?" she cried, reaching for the torn curtain. Her eyes slid up and down the length of his wet naked body, then rose to his eyes and locked on them. She flushed a brilliant shade of crimson.

"You screamed!" he accused her. "What the hell happened?"

She moistened her lips. Wet, sensual lips. Her lashes fell over her eyes. Rich, long lashes, ridiculously dark, considering she was a blonde.

A true honey blonde.

Top to bottom.

She made a croaking sound, uttering a word he didn't understand.

"What, Nikki?" he asked, trying to modulate his voice, moving a step closer.

Her eyes met his. "Roach," she said more clearly.

"Roach?" he repeated.

"Roach," she said, sounding angry. "A big one! The kind with wings, a Palmetto bug. It was on the shower-head, and it flew right at me."

"Roach?" It was an exhalation of relief, disbelief, even anger. Good God, the fear he had felt for her, the panic, the way his heart was rushing…

"Damn you, don't you dare be angry with me," she cried. "It startled the hell out of me."

"It startled
you
? You just cost me a decade of life," he told her.

She stared at him, ready to argue back. They were both tense.

And both naked.

And suddenly she wasn't angry anymore. She smiled.

"You look pretty alive to me right now," she said softly.

He knew that he did. He felt as if he were made of steel. Molten, hot and strong.

His eyes didn't fall from hers. Where her anger had paled, his suddenly soared. Maybe it was the feeling of burning with fire, constricted, conflicted.

He started to turn away, but her fingers, damp and gentle as the breeze that seemed to come with her touch, fell on his shoulder.

"Brent."

The way she whispered his name…

Nothing had ever made him ache with such subtle allure. He turned back.

The curtain was down. The water was still rushing. Steam rose, billowing around her. The sound was a rush in his ears, like the pounding of his heart.

"Is there… is there something wrong with me?" she asked, her eyes as brilliant and deep as a Caribbean sea.

"No," he said curtly.

"Then… ?"

"Then what?" he asked, tone curt, feeling as if he was about to shatter into a million pieces.

"Two adults… night, the distant sound of music. A man and woman. Naked. The one, tall, dark, obviously aroused. The other… longing for him to take her into his arms, so fascinated by him she could just die or… or totally humiliate herself for all eternity," she finished.

He wanted to explain that she was the most erotic, compelling woman he had met since… it seemed like forever, but…

But she was in danger. Mortal danger. And if he gave in to his feelings, he could well endanger her to an even greater degree. He was ready to tell her, explain…

But…

The words simply wouldn't come.

He reached out and clasped her waist, then lifted her over the tile step into the shower, drawing her against his body as he eased her back to the floor, his arousal imprinting itself on every inch of her flesh with which it came into contact. Sound escaped him at last. A groan. He buried his face against her throat, lips against the delicate skin of her neck and shoulder. His fingers slid into the thick wet mass of her hair as his mouth found hers.

Dear God, she was sweet.

Her arms wound around him, slid down the slick wet length of his back, hands shaping his buttocks, pulling him more closely to her. Flesh rubbed against flesh, hot and wet, the steam rising all around them, the beat of the water like a pulsing crescendo. His mouth tore from hers, found her shoulder again, then slid insanely over the rise of her breasts. His lips found her nipple, curved around it, teeth teased, and he heard her gasp, felt the heavy thud of her heart, then her erratic pulse. Her hand was somehow between them, sliding down the length of his chest, finding his sex, curling around it. And her eyes were on his, aqua and huge, as misty as the water, taunting and alluring.

He lifted her again, carried her back into the shower, then hiked her higher and pressed her back against the tile, cool against the heat. He lifted her higher and higher, gazing at her all the while, as the water streamed down on them in a steady cascade, like a honeyed oil, adding to the friction, the insanity, the desperation.

When she was high enough, he lowered her, bringing her down on his erection, slowly at first, his eyes never leaving hers, until she cried out with a soft sound, tearing her own gaze away, burying her face low against his shoulder as he began to move. The searing, driving pulse of the spray seemed to echo the thunder in his veins, resound in the knotted wire of his every muscle. He was completely unaware of her weight, barely aware of her limbs wrapped around his waist. She sheathed him, rode the thrust and fire of his desperate arousal, the soft sounds escaping her lips driving him into a frenzy. Her fingers dug into him. Her lips found his in a deep and jagged kiss, tongue driving hard into the depths of his mouth. There was a moment when he lost recognition of anything other than the steam, the heat, the rising pulse and the need centered in that one portion of his body. Then he was wrenched from the spiral of his own satisfaction by the cry that tore from her lips. Her back arched against the tile, and he felt the eruption of his own climax, ripping through him like a tidal wave.

She was draped around him now, lax and trembling slightly, almost as if she had passed out against him.

Then she moved, eyes meeting his, fingers trailing through the wet length of his hair. She smiled and, to his amazement, whispered, "Thanks."

He eased her slowly down, turning the water off at last, his eyes never leaving hers. He inched back, feeling lost when his penis slipped from her body, loath to set her slowly on her own feet.

"Thanks?" he asked, leaning against her again, gently finding her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me."

She was trying to be light, he realized. Not denying anything, just leaving him plenty of room to take an emotional step back.

He shook his head gravely. "There's nothing wrong with you. Quite the contrary, there's far too much right with you."

Her smile deepened, then faded as she looked into his eyes. "Then… what took you so long?"

"I came rushing in here the second you screamed."

"I didn't mean just now."

"Actually, we haven't known each other that long."

"I knew the second I saw you that I wanted you," she whispered, her voice serious and ever so slightly wistful.

"Because… ?"

"Because you touched me," she said simply.

He pulled her close against him. With the water off and the fever of the moment released, the air-conditioning was kicking in, and he was growing chill, standing damp and naked. Brent reached for a towel, wrapping it around her shoulders.

He touched her chin, lifting her eyes to his.

"Because I touched you?" he whispered. "I didn't think you even liked me at first."

"I didn't."

"That's honest."

"I didn't want to like you," she said quietly, and walked out of the bathroom.

Brent followed. She was standing in the growing darkness at the foot of the bed. It was fall but the balcony doors were closed, the drapes drawn, and the room was cast in soft shadow.

She threaded her fingers through her drying hair, waiting. She had dropped the towel. In the soft light, she was ethereal, yet far too real, a piece of mystical art, Venus rising, something perfect caught by the imagination of an artist.

He walked toward her, not touching her at first, then reaching for her chin. His lips met hers with a slow, infinite tenderness, and then he drew her to him. "Confession… I did little but think about you the night after I came upon you in the street. I've been so fascinated by you that I've had to walk away at times. The way I feel… scares me."

She smiled, head tilted close to his. "I don't usually behave this way. I'm usually reserved. I guess you couldn't tell tonight, huh? But there's such a thing as chemistry. And… I'm… I don't know what I'm saying."