Primal Instinct (13 page)

“What the hell do you think you're doing to my car?”

The bag still in her hands, she spun around abruptly, sending little white balls bouncing across the driveway. Her mouth went dry at what she saw.

Colt stood in front of her, impressively muscled arms crossed over his equally impressive bare and sweaty chest. The faintest dusting of light brown hair covered his defined pecs and trailed in a straight line down the middle of his six-pack, disappearing into his black shorts. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, and a pair of earbuds dangled around his neck. His light brown hair was dark with sweat, clinging to his temples.

“I…it was just a prank. I promise, I didn't do any damage,” she said once she found her voice, setting the bag down in front of her and raising her hands in a placating gesture. She hadn't counted on getting busted in the act, especially by a sweaty and bare-chested Colt, who, she had to admit, looked sexy as hell when he was pissed.

He arched an eyebrow, eyes darting between her, his car, and the bags of Ping-Pong balls. “Why am I not surprised that you know how to break into a car?” The corner of his mouth tipped up in a half smile, that, when paired with his shirtlessness, made her stomach dip and swirl in a very appealing way.

“Hey, I'm a poster child for the foster care system.”

The smile dropped off his face and his brow creased. “You were a foster kid?” He brushed a drop of sweat from his brow, muscles rippling below his taut skin.

God. She wanted to lick him. Every. Damn. Inch.

She shrugged. “For a few years, yeah. So?”

He mirrored her shrug. “Nothing. Just…I bet that was rough.”

“Yeah, well. It was better than staying with my dad.” A chill ran through her at the memory of how awful things had been right before she'd been put into the foster care system. The verbal abuse. The beatings. The lack of food. The general fucked-up-ness of every day that had only gotten worse after her mom's death.

Colt exhaled a sharp breath through his nose and nodded. “I hear that.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows shot up, her voice flat and disbelieving.

He nodded slowly. “Really. I was never in foster care, but…” He trailed off, shrugging his broad shoulders again. “Let's just say that my home life wasn't the greatest.” He shot her a sympathetic smile before clearing his throat, a faux-serious expression dropping into place over his features. “Clean this shit up. I'll be in the shower.”

Something hot and delicious pulsed low in her stomach at the thought of Colt in the shower. The water sluicing across that gorgeously masculine torso, rivulets running over the peaks and valleys created by his strong, muscular physique. Foamy lines of soap dripping off his skin, his eyes closed as he tipped his head back under the hot spray.

Holy hell.

She licked her lips and swallowed, her eyes darting up to his. Her heart felt as though it had literally skipped a beat, stopping just for a second and then restarting at double time when she saw her lust mirrored in his eyes.

“Yeah, sure. I'll get right on that.” She snorted out a laugh, and almost choked when he took a step toward her, backing her into the body of the Charger.

“You'll get right on what? Cleaning up your mess?” He leaned one hand on the roof of the car, and her insides turned to molten lava, pooling between her thighs. “Or me, in the shower?” He leaned in even closer and circled one hand around her waist. She tried, but she couldn't suppress the tremble that worked its way through her. Lust. Anticipation. Need. Hunger. Fuck, yes. This was happening, and no way was she going to be able to fight it this time.

And then he yanked the Slim Jim out of her back pocket and stepped away.

He held it up and wiggled it. “I think I'll hang on to this.”

“Hey!” She took a step forward, and he backed away, laughing. Shooting her that cocky smile, he turned around and headed for the front door. “Just
wait
until I tell Jeremy that you abandoned your post!” she called, but he just laughed and headed into the house.

C
olt sat on a couch in the Sanctuary, watching Taylor rehearse another new song with her band. While rehearsing, the band, including Taylor, configured themselves into a circle, all facing each other as they played, so her back was to him. It meant that he couldn't see her face, but he
could
see her cute little ass in her tight jeans, so overall, it was a pretty nice compromise.

After his combat nightmare, he'd fallen asleep and dreamed of her. In his dream, they'd been in a hotel room, completely alone and sheltered from the outside world as rain pounded the windows. They'd kissed, slowly at first, tasting and exploring, but eager lust had quickly spread between them like wildfire. He'd gathered her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, where, between hot, intense kisses, they'd shed their clothing in record time. Naked beneath him, her long, slender body had lined up perfectly with his. Skin to skin, her legs intertwined with his, he'd just closed his mouth over hers again when he'd jolted awake, drooling and hard as concrete. He'd had to take a minute before easing out of bed, so painfully aroused he feared he'd snap his dick right off if he moved.

Already, he knew, he could get lost in her. And if she'd have him, he'd let himself, despite his growing suspicion that she had often been given far less than she deserved, and his guilt over possibly adding himself to that category.

He'd gone for his morning run as though he weren't on the verge of completely losing control. At first, he'd been pissed to find Taylor messing with his car, but once he'd realized no actual harm had been done, the humor hadn't been lost on him.

He'd still confiscated the Slim Jim, though. Just to be on the safe side.

In between takes of the song, one of the studio assistants waved him over, signaling toward the Sanctuary's front door. A flower delivery van sat parked outside, and before he could even speak, a young, lanky guy shoved a large bouquet of white roses into Colt's arms, spinning on his heel and heading back toward his van without a word. Frowning, Colt glanced down at the card poking out from among the petals, Taylor's name printed neatly on the envelope. He swallowed against the knot of jealousy sitting low in his throat. Maybe they were from Jeremy, congratulating her on her kick-ass performance the night before. Or an apology bouquet from Walker, since he'd ditched her at the after party.

“These are for you,” he said, extending the bouquet toward her as he walked back into the rehearsal area of the space. She studied him for a second before reaching out and taking the flowers.

“You got me flowers?” she asked, and a smile bloomed across her face. His chest tightened, because someone else had earned that smile. Not him. She was so beautiful when she smiled like that. When she smiled like she was genuinely happy.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his skin hot and itchy. “No. A delivery guy just dropped them off.”

“Oh. Cool. Thanks.” She bit her lip, something that looked a hell of a lot like disappointment flashing in her eyes, and turned away from him, pulling the card from the bouquet.

He watched as she read the card, trying to read the slender lines of her back for clues, his jaw clenched. Suddenly, she spun and stalked toward him, hitting him in the chest with the bouquet and sending white petals fluttering to the floor. She released the bouquet and he gathered it awkwardly to his chest to prevent it from falling.

“Not funny,” she said, her brows drawn.

He frowned, set the bouquet aside and held up his hands in innocence. “I told you, they're not from me.”

“So this isn't a prank?”

“Sending you roses isn't much of a prank.”

“Here.” She thrust the card at him and he noticed the slight tremble in her fingers as he took it from her.

Colt clamped his lips together and rubbed a hand over his mouth as he read the card a second time. He laid a hand on Taylor's shoulder, and her wide blue eyes met his, bright with worry.

“Do you have any idea who might've sent these?”

She shook her head, her teeth digging into her bottom lip.

“There were no red flags in your file.”

She opened her mouth to speak but then paused, frowning. Two little lines dug in between her eyebrows. “You have a file on me?”

“When we took this job, Roman did a background check. It's standard operating procedure.” He took a step closer to her. “I had him do it instead of doing it myself. It felt wrong to dig into your past after we…” He cleared his throat. “Anything I should know about?”

She shook her head. “No.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she shivered and hugged herself. “This is really fucking creepy. The flowers were delivered here, so whoever this guy is, he knows that this is my space.” She rubbed her hands over her upper arms as she spoke. “And the card…” She shuddered. “Who says shit like that?” Frowning, she bit her lip again.

He gave her shoulder a light squeeze and her eyes snapped back to his. “Hey. As long as I'm around, nothing bad will happen to you. You're safe.” He gave her shoulder another squeeze, although what he really wanted to do was pull her into his arms. “I'll take care of you. I promise.”

She met his gaze and nodded.

“I'm going to call Roman to come take over here. I need to hit up the flower shop, see if I can get an ID on whoever sent these.”

She nodded again, her brows drawn tightly together. She gave her head a shake and then turned back to her band, doing a hell of a job at hiding her fear.

When Colt got his hands on whoever was messing with his girl, he'd make them hurt.

Less than half an hour later, Colt pushed open the door of Petal Pushers Flowers, cool air and the heady scent of hundreds of flowers greeting him. He scanned the shop, but it was empty except for an older lady agonizing over two different bouquets of lilies. Glancing up into the corners of the ceiling, he saw the small, black domes—housings for security cameras—he'd been hoping to find. He just hoped they weren't dummies, fake cameras meant to deter but that didn't actually record anything. At the sound of the door chime, a young woman came out to the front counter from the workroom in the back, thick gloves on her hands and a green apron draped over her neck. When she spied Colt, she smiled, and he put his hastily devised plan into action.

A flicker of heat flared up his spine as he reached a hand into his pocket. Fuck, this was a dumb, potentially dangerous plan, but he needed access to that security footage, and this was the fastest way to get it.

If it worked.

Keeping his expression serious, he approached the counter and pulled out the fake LAPD badge he'd bought online and flashed it quickly before tucking it away. “I'm Detective Thompson, LAPD. You have a minute?”

The young woman's eyes widened at the flash of his badge, and she stood up a little straighter. “Is…is there a problem?”

Colt smiled, trying to put the girl at ease. “No, no. But we have reason to believe someone we've been tracking was in your shop earlier today.” He pointed up at one of the security cameras. “Those live?”

She nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, but my boss isn't here, and…”

“I just need to take a quick peek to see if the guy we're looking for was here. That's all,” Colt bluffed. He wasn't sure who he was looking for. He did know that the shop was small enough that they didn't take online orders, and the writing on the card had been decidedly masculine—the asshole had likely written it out himself, which meant he'd been here.

The girl pulled off her gloves and ran her hands down the front of her apron, smoothing away invisible wrinkles.

“I just need a few minutes and then I'll be out of your hair. You can call my LT if it'll make you feel better.” He pulled out one of the fake business cards he'd had made up and slid it over the counter to her. If she actually called the number on the card, she'd get Roman's cell phone. She stared at the card for a second, and then looked up at Colt, who smiled again. She toyed with the card, thinking.

“You'd be doing us a big favor, here, miss.”

“I don't really know how to use the security software,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip, and Colt knew she was about to give in.

“You leave that to me. Your computer's round back?”

She hesitated for another moment and then nodded, motioning for him to follow her back. She led him into a small, cramped office and pointed at the computer stationed on the old metal desk. She shut the door behind her as she left, and with a few clicks, Colt accessed the security camera software. Thankfully, it was a program he was familiar with. He settled himself behind the desk and pulled up the camera feeds, rewinding to thirty minutes before Taylor's flowers had been delivered, then worked backward in half-hour chunks, scanning through and looking for anything that jumped out at him. He knew he was likely looking for a man who'd come in alone, had quickly ordered and left without browsing the shop, and had written the message on the card himself.

Suddenly, an image popped up on the screen, and Colt leaned forward in his seat and rewound a few minutes, playing the video feed back at normal speed. With a few taps on the keyboard, he zoomed in the camera as much as he could before the picture quality deteriorated. A white guy in his late twenties, wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans, had stepped into the shop. His hair was closely cropped on the sides and a little longer on top, and he wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Something about him was familiar. Really familiar. Fingers pressed to his mouth, Colt watched the video as the man selected a bouquet of white roses, wrote out a card, paid cash, and left. He turned toward the door, and his face came fully into focus.

It was the guy who'd grabbed Taylor at the Rainbow. Colt pulled his keys from his pocket and snapped the USB stick free, jamming it into the computer and downloading the section of footage he needed. He glanced at the clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the computer. The Rainbow would be open, the last of the lunch crowd finishing up. He pushed up out of his seat and strode back to the front of the shop, calling “thank you” over his shoulder as he headed outside.

His mind spun as he drove the short distance to the Rainbow. They were potentially dealing with a stalker situation, and the sooner Colt could get a positive ID on this guy so they could slap him with a restraining order, the better.

The interior of the Rainbow was more brightly lit than the last time he'd been here. Come to think of it, he'd never been during daylight hours. A few steps in, he spied one of the longtime waitresses, and approached her with a smile.

“Hey, Cindy, how's it going?”

She shot him a questioning glance before returning the smile. “Colt, right? You're here kinda early, aren't you? Get you a drink?”

“Actually, I'm working,” he said, hefting the laptop he'd grabbed from the Charger's trunk under his arm, “And I was wondering if you could help me out with something. You got five minutes?”

“For you? Sure. Just give me a sec.” She zipped behind the bar and dumped her tray and the rag she'd had over her shoulder. She poured herself a glass of water and gestured toward a booth. Colt settled himself in the booth and opened up his laptop, jamming the USB stick in.

“So what kinda work you do?” asked Cindy, sliding in beside him, her long, brown ponytail swishing.

“Private security. I've got some footage here I'd like you to take a look at. This guy was here the other week, and I'm trying to get an ID on him.”

She nodded and he queued up the footage, sitting back and hitting Play. Cindy watched, frowning, her mouth twisted to the side as she studied the screen. Finally, when the man turned, she let out a little gasp.

“That's Ronnie.”

“You know him?”

“Just his first name. He comes in here maybe once a week. Real quiet. Only ever orders soda. Always pays cash. Keeps to himself. I always thought maybe he was lonely. Seemed to do a lot of people watching.”

“You ever talk to him?”

“Not much. I only know his name because I overheard someone else call him that.”

“Someone else knew him?”

“Yeah, this other guy, a biker type. Ronnie left right away after that.”

It was a picture and a first name, but it was a start. Time to let Clay work his magic.

Taylor sat on the leather couch in her studio, late-afternoon sunshine filtering in through the stained-glass windows and tinging the room with moody purples and blues. The rest of the studio musicians had left, and Roman had locked up behind them. Colt had been gone for a couple of hours, but she was content to wait, enjoying having the space practically to herself for a little while. It was challenging to work on the more personal songs with everyone around. They needed a little more room to grow before she'd be ready to share them with anyone.

Roman sat on the couch on the other side of the room, keeping both her and the door in his sights. He glanced up from his phone and shot her a smile. “Colt's on his way back. Sounds like he found some information about your admirer.”

“He's not an admirer—he's a sick freak.”

The smile dropped from Roman's face, and he nodded. “You're right. Sorry. Didn't mean to be a dick about that.”

She studied him, taking in the long hair, the tattoos, the big, muscled body, the beard, and she saw it all for what it was. Armor. She knew, because she did the same thing, with eye makeup, and leather, and the way she felt most comfortable when there was a guitar between her and whoever else.