The Fighter's Defiant Lover (The Burton Brothers Series Book 4) (2 page)

Avery climbed out of Dustin’s car and tapped the roof. “Thanks for the ride home, brother dear.” She glanced across Dustin to the passenger seat and offered a tired smile. “Jasmine, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you as well,” Jasmine told her. She meant it, too. Unlike Dustin—who seemed to frown way too much—Avery had been chatty. She also had amazing hair down to her waist and was so cute, Jasmine just wanted to hug her.

How were Mr. Glum Fighter and this girl even related? Avery gave Dustin a wave and started up the walkway to the house. Jasmine turned to Dustin. “I like your sister.”

“So do I, as it happens. Now do you want to get something to eat, or just coffee?”

Jasmine shook her head. “I actually can’t stand coffee. And to tell you the truth, I’m not really hungry right now.” He gave her a sideways look like he didn’t believe her, but she was used to a dancer’s diet—she could afford calories on the days she was dancing or taking a couple of dance classes, but sitting on a bus was not burning calories the way she needed to keep her figure.

She gave him back a look from beneath her lashes, trying to decide just how bold she could be without causing him to dump her off at the closest motel. Was he a guy you hit on with a direct approach—or was she really pushing things here?

Dustin didn’t seem to pick up on her ‘hungry for something else’ look. “I talked with Beck while you and Rachel were saying hello. He didn’t figure Rachel would even think about where you were going to stay while you were here, so he offered the use of their empty guest room.”

“Really? That’s sweet, but I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable staying alone in their house while they’re at the hospital.”

“You won’t be.” Dustin put the car in gear headed down the street. “I live there as well. I used to bunk with Mason, but Beck’s got more room.” He glanced at her and finally smiled.

She decided she liked that smile. A dimple came out on his left cheek and his eyes warmed. She smiled back. “Well, in that case…thanks. I won’t say no to saving on hotel bills.”

“So how do you like being a showgirl?”

She heard a hint of something in his voice when he said that last word. “Is that your way of asking if I’m a high price hooker?”

“If I was asking that, I would have asked that.”

Sighing, she slumped in her seat. “Sorry, I guess I’m so used to people assuming that all showgirls sleep with a different person each night. I’m a little defensive. You can thank the asshole for leaving me a little touchy. That and
way
too many hours on a bus.”

“Apology accepted. At the risk of offending you again, how about that question. You like being a…let’s just call it a dancer? That’s a safe word, right?”

Jasmine smiled. “It’s harder than people think. There are these high heels that make your arches cramp up. And then the costumes, or lack thereof. They always seem to have the air conditioning on super arctic, too. It’s fine moving under the lights, but backstage you have to keep telling yourself it’s actually warmer than it feels.”

“Mind over matter, huh? Does it ever work?”

“Never. But that’s easy compared to the headgear we have to wear. Three or four feet of beading and features means you need a brace down your back or really, really good neck muscles. The first couple of months, I almost quit. But the money’s great. And in Vegas, there are only a few ways for a girl like me to make that kind of money, and I wasn’t willing to earn a living on my back, or hauling drugs around.”

Dustin pulled up to a light. They sat in silence for a minute. Jasmine hated it, so she continued. “You meet a lot of great girls dancing. And there’s some good folks, but it’s like anywhere. You get the scumbags, too, who think that because you dance around in skimpy outfits, you must be fair game. George—he’s the stage manager for the casino where I work—or rather, where I used to work since they may just replace me since they’re not fond of vacation time being grabbed like this—he’s cool. I should call him.”

“Is there a problem?” Dustin asked, pulling the car into a garage.

She dug her cell phone from her oversized bag and pushed a couple of buttons. “George? Hey, it’s Jasmine. Just wanted to say…what? Frankie came by looking for me? You know I broke up with him three months ago. What’d you tell him? The truth—I’m on vacation. Am I fired, too? Oh, George, no way. I can’t be back tomorrow. What? Frankie told you that? No…no, I’m not. No…I…fine, then I quit!” She cut off the call and tossed her phone in her bag. Her hands were shaking so she tucked them beneath her thighs to try and calm herself down.

“Jasmine? I’m thinking maybe now would be a good time to have that talk about why you’re in Salt Lake City. Come on in. You may not like coffee, but I haven’t had dinner yet.”

Dustin led the way into the house. She glanced around. Nice, open layout. The room looked like a family room—big screen TV, overstuffed chairs, a few toys in an open, wooden box. “Have a seat,” he said and waved at the room.

Jasmine sank down onto the edge of the couch and watched as his muscles bunched when he crouched in front of the fireplace and struck a match to the kindling and paper that had been placed in the hearth. When he stood back up to his full height, she tried not to be too blatant, but he really was worth a second and even a third look.

“How old are you?” he asked. He headed into the kitchen, which opened into this area. “I mean I’ve heard Rachel mention you—you two went to high school together, right?”

Jasmine nodded. “Yeah. Uhm…well, according to my personnel file at the casino, I’m twenty-five.”

He came back with two sandwiches and handed her one. “And according to your birth certificate?”

“I’m really not hungry. And, well, I might be only twenty-three as of my last birthday.” Jasmine bit her bottom lip, waiting to hear a lecture on honesty, but instead she found him grinning at her. “Is it that big a deal? I’ve been doing great. Just fine. Saving up my money, and—”

“Hooking up with the wrong guy?” He sat down in the chair next to the couch.

Jasmine winced. “Okay, maybe that wasn’t so smart. But Frankie—he was nice at first. The kind of guy who took a girl out and paid for dinner. What—why are you looking like that?”

“If you think paying for dinner is nice, you need a new set of standards.”

She picked at the crust on her sandwich. Dustin bit into his. The room had started to warm and she felt hot and almost as if her skin was too tight. Or was that because Dustin kept staring at her. She slipped off her jacket. Dustin’s stare shifted down to her breasts and she sat up, pushed them out a little.

She was proud of the girls—all natural and a decent C-cup. Most dancers had little to no breasts, but she’d gotten a figure young, which had killed any idea of becoming a ballerina. That and her height. But those assets had gotten her a top spot in Vegas.

Dustin licked his lips, and Jasmine could feel her nipples harden. Could he tell she wasn’t wearing a bra? “See something you like?” she asked in a husky voice of invitation. She’d long since lost her shyness about showing off her body. Some of her showgirl costumes consisted of nothing more than a jeweled thong that only covered the basics.

Standing, Dustin cleared his throat and headed into the kitchen. “You may hate coffee but how to you feel about tea?”

Dustin wasn’t going to admit she had his jeans feeling too snug. He wasn’t going to admit anything to this woman who had more dangerous curves than any mountain road he’d ever been on. In the kitchen, he put on the kettle.

“Tea is fine, I guess. I don’t drink much, apart from water. My mother was a raging alcoholic, and I promised myself I would never open myself up to that kind of addiction. Life is hard enough without sabotaging it yourself. And sodas make you fat, so I usually stick with water. I’m like addicted to sparkling water.”

He turned and saw that Jasmine had followed him to the kitchen. She leaned on the counter that separated the two rooms. He got the water boiling and pulled out an herbal tea. “This work for you?”

She nodded and smiled. When he handed her a mug, their fingers brushed. She had warm hands. Soft. Her perfume teased him again. He stayed where he was on the other side of the bar. “Nice nails,” he said. He wanted to groan.
Nice nails?
What the hell was he thinking? But he knew what he was thinking—
great breasts.

Jasmine lifted a hand and waggled her fingers. Her nails just about glowed a brilliant pink, the tips painted black with white zebra stripes. “Thanks. They matched my toenails, but you wouldn’t know about those. Yet.”

Dustin frowned. “Talk to me. Let’s go over the whole you want to kill someone thing.”

“Not someone. My ex-boyfriend. The asshole. Do you at least remember me talking about him?”

“Yeah, you were going kind of fast and I got stuck at the kill part. Must have been some breakup. You sound…angry. No so much heartbreak then?”

“More like a complete waste of my time for more than a year! Let’s just say that Frankie isn’t going to be winning any awards for best boyfriend of the year. Oh, he started great. Sweet. Flowers. Knew better than to bring me chocolate. Rubbed my feet. I didn’t know it was an act—or at least him on his best behavior. And then it started. ‘Oh, honey, can I borrow a twenty.’ Or, ‘Hey, I’m short on rent, can you lend me five hundred. I’ll pay you back.’ Which he never did. We fought. I tossed him out. He came back all nice again, so I gave him a second chance.”

“And a third and fourth? Sounds like a piece of work. But none of that seems to warrant you wanting him dead.”

“No. If that was all he’d done, I would have learned he was a sponge and been done with him. But…well, he started using me. Really using me. And just plain old using. Dumb me. I didn’t know anything about Meth, or Horse. I thought that was an animal you rode, not something you shot up. And you really should have been paying attention when I told you he needed something else to trade for his drugs. He couldn’t steal from me anymore, so he decided to just throw me in as part of his latest deal!”

Dustin straightened. He tightened a fist. It was too bad this Frankie creep wasn’t here—Dustin could see now why Jasmine might want to throw the guy into the cage and not look back.

Jasmine stared down at the tea she hadn’t even tasted. “Yeah, seems I’m supposed to be enjoying some guy’s hospitality for the next month as part of the payment for Frankie’s drug deal. Instant hooker without me even agreeing to it.”

“Is your boyfriend mental or something?” Dustin asked incredulously, trying to control his temper.

“Ex. Very ex. And, yeah, you’d think. But I’m pretty sure he’s just an idiot. Anyway, blah blah… filed a police report…blah blah…took the advice to leave town. But I just hate the idea that Frankie is going to come out of this smelling roses—he always does. And I had no plans to leave Vegas. None at all. I left my cat, my apartment, my stuff. And that creep—oh, I just burn thinking of him getting away with crap! And now I have Jimmy Tressor looking out for me.”

Dustin sipped his tea. The herbs weren’t doing the job of calming him. “Just to summarize—your junky ex-boyfriend made a deal with a known bad guy, and figured your relationship entitled him to share you. And this Jimmy guy—Tressor?”

“He’s the guy Frankie owes. But it’s Frankie I’d like to see dead!” Jasmine pressed a hand flat on the counter. “The guy sold me!”

Dustin reached out and put his hand over hers. “Let’s think about this. How will killing Frankie help you with this Tressor guy?”

She left her hand under his. She had warm hands—very warm. “I want Frankie out of my life. He’s just going to go on making me miserable. You heard. I lost my job thanks to him. Had to quit. I can’t go back to Vegas with him there!”

“But how does that help you out with the drug dealer?” Dustin asked again. He stressed the words. He could see she wasn’t thinking here. Her eyes had widened and a sheen of tears hovered over the dark brown. He could feel a small tremor in her fingers.

“What?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard.

Dustin leaned closer to her. He could breathe in her scent. He trapped her stare with his. “Focus, princess. Frankie may be part one, but you still have another shoe to drop. This Tressor guy sounds even worse news.”

Jasmine wet her lips and tilted her head to the side. She reached out with her free hand and tugged on the top of his T-shirt. “You know what—for tonight, I’d like to not care. Not think. Please, just kiss me.”

He knew this was a bad, bad idea. But with those wide, dark eyes on him, he couldn’t think. She leaned forward, pressing those luscious breasts of hers onto the counter. She was drawing him closer. Her hands were soft, and he placed his lips over hers.

He tried to keep the kiss light, but she wasn’t having that. She opened her mouth, her tongue coming out to trace the line of his lips just before she used her small teeth to bite down on his bottom lip.

It was like lighting a firecracker. Lust surged, his body tightened even further. He wrapped one hand around the back of her neck to pull her close and brushed his other hand over the taut nipples that had been teasing him.

The little noises she was making had him hard in two seconds. He wanted the barrier between them gone, but he pulled back enough to grab a few brain cells. This was moving way too fast.

He was not going to come around the bar and grab her and do her right in the middle of Beck’s family room. But that left him hot, horny and wishing he’d never met this woman. She was trouble all right—and she already had those long nails of hers dug under his skin.