The Hotter You Burn (11 page)

Her fingers automatically sought her scars, tracing, tracing. “They're too revealing.”

One corner of his mouth curved into an adorable lopsided smile. “Why, Miss Glass. Are you a bit of a prude?”

When it came to the hideous marks on her body? “Yes, sir. I am.”

“Well, now. That surprises me.”

“Why exactly does that surprise you?” She'd resisted his allure at every turn. He should wonder if she wore a chastity belt.

“You're beautiful. I want to see you draped in beautiful things. That's all.”

Reeling...

Suddenly agitated, as if he'd revealed too much, he stood and strode to the wet bar in the far right corner, where he poured himself three fingers of whiskey. “So. The reason I'm here. West has been hired to design yet another new computer game.”

Okay. All right. Time to get down to business. “Congratulations are in order, then.”

“Yes, but there's no time for a party. I'm in the process of composing a cast of characters for you.”

Excitement sparked. “Could you hurry? I mean, I'm not complaining, but I finished the last drawing you requested days ago.” And she'd been itching to create another.

“I'll have it done later today. I was also thinking I would have paints, brushes and canvas delivered to the RV. I'd like to hire you to paint my portrait.”

She almost bounced out of her seat, but caught herself with a single thought.
Can't appear too hasty.
“Okay,” she said, playing with the edge of a piece of paper. “If you insist. And if the price is right.” She'd drawn countless images of him, but the thought of painting him to scale and seeing him in full color intoxicated her. She could play with different shades of gold, brown and bronze, and even a wealth of greens to get the emerald flecks hidden so deeply in his eyes just right.

Maybe Kimberly had nailed it. Maybe Harlow
had
stared at Beck for reasons that had nothing to do with the job.

“Name a figure.” He slowly, leisurely, walked back to the couch and eased down, the whiskey in hand. “Whatever it is, lollipop, I'll pay it.”

The new endearment startled her, considering he hadn't used one these past three weeks. The fact that he'd gone with
lollipop
, something sweet and edible he'd never called the others...

I'm special to him.

Oh, no, no, no. Red alert! Red alert!
That was the true danger of him. Somehow, he made
everyone
feel special.

“That's a daring thing to say,” she stated quietly.

“But true nonetheless.”

She placed her elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “Very well. The price is...” Inspiration struck, and she smiled evilly. “You can't have sex for a week.”

His eyes narrowed to tiny slits, but he appeared far from angry. “Why do you care about my sex life?”

“I care about
you
, and I think abstinence will help build character.”

He didn't miss a beat. “Very well, I accept.” No time to celebrate. “With two caveats,” he added. “The week won't start until the painting is done.”
He
smiled now, and it was a wicked one. “Also, I want the painting to be a nude.”

Her breath caught in her throat, only to exit on a gust. “I... You... Excuse me?”

“A nude. Meaning I won't be wearing any clothing. If you want to strip down, that'll be okay, too.”

This was punishment for daring to impede his sex life, wasn't it? “I've never actually painted or even drawn what you're suggesting, and I'm not sure I have the skill.” Or if she would survive.

“I have complete faith in your ability. And as an artist, a
professional
, I'll expect you to view me strictly through objective eyes. You can do that, can't you?”

“Of course,” she said. She could absolutely, 100 percent view him through objective eyes...if he wore a cloak of invisibility. But even then it would be iffy. “Why do you want a nude?” she demanded, hoping to shame him into retracting his request.

“Maybe I enjoy the thought of disrobing for you.” His voice had gone low and husky, a caress of unfettered temptation, making her shiver. “Maybe I like the thought of your eyes on my bare skin and your hands forming the shapes of my body.”

She gulped. Having only ever dealt with boys, never with men, she had no idea how to respond to so blatant a statement.

“Or,” he said, his voice returning to its normal fun, flirty tone. “Maybe I'm narcissistic and want to immortalize every inch of myself. How is one to know?”

How, indeed. “When would you like to start?”

“Tonight.”

I'm going to hate myself for reminding him of this, but...
“What about your date? I can't—won't—hurt Kimberly.”

“I think we both know she was about to cancel on me. Which makes me wonder what the two of you were discussing.”

Shifting uncomfortably, she said, “I will never betray a confidence.”

“I could change your mind, but I won't. I admire your mind-set.” His gaze dropped to the pulse fluttering in her neck. “I'll arrive at seven, and I'll bring dinner.”

“Yes. I'd like that.” A lot. And it wasn't the thought of food that made her heart race, but the thought of having him in her space. Alone... Naked. Within reach.

She sucked in a breath. Oh...crap. The worst had happened, hadn't it?

Kimberly had figured it out, but Harlow had done her best to deny it until the truth practically vibrated in her bones. How had she
ever
fooled herself into thinking she could fall for West...when she'd already fallen for Beck?

“What's wrong, dove?” he asked gently. He came around the desk and sat at the edge, turning her chair to trap her between his legs. “You were twinkles one moment, sullen the next.”

He always read her so well, while she always struggled to make sense of his moods. Life wasn't fair. “It's nothing I want to discuss right now,” she said, refusing to lie to him. But she
had
to talk to someone about this.

Who? She had no confidants, and any secrets she revealed to others could be used as a weapon against her. A game of “humiliate Harlow for sport.”

“What will it take to get you to trust me, hmm?”

Was he serious? “Beck, for the past three weeks you've treated me like I'm a carrier of cholera. Why do you
want
my trust?”

“You're my friend.”

But I want to be more
. “Yes,” she said, and cleared her throat. “You're right. I am.”

“So talk to me like a friend. Share your past with me. Tell me what changed you in high school.”

Her mouth went dry. Always they circled back to this. “Forget I agreed to be your friend. We're enemies.”

“You'll tell me what's easy, but nothing that's hard.”

“I don't like to think about what changed me. It hurts.”

“Pain fades. Rip off the bandage and give the wound a chance to heal.”

“No.” If she told him, she'd have to show him. If she showed him, he'd never want her again. And right now he wanted her. He had to. The way he was looking at her...

He leaned down until his nose almost brushed against hers. “One day, Harlow, you'll open up to me.”

“One day,” she whispered. “Maybe. But probably not.”

He cupped her nape, the heat of him making her gasp. “Definitely. And in more ways than one. I'll make sure of it.”

CHAPTER TEN

B
ECK
 
KNOCKED
 
ON
 
Harlow's door. This might be the biggest mistake of his life, but he suspected it would also be his favorite.

He'd kept his hands to himself for nearly a month, even as the hot little piece paraded around the office in the sexy summer dresses he'd bought for her, the material clinging to her perfect body in a way that should be illegal. He'd done his rock-solid best to ignore her. She desired West. Or at least she thought she desired West. Beck had watched her more and more closely with every day that passed, seeing nothing romantic in her dealings with the guy and everything awkward.

Then, of course, there was her undeniable attraction to Beck. As many lovers as he'd had, as much experience as he'd garnered throughout the years, he could detect a woman's desire for him even if he were blindfolded. Every time Harlow looked his way, her electric blues projected longing hot enough to make him think total-body third-degree wounds would be fun. And when he neared her, her breathing altered. When he touched her, goose bumps broke out over her skin. When he'd talked about posing nude for her, her expression had gone slumberous, as if they were already in bed together.

She wanted him the way he wanted her. And despite all her talk of relationships, she would settle for what he could give her—a night of passion so hot they'd forget their own names. Temptation demanded its due.

She opened the door, wearing a tank and a pair of shorts, and smiled nervously in welcome. “Right on time.”

His skin burned for contact, but he kept his arms at his sides. “Always.”

“Except for the times you're late, right?” As she stepped back, he prowled inside and handed her the dish of food he'd brought.

Her eyes widened with delight. “I smell bacon.”

“I had Brook Lynn make you some kind of stuffed peppers with your drug of choice.”

“Seriously?”

At his nod, she ripped the foil off the dish and squealed with delight.

“It's not bacon and marshmallow, I know, but she ran out of marsh—”

“It's perfect!” She threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around him. “Thank you, Beck. Thank you so much.”

The softness of her body conformed to the hard, masculine planes of his. She was curvier now that she'd been eating properly, and he liked it. A lot. Her strawberry scent overshadowed the smell of the peppers and bacon, fogging his brain, and her warmth stroked over him, heating him, reminding him of the first rays of sunlight after a long, harsh winter. He held her tighter than he'd intended, anticipation building inside him, the burning only growing worse—and better.

The urge to pick her up and set her on the kitchen counter nearly overwhelmed him. One button on those shorts. Probably one hundred and fifteen teeth in that zipper. A tug of his wrist would leave her in a pair of panties. One strip of cloth separating his fingers...his mouth...from her sweet spot.

Not yet
. He forced himself to release her. He'd thought about this, about her reclusiveness and the hatred of the townsfolk, and he doubted she'd been on a date since high school. He wasn't sure how far she had gone back then, only knew boys her age wouldn't have known their way around an orgasm with a map and a flashlight. He had to take this one step at a time.

Still smiling, glowing so brightly she made his chest ache, she skipped to the kitchen table. Did she have any idea how much he wanted her?

Earlier, the perpetually sweet Kimberly had finally revealed a pair of claws—for a bacon sandwich. Harlow, who had seemed to covet the item more than lottery winnings, had graciously relinquished her claim. The girl who had spent the past however many months starving had willingly given food to the one who had never known lack. It was that second, that moment, that slice of life, that Beck's icy facade had melted.

After that, there'd been no denying the truth. No holding back, his reserve nothing but a crumbled heap. He wanted Harlow, and so he would have her. No matter the consequences.

“Aren't you hungry?” Harlow asked, offering one of the peppers.

“Starving,” he said, his voice low, nothing but gravel. At the table, he claimed the seat next to hers, making sure their shoulders and thighs brushed together.

He heard a hitch in her breath, saw a scatter of goose bumps on her arms—felt yet another fire ignite in his veins. In unison, they turned their attention to the food. Probably for different reasons. They ate in silence, the air between them still crackling with ever-sharpening tension. She'd missed so many of his cues today, but this closeness...this she couldn't deny.

Her hand trembled as she took a drink of water. She licked a drop from her bottom lip, and he hardened painfully, imagining the other things she could lick up with that little pink tongue.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, folding the edge of the sandwich's wrapper.

“Honestly? You're not ready for the answer.” He tugged on the end of her hair. “Besides, I'd rather talk about the lies you told me when we first met.”

Shame caused her shoulders to hunch in. “I'm sorry about that. But I promise you, I will never lie to you again, no matter how painful the truth is.”

“Good. Prove it by telling me something about your past.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Start with a favorite memory of the farmhouse.” The need to learn more about her had yet to lessen.

“A favorite memory...” A faraway glaze appeared in her eyes as her mind drifted. “Christmas, about a year after my dad died. My mother and I decorated the entire house with ribbons and bows and afterward she baked pumpkin spice cookies. For the first time, we weren't afraid of anyone finding fault with our efforts.”

“You were afraid before?” he asked gently. “With your father?”

Her nod was reluctant, but it was a response and it was progress.

“I know you mentioned he called you names. Did he ever hurt you physically?”

“He didn't have to. His words did enough damage.”

Beck took her hand and twined their fingers. “Sometimes that's worse. Physical damage heals. Inner wounds can fester.”

She held on tight, and the ache returned to his chest. But he was used to it now. It was almost like an old friend. “You were hurt, too,” she said, a statement rather than a question.

Oh, no, she didn't. They weren't talking about him. “Haven't you heard?” He smiled as he released her and gripped his knees. “I'm Superlover. Stronger—and harder—than steel.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're also deflecting.”

“No, I'm stating facts. Now, what's your favorite food?”

“Bacon. Isn't everyone's?”

“Your favorite drink?

“Lemonade. What about you?” she asked. “Your favorite memory of the farmhouse, I mean. And don't try to flirt or tease your way out of answering. I'll kick you out of my RV.”

“Harsh, Harlow. Harsh. But okay, fine. I enjoyed finding a blueberry pie thief in my hallway.” When she pointed to the door, he said, “I mean it. You looked both scared and determined, like you were defenseless, but you would kill to protect the pilfered dessert.”

“I would have,” she said, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. A smile he wanted to taste.

“Bunny,” he said, reaching out to finger the hem of her shorts, the need to touch her born from his most primitive instincts. “Have you thought long and hard about what position you'd like me in for the painting?”

Color bloomed in her cheeks, her breath catching in her throat. “Yes. You should be bent over the couch, your bottom red from a recent spanking.”

“In to pain and punishment, are you? Good to know. Grab the supplies I sent over, and we'll get started,” he said—and while she sputtered for a response, he began unbuttoning his shirt.

* * *

O
NCE
 
AGAIN
 
THERE
 
was something different about Beck. Only, this change came from the opposite end of the spectrum, and it was making Harlow nervous. He was charming, more charming than usual, and he was clearly bent on seduction. Did she have the strength to resist?

“Wait,” she said. “I've been thinking. I should paint you with your clothes on first. You know, to make you feel more comfortable.”

“Trust me. I'm always comfortable naked.”

I'll bet you are.

He popped open another button. His nimble fingers had already worked halfway down the shirt, and what she saw of his chest captivated her. Well-defined pecs with a dusting of black hair that was golden at the tips. Tanned, unmarred skin. An eight-pack capable of intoxicating her after a single glance. He was altogether flawless and utterly divine.

His past lovers were probably equally flawless. Look at Tawny. Kimberly, whom he hadn't slept with but had considered dating. And then there was Harlow. Up top, she was like a patchwork quilt. “Don't you want to make sure I can get your upper proportions right before you trust me down below?”

A wicked sparkle in eyes now tilted with languid desire. “Do you think I'll be too big for the canvas?”

Kill me. Kill me now
. “Just leave your pants on!”

He shrugged out of his shirt, saying, “You're sure?”

Not even a little, but she forced herself to nod.

He gave a heavy sigh, as if he were doing her a huge favor. “Very well. The pants stay on. For now.”

“Sit on the couch,” she instructed, pulling the easel, paints and brushes from the cabinet. Earlier she'd given him a list of everything she would need, and she'd had to make a split-second decision about acrylic paint or oil-based. In the end she'd opted for oil-based. Acrylic dried too fast, even when mixed with a retarder, making the blending of colors more difficult.

“I don't want to hurt your feelings by being truthful about how wrong you are,” he said, “but even I know the bed will make a more visually appealing background.”

The bed. He reclined on it, lounging against the pillows.

Tremors plagued her as she set up shop. “You'll have to be still.”

“I can do anything you need me to do, lover.” His voice had gone low and husky again, stroking over her with the power of a caress. “All you have to do is tell me, and it's done.”

Her hand trembled even harder as she picked up her brush. “You're not supposed to flirt with staff.”

“It'll be our secret,” he said. “You've done portrait work before.”

She began to etch his silhouette. “Yes. My mother was my favorite subject.”

“What happened to the canvases? Because there weren't any in the house when I moved in. I would have seen them.”

Why not tell him? “I burned them.” Watched them smolder to ash.

He frowned, suddenly as serious as a heart attack. “Why?”

“I didn't like how I felt when I looked at them.”

“I thought your mother was kind to you.”

“She was, but every time I spotted her image, I remembered I never became the woman she expected me to be. I remembered the years I kept her bound to the house, and I just... I guess I decided to finally set her free.”

“You loved her. And she loved you,” he said, his voice weighted with an emotion she guessed was envy.

“Yes. Very much.” Tears welled in her eyes, the lines on the canvas blurring. She paused for a moment, calmed herself with a few deep breaths, and continued. “What about your parents?”

He remained silent. Of course. He could prod into her life, but she had no business poking into his.

“Biological? Foster?” she prompted.

More silence.

“You know,” she said, not trying to hide her irritation, “you insist I tell you all kinds of stuff about me, but you shut down anytime I question you. It's really not fair. I'm not going to do anything with the information but know you better.”

Another minute passed before he said, “My mom died when I was five. My dad pawned me off on relatives for a while, and after I'd worn out my welcome, good ole Dad relinquished his rights to me.”

“Oh, baby. I'm so sorry.” Wait.
I called him baby?
The embarrassing slip had come out so naturally it scared her.

Thankfully, Beck hadn't seemed to notice. He merely hiked up his shoulders and said, “It is what it is.”

“No. I refuse to think that way. What happened clearly hurt you. What was shouldn't have been.” He'd lost a parent, only to be rejected by the other one. Harlow couldn't imagine what she would have done if Momma had cast her away as soon as Dad was buried. “You deserved better.”

Beck cleared his throat. “Artists work by inspiration,” he said, steering the conversation in a different direction. “What's yours?”

She didn't protest the change, saying, “Pretty much everything.”

“Tsk-tsk. Harlow told her first lie of the evening. I'll give you that one, but the next one will cost you.”

“I didn't lie,” she said, earnest. But...
what will the next one
cost me?

“If everything inspired you, you never would have stopped painting in the first place.”

“I was too poor to buy the supplies.”

“Poor or not, if you'd wanted to paint, you would have found a way.”

He had a point. “Allow me to amend my statement.” She traced her brush over the canvas, beginning to bring him to life with color. “Everything inspires me...when I'm feeling safe.”

“
Safe.
Interesting word choice, considering you have a shirtless man in your bed.”

As if I need the reminder
. “Hmm,” she muttered, unwilling to commit to an actual response. And for a heartbeat, maybe an eternity, she became utterly lost in her art... Lost in Beck. In his beauty and charisma. His carnality. It was there in his eyes, staring at her from the bed as well as the canvas. Soon she was panting as if running a brush through paint were somehow a physical workout. Her skin hot with fever, her limbs not just trembling but buzzing with electricity.