Ash Rising (DEAd Series) (29 page)

“I was going to tell you to pull in next to the Mustang so you didn’t get wet,” he told her.

“It’s not raining that hard. I won’t melt.”

“Give me your keys and take your stuff inside. I’ll put your car in the garage.”

Emma shrugged and tossed him the keys on her way into the house. She set her laptop up on the breakfast bar and poured a glass of white wine. She started to get one for Ash, but he hadn’t come in yet. Something wrong with her car? Great. Last thing she needed. She poked her head through the door to check the garage.

The only light came from the small bulb in the overhead opener, but she spotted him standing in the far two-car bay near a covered motorcycle and Range Rover. She examined him covertly as she approached, trying to see beyond the implacable mask he often wore when dealing with strong emotions.

He relaxed, aware of her presence, hands sunk into the front pockets of his jeans and shoulders slightly hunched. After a few moments of silent staring, she moved past the bike and toward the SUV, fingers itching to reach out and touch the unbroken layer of dust coating the dark paint. The gesture seemed wrong, although she had no idea why. He stirred behind her, but when she turned, he didn’t appear to have moved.

“My mom’s Range Rover. I don’t use it, so…” The words faded, and he shrugged one broad shoulder. Brilliant blue eyes met hers and his chin went up. The need to go to him was a cramp in her heart, but the set of his body stopped her. “Had my dad’s Mercedes parted out and donated the proceeds to a charity for victims of violence.”

The car they’d been killed in. Emma studied his face, her throat closing and eyes stinging.

“And the bike?” she whispered, angling her head toward the black tarp.

“Mine,” was all he said. “I haven’t ridden it in…a long time.”

A deep, uneven breath lifted his chest, triggering and echoing pang in hers. Her fingers brushed over the heavy black cover. “I like motorcycles.”

Wincing as if she’d stung him, his gaze fixed on where she touched the material. “You’ve been on one before?”

Emma nodded, not looking away. “Not much else to do in small town Tennessee. My high school boyfriend rebuilt one from the ground up. We used to go riding all the time, much to my mother’s concern.”

Silence stretched, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and strained. “I rebuilt this one. It was in pretty bad shape after the…explosion. Thought it would help, but guess I was fucking stupid.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed, and she crossed her arms to keep from reaching for him.

“Liz asked me to teach her how to drive it the night before she died.” He swallowed and finally met her gaze. “Told her I would, but never got the chance. I told her a lot of things I never got the chance to see through.”

Emma came to him, even though his eyes warned her away. He took a step back, but she followed to wrap her arms around him and lay her head on his chest, offering support and comfort. He held her, and his grip tightened until she couldn’t breathe.

“Sorry, Emma. So sorry, but I just can’t. Not now. Not yet.”

He kissed the top of her head, and Emma concentrated on breathing evenly. Hoping he didn’t feel her breath hitch, she blinked rapidly so the moisture in her eyes wouldn’t spill over. She’d wait until they were both sure she was the only woman he thought of when they got on the motorcycle together. She felt no pang of jealousy or resentment toward the other woman—the one who was gone—but she ached for the pain and guilt he still suffered.

Well, maybe a little jealousy. Elizabeth Ladd had been given Ash’s brilliance and light, his honest joy, the vital intimate connection that hovered just beyond Emma’s grasp when she was with him. Emma had no complaints about his focus or fidelity. She had both. The evidence was in every touch on her body, his attentiveness and dedication to their pleasure, but he held part of himself back. Willing to risk what she felt for him wouldn’t be returned, she’d just fight harder, be more patient and more stubborn. A tall order, but she was determined. The reward would be more than worth the effort.

“Ready whenever you are,” she whispered, absorbing his heat and strength into her bones. She’d never meant any words more.

The faint light from the door opener went out, but he continued to hold her in the dark of the garage. The faint patter of rain on the roof soothed, the heat and solidness of him a balm to her turbulent emotions. After a few minutes, he took her hand and kissed her forehead before leading her back into the house. The bright lights of the kitchen contrasted with the dimness of the garage, but Emma could see his eyes had cleared and settled, his smile genuine. He downed what was left of the wine in her glass on the counter, and she followed him into the master bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes.

“Did you work out this morning?” he asked as she tossed her overnight bag on the floor.

Emma got in an early morning session at the gym whenever she could pull herself out of his bed. She tugged on her yoga pants and a clean T-shirt. “Yeah, but I’m going to work with your weights here. Jim challenged me to a pull-up contest, and I want to kick his ass.”

He made a dubious sound. “You think you can beat Jim in a pull-up contest?”

She arched a brow and stared at him coolly. He returned the look, and her annoyance grew
. His was so much better. He could freeze with those eyes. Burn, too, as she was well aware, and had to stifle a squirm.

“I held the pull-up title for my class at the Academy,” she informed him.

He snorted and finished tying his shoe. “For the girls, maybe.”

“
What? Did you just—I don’t even…” She shook her head, incoherent in her indignation.

His grin
distracted her as he stood, but she fixed a glower on her face. He wouldn’t get away with his sexy little smile. Or his sexy swagger, either. She watched suspiciously as he came across the room to stand in front of her. He’d seriously insulted her, the jackass. She narrowed her eyes when he frowned in a contemplative and completely fake manner, wrapping his long fingers around one of her biceps to measure and assess.

“Class champ? Really?
” He burst out laughing when she took a well-aimed swing at him. “Ow! Hey!”

“
Good at kickboxing, too.” She pivoted and swung her leg, vicious and low, aiming for his knees. “As you know.”

“You’ll
have to be quicker than that.” He spun and grabbed her ankle, pulled her leg up, but his grin faded when she freed herself with a skilled twist.

Hah. H
e kept his eye on her with grudging respect as she crouched and feinted to duck his surprised defensive move. Her fist shot out and punched him in the thigh, right in the spot that would cramp the muscle and drop him.

And drop he did, with a howl,
grabbing his leg and swearing violently. She’d hit the old wound on his leg, right where the long, ugly scar peeked out from the bottom of his shorts.
Oh, shit
…She was going to throw up.

“Oh, my God.
” Dropping to her knees, she froze, her hands hovering over him. The blow had been instinctive, but holy shit. She hadn’t been thinking about his injuries. He was so vital, so strong, so stoic, so perfect. “Ash. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking—I didn’t realize—”

“Fucking hell,” he moaned, rolling on the floor
as he clutched his leg, his broad shoulders heaving.

She
really was going to throw up. She’d hurt him. He was in pain. Her blow had probably undone all the work he’d put into his rehabilitation. She couldn’t begin to imagine the sheer will and effort, the pain he’d endured, to bring himself back to such excellent condition.

“Ash.” Blinking
away tears, she took a determined breath. She’d fall apart later, but he needed her help. Oh, God, what had she done?

“Jesus Christ
.” He rolled onto his back, face scrunched and eyes squeezed shut. When they opened, she stared into clear, blue, amused eyes. “Where’d you learn that move? It was excellent—Emma?”

She sat on her heels as pressure tightened her chest.

“Are you laughing?” she asked calmly. He sat up, resting his hands on his knees.

“Just
teasing you, Emmaline. Not about hurting, because holy hell, that stung like a bitch. You’ve got a great punch. You should have seen the look on your face.” He snorted again, and she saw red. “Girl’s pull-up champ. I was joking. Hey!”

He held up his hands to protect his head when she shot to her feet and slapped at him.

“I thought you were hurt,” she said through clenched teeth, her voice rising. “I thought I’d hurt you, you asshole. I thought I’d ruined your leg, screwed up everything you worked so hard for in your recovery. Damn it, Ash, I really thought I’d hurt you!”

He rose to his feet, and she
fought the stab of sympathy in her gut when he favored his leg. He still smirked a little, and she took a step away so she wasn’t tempted to do him serious harm.

“You didn’t hurt me, beautiful. Well, it h
urt,” he amended, moving closer and reaching for her, but she took another step back. “But you didn’t do any damage.”

He leveled those eyes on her again, not an ounce of coolness evident, and she shut hers in self-preservation.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what
?” His voice was soft and very close.

“You know what.” She
resisted the urge to look at him—him and his damn overwhelming allure. “Stop it. I’m mad at you.”

“Mad at me?” His voice was a dark
whisper, and she could feel him standing close, smell him. She licked her lips and jumped when he placed his hand on her arm. “You punch me in my bad leg, take me out, knock me on my ass, and you’re mad at me?”

A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth at
his teasing tone, even as she struggled to hold on to her pique. “You are such a jackass, Beaulieu.”

His heat warmed
the front of her, and his arms slipped around her waist. She swayed and lost the battle to hold back her smile.

“
Mm. Maybe I am, but you… You’re the class pull-up champ.”

She shrieked as he bent and
hoisted her over his shoulder. Hoping to be dumped on his bed—hoping more than a little—her eyes flew open when he carried her down the hall. Completely disoriented, she staggered after he set her on her feet in the spare room that served as his gym.

“What the—
” she sputtered.

“C’mon, c
hamp,” he taunted, gesturing with his chin at the pull-up bar.

“Seriously? You want to…
Seriously?”

He shrugged with a wide grin
. “Show me what you’ve got. I’ll spot you. Twice as many.”

Studying
him from head to foot, her thoughts turned calculating. “You do twice as many as me?”

“Yep.” His
eyes narrowed with challenge and humor.

“You’re on, sucker.” She rolled her shoulders
and stepped under the bar. Her attention shot back to him when he pulled off his sweatshirt. “What are you doing?”

“G
etting ready to kick your ass.”

He wadded the
shirt in his hands and rubbed the soft cotton over his chest. Slowly. She tried to sneer, but her eyes followed the motion, and she had to bite her lips to stop from licking them. He grinned, and her annoyance grew at that irritating expression. As he ran the shirt over his defined abs, she crossed her arms at her waist, raising her brow in an expression that mocked one he used often, and pulled her T-shirt over her head. Satisfaction warmed her when his jaw dropped.

“What the
hell, Emma?” His shirt dropped to the floor.

Tossing hers on top, she
stood facing him with her hands on her hips. The plum-colored silk and lace bra she wore wasn’t practical, because no woman in her right mind would wear something practical when there was every chance Asher Beaulieu would see it. The material highlighted more than hid, the delicate lace swirling over the curves of her breasts and revealing pale skin underneath, the darker rose of her nipples. He swallowed audibly before gathering himself.

“So that’s how we’re playing it, huh?”

“You started this,” she pointed out, running her finger along a silky strap and tracing the insubstantial cup.

“Bring it,” he said, but his eyes focused on her finger.

Shaking her arms to loosen the muscle jiggled her breasts, and a faint hint of red washed along his sharp cheekbones. Oh, yeah. Bring it
.

Moving to stand next to her
under the pull-up bar, he brushed up against her, lightly, barely there. She blinked innocently.

“Lift?” she asked, even though she was only a couple of inches shorter and cou
ld reach the bar easily.

His marvelous eyes narrowed, but he moved behind her, clasping her bare waist.
Pressing against her back, his fingers gripped, held, then lifted. Emma grasped the bar, and his hands appeared next to hers.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”