Feel the Heat: A Contemporary Romance Anthology (62 page)

“
I
miss the beach already
.” Harper rubbed her hands together as they walked up the stairs to the house in the Hollywood Hills. More Christmas lights had been added to the railings since they’d been gone, as well as a fat wreath with a huge purple bow. It was also at least twenty degrees colder than Galveston. The last two days of their honeymoon had been unseasonably warm and perfect. So perfect she’d contemplated staying right there through the New Year.

Damn responsible nature had killed that idea.

Deacon opened the front door, dumping their duffel bag into the mudroom. The thing was filled to the brim with sand no matter how many times she’d shaken out their clothes. Music blared from the living room then went silent.

Harper grinned up at Deacon when she heard Jazz’s loud whisper for everyone to be quiet. She took his hand, dragging him into the living room.

“Surprise!” Jazz held up a sign that said, “Welcome home” with precisely seven exclamation points after it. One for every color of the rainbow.

Nick had a party horn sticking out of the side of his mouth. His face was deadpan as he blew into it, making the stupid party favor shriek. “Congratulations on fucking for a week straight.”

“God, you’re such an ass.” Simon rose off the couch, two party hats on his head like horns. “It’s congratulations on
making love
for a week straight.” He waggled his eyebrows. “As dirty as possible.” He crossed the room and shook Deacon’s hand, then pressed a smacking kiss on Harper’s cheek. “Way to go, blondie. You look sassy and happy.”

Harper rolled her eyes. “Gee thanks, Simon.” But she was happy. Still freaking out every other hour or so, but definitely happy.

Gray gave them a halfhearted salute from the couch. “Welcome home, guys.”

Jazz bounded over to them, hugging them both before taking Harper’s hands and dragging her to the couch. “Tell me everything.”

Nick reached next to the sofa and pulled out his acoustic, settling it into his lap. “Are we going to get a blow by blow about the whole week? Because if we are I’m going upstairs. I’d rather watch Guitar Center.”

“Then go, Mr. Rude,” Jazz said.

Nick huffed, but kept his mouth shut and strummed his guitar. Harper didn’t recognize the song. Maybe they’d actually gotten some writing done while she and Deacon had been away.

Deacon popped his knuckles. “Actually, this is really well-timed. I didn’t think I’d get all of you together at once before tomorrow. And I don’t really want to talk about this in the studio.”

Jazz tucked her feet under her legs and couldn’t stop bouncing.

Simon quirked an eyebrow. “Care to share what’s turning you into the human vibrator?”

Jazz stuck out her tongue. “Not my news to tell.”

Nick stopped strumming. “Should I put my guitar down for this?” He pulled the cigarette out from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth before taking it out again to flip it around at the filter.

Harper moved next to Deacon, linking their fingers. “We’re doing this now?” she asked him out of the side of her mouth.

Simon climbed onto the couch and perched on the back support. “This better be good. I have a very dirty woman waiting for me who’s been sexting me for the last hour.”

They’d gone over how to tell the band at least fifteen times since they’d woken up that morning. She opened her mouth to ease them into it like they discussed.

“We’re having a baby,” Deacon blurted.

Or they could just spit it out. “That is not how we rehearsed.”

Deacon’s cheeks flushed. “Sorry.”

Jazz popped off the couch and jumped into Deacon’s arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist and levered herself up to kiss his cheek. “This is so great.” She jumped back down and tacklehugged Harper. “So, so awesome.”

Nick looked from Deacon to Harper, then swung his gaze to Jazz. “Are you high? We’re a band. What the hell you so amped about the idea of a baby on a bus for?”

“Hey, watch it.” Harper’s voice rose.

Nick turned on her. “What, it’s not enough that you guys are married? You gotta bring a kid into this? Now?”

All strong and valid points that she’d lived with for days now. Except everything was different now.

Deacon stepped in front of her. “Look, man, I know it’s not ideal.”

“Ideal? Holy shit, D. What the fuck?”

Harper pushed past Deacon and stalked to Nick. “This wasn’t planned, but you know what? We’re dealing with it. We’re having it. There is no discussion here. I realize this will make things difficult scheduling wise—”

“Difficult?” Nick paced the room. “Difficult is adding a sixth person to the bus. Catastrophic is a fucking…what do you call it? A goddamn playpen.”

She felt Deacon seething at her back, but she held up a hand to him. “You don’t think we’ve thought of that? That
I’ve
thought of that? The baby wasn’t planned, but it’s a reality. Our reality.”

Nick collapsed back onto the couch. “What the hell happened to my band, man?”

Jazz plopped down next to Nick. “It became our band. Now more than ever.”

Simon crossed his arms and walked over to Harper. “So, a baby?”

“A baby,” she confirmed.

He nodded. “Can I borrow it sometimes? Chicks really dig babies. Makes them think I’m all sensitive and shit.”

Harper laughed. “No way in hell.”

Simon gave her a pouty face. “I’ll wear you down.”

Deacon looked at Gray. “What do you think, Vapor?”

Gray crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s going to be an interesting tour.”

Deacon gently gripped Harper’s shoulders. “Never liked boring anyway.”

Gray gave a rare smile. “But I’m happy for you guys. This is good news.”

Jazz hopped off the couch and went to the side drawer. She waved a book at them. “I’ve been doing some reading.”

Nick flipped open his Zippo and slammed out the back door, a puff of smoke in his wake.

Harper gripped Deacon’s hand on her shoulder, leaning into him. “Not quite as bad as I thought.”

Deacon wrapped an arm around her waist. “Impressive mama bear growl there at Nick,” he said low into her ear. “That was hella hot.”

She laughed. “You’re a sick man.”

“What? I like when you get all territorial about our kid. It’s pretty awesome.”

“Nick brings it out in me.”

Deacon snorted. “He brings it out in most people.”

“So it says here that your boobs get sensitive. Like, you can have an orgasm just from sucking on the nipples sensitive.” Simon looked up from the baby book Jazz had apparently handed him. “Is that true?”

“That’s the first question you ask me?”

Simon shrugged. “Sounds like a perk to me.”

Gray gave a soft snuff of a laugh before standing up. “I’ll be back later.”

Jazz looked up from the book, elbowing Simon out of the way. “Where are you going?”

“Out.” Gray grabbed his coat from the closet. “Don’t wait up.”

“What was that about?” Deacon asked as the door closed.

Jazz brought the book to her chest, arms wrapping tight. “He never stays home anymore.”

Harper frowned. Definite undercurrents there. “You okay?”

“Sure.” Jazz sighed, opening the book. “I am now.”

Harper linked her arm through Jazz’s and peeked over her shoulder. “So, tell me what you’ve learned.” She listened with half an ear as she watched Deacon go out the back door. She hoped he could talk Nick down. A lot of changes were going to happen. She didn’t want to cause another rift within the band. This baby was happy news no matter how Nick reacted. Jazz’s cheerful chatter helped support that.

A few minutes later, Deacon returned with a tiny shake of his head.

Nope, Nick wasn’t ready to talk evidently.

Deacon sat next to her, both he and Jazz spouting off information about babies and pregnancy like they were in a trivia contest.

When Simon sat on the other side of Jazz, a purring George in his lap, Harper finally relaxed a little. This family she’d married into wasn’t exactly what she’d envisioned for herself. But like the baby that was now a part of her, so were they. And she wouldn’t change a thing.

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L
ogan stretched
beside Hayley so close she felt the heat of his body. He whispered, “I missed you.”

His lips were warm and tasted like cinnamon sugar. His fingers hovered above her hip, not touching, but waiting, wanting. His tongue parted her lips and dipped inside. Heat exploded inside her stomach, spiraling down to her care. Her heart stalled then tha-thumped in a staccato rhythm that stole her breath.

“Please…”

Logan withdrew and looked at her, his left eyebrow quirked. “Please, what?”

Her gaze traveled down his firm body to the boxers, and knew, without a doubt, a delicious cock waited inside. She could see the way the material tented. He wanted her.

And God help her, she wanted him.

“Hayley.”

Her gaze sought Logan’s and in those chocolate depths, she saw desire, tenderness, and an offer of pleasure.

Logan swept two fingers across her cheek and down her neck. Two fingers became one as he stroked around her areola, circling and circling until the tip of his finger brushed her nipple. Her nipple became a hard, aching point. She looked down at his circling finger and drew in a sharp breath.

Logan lowered his head to her chest until his mouth was a kiss away from the aching peak.

His lips closed over the tortured nipple. He suckled, his warm, wet tongue swirling against the sensitive flesh. A low moan rose from her throat as hot desire jabbed at her. Her hands wound into his soft hair, and she pressed him closer, encouraging his gentle assault.

Logan cupped her other breast and used his tongue to worship it. God, it felt good to have someone play with her breasts, suck and cajole her nipples into a response. She already felt slick and ready.

He lifted his head and looked at her. “You taste as sweet and fresh as a peach.” His gaze flicked at the valley between her breasts and traveled to her navel. His lips pressed against her quivering stomach muscles, and his tongue stroked a long, slow line to her navel. He encircled it then flicked inside it, making her giggle nervously.

Her heart thundered as electric sensations zipped across her skin.

Hayley felt submerged in desire, hot and needy, and she wanted … she wanted to feel him slid into her, to show her how much he loved her. Wanted her.

She trembled. Oh yes.

She reached between them and wrapped her hand around his length. He moaned as she slowly, deliberately stroked him. He wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back. She sat up, her knees planted on either side of his thighs. They both groaned in pure pleasure as he entered her.

She moved back and forth until Logan gripped her hips and took control.

As he increased his pace, pleasure tumbled through her.

“You feel so good,” she said, breathless. “Oh, Logan.”

Her hips pumped hard now, both of them in rhythm, straining toward the bright explosion of joy. Logan grabbed her buttocks and thrust hard, faster inside her. His moans excited her, and she rode the crest of the first wave into a larger, second wave of pure ecstasy.

She screamed as she came, her eyes opening so she could watch him reach completion. Sweat dribbled down his neck, his eyes glazed with passion. His gaze locked on hers as he arched, his thighs tensing under her buttocks. Crying her name, he emptied himself inside her.

“Hayley. Yo. Hayley Nelson.”

The sound of her name jerked her awake from the blissfully erotic dream. God, she missed Logan. Blinking, she sat up from the lumpy couch. The FBI safe house was designed for anonymity, not comfort. Her brother Ben, an agent for the Bureau, was staring at her, a deep frown on his wide mouth.

“What the hell were you dreaming about?” Ben was law enforcement to the core, the same as their father had been. And she was a social worker. Both of them had taken professions where they could be of service to people in need. “You look all sweaty and flushed. Are you having nightmares again?”

Hayley blushed. She was grateful the bad dreams didn’t happen as often anymore, but no way was she going to tell her straight-laced brother that she was fantasizing about her lying ex-boyfriend. “Are you ready to move me?”

“Yes,” he said. Ever since their dad died, they’d only had each other. Their mother passed away when she was two and Ben five. She had no memories of a mom. Only the strength and love of her father—and then that of her brother, who’d finished raising her.

He pointed to her bags by the door. “Is that all your stuff?”

The gray and blue suitcase was durable but inexpensive. Practical. Like herself. “Yep.”

“Good. We should get going.” He must have read the hesitation on her face. “You’ll be safe at the new place.”

Hayley shook her head. “As long as Santos is free, I’ll never be safe.”

She couldn't get the image of Maria sprawled on the white carpert, her eyes open, but unseeing. Blood pooled around her head and shoulders. Blood and brain matter had gruesomely decorated the bed. Her husband Rodrigo Santos, a prominent attorney with rumored ties to crime organizations, shot her in the mouth.

The asshole had blamed Maria for their problems, claimed she’d had no right to leave him, to file for a restraining order, or to tell the truth about his wretched abuse. Hayley had been in Maria’s closet packing her things when Santos had arrived. Maria told her to hide, to stay quiet, in the closet. Her friend had been confident she could talk her psychopathic spouse off the ledge. When the shot rang out, Hayley had swallowed her scream while she watched her friend fall to the floor, a broken doll with wide eyes.

Rodrigo hadn’t seen her, but Hayley had watched as he looked at his dead wife, smirked, and turned on his heel, casually walking out of the room.

Only Hayley's cowardice had kept her from the same fate. She’d spent many isolated months buried under worry and grief and guilt. Marie had died horrifically, and Hayley had done nothing to prevent it.

You would have died with her
. She knew the inner voice was right. Rodrigo was one nasty piece of raw sewage. He would have killed both of them that night if he’d known Hayley had been there in the luxurious bedroom, helping Maria with her bid for freedom. Evidence against Santos was thin—no DNA, no murder weapon, and an alibi that would’ve been considered ironclad if Hayley hadn’t witnessed his heinous act. She was the only thing standing between a killer and his freedom, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to stop her from testifying.

After witnessing Maria’s cold-blooded murder, her brother Ben insisted she move out of her apartment and into an FBI safe house. The tiny place had a state-of-the-art alarm system and three guns stored in easy-to-get locations. She knew how to fire a gun now. Guns used to scare her. Their ugliness, their weight, their noise…she used to hate everything about them, but no longer. Ben had taught her how to handle a weapon, how to aim at the center mass of an attacker, and how to shoot him until dead.
Empty the clip, Hayley. Don’t stop shooting until the perp is down.

She’d spent restless nights on the couch with the TV on, and the loaded 9mm on the coffee table. The safe house was small, soulless, and bland. She hated it. But her brother had essentially made her disappear. He had tried, in every way possible, to disconnect her from old memories and ties so that she eventually could rebuild her life as someone else.

“Quit my job, cut my hair, learned self-defense,” she mumbled as she stood up. Nothing fixed the hole inside her. She was empty, a shell of her former self, and helpless to do anything about it.

“What?” Ben asked.

“Are you coming with me?”

“No,” he said. “I have a lead on another woman Santos might have…attacked.”

His hesitation reminded Hayley of just how fragile she’d been in the weeks following Maria’s death. “Is she dead, too?”

“No, but she’s been catatonic for years.”

“That doesn’t sound promising.”

“Her sister Betty Lewis is her caretaker. I’m hoping she might be able to give me something.” He shook his head. “Look. It’s a long shot, but you never know.”

Hayley tried not to hope. She’d learned quickly that hope made the disappointment unbearably bitter when things didn’t work out. She wiped her eyes and nodded. The sooner she got on her way to this new hideout, the better. “Okay,” she told her brother. “I’m ready.”

* * *

B
etty Lewis entered
the room of her younger sister, Ellie, and smiled with a cheer she did not feel. Betty didn’t like the room its unrelenting yellow and carefully placed pictures of flowers and rainbows. It tried disguised its true nature—a sterile room in an institution meant for the helpless, the hopeless.

Her little sis sat unmoving in her wheelchair. She stared out the window, not seeing the rolling green lawn or blue-sky day. Betty pulled a chair close and sat, stroking the dark hair away from Ellie’s face.

Betty was too agitated to chatter. Usually, she brushed then braided Ellie’s hair and filled the silence with small talk about everything—the weather, her job, the antics of her dogs, any mundane, trivial thing that popped into her head. She sat next to her sibling, the only family she had left, and took her cool, unresponsive hand.

“He’s done it again.” She pressed Ellie’s hand to her cheek and closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” Tears fell, sliding between her sister’s too-still fingers. Betty took shuddering breaths, trying not to give into the sorrow. “He trapped your soul, darling. Trapped you in a broken body.” She squeezed Ellie’s hand. “He killed his wife. Just like he tried to kill you.”

Five years ago, Ellie had been the fiancé of prominent attorney Rodrigo Santos. She’d hidden the abuse from Betty—from all of her family. Until one night, Rodrigo beat her so badly, she’d ended up ICU and the asshole had been arrested for domestic violence.

Ellie’s recovery had been slow and painful, and all that suffering made her realize the man she loved was a monster. She ended the engagement. Rodrigo pled out on the charges, paid a fine, and sauntered right back into his privileged life. A week later, Ellie walked out of the restaurant where she’d gotten a waitressing job and got shot in the head. Betty knew Rodrigo had pulled that trigger. But there was no proof. And while Ellie didn’t die, she would never again be the vivacious girl with the beautiful smile and kind heart.

Once again, she found herself wishing Rodrigo Santos to hell. Maybe this time, he’d pay for her sins.

Maybe this time his money and connections and lies wouldn’t save him.

Maybe.