High Octane (8 page)

N
OT LONG AFTER TURNING
the house for sale into the house he'd never forget, Ryan and Sabrina had swung through the Taco Cabana drive-through for takeout. Feeling at ease with Sabrina beyond what he'd expect considering the length of time they'd known one another—like a close friend with the perk of finding her smoking-hot, of course—Ryan now lounged on her living-room floor with her by his side. The final bits of their dinner sprawled across her coffee table, the radio emitted a low hum of country music at Ryan's insistence—Mexican food required proper atmosphere.

Sabrina fanned her mouth and reached for her large diet soda. “I thought you said this was mild,” she complained, hitting the icy bottom of her drink and grabbing his to take a long gulp. She set it down with a hard thud. “Good grief. This food is not even close to mild.”

Ryan chuckled, finding her inability to tolerate even
the mildest spice adorable and appalling. “You will never make it in Texas if you don't learn to spice things up.”

“If spicing up my life includes setting my mouth on fire,” she rebutted, and drew another long drink of his soda, “I'm going to reconsider.”

“You certainly did the food justice for someone who doesn't like it,” he commented.

She looked offended. “You were trying to starve me. I took what I could get.”

“You'll be surprised how it'll grow on you,” he assured her. “You'll miss it when you're gone.”

“If all goes well with this Marco interview,” she said hopefully, “I won't be going anywhere to miss it. I really appreciate you getting me the interview.”

He helped her gather the trash, stuffing it into a takeout bag and setting it aside. “Completely self-serving,” he confessed. “I wanted to see you again, and I had a feeling if you left the Hotzone without jumping, you wouldn't be back to try it again.”

She curled her legs to her chest, the silky strands of her hair draped over her slender shoulders. Her ears strained toward the George Straight song “Amarillo by Morning.” “This song isn't so bad,” she said. “Country music is just such sad music.”

“If a song makes you sad, then it's talking to you,” he said. “That's what country music is all about. It's thinking music. Well, and drinking and dancing.”

“You had me at thinking and drinking,” she said. “Lost me at dancing.” She grabbed the bag of trash
and stood up, doing a catlike stretch that Ryan gave considerable male regard.

On his feet now, he captured her hand in his, using the other to set the food bag on the table. “I think we'll be better off skipping the thinking and drinking,” he said, “and getting right to the dancing.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?” She shook her head. “No. Ryan. I don't dance.”

He led her to the open area in between the television and the couch. “Good thing I do, then,” he murmured, sliding his hand to her waist. “Just follow my lead.”

“I'll step on your feet,” she insisted, a lift to her voice that bordered on genuine concern.

He slid his hands to her cheeks and kissed her. “That's why they make boots.” Leaning back, he glanced down at her dainty feet before giving her a grin. “And don't worry. I won't step on your pretty pink toes.” A Kenny Chesny song had begun playing, a fast-paced, fun dance tune. Ryan eased her into motion, ignoring her objections. “Here we go. Step. Step. Good. One, two, three. Just follow me, and keep your spine stiff. Step. Step. One, two, three.” His hand slid to her backside. “Don't shake that cute little butt of yours. Not for the two-step. Better. Good.”

“I am so not good at this.”

“You are doing great.”

“Because you are really, really good at this,” she said. “You're doing it for me.”

“Had a lot of years of practice,” he said, gently guiding her.

“In the jungles or the deserts?”

“You'd be surprised at where a little piece of Texas shows up,” he said.

The music shifted to a slow Keith Urban song. The mood shifted with it, the air suddenly thicker, charged with an expanding awareness. Ryan closed the small space between them, let his hips guide her movements. His chest was tight, his groin with it. He had no doubt she could feel the hard press of his arousal.

She was petite and soft, and he wanted nothing more than to strip away the barriers and hold her in his arms. To feel her on every possible intimate level. But he'd given Sabrina the power to control when, how, and if they were ever to make love. Nothing about what had transpired between them today changed that decision. No matter how much he might want it to.

“Maybe this dancing thing isn't so bad, after all,” she murmured.

“That a girl,” he offered approvingly. “Before you know it, I'll have you jumping out of a plane.”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “That idea was a momentary bleep of insanity that I won't be having again anytime soon.”

They'd shifted into a slow sway, barely a dance. “Something made you think you wanted to skydive.”

Her lashes lowered, her answer coming slowly. “It's complicated.”

“Ah,” he said. “Complicated. That's what you said to Calista. In other words…you don't want to talk about it.”

She stopped moving, her expression animated, distressed. The lights were dim, but he could see the flush across her cheeks. “No,” she said. “That's not what I meant, Ryan. I don't mind talking to you. In fact, you're easy to talk to. The truth is…I thought I was a control freak. I thought jumping out of a plane would teach me to let go, to just live a bit. Or Jennifer thought it would.”

“And now you've changed your mind?” he asked, his hand covering hers where it rested on his chest.

“Yes,” she said. “Or no. I don't know. It's confusing. I think…” She paused, her delicate brow dipping in consideration, before she continued, “I think I just need to feel like my decisions are my own. That the control I have is not conceived from a need to stay within certain boundaries. I wish I could be more like you. Without boundaries, without fear of what might go wrong.” Her fingers curled on his chest, her chin lifting as she stared up at him, vulnerability and insecurity in her eyes, but her voice didn't falter. “I want you to show me what it feels like to let go, Ryan. I want you to…” A knock sounded on the door. Loudly. Over and over.

Silently Ryan cursed, hanging on her words. She wanted him to what? Another knock. Damn it.

“That would be the kid next door who always knocks as though there is a fire or something,” she explained, the moment lost as her tone turned matter-of-fact. Gone was the soft, wistful tone of seconds before. She grimaced. “I don't know how I thought he was you when you were you.”

Ryan frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, waving off the question. “He's persistent. Let me go buy his candy and send him on his way.” She pushed to her toes and kissed Ryan. “Don't forget where we were.”

Trying to escape, she didn't get far—Ryan pulled her to him, ignoring the renewed knocking, and kissed her solidly on the lips. “Don't
you
forget where we were.”

His reward was a beaming, seductive smile. “Oh, I won't,” she said. “You can count on it.”

Together they walked to the door. “And this kid usually wants what?” he asked.

“For me to buy whatever he is selling.”

Ryan reached for his pocket. “I'll buy his whole stock if he'll let us get back to what we were doing.”

Looking amused, Sabrina reached for the door. “I'm sure you are about to make his year.”

Ryan wiggled an eyebrow. “I aim to please,” he said. “Keep that in mind.”

The door opened to reveal a tall, lanky kid, maybe fourteen, with dark-rimmed glasses, holding a package. The kid glanced at Ryan, a stunned look on his face, as if he had hoped to find Sabrina alone. Ryan knew how the kid felt. He wanted her alone, too.

“Hi, Kelvin,” Sabrina said. “Whatcha got for me tonight?”

“Hi, Sabrina,” Kelvin said, casting her a smitten look—if Ryan had ever seen a boy look smitten. But hey. He couldn't blame the kid on that either. The last time he was as smitten as he was for Sabrina, he'd been
fourteen himself and had just moved into his third foster home. That's when he'd met Laurie Monroe, the blonde, big-breasted bombshell of an eighteen-year-old next door, who'd showed him her bare breasts. He'd been her biggest fan until he'd turned sixteen and figured out the hands-on action of Twister rather than the hands-off game of show-and-tell.

“The mailman left this package for you at our house,” Kelvin said. “It came yesterday. I would have brought it sooner, but we went out of town last night. I had a band competition.”

Sabrina accepted the oversize square package, and Ryan took it from her. “Well, thank you so much for doing this, Kelvin,” she said. “How'd you fare at the competition?”

Kelvin straightened with pride. “First Place District.”

“Yay!” Sabrina said, clapping. “How exciting.” She hugged Kelvin, and Ryan captured a glimpse of the boy's expression.

Ryan barely stifled a chuckle before the door shut, allowing him to let it fully rip. “You almost gave that boy a cardiac arrest at a tender, too-young age.”

Sabrina's brow dipped. “What are you talking about?”

They moved toward the living room as Ryan replied, “You can't possibly be oblivious to the lovestruck-puppy eyes he gives you.”

“He's a kid, Ryan!” she protested.

“He's a teenage boy,” Ryan corrected. “That's a whole different breed.”

“That's crazy,” she said, dismissing the idea. “He's so cute.” She sat down on the couch. “And sweet.”

“And hormonal,” he added. Ryan set the package on the coffee table and joined her on the couch.

Sabrina instantly reached for the package. “No return address. Hmm. I'm curious now.” She ripped open the outside paper.

Ryan balled it up and snatched the food bags. “Trash can in the kitchen, I assume?”

“Pantry by the stove,” she said, removing the paper on the outside of the box. “Thank you.”

Whistling, Ryan headed to the kitchen, admiring the city lights through the expanse of windows wrapping around the room. He was at ease in a way he couldn't imagine himself ever feeling in one of the houses he'd viewed today. Maybe he needed a condo. Maybe he just needed Sabrina. It was an off-the-wall thought, and he dismissed it. Ryan opened the pantry door, quickly disposed of the trash and then stared at the shelves in disbelief. Rows of food were organized in perfect lines.

Ryan scrubbed his jaw. “You'd think she was the one who'd been in the military for fourteen years,” he murmured to himself. She most definitely had some control issues. It was going to be interesting to see who played the submissive in bed. Maybe they'd take turns.

With that thought in mind, Ryan made a fast return to the living room. Instantly, Ryan noted the crackling
silence in the air, coupled with the look on Sabrina's face as she appeared absorbed in the pages of what looked like a photo album or perhaps a scrapbook.

Ryan hesitated to approach, pausing, taken aback by more than her mood. She was beautiful, classy and elegant in a way that defied her Harley T-shirt and jeans. The type of woman who comfortably rubbed shoulders with Washington types—the types who sent guys like himself out into the scary places of the world to swim through blood and death.

Seeming to sense his attention, she glanced up from the book. “It's from my father,” she said, a distinct tinge of bitterness to her tone. “A scrapbook of highlights of my career.”

Ryan joined her but said nothing, watching her thumb through stories. She laughed at one and showed him the photo of a man with a pie in his face. “I got in a lot of trouble for this one.”

“You threw the pie?” he teased, hoping to coax a smile. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

She granted him the smile he'd hoped for. “No. I didn't throw the pie. But I did suggest that anyone who voted for a certain bill—I won't bore you with its content—had pie in their face and would feel the effects at the voting booths. My father showed up at the newspaper the morning it ran.”

Realization hit Ryan. “He voted for the bill.”

She nodded and he asked, “And you knew?”

Her smile faded. “I knew. He had his reasons. We disagreed on those reasons being valid. He had
a problem with me voicing that disagreement. Said it was a personal attack when it wasn't. The fight that ensued was hurtful and got as much attention as the article itself.”

Ryan studied her carefully. “So why exactly did your father send you a copy of that particular column?”

She grabbed the note lying on the couch and read, “Together we can show the world the beauty of disagreeing. We can cross party lines and change the world. Come home. You are missed and needed.” She dropped the card. “He changed his vote after all was said and done.”

“Because of you?”

“Because of public opinion,” she said. “Which I helped rally, but that's not the point. The point now is someone on his campaign team has decided I can somehow help him win the election rather than the opposite. Or perhaps that my silence can be used for ammunition as easily as my speaking out. That's the only way to explain the sudden support.”

“He could really miss you,” he said.

She looked at the front and back of the note. “Don't see that anywhere on the paper. Not from my father or my mother, who was quick to approve of me leaving the
Prime
.”

Ryan questioned her a little about her mother, learning about her job as a professor, her support of her husband's White House vision, before she added. “Don't get me wrong. My parents love me. I know that. It's just…the White House comes first. It's bigger than me.” She
shut the book. “This package is about strategy.” She set the book on the table and turned to him. “I'm so glad to be away from that world.” Her hand slid to his leg. “I really need to be away from it. I need to forget it.”