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  With the sun gone, the moonlight was just starting to make a trail over the still water. It was a mirror, calm, silver, and serene. “The opposite of me.” Her bloodstream now comfortably saturated with alcohol, Lucy’s shoulders relaxed. The moon would give her a new start. That’s what it did, wasn’t it? Bathed women in magic or some crap like that? She struggled to remember the gentle hippie women’s circle meetings her mom had attended before she went to the complete other end of the spectrum and shut out anything that didn’t conform to her cult leader’s puritanical ways. “Fuck that.” Lucy relished the freedom of swearing whenever and at whatever she could after her non-swearing Utah upbringing in Bountiful. If she never heard another person say “shiz,” “shivers,” “shingaling,” “S-bomb,” or any of the other made-up cusses of her childhood, it would be a good day and it gave her a petty sense of revenge against the restrictions her mom had imposed on every part of her life for her own good.

  “She should have gotten more in touch with her inner goddess,” Lucy muttered. Even chanting under the moonlight would have been preferable to her mom’s extreme version of buttoned-up puritanical fever. If she’d been there, her mom would have encouraged her into the pool, sure, but she would have held Lucy under ’til her lungs screamed and she promised to ask for forgiveness and to join the side of light by giving up her bike, booze, and, well, sharing her boobs with anyone other than the cult leader. It was a man’s world, according to her mother. Lucy needed to accept that and hide herself from its temptations from now until the world was “healed.”

  Screw that. It might well be a man’s world, but the moon ran by different rules. Her moon goddess rode a Harley and was shit hot at using a wrench. “Show me some light I can actually use, baby,” she called up to the silvery disk in the sky. Stripping down to her cotton halter and panties, she all but fell into the pool, letting the silvered water wash away her day.

  “Cold, cold, cold.” Okay, maybe not wash away her day. More like rip it off. The pool was not goddess-temperature. Unless goddesses liked water a frigid Neptune’s-cold-emaciated-heart temperature. But after she’d floundered around for a minute, the chill dulled and she did feel refreshed. Buoyant. Floating on her back, Lucy gazed up at the sky and made a promise to the moon high pooh-bah or whoever else was watching. “No more taking shit. Harden up and take it on the chin.” She laughed up at the sky. That was the best defense, right? Laugh it off and show everyone else up? “I’m going to be the best mechanic this town has seen, period. I’m going to get a new gig and then Hell’s will beg me to work their bikes. Work the phones. Phft. Screw ’em.” And if she was going to make it happen she couldn’t take offense every time some idiot decided to open his trap and vomit his misogynistic misguided crap all over her. She was just going to demonstrate they were wrong. Very wrong.

  It was restful, floating there, and she closed her eyes and drifted, pleasantly drunk and allowing her brain to switch off for a rare moment. On a whim, she flipped over onto her front to watch the ripple of moonlight on the bottom of the pool and her breath come out in silver-coated bubbles. Pretty. Soon, her lungs started to burn and she thought lazily about flipping back over when she felt, rather than heard, a splash at the edge of the pool.

  Then something grabbed hold of her leg. Wait? What! Some sort of animal was dragging her backward toward the edge of the pool. Kicking out to get away, she found herself pinned and screamed through the water, which only sent it up her nose and down her throat. Coughing, spluttering, half choking, she was pulled into a bear-hug by the carnivorous beast. A carnivorous beast with abs, and hands, and opposable thumbs. Firm, opposable thumbs that were wrapped around her waist and sending her goose bumps into a total frenzy, not sure whether to break out in a hot screaming mess all over her skin, or give up from overstimulation and run the heck away.

  She looked up into the face of her captor and bam, her hot-a-meter broke. The animal was taller, broader, and darker than she was, in every possible way. Holding her tight as he stood, fully clothed in the water, teeth bared a little, he seemed like he might eat her if she gave him the chance. His white T-shirt was practically transparent and she tried not to stare as his chest rose and fell, his pecs better defined than Iron Man’s armor. Caramel-skinned, clean-shaven, and with black eyes that promised escape as much as gazing at the moon had, the guy was a picture of what her mother hated about the world. Although right now those gloriously dark-dirty eyes were creased around the edges, tight with worry. That didn’t fit. Lucy shook her head and looked away, only to find herself drawn back to his eyes again a moment later. Really? Yes, really. Even someone with a heart of stone would get lost in those eyes. Still, no reason to let him try to drown me.

  He gripped her waist harder and in one swift movement, lifted her up and deposited her on the side of the pool before clambering out himself.

  The two of them stood dripping, his wet jeans molded outlandishly to his butt and Lucy surrendered to a fresh bout of coughing. When she could catch a breath she managed, “What the actual fuck?”

  “I would have thought thank you was the usual response.” His voice got her right in the ovaries before she’d finished her staggering breath. Deep and husky, his voice could have sold ice to polar bears. But he was no ordinary bear, not even close. He was Justin Gaston mixed with Jesse Williams mixed with something Marvel comics hadn’t released yet. Be still, my stupid heart. He’s a dude. Doesn’t give a shit about me. She shook her head to snap herself back to reality. “Thank you? Why the heck would I thank you for trying to drown me?”

  “You were doing a plenty good job of drowning yourself.”

  “I was not.”

  “Really?” He pointed at her discarded hip flask of bourbon and her clothes in a pile. “So you’re not drunk and practically naked in a pool? Floating on your front?”

  “I was watching the moon.”

  “That one?” He pointed up to the sky.

  “Yes, that one,” she said. “The reflection on the bottom of the pool is . . . well, it looked cool,” she finished, suddenly aware she sounded as crazy as her mom.

  “Sure. Well, if you’ve finished moon gazing, upside down, perhaps you’d think about wrapping yourself in a towel at the very least? There is a dress code for the pool. Underwear doesn’t cut it.” He pointed to a sign saying that bathing suits were to be worn at all times.

  “I haven’t got a towel.”

  “Of course you don’t. Come on then. And for fuck’s sake don’t leave that empty bottle there. Someone might step on it.”

  Lucy stood up, wavered a little, then stood solidly on two feet. “Really?” Trying to make her voice firm was hard when she was hammered, her hair was dripping in her face, and she was standing in nothing but a white cotton halter and panties. She tried to cover what she could of the now see-through fabric with her hands and then gave up. “Who died and made you the boss of the world?”

  Those black eyes tracked her up and down before flicking back to her face. “No one. But you might find yourself biting off more than you can chew around here, dressed like that, drunk, and dripping. I, on the other hand, not only saved your ass, but am offering you a towel. Come on, before I change my mind and call the bastards in from the bar to have a good look.”

  Not a bad point. Still, neither of them moved and Lucy wondered whether he felt it too. The moon, the night, the hot, hard, heady threat of something about to explode. Her skin prickled with more than the cold and her blood charged around her body, making her heart beat so loudly that for a moment she thought it might be audible. He didn’t look away, rather held her gaze in a long hard stare. It wasn’t possible, but she almost fell into that stare. Felt herself slipping into the darkness of a welcoming, hot, oblivion. Earlier she would have said it was her, she was close to exploding, but now, with him standing there, all solid and stern, it seemed like something else. Like there was something bigger. Something louder hammering in her head, telling her something important. Only she couldn�
�t quite hear it.

  Maybe it’s because you’ve drunk a lot of whiskey. Maybe, but it didn’t feel like that. The cold pool and then the shock of being hauled out had sobered her up a fair bit. No, she felt . . . connected, to the guy in front of her. She opened her mouth to try to say that. But he turned and started off. His stride was long, but only a little longer than hers and Lucy kept up with him as he strode inside and up the stairs to the guest rooms. He had a towel, she needed one, that much he was right about.

  2.

  Looking after his half sister Briony’s hotel was supposed to be a vacation. Time away from doing the high-octane bike stunts that directors liked to pack in these days; like racing bikes over speeding cars. And leaping into pools to stop women from drowning? Yep, and that. This was time away from rescuing anyone, not that he’d done a very good job of that recently.

  “Here.” Jake Slade grabbed two towels from his bathroom, and after peeling off his wet jeans and T-shirt and tossing them into the tub, wrapped himself in one and handed the other to the woman from the pool who was still dripping. She took it and draped the towel rather ineffectively around her waist. “That’s not going to do much,” he said as he rubbed himself down.

  “You’re going to tell me how to use a towel? Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “I’m not telling you how to use a towel, just, how not to make a mess of the carpet.” Okay, so his charm was a little rusty. It shouldn’t have been, working in film meant he’d heard some of the best chat-up lines in the business. Hollywood types he worked with sure knew how to get laid. And the transition from stuntman to actor these past years meant he got recognized enough to keep him in women as often as he wanted. But after the accident . . . well, for a good six months he’d been happy if he got through a night alone, without any women, alive or dead, paying a visit to his dreams.

  Then at the reading of his mother’s will three months ago, he’d discovered he had a half sister: Briony Wilde. When he’d googled her he’d wanted to run in the opposite direction. The woman thrived on risk: running a biker bar? The thought of it had turned his stomach. But then they met. And it was good. She was good. Solid. This was his chance to try to make things right. To try to build a family of sorts. Briony trusting him with her hotel while she was on her honeymoon was a mistake, he’d tried to tell her that, but here he was. Today was his first day. So he was damn well not going to fuck it up. Not ruining the carpets or having anyone drown in the pool were the first steps.

  The partially drowned woman interrupted his thoughts. “Whatever it is that you think you’re doing, it’s not helping. Not all women need saving.” Her face didn’t change, the buildup of something dark and hard still there, still twisting her beautiful mouth into a tight line. It was probably a good thing. When he’d first pulled her to him in the water, the look on her face had been full of incredulity, so open, so clear, he could have fallen into that face. There was latent trust there, and he was not a man to be trusted. “If you say so. Are you going to stop yourself dripping or do I have to help?”

  She pulled the towel up and caught most of the water that was still sliding from her long chestnut hair.

  “Thank you.” He waited. Silence. “This is where you say something.”

  She laughed and for a brief moment her features softened and a glimpse of the woman who had been lost and limp in his arms resurfaced. It was nice, he decided, dangerously nice. “If you’re waiting for me to tell you you’re my hero you might be waiting a while,” she said. “Even Spider-Man can’t save everyone and he’s supposed to be a superhero.” The frown reappeared but less severely than before.

  “I’m no one’s hero.”

  “Well, nice we agree on something.” She bit her lip. It was as if she’d caught herself being snarky and hadn’t meant to be. Jake wanted to smooth the worry away from around her eyes. To ask her what was wrong, if he could help. But that wasn’t his business. Hell, he had enough trouble sorting himself out. Since the accident he’d had the shakes at the worst of times, been flat and angry at others. Best thing for him to do was get this woman out of his room. And fast, before he did something stupid. Like pull that towel off and warm her up? Time to put things back on steadier ground. “I’m Jake. Jake Slade.” He put out his hand to shake hers and he couldn’t help notice her eyes flick up and down his bare chest.

  As she took a step toward him he could smell the sharpness of the road on her; it was visceral, like he could touch it if he tried hard enough. The water had washed a large part of it away, but he could still pick up oil, yes, it was motor oil, in her scent. Looking down at her hands he found the source, tucked in around her blackened fingernails. “You work with engines?”

  “Bikes. I work with bikes. I’m Lucy Black.”

  Jake took her hand in his to shake it but the shock was as strong as if he’d taken hold of a live power cord. It’s nothing. The aftermath of shock. You thought she was drowning. And the fact that she worked with motorbikes? Equally unimportant. He was on a break from his job. The job that saw him driving bikes well beyond the reach of their official capacity. Well, beyond the bounds of what gravity ought to allow sometimes. It wasn’t something she would approve of as a mechanic. “Anyway,” he finally said, “I’m glad you’re not drowning anymore.” He walked to the door and put a hand on the handle. She followed. But when he opened it, she took a step forward to do the same. CRACK! The edge of the door caught her hard on the side of her head.

  “Oh, shit. Sorry. Shit. It is bad? You okay?”

  She looked up at him and he spotted blood starting to ooze in a thin red line through her fingers.

  “You’re bleeding. Damn it. Here. Sit down.” Holding her elbow, he steered her back to the bed and sat her down. She took her hand away a moment and looked at the blood on it. The sight reached right under his skin and tried to pull his organs out in a steaming heap. He sat down heavily.

  “I’m fine. Will be fine. Head wounds always bleed a lot. Looks worse than it is.”

  “Uh-huh.” It was all he could manage. The blood was nothing, like she said, but all blood took him back to the accident. To Sarah. To the mess that was his fault.

  “Can you pass me a tissue or something?”

  Lucy’s voice pulled him back from the film lot where Sarah’s body lay sprawled in a pile of broken limbs. That was then, this was, oh shit. Hands fast developing a tremor, he yanked a box of Kleenex from the dresser beside the bed and pressed a wad of tissues against her forehead.

  Then there they were. Sitting on the bed together, both of them in a towel and not much else. The blood trying its best to redden the tissue on Lucy’s head. Harden up. Okay, wrong choice of words. He straightened, and ignoring the wobble of his fingers, peeled back the makeshift bandage to check how big the wound was. She was right. It wasn’t a big cut, just a messy one, it wouldn’t even need stitches. Applying pressure again, he leaned in and caught her scent for the second time, every part of him on high alert, adrenaline mixed with lust pumping his blood hard and fast.

  She looked him in the eye and something changed. Now she was looking into him, right into him, and searching for the thing he couldn’t name.

  “Okay. This is going to sound crazy . . .” she said.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “What?” He peeled back the tissue again and was relieved to see the small cut had already stopped bleeding.

  “It’s like I know you. Like we’re supposed to . . . I don’t know . . .”

  His body was on edge, waiting for her to finish her sentence. The sensation was odd, out of character for a guy who relished the “Iceman” nickname he’d sported for the last five years.

  “I dunno. Like we’re supposed to do something. Something more than just sitting down for a cup of coffee,” she finally managed and pulled back from him, still sitting on the bed.

  “Good. I hate coffee,” he said.

  “How does anyone live without coffee?” The hint of lightness around her blue
eyes reappeared.

  “I get by. Other vices, I guess.”

  “Like what?” Her voice deepened.

  “Fast cars. Fast bikes.”

  Fast women? The pause lengthened, tantalizingly open and ready for him to drop in something, anything that would make her stay. “Did you want to wash up a little before you go?” was what he said instead.

  “Yes. Great. Good idea.”

  He stood with her and let her splash water over her face, but when she turned to walk to the door again, she bumped into him. Again. Crushed against his bare chest, she was a perfect fit to his body. Her waist slid in between his huge hands, her back arched up so that her damp chest pressed against his. Her head, tilted back, her mouth, slightly open, all begged for him to kiss her, to take her, to fill her.

  She shifted and her towel dropped, his eyes drawn to the pert nipples pushing at the fabric of her cotton halter. A wet, white, cotton halter. This was not how he had planned his evening. But how often did life throw you a distraction as delicious as this one?

  “Perhaps you better stay where I can keep an eye on you,” he said.

  Her face was open, coltish even, like she might bolt any moment.

  “You’re not with the gang downstairs?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well then.” She put a hand up to move a strand of wet hair out of her eyes and gave a small nod. The nod was all he needed. He smoothed the hair farther from her face and wound a strand around his fingers before he leaned over and kissed her. Long and hard and deep. In the kiss he threw all the frustration and loss that threatened to boil over in him every day. Maybe he meant to scare her off, to scare himself off. But he got lost instead when she responded just as hungrily. Her tongue twisted with his and her appetite spread throughout his body, increasing his thirst, making him want to rip the last threads of her underwear from her body and lave every inch of her skin. But she came up for air, and put a hand on his chest. She had stiffened, like she was fighting something, like she needed to take back control over her body. “That made me feel much better,” she said, the husky tone in her voice doing crazy things to the blood supply heading south, fast.