Superb and Sexy

  no idea what she was going through, and he never would.

  And yet . . .

  And yet he’d known it was her . . .

  That thought niggled at her, just a bit, because it was a warning, a little flare in her brain cautioning her not to underestimate him again, but at the moment, she had no choice but to believe herself stronger than him.

  “If nothing else,” he told her quietly, still a little sleepy-eyed from that kiss, “we’re friends. Friends talk. Friends share.”

  Oh, God, he could have no idea how she wished she could share with him. “Friends? No. We either snipe at each other or kiss. Not talk or share.”

  “At the very least, we’re also boss and employee, and that’s a fact. I’m responsible for you.”

  “That’s a stretch, considering how far from Sky High we are.”

  “I want an answer to at least one of my questions, Mad.”

  “Fine. Ask one.”

  “Let’s start with why you have a knife strapped to your thigh.” With lightning speed, he slid his hand up her leg, beneath her skirt, and commandeered said knife.

  Holy shit, she’d never seen him move so fast. Apparently, when they’d been making out, her mind had shut off.

  But his hadn’t. She stared at the knife now in his fingers. “It’s for emergencies.”

  “Okay. And since you’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met, you can probably figure out my next question.”

  He thought her the smartest woman he’d ever met? Interesting, considering she thought him the most amazing man she’d ever met.

  Amazing, frustrating, completely pig-headed, world-class kisser . . .

  He had the knife between his two fingers like it was distasteful, his arm loose at his side, and with her own lightning speed, she grabbed it back, not holding it loosely, but up as if she meant business.

  He merely stepped forward so that the blade was only an inch from his chest.

  Then, while she debated her next move, he put his mouth to her ear, irritation personified. “Are you mad because you thought I didn’t know you, Mad? Or because I do? Because let’s clear up one thing right now, knife or not, attitude or not, I’ll always know.”

  God. She actually let her eyes drift closed at that, but caught herself and flashed her eyes open again to find him watching her intently.

  Then he took another step forward, and now the tip of the blade touched his chest, not that he seemed to care. “What’s it going to be, Maddie?”

  The fight draining out of her, she turned away, letting the knife fall to her side, both shocked and uncomfortably aroused. He wanted answers, and unfortunately, she had them. “I told you Leena’s in trouble.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to help her out of it.” She didn’t even realize she was rubbing her shoulder until she felt him gently nudging her fingers away, touching her scars, touching her heart.

  And other places, too, places that wanted to get back to that whole kissing thing, which would be an even bigger mistake than all her other mistakes combined, and that was saying something.

  “How?” he murmured, his mouth brushing her shoulder and then the side of her throat . . .

  Oh, God.

  She was going to melt into a boneless puddle of longing right here on the floor. “Don’t.” She said this in a pathetically low, whispery voice, not knowing exactly what she was saying don’t to.

  Don’t stop touching me . . .

  Don’t stop any of it . . .

  His fingers continued to work on her, slipping beneath her shirt to touch bare skin now as his jaw slowly rubbed alongside of hers. “Are you going to pretend to be her?”

  “No. Brody, stop—”

  But he didn’t. Somehow, he knew exactly what muscles were sore, and what to touch, and how to leave her a bowl of jelly. It had to stop. “I mean it.”

  But he kept doing.

  All of it.

  “But you’re going to somehow risk yourself to save her, is that it?”

  Close. Too close, and frustrated, hot, God, so hot, she simply reacted. Whipping around, she hooked her leg behind his knee and dropped him to the floor, which he hit with a heavy thud.

  Sprawled on his back, he stared up at her. “What was that?”

  Not proud of the move, she backed up a step. “I said don’t.”

  Wincing, he sat up and rubbed a spot low on his back. “Ouch.”

  Okay, so now she’d used her unfair advantage of martial arts against a man who’d done nothing but drive her crazy.

  And turn her on. Let’s not forget that part. Guilt-ridden, she bent over him and offered her hand. “I’m sorry—hey—”

  That’s all she got out before he grabbed her hand and tugged hard so that she fell right over the top of him. Or would have, but he caught her and rolled.

  The next thing she knew, her knife had flown across the room, and she was flat on her back on the floor where he’d just been, held there by well over six feet of frustrated, temperamental, leanly muscled male.

  She struggled, oh, how she struggled, but it was all in vain. He deflected every move she made as if he knew martial arts as well as she.

  That only infuriated her all the more, and she fought with everything she had, but he held her down effortlessly, subduing her without hurting her, a consideration she hadn’t given him.

  “Damn it!” Furious, she tried to knee him, tried anything, everything, but nothing worked.

  Finally, he looked at her, expression unreadable. “Give up?” His voice suggested he was bored.

  Bored while she’d used every bit of energy she had, and then some. His every move had been precise, calculated, and efficient.

  Controlled.

  She was good, she’d made sure of it, but he was better. In fact, he’d wiped the floor with her. And now he wanted her to give up.

  Never. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and glared at him. “You know how to fight.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So . . .” She didn’t know really, except that he definitely had his own secrets.

  Which didn’t matter because she was going to kick his ass and be done with this. She rolled, but before she could twist free, he flipped her over so that she was face to the carpet.

  Then, in further insult, he gathered both her hands in his. Her good arm he yanked up over her head, the other arm he kept at her side, her wrist manacled by his long, work-roughened fingers.

  Because apparently, even while being a pissed-off, nosy bastard, he was still caring and thoughtful.

  Craning her head to the side, she managed to glare up at him. “Damn it!”

  He simply made himself comfortable on top of her. “You’ve already said that,” he noted. “Now . . .” He shot her a grim smile. “How about we finish our chat?”

  Chapter 9

  Maddie decided not to answer on the grounds that after she killed Brody dead as a doornail, she didn’t want to have to admit in a court of law that the murder had been premeditated.

  He was still holding her so that she couldn’t get free, his big, warm body to hers. He was good. How the hell had he gotten so good?

  And why?

  At work, he and Shayne and Noah joked around a lot, wrestling occasionally, tackling each other over a candy bar or a CD or something equally stupidly male, but on the whole, they were a fairly laid-back, easygoing group.

  And yet he’d fought her like a consummate pro. Even more startling, he’d subdued her without hurting her. “You’re crazy.”

  “Probably.”

  “Seriously.” She was still struggling to get the upper hand and still failing miserably. “Certifiable.”

  “No arguments here, babe.”

  She opened her mouth to blast him again, but he merely shifted. His thigh, the one holding hers open, glided against the core of her, and just like that, a switch flicked on in her brain, and she went from violent to something just as devastating.

  No. More devastatin
g.

  Lust.

  The sensations bombarded her body, wave after wave of them—the feel of his heated, strong arms on the outside of hers, the way he held her hands in a grip that was presumptuous, bordering on dominating and aggressive, and yet . . . and yet she couldn’t hold on to her anger to go with those things.

  Just lust.

  And then there was the humdinger—either he had something in his pocket, or he’d enjoyed that little tussle.

  A lot.

  Oh, God.

  He was hard. And big. And the knowledge created even more embarrassing reactions . . .

  Not good.

  In fact, this was the opposite of good. Her mind raced, and it came to her, the one and only way to get Brody to back off. It was cruel and low, even for her, but difficult times called for difficult measures.

  “Ow,” she murmured very softly, wincing, grimacing. “You’re hurting me.”

  Before her heart hit its next beat, anguish crossed his face, and his body lifted off hers so fast her head spun.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I—”

  “Just give me a minute.” She let out a long, slow breath. “I need to just lie here a minute.”

  His eyes were tortured. “I’m sorry, so sorry. You were moving like you were fine, and—”

  “I’m okay,” she said weakly. “Really. I’ll be fine in a minute—” But she broke off with a gasp when he scooped her up in his arms. “What are you doing?”

  “Putting you to bed.” His jaw was tight, the muscles jumping with tension as he headed to the stairs. “Where you are going to be a good little girl and stay.”

  “Put me down.”

  Instead, he strode up the stairs like she weighed less than a gnat, which she definitely did not. “Seriously, I am not going to bed with you.”

  “You know, you’re the second person today to turn me down for sex when I didn’t even offer it.”

  Odd, that quick stab of hot emotion that she refused to acknowledge might be jealousy. “Who was the first?”

  Only his eyes cut to hers. “Why?”

  “Because if it was that bimbo you were dating before I got shot . . . Bambi? Barbie? You could do better.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked. “It was Shayne, actually.”

  “Oh.”

  “Bambi?” he repeated, definitely sounding amused. “Barbie?”

  “Whatever.” It wasn’t easy to maintain her dignity, but she managed. “You can see whoever you want.”

  “Yeah. I can. Funny how I don’t want to.”

  Though he’d spoken lightly enough, she swallowed hard because nothing in his eyes said light. No, those eyes were all flinty steel, and not cool steel either, but smoking hot.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked.

  “Where did you?”

  She closed her mouth.

  So did he.

  Fine. A crossroads. The story of their lives.

  He strode down the hallway with her in his arms as if she weighed nothing. After the surgery, she’d definitely lost some weight. She wasn’t fully back on her game, and yeah, she might never be, but she could handle herself. “This is really going over and above the call of duty.”

  “Which you would think would bring me some gratitude,” he said.

  “I don’t do gratitude. You must really have hated those temps.”

  “Actually, they were all quite polite. Not one of them argued with me on a daily basis.”

  “And yet you scared them all away.”

  He didn’t say anything to that, and she didn’t know what she’d expected. A confession that he’d done so because he’d missed her? She might as well wait for an invitation to fly to the moon. “I can walk.”

  He shot her a quick glare, then stopped on the landing, still not winded.

  She really hated him.

  “I assume your bedroom is up here. That’s where you were watching me from when I first got here, right? Probably having a helluva laugh over sending your sister to the door instead of coming yourself.”

  “I wasn’t laughing.”

  He slanted her another look, also unreadable. “Where’s your shoulder brace?”

  “My physical therapist said I could go without it now, unless I’m hurting.”

  “You are hurting.”

  “Yes, because some idiot decided to wrestle with me.”

  “Who’s the idiot with the knife?”

  Before she could object to his calling her the idiot, he went on in a scathing tone. “A knife. You held a fucking knife on me like I was the fucking bad guy.”

  “I’m out of the airport for a month, and your language goes all to hell.”

  “Six weeks.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been out of the airport for six weeks, and you’re still in pain.” At that, he stopped talking. Just stopped and put his forehead to hers. He didn’t move a muscle, but she could feel the tension in his big, tough body. They stood just like that, utterly still, for that one beat in time united in their frustration.

  “You’re killing me,” he whispered. “You know that?”

  His misery stopped her cold and drained her temper. Somehow, her hand came up and touched his jaw. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “You should have been safe there.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Brody.”

  He shouldered open her bedroom door and then stopped short in the doorway at the sight of Cowgirl Central, complete with leather and pink lace everywhere. “Your bed.”

  Oh, God. She’d forgotten. “It’s not mine.”

  “It’s pink,” he said, sounding as stunned as he looked, which pissed her off. “Lace.”

  “I didn’t pick it.”

  He stared at the huge, high four-poster bed barely visible through the heaping piles of pillows and soft, luxurious bedding done up in, indeed, pink lace. “It’s . . .”

  “Girly. I know. It’s my arm and shoulder, Brody. Not my legs.”

  As if mesmerized, he moved to the bed. The headboard was an old brown barn door, lacquered to a high shine. Above it, a lasso hung on the wall in the shape of a halo. “Wow.”