High Octane Page 8

  “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.”

  Her hand inched up his leg. Turbulent emotions splintered off her like shattered glass, spreading through the room with prickly warning. Anything she did right now was born of that emotion, not of sound judgment.

  Ryan stared at her as she inched closer, her hand creeping farther up his leg, the floral scent of woman and desire threading his nostrils. He wanted her. He wanted her in a bad way. This was a woman he could fall for. It was a hard realization, as was the fact that she wanted an escape, not him. Points near impossible to absorb beyond pure lust as she pressed herself close to his side, her lip brushing his jaw. Her hand farther up his thigh. She wasn’t running from him this time. She was running from her past.

  Ryan knew what that meant…it meant regret. And that wasn’t what he wanted from Sabrina. Normally, he’d say “Hell, yeah” to such an arrangement. Hell, yeah to a voluptuous, sexy woman who would be happy with a fast goodbye. But there was nothing normal about the way Sabrina had climbed inside him and taken hold. And just then, climb she did, shocking him as she slid across his lap to straddle him.

  His hands went to her slender waist. Her arms wrapped around his neck. The V of her body hugged his rock-hard erection, and desire ripped through his body. She leaned forward to kiss him, her breasts high and close, begging for his hands.

  Somehow, Ryan pulled back. Somehow, he reminded himself she wasn’t thinking straight. “What are you doing, Sabrina?”

  “I don’t want to wait, Ryan,” she purred. “I want you. I want you now.” Her mouth had somehow moved closer again. Her breath warm.

  “What happened to all that reserve you were showing?” he asked, his voice rougher than intended, laden with burning need.

  “I thought this was what you wanted,” she purred, ignoring the question. “I thought you wanted me.” The witch shifted slightly over his hips, rubbing herself against his erection. He wanted her moving like that with nothing between them. He wanted to feel her wet and hot, wrapped around him. Riding him.

  Her mouth pressed to his, soft and full of promise. Ryan felt the touch in every inch of his body, told himself to stop. Told himself just one more second. And another. Her tongue was what did him in. It flickered against his lips and sent a surge of need through him.

  Ryan’s hand slid to the back of her head, threaded through her silky hair and pulled her mouth fully to his. Tasted her. Drank her. Hungered for more, for all of her. Soft moans slid from her mouth, feeding that need. He touched her. Exploded. Her shirt came off, and she tossed it aside. Somehow, in the act, the book fell to the floor. The thud wasn’t loud, but it rumbled through Ryan with an impact.

  Sabrina reached for the front clasp of her bra, and Ryan pulled her to him, hugging her, inhaling her scent and drinking in a hard dose of sanity. The book. The damn book that had started this. The book, symbolic of how different her world was from his. How he and Sabrina, somehow together now, in a moment in time, were just that—a moment in time.

  He was, like the Mexican food, a walk in the unusual for her. An adventure. A memory
she may or may not even claim. And for reasons Ryan couldn’t explain, that idea dug at his consciousness. Gnawing away at him inside and out. He told himself to use her. That she was using him as so many before her had done, while he was here today. He might be gone tomorrow. But Sabrina wasn’t like the others, and why that was, he didn’t know, nor did it matter because this was going nowhere. Because she was acting out of character, and she would hate him for doing this tomorrow. And she’d hate him now for stopping her, but nevertheless, he had to end this.

  With almighty will, Ryan set her away from him. “No,” he said. She gasped, her breath coming out in hard blasts. He pushed to his feet, ran a hand over his face and then over his neck. “Not like this. You want me because I’m some sort of statement. Some sort of payback. Which is exactly why I should take you up on your offer and enjoy myself and not look back.” He snatched her shirt and tossed it to her. “But I won’t do that.”

  She looked down, inching her arms into her shirt, unwilling to make eye contact. No denial. No vow she wanted him. Not so much as a word. Her silence was the final dig with that ice pick. Ryan ran his hand over his face again and headed to the door, no saunter in sight. His step was fast, as was his exit, sealed with a promise of goodbye.

  11

  “YOU ARE THE MOST amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

  It was Friday morning, almost a week after her disastrous attempt to play seductress with Ryan. Sabrina looked up to find her boss Frank standing in her doorway. Seeing him but not really seeing him. Frank was Frank. New version of the same white shirt and black tie, with a smug expression plastered on his well-lined face.

  Sabrina, however, had gone for a celebratory outfit today that she’d hoped would be lucky. A red-and-black leather racing jacket and black jeans—the jacket a gift from Calista, probably to shmooze her into a speech—but still appropriate for this day, considering the occasion.

  On Sabrina’s desk lay the paper featuring her first interview in the six-part series called “An Intimate Ride in Marco Montey’s Backseat.” Apparently, Frank was pleased with the results. At least she could please someone. It sure wasn’t Ryan. In fact, he’d been quite obviously displeased when she’d gone from prim senator’s daughter to seductress. She’d dared to reach beyond her comfort zone, and he’d been all about “regrets” and “can’t do that,” etc. Then he’d run. Exactly why she’d refused his calls—her mother’s and father’s, too, for that matter, but that was another story—and had worked late every night. Of course, if he’d really wanted to see her, he’d have found a way.