The cascade of water feels almost molten-hot by comparison, but I squeeze my eyes shut and endure it. As my body temperature rises slowly, I adjust to the heat until I find myself biting my lip to suppress a moan with how heavenly it feels. I never want to leave the shower, even though I know I should give Flint a chance eventually. It's the least he deserves after saving my ass and putting me up for the night.
I cross my bare arms over my breasts and open my eyes to stare at the far tiled wall. I can't enjoy myself; I need to think. Even though I've managed to escape my pursuers for now, the reality remains that I've been found, and my assets have likely been apprehended as well. That will teach me to open tabs at bars.
That will teach me to try and achieve some sense of normalcy in all this insanity. My life will never, ever be normal.
But at least my brief flirtation with, well…flirting…wound up working in my favor. I owe this man, Flint, a lot, but he doesn't seem to be asking for anything in return. I'm not sure if his lack of motive should make me feel relieved, nervous, or…let's face it, mildly bruised in the ego department. Not that I want Flint to come on to me. He's practically a stranger. No, he is a stranger.
But apparently my dark and handsome stranger just took it into his brain to become a lot more familiar. I hear the bathroom door creak open, and I startle out of my thoughts. Before I can fully process that I might be overreacting to having my space invaded, I snatch the shower curtain and wrap it halfway around my frame, simultaneously thrusting my head out to see what he's doing.
Flint has discarded his T-shirt in the other room, and I am treated to the unexpected sight of my rescuer's bare back. Muscles I don't even know the names of—that I didn't even know existed in the human body—ripple in supple succession, each one powering its neighbor to collaborate on the simplest movements, the smallest tasks.
He really is a beautiful man. There is only one imperfection that I can immediately perceive; my eyes are drawn to a star-shaped scar on the back of his right shoulder. The wound is old, but it looks as if it had trouble healing. The scar tissue appears thick, and it's almost painful to watch it stretch itself taut as he moves about.
It's about the size of a bullet wound, I realize. I've seen bullet wounds before, though never this close.
He stands over the sink, drying his hair with a hand towel; when he sees my startled face in the mirror, he glances over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow.
"What?"
I blush furiously at the question. As if I need to tell him! But I try and talk myself up, try and convince myself that I can play this game.
"You know, there are regular-sized towels folded on that shelf over there," I mention. I try to keep my voice as level as possible. Flint's dark eyes consider my expression, and then lower to take in my silhouette. I realize every detail of my body, every curve, is only barely concealed behind the opaque curtain. The plastic crinkles as I grip it a little harder.
"I see only one," he says eventually. "You want me to use it?"
He reaches for the shelf, and I thrust my hand out. "No!" I gasp, realizing too late that I'll need it if I ever want to exit this shower. He pauses, before slowly withdrawing his hand. I can't help it then; a short laugh escapes me. I can't tell by his expression if he meant to be funny, but I perceive a change in his gaze that is almost indicative of warmth. He turns and exits the bathroom, a smug smile playing up the corners of his lips. I exhale in relief and retreat back behind the curtain.
As I finish bathing, I try not to think about the man that awaits me in the other room…and about the questions I might have to answer for.
CHAPTER 4
FLINT
The sound of the shower running in the other room is driving me crazy. More specifically, thoughts of the occupant of the shower are driving me crazy.
I flip on the TV as a form of distraction. I hear the shower twist off; I turn the volume up. At a motel like this, I'm not worried about disturbing the neighbors. Judging by the empty state of the parking lot, I doubt there is anyone staying in the room next door to us.
I turn from the open door of the bathroom to unpack my saddlebags. I went out in the rain only briefly to retrieve them, but it was still enough to undo the drying regimen I subjected myself to in the bathroom. If I'm being honest with myself, my motives for entering the bathroom were less than pure. I could have waited until Ana was done showering, but I didn't.
And I saw exactly what I expected I would see: a tantalizing shadow behind a curtain, undulating like a dancer until my interruption caused her to grab for the only covering available. I wonder what she would have done if I had grabbed it first.
I entertain myself with wicked thoughts as I unpack. When Ana reenters the room, I'm disappointed to find she's left the towel behind her, and is dressed once more in the clothes I found her in back at the bar. While the woman herself is clean, her clothes are filthy. I notice a tear in her jeans that wasn't there when I first approached her to guard her drink, and my eyes narrow. I'm guessing it happened during the brief scuffle. She doesn't appear to have noticed it herself.
"Here." I grab my spare change of clothes, nothing more than an inexpertly folded wad, and toss them to her. She catches them against her chest and blinks in surprise. "The pants won't fit you, but at least put a clean shirt on."
"What about you?" she inquires. I feel the heat of her gaze as it travels down my naked torso, and something inside of me stirs. Does she like what she sees? I don't consider myself an arrogant man, at least not anymore. I may have been, once, when I lived a life of luxury and wealth and women came to me easily. My propensity for pride aside, I am aware that it is very unlikely, if she is at all hot-blooded, that she isn't looking at me with certain activities in mind.
"What about me?" I return to sorting my supplies on the bed.
"Well, aren't you...?" She clears her throat awkwardly before forging ahead. "Aren't you going to need a shirt? I mean, your other one is soaking wet."
"It'll dry by morning." I can tell this isn't the answer she wants to hear. She stares at the bundle of clothes in her hands, eyebrows drawn together, but her discomfort in her own clothes eventually wins out. She disappears back into the bathroom and returns wearing my red flannel shirt. She is still doing up the top button when she reenters, and my breath catches a little when I spy a flash of her black bra. My throat tightens. I turn away once more.
"Nothing on the local stations," I mention. "I doubt the bar called in the trouble. You can rest easy."
"You're not the only one with doubts." Her eyes track toward the bed as I finish itemizing my supplies and relocate the bags to the table. "Were we planning on sharing the bed?"
"I've been riding all day and most of the night," I reply without batting an eye. "I'm not sleeping on the floor."
Ana's eyes widen, and I watch in amusement as her face sets. In one swift move, she snatches the top blanket off the bed, along with a pillow, and starts to bed down out of view on the other side of the mattress. Once she has almost settled herself in, I cross to the other side of the bed, bend down, and in one swift movement scoop her up into my arms, blanket and all. I then turn and toss her unceremoniously onto the bed, where she bounces and nearly falls off on the other side. A last-minute hand shoots out and she catches herself on the headboard, staring at me all the while as if she thinks I've lost my mind. When she sees me grinning, her expression changes, and she looks completely affronted. That red hair of hers, still damp from the shower, hangs disheveled around her face, and she pushes it aside angrily.