Can't Take the Heat Read online

  2. He also doesn’t have a new girlfriend.

  Evidence: All right, I can’t be absolutely sure about this, but if there is someone else, it isn’t serious and she definitely isn’t living with him. Because I’m here. Q.E.D.

  3. I love Wes.

  Evidence: None needed. It’s how I feel. Maybe it’ll be different when my memory comes back. But until it does, I can’t beat myself up for acting on my emotions.

  4. I don’t have a new boyfriend, either.

  Evidence: The hospital called Wes when I was injured. That means he’s still my emergency contact, and I’m sure I would have changed that if I had anything meaningful going on with someone else.

  5. I don’t have anywhere else to go.

  Okay, I suppose I could move in with Chelsea, but that’s just down the hall. Not exactly a major change of venue. Then there’s my best friend from high school, Jett, but she lives way out in Henderson, plus I can’t stand her husband. (She came by to visit me in the hospital, and unfortunately, she’s still married to the jerk. Why she loves him, I’ll never understand. He must be fantastic in bed because that’s the only explanation I can come up with.) Brody Granger, my partner in the ambulance, would probably let me sack out on his couch, but I think I’d probably put a pretty major crimp in his bachelor style.

  More than that, though, this apartment is where my memories end. That means it’s probably also where they need to begin again.

  During our first conversation after I came to, Jessica explained that she thought my amnesia was probably not the result of my injury, but of some traumatic event my subconscious was trying to protect me from remembering. At the time, I couldn’t imagine what the event could possibly be. In all honesty, I thought she was wrong, that there had to be some other explanation.

  But now, I know she was right. I even know what it is I want to forget.

  Breaking up with the man I love.

  “I know we’re not married.”

  Wes’s blood drained into his shoes. The interlude was over, then. Almost before it began.

  Ignoring the leaden weight in his chest, he focused on the pan in which he was sautéing their dinner. The surest way to ruin shrimp scampi was to stop paying attention and overcook it.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw Delaney pull out one of the stools on the opposite side of the counter and sit down. The late summer sunset cast a rainbow-sherbet-colored glow through the living room windows, accentuating the auburn highlights in her shower-dampened hair. She was so beautiful, sitting there for what might be the last time, he couldn’t bear to look at her head-on.

  He hoped she didn’t take his silence as indifference.

  After several seconds, she said, “I haven’t remembered anything yet. That’s not how I know. I just…figured it out.”

  In spite of himself, he turned his head. “The condoms?”

  “Partly. But it was more the utter wreck you made of my side of the closet. And a few other things.”

  “What was wrong with your side of the closet?”

  She smiled. Dazzling. “Sorry, can’t tell. State secret.”

  A crackling hiss from the fry pan startled him. The shrimp was pink through and the sauce on the verge of boiling. He turned down the burner then dumped the pasta he’d already cooked into the pan to finish it off. The salad was already on the table.

  “That smells divine.” She tilted her head to the side and raised one eyebrow. “When did you learn to cook?”

  “After you left.” The answer was out of his mouth before he considered its implications. “Shit, I probably shouldn’t have said that, should I? Unless you’ve changed your mind about the doctor’s recommendation.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t. I know she’s right. I need to remember what happened on my own, or it won’t make sense to me. I can’t imagine anything you could do or say that would make me leave you.”

  “Your imagination might need a little sharpening.”

  Wes closed his eyes, a wave of shame engulfing him as the ultimatum he’d laid down came back to him: me or being a firefighter. Even now, though, he couldn’t say he’d been completely in the wrong.

  And therein lay his dilemma. Because whatever happened when she got her memory back, whether she forgave him or not, he was less sure than ever that he could stomach the idea of her putting herself in harm’s way every time she went to work. He hated the idea of living without her, but he knew what that was like. He could survive it. But now that he’d gone through the terror of getting that call from the hospital, of walking into the hospital room and seeing her lying there, pale and unconscious and possibly brain-damaged, he knew what that was like, too.

  It was worse.

  “Hm, maybe I was wrong,” she murmured.

  He opened his eyes. “About?”

  “You having learned to cook.” She nodded in the direction of the sauté pan, which was bubbling furiously.

  Damn it! He removed the pan from the heat, giving it a quick toss with a flick of his wrist before pouring the contents into a waiting serving bowl. Fortunately, it didn’t smell as though he’d burned it. Whether he’d let the shrimp go too far and turned them rubbery remained to be seen.

  He nodded in the direction of the dining room table, which was already set. “Guess you’re about to find out.”

  Fortunately, the meal was prepared to perfection. Delaney’s appreciation was matched only by her astonishment. He couldn’t blame her for her incredulity. Her last memory of him in the kitchen was probably the time he managed to set fire to the toast he was making for her after a bout of stomach flu. Obviously, his skills had improved since then. He figured he didn’t need to tell her that scampi was one of about five dishes he’d learned to cook competently in the past three years. His work schedule being what it was—noon to midnight seven days a week was his typical shift these days—he ate most of his meals in one of the casino’s seven dining establishments. Free of charge, of course. Every once in a while, though, he enjoyed preparing his own meals, partly because he found it relaxing and partly because, generally speaking, indulging in his own cuisine didn’t mean an extra hour in the gym to burn off the excess calories.

  They had eaten most of the meal when Delaney dropped the other shoe. “I can find someplace else to stay until I get my memory back. Jett would have me.”

  Wes’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Do you want to stay with Jett?” His gut told him she’d rather shove sharp sticks under her nails than spend one night under the same roof with her best friend’s ass of a husband.

  She fiddled with the napkin in her lap. “It just occurred to me that my being here might be awkward for you.”

  “After this afternoon, how could you think that?”

  One corner of her mouth turned up in a wry half smile. “Wanting me and wanting me staying under the same roof with you aren’t the same thing.”

  The cynicism in that statement killed him. Maybe because, given what she knew, it was fair. It just wasn’t anywhere close to a representation of the truth. And even though he couldn’t tell her the whole truth, he had to tell her the most important part of it.

  Setting his fork back on his plate, he stood up and walked around to her side of the table. When she accepted his outstretched hand, he pulled her gently to her feet. He stared into her eyes, which were dark and wide and full of doubt. Doubt he ached to erase even though he was plagued with his own uncertainty about what the future held.

  A thick lock of damp hair clung to her cheek, and he smoothed it away from the velvet softness of her face. “Oh, baby,” he whispered, emotion clogging his throat, “I’ve never wanted you anywhere else.”

  We’re doing it again. Having sex, that is.

  I know, I know. It’s foolish, and sooner or later, I’m going to regret it. But right now, straddling Wes’s lap, his cock buried inside me, I can’t be sorry. Not when I’m having the best sex of my life.

  It’s not that our sex life hasn’t always bee
n great. But let’s face it, after a certain amount of time, even great sex becomes routine. You develop rules and habits, learn the tried and true tricks of the trade. And eventually, you get to the point where you take it a little for granted.

  But now, neither of us can take anything for granted. Everything is transient, uncertain, and urgent. We can’t slow down, can’t take our time. Not when there’s no time to take.

  And so we crash together, determined to wring every possible kiss, every possible touch, every possible emotion from the here and now.

  He seems to need to be in me everywhere. It’s not enough for his cock to be balls-deep in my pussy. His tongue plunders my mouth and a finger breaches the ring of muscle to slide into my ass. I gasp at the invasion, not because it’s unexpected or unwelcome, but because the sensation of being filled is suddenly so intense, I see stars.

  This is making love, yes, but it’s fucking, too—dirty and messy and a little scary. I’m not sure what the boundaries are or even if we even have any. Is there anything I wouldn’t permit him to do to my body if he wanted? Every rule we ever had in bed seems to have fallen away in our rush not to let the moment escape.

  Without warning, he stills and withdraws. “Hands and knees,” he mutters in my ear, his voice thick.

  I roll off and into the position he wants without a second thought. He kneels behind me, and his thumb presses against my anus. “Can I?” He doesn’t have to spell it out for me to know what he’s asking.

  Swallowing, I consider. We’ve tried this a grand total of three times that I remember. In theory, anal sex has always turned me on. In practice, I’ve never made it past the initial burn of entry. Wes has never complained that I’m not meeting his needs on this score, but I’ve always wished I were braver.

  Maybe now’s the time. It might be our only chance.

  My mouth dry, I nod.

  He kisses the back of my neck. “I promise, I’ll make it good for you this time.”

  Shivering—partly with cold, partly with nerves—I wait while he gets a bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer. When he’s behind me again, the next thing I feel is a slippery but pleasantly warm droplet between my cheeks. His index finger follows the lubricant, down then inside. I’m perfectly ready for this, so I sigh and relax just a bit, my shiver subsiding to a tremble.

  More lube, and the second finger is as easy as the first. No, it’s not just easy. It’s welcome. I rock back to meet his fingers now, actively enjoying the sensation. By the time he adds the third, I can’t keep from reaching between my legs and touching myself, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to come or trying to hold back. Maybe, ridiculously, I’m trying to do both.

  “God, that’s hot,” he growls, and the raw approval in his voice ratchets up my arousal just that much more.

  “I think I’m ready now.” Ready as I’ll ever be.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” He’s giving me one last out.

  But I don’t need it. “Positive.”

  A few seconds after his fingers are gone, I feel the smooth, fat head of his cock in their place. I bite my lip, preparing for the pain.

  “Try to push me out when I push in,” he tells me.

  I blink at this instruction. “Huh? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Trust me.”

  So I bear down as he grabs my hips and drives forward. The initial burn is so fierce, it’s close to agony. Biting my lip to keep from crying out, I count—one, two, three, four, five—but the sharp, stinging sensation only builds as he pushes past my resistant flesh. No matter how much I want to do this, I can’t. It’s too much, too painful. Except, in the second I form the intent to beg him to stop, the pain lessens and then, to my utter surprise, blossoms into pleasure. I make an involuntary sound low in my throat because, God, he’s only a few inches inside me but already I’m so turned on, so ready for him to fuck me this way, I might come just thinking about it.

  “You okay?” His voice is strained, strangled. The effort it’s costing him not to move is apparent not only in his voice, but in the way his fingers dig into my hips and the muscles in his legs stiffen and twitch.

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. “Better than fine.” In demonstration, I force myself back against him, taking another solid inch inside me.

  He sucks in a breath. “Jesus, Delaney, don’t do that unless you mean it.”

  By way of answer, I do it again.

  With a groan that’s equal parts surrender and dominance, he both gives in and takes over. With a single thrust, he buries himself to the hilt. And then he fucks me. Gently at first, withdrawing just a fraction further each time before sliding back inside until it’s the full-on deal, only the tip of his cock staying inside me on each outward drag.

  I can’t believe how good it feels, how closely the reality matches my fantasies. My fear seems foolish now, all the years I shied away from this a colossal waste of time. But if I only get to do this once with Wes, I’m taking it, embracing it, immersing myself fully in it. I’ve shed every boundary I ever had, and there’s not an ounce of shyness in me. This time, when I press my fingers to my clit, I know exactly what I want to accomplish.

  I’m so lit up, it doesn’t take much effort. Wes’s breath shudders through his teeth and he mutters something incomprehensible as my orgasm overtakes me. I’ve never come with anything bigger than a finger there, and the sensation is so overwhelming, I get dizzy and have to lay my head down on the bed to keep from passing out. Wes follows me down, bracing himself on his arms, his lips at my neck, my ear, my cheek. He pumps once, twice, three times more, and then I feel the jerking rhythm of his cock inside me as he comes, too.

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday

  “About time you showed up for work. Any longer, and I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  Wes suppressed a smile at the caustic greeting his father shouted through the open door of his wood-paneled executive office.

  He winked conspiratorially at Kari, the receptionist, as he passed her desk, then yelled back, “I missed you, too, Dad.”

  Kari clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. His father said something unintelligible—which was probably a good thing, as whatever he said was undoubtedly profane—in response. Wes ignored it and headed for his own office around the corner.

  Much as he’d wanted to spend the day with Delaney, he could no longer ignore his job as manager of the Barrows empire’s day-to-day operations. God knew what he was going to find on his desk or in his email after almost a week away. His father might be brilliant when it came to dreaming up new ways to turn a profit, but he was lousy at dealing with people.

  Once a company got to be this big—with over a thousand employees and twice that many contractors and suppliers—the glad-handing, people-pleasing side of the business started to take precedence over pure profit potential. That wasn’t to say you stopped demanding the best products and performance or gave up driving a hard bargain. It was just you had to do it in a way that made people feel valued rather than bullied or taken advantage of. Sam was mostly only capable of inducing the latter emotions.

  Honestly, there were days when Wes marveled at the fact that his father had been able to build such a large, thriving business when he was so difficult to work for. (No one worked with Sam. The concept simply wasn’t in the man’s frame of reference.) But Wes had to give credit where it was due, and whatever his father’s character flaws might be, poor business sense wasn’t one of them.

  Wes knew the story inside and out, of course. Sam Barrows moved from small-town Idaho to Las Vegas in 1972, planning to make his fortune on the poker circuit. Over the next four years, he managed to sock away a decent nest egg but nowhere near the millions he had in mind. On a whim, he bought a failing, run-down hotel and casino just off the Strip at auction, and through a series of modest capital investments and what could only be described as marketing genius, turned the enterprise around inside of a year. Two years later, he sold the
reinvigorated property and purchased a larger, even more troubled establishment a few blocks away. He turned that one around in short order as well.

  After repeating this process several times, he was sitting on a pile of cash big enough to buy the once-storied but by then merely venerable Midas. Alongside the Flamingo and the Tropicana, the Midas had been an institution on the Strip, frequented by Hollywood A-Listers and other high rollers in its heyday. By the late nineties, however, the place had fallen on hard times thanks to a combination of stiffening competition and a too-cozy affiliation with an organized crime boss who wound up in the federal pen on RICO charges. Sam snapped up the property for pennies on the dollar, razed the existing buildings, and built the first Barrows Grand in its place.

  Since then, the Grand had undergone two major expansions: one to add the high-rise hotel tower and a second to double the casino and create a small shopping mall populated entirely by retailers of high-end luxury goods: Coach, Jimmy Choo, Rolex. The latter half of that project was Wes’s idea, and its overwhelming success raised his stock in his father’s eyes enough to garner him the post of Chief Operating Officer at the tender age of twenty-seven.

  Wes immediately set out to make sure no one in the business could accuse him of having achieved his position through nepotism, although the idea that Sam would give anyone a break out of sentimentality would be ludicrous to anyone who knew the man. But Wes was determined to prove he’d earned it by running the cleanest, tightest ship in town. He began by rehabilitating the Barrows Grand’s reputation for being the worst casino to work for on the Strip. It had taken time, and Wes still had to run interference to keep Sam from losing his temper when a staff member committed a minor screwup, but thanks to the institution of family- and student-friendly work policies, the Barrows Grand now hired away from the competition instead of the other way around.

  His next task had been to lure higher quality performers for the resort’s two theater venues. His father had always viewed entertainment as a sideshow—something you did to get asses in the casino door so they’d drop money in the slots. Wes knew that, on this score, at least, Sam’s business genius had failed him. Quality acts supported ticket prices with high profit margins and filled every seat. And the asses that filled those seats still dropped their money in the slots when the show was over. Win/win. At least for the house.