The Heat Is On

“You know all about me, and yet all I know about you is that you feel protective over girls you sleep with, and have a food fetish.”

He ignored the protective thing. Fact was fact. “No, I have a watching-you-eat fetish. There’s a difference.”

“Don’t distract me,” she said, scolding him. “It’s your turn.”

“To what?”

“To tell me about you.”

BELLA SMILED WHEN JACOB just stared at her. The detective was far more comfortable dissecting her than himself.

“What about me?” he finally asked, his eyes shuttering a little bit.

“Well, you could start with why you were one of my blind dates. You don’t seem like the blind-date type.”

“Is there an easier question?”

“That is easy,” she said.

He was quiet a moment, studying her. “You might not like my answer.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, the guys at the P.D. thought it would be funny to sign me up for the singles club.”

“You mean, without your knowledge?”

“Yes.”

He was right. She found she didn’t like the thought of that at all. She picked up another California roll. “So you didn’t want to go out with me.”

Letting out a long breath, he reached across the small table for her hand, entwining their fingers, his thumb running slowly over her knuckles in a little circle that was unbelievably soothing.

And arousing.

“Bella?”

“Hmm?” She lifted her gaze from their fingers.

“Did I seem all that unwilling to you?”

His gaze was clear, open and honest…and heated.

She remembered the night before, how he’d looked at her as he’d slid in and out of her body in long, slow strokes while murmuring hot, erotic words in her ears, holding her gaze prisoner as he’d taken her over… “No,” she whispered, squeezing her thighs together beneath the cover of the table. “You didn’t seem unwilling.”

“One thing you should know about me. I never do anything I don’t want to.”

She looked away and cleared her throat. “So, are you the youngest in your family also?”

“The oldest of four boys. I was born and raised here.” He lifted a shoulder. “I’d guess you’d say I’m your polar opposite. I like roots.”

She didn’t correct him, tell him that she was beginning to see the light on that subject. That she’d never disliked the idea of roots, she’d just not felt the slightest urge to cultivate them. Until now anyway.

“My brothers are here in Santa Rey—or least two of them are. Wyatt’s air force, and in Afghanistan, but we think of this as home.”

“You’re close to them then?”

“Whether we like it or not,” he said with a dry smile that spoke of easy affection and an easier love.

It made her feel a little wistful. It also tweaked that odd sense of loneliness that had been plaguing her of late. Sure, she could go home and live near her family, but that wasn’t the answer for her.

She hadn’t found the answer yet. And wasn’t that just the problem. “What about your parents?”

“Retired and living in Palm Springs. I try to see them several times a year.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Sweet?”

He said this as if it was a dirty word, and she smiled. “What’s wrong with being called sweet?”

“Not something I’m accused of all that often.”

She bet. Hot? Yes. Big and bad? Yes and yes. But the sweetness he had buried pretty deep. Still, it was undeniable. “I have to tell you, I’m sitting here, trying to figure out why your friends thought you needed help enough to set you up with the singles club.”

“It was a joke.”

“Rooted from what?”

“Christ, you’re persistent.”

“Uh-huh, it’s my middle name. Spill, Detective.”

He let out a low, slow breath. “I live the job.”

“Lots of people live the job. Hell, I live and eat the job.”

“Cops are…different. We go to work and tend to see the worst in people every day, and sometimes we face things that make it hard on whoever’s waiting for us at home.”

“Things like a bullet?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Or the business end of a knife, or a hyped-up druggie determined not to go in peacefully, whatever.”

“That makes you very brave,” she said softly. “Not a bad relationship risk.”

“But there are the long, unforgiving hours. People really don’t like the hours.”

“By people you mean women,” she said.