Lori Foster - Bewitched - In Too Deep

“I wasn’t going to lie! I’m not a saloon girl, I’m the owner, and no, I was never a pickpocket. It’s just that you weren’t paying attention.” She pressed the gun harder against him. “And you’re slow.”

In the next instant he jerked up her wrist and snatched the gun from her hand. In the process, it fired, the sound loud and obscene, sending particles of ceiling plaster to rain down on their heads. They both heard a flurry of scurrying from around them.

The shock left them still as statues. “Good grief, what was that?”

Harry was aware of her uneasiness, even her breath held. “Rats. And at the moment, they’re the least of your worries.” This time he stuck the gun a good distance inside his pants, then dared her with a look to try retrieving it. “Now.”

She quickly regained her aplomb. “You’re lucky you didn’t shoot me!”

“I’d say you were luckier, being that you would have been the one shot.” He took a firm step toward her.

“All right.” She held up her hands. “Give me your coat, then turn your back and close your eyes.”

“No.” The silly woman persisted in her belief that he was an idiot.

“You’re not going to watch, Harry.”

“In case it’s escaped your notice, it’s exceedingly dim in here. What miserly moonlight there is can hardly penetrate the rain and the dust on the broken windows. I can’t see my own hand in front of my face.” That was an exaggeration; he could see just fine, but she didn’t need to know that.

“I’ll give you the coat, and if you’ll promise not to do anything else foolish, I’ll try to find a propitious spot for us to nest in until this storm completely blows over.”

She curled her lip at him. “Your diction is astounding.”

“Thank you.” He handed her the coat and turned away, kicking debris with his feet as he carefully walked.

“It wasn’t a compliment!” she called out, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “You’re what the regulars at my bar would call a fancy-pants.”

“I’m wounded to my soul by their censure.” The station stunk, literally. He could smell oil and rotting vegetation and heaven only knew what else. He preferred not to ponder the possibilities. He retrieved his tiny flashlight, flicked the light around in a wide arc, avoiding Charlie’s dark corner, then settled on an area that would have to do.

“I’ve found a spot that’s fairly dry and empty, and there’s an old car bench seat. I suppose it’ll support us and keep us off the cold cement floor.”

He heard a “plop” and knew she’d dropped part of her disguise. He smiled in the darkness. “What exactly did you have on under your shirt?”

“Some old linen, pinned in place.” Another plop. “Why don’t you sit on the bench just to make sure nothing else is nesting there. I’m not keen on sharing with rats.”

“I’m sure they feel the same about you.” He kicked the seat with his foot. Nothing happened. Holding the flashlight in his teeth, he lifted one end and dropped it. And then did it again. “Nothing but an abundance of dust.”

Another plop.

He turned off the flashlight before the temptation became too overwhelming. His eyeballs almost itched with the urge to peek. “Exactly how many layers did you have on?”

“Enough to get rid of any lumps or bumps, which was easy since my femaleness isn’t all that noticeable anyway.”

Temptation swelled. He looked toward her voice, but could only see a vague outline. He felt cheated and stared harder, but still only got shifting shadows and a stinging sense of guilt.

A wet length of toweling slapped up against his face. “You can use that to wipe off our nest.”

Grumbling, he did as instructed then turned to her again. “I beg to differ. About your femaleness, I mean.” He noticed her voice shook when she talked, more from cold now than anything else. His concern doubled. “If you’ll recall, I knew right away that you were a female sort of person.”

“I don’t understand that. No one else noticed.”

He could hear the chattering of her teeth. Definitely the cold. “Come here, Charlie. Let me warm you.”

Not a sound. Not a movement. The irritating little twit.

“Oh for pity’s sake.” Though he tried to hide it, his irritation came through. “Charlie? Come on, I’ve proven myself by now, haven’t I? We may have the entire night ahead of us, with nothing but the rain and the rats for company. Regardless of how stoic you might be, I don’t mind admitting I’m cold. Let’s at least make the attempt to get warm.”

She took a step out of the shadows and he could see her vigorously rubbing her hair with her discarded shirt. His coat covered her from neck to ankles, enormously big on her petite frame. “What, exactly, did you have in mind?”

“A little cuddling.” He smiled, already feeling the anticipation which was surely odd considering she really wasn’t all that attractive and she had a penchant for insulting him with every breath. It was a unique feeling for him, being insulted by a woman. Even his ex-wife had refrained from that, at least until the very end. Before that, she’d been cajoling and sweet, even as she tried to manipulate him. Unaccountably, Charlie’s bluntness piqued his interest. There was no understanding the workings of male hormones. “I’m willing to sacrifice myself by being on the bottom. You can sit on my, ah, lap and with our combined body heat we should stay warm enough.”

“I don’t know.”

Her hair was a tousled dark mass of shining black, some locks hanging down to her eyes, other flipping around her ears. She looked almost cute, in a disheveled, bedraggled way. “Charlie, did you take everything off?” Now his voice shook. Damn it.

“No, of course not! My jeans are wet, but that can’t be helped. I did remove those muddy boots, though, so you don’t have to worry about them.”

“My gratitude knows no bounds.”

“What about you?”

He cleared his throat. “Just damp around the collar. Except for my pants, which are soaked.”

“Leave them on.”

He grinned again, but kept his tone mild. “I have no intention of lacerating your dubious sensibilities by strutting around naked. Now come here.”

The stillness was palpable.

Harry sighed. “If you’re hesitating because I said you smelled nice, well, keep in mind I feel the same about new leather and burnt sugar, but neither has ever inspired me to levels of uncontrollable lust.”

He heard her grousing and mumbling, heard her shifting, then she moved a little closer. And damned if he didn’t catch a whiff of her elusive scent again, now mixed with the dampness of the rain and the fresh outdoors. With his eyes closed, he breathed deeply.

“Why burnt sugar?”

She’d sidled close, near enough that he could see her clearly, could reach out and touch her. He did, his fingers first landing on her narrow shoulder, and when she didn’t bolt, he let them slide down to her slender wrist. His coat sleeves had been rolled up but still hung down to her fingertips. She’d buttoned up all the way, but the coat was so big on her, the neckline hung disturbingly low. All in all, she looked adorable in his coat, all wet and stubborn and mulish. Only, he didn’t like stubborn, mulish women.

He sat on the bench and tugged her down to his lap, giving her a moment to get used to the feel of that and giving himself a chance to calm his stampeding heart.

Ridiculous. There was absolutely no reason to react so strongly to her. She was just a woman, caught up in the same bizarre circumstances as he. Masculine interest hadn’t prompted his offer to share body warmth. No, his motives were altruistic, they were—

“Harry?”

He could feel her breath on his throat when she spoke, feel her shivers. His awareness of her as a woman was acute. Slowly, wary of getting slugged at any moment, he wrapped his arms around her. “A friend of my father’s used to make me this candy. He called it burnt sugar, and I suppose that’s exactly what it is. He puts plain white sugar in a small buttered metal dish, melts it in the oven until the edges are dark brown, then lets it cool and harden. It’s sort of like a sucker without the stick, and has a different taste since it isn’t flavored at all. As a child, I forever had sticky fingers from eating burnt sugar.”