A Perfect Storm. Lori Foster

chased away the cobwebs of old memories and lack of sleep.

       Seeing her slumped in a kitchen chair, arms crossed, one foot hooked behind a chair leg, jolted his senses even more.

       God Almighty, she was a beauty.

       Slim, long-legged and generously stacked, with a face like a wet dream, Arizona would turn heads wherever she went. Dark, wavy hair hung down her back, usually in disarray. Honey-colored skin seemed in direct contrast with light blue, heavily lashed eyes. A full mouth, a strong chin, high cheekbones…

       He wondered at the mixed heritage that had produced such a dream.

       As he stood unnoticed in the doorway, she chewed at a thumbnail. Arizona didn’t wear makeup, or polish her nails, or do much of anything to enhance her looks—and she didn’t need to. She could wear burlap and men would burn for her.

       “Nervous?”

       She went still before affecting a bored expression and swiveling her head to face him. “Do you always sleep ’til noon?”

       “When I’ve been up all night, yes.” He made a beeline for the coffeepot but didn’t thank her for making it. After all, she’d come in uninvited. “You want a cup?”

       “If you have sugar and milk.”

       “Creamer.” He poured two cups and set them on the table, then got the creamer from the fridge. The sugar bowl sat in the middle of the table, framed by salt and pepper shakers.

       Like many of the things in his kitchen, they resembled cows in one way or another.

       His wife had bought the novelty items years ago.

       While blowing on the hot coffee, Spencer ruthlessly quashed bad memories. Arizona loaded her coffee with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a liberal splash of the cream.

       He watched her lush mouth as she sipped, sipped again.

       Shaking himself, he took a drink, and nearly choked. Strong enough to peel the lining from his throat, it was the worst coffee he’d ever tasted. Arizona didn’t seem to notice, though, so he manned up and drank without complaint.

       The overdose of caffeine would do him good.

       Silence dragged out while they each gave attention to their coffee. He wouldn’t be the first to break.

       Finally she eyed him. “How come you were out late? Carousing?”

       Actually, he’d needed to expend some energy for reasons he wouldn’t yet examine too closely. Shrugging, he said, “I hit up a bar, found a little trouble.” He looked at her. “You know how it is, right?”

       To his disgruntlement, she nodded. “Yeah, I did the same. But I fared better than you.” Her mouth quirked in a small grin, and she winked. “No black eye.”

       Had she really been in a bar? Looking for trouble?

      Again?

       He didn’t need to defend himself, not to her, but still he said, “You should see the other three guys.”

       “Yeah? Only three?” Tsking, she let her gaze drift over him. “Any other bruises?”

       “No.”

       She propped her chin on a fist. “One lucky punch, huh?”

       Did she have to appear so amused by idiotic drinking and brawling? “Something like that.” Actually it was a thrown chair that had caught him, but whatever. He wouldn’t encourage her with details. “So tell me, little girl. What were you doing in a bar?”

       She looked away. With one finger, she traced the rim of her coffee cup. “Sometimes,” she said low, her voice almost whimsical, “I just need a distraction.”

       His chest tightened. He waited to see if she’d elaborate, if she’d share details of her tragic background with human traffickers. She had a need to even the score with people already dead, the monsters who’d hurt her badly.

       Suddenly she leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”

       Damn, he didn’t want to play these games. “Depends.”

       She scowled. “On what?”

       “On whether or not keeping it is in your best interest.”

       Sitting back in irritation, she demanded, “Why does that concern you?”

       He countered with, “Why do you want to tell me?”

       For long moments they stared at each other, and then she broke. “Fuck it. I don’t. Not anymore.” After downing the rest of her coffee, she scraped back her chair. “I’m outta here.”

       Spencer caught her wrist. And of course, that got her going.

       Quick temper and a boulder-size chip on her shoulder had her swinging a fist. He dodged it, but she kicked and caught him in the shin. Luckily she didn’t wear shoes, so it didn’t hurt.

       Much.

       In the ensuing scuffle, his coffee cup hit the floor and broke.

       Given they were both barefoot, he did the expedient thing and tossed her over his shoulder. Clamping a hand over her thighs, he warned, “Bite me, and I swear to God, you won’t like the consequences.”

       Rather than struggle, she braced her elbows on his back. “You’ve threatened me before.”

       “Because you’ve attacked me before.” Stepping over and around the mess on his floor, he went into the hallway, then figured, what the hell, and went on into the living room.

       He dumped her on the couch.

       She bounded right back off again.

       Another scuffle, and damn it, it was too early and he was too tired to put up with it.

       “Arizona!” He locked her in close in a now familiar hold—at least with her—keeping her back to his chest, her arms pinned down. He squeezed her tight enough to steal her breath. “Knock it off already, will you?”

       Her head dropped back against his chest so she could glare at him. He waited, refusing to relent, driven by…God knew what.

       She gave one sharp nod.

       Spencer opened his arms but quickly stepped out of her reach. “Okay?”

       “Screw you.”

       So much animosity, so much rage at the world. She’d never admit it, but Arizona needed a friend, a confidante, and if it put him through hell, well, so what? He’d been in hell for a while now. “You came to me, remember?”

       “And now I’m trying to leave!”

       His head pounded. If she walked out now, he’d spend the rest of the day worrying about her.

       Or following her.

       He worked his jaw, then said, “I’ll keep your secret. What is it?”

       “Oh, aren’t you the generous one?”

       He sighed. “The sneer is unappealing. Just tell me what it is.”

       The narrowing of her eyes emphasized their pale, bright blue color and the thickness of her long, inky lashes. She drew two deep breaths, making it tough for him to keep his attention off her chest.

       “It’s my birthday.”

       Huh. Of all the things he’d imagined, that wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t even one of the top fifty. “Your birthday?” he said stupidly.

       “Yeah, you know, the day I was born. Not under a rock, in case you’re wondering.” When he stayed mute, she added, “I’m twenty-one now. A legal adult. Not a little girl, like you keep saying.”

       Arizona didn’t have family. She had a friend, Jackson, the man who had rescued her from death. She had Jackson’s