Bewitched. Lori Foster

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.”

      She relaxed slightly, her body settling more closely into his and he could feel her heartbeat, could hear her breathing. “I can’t imagine you as small, or with sticky fingers. You’re so big now, and you seem so…fastidious.”

      “Yes, well, we all must grow up.” Hoping to catch her off-guard, he asked, “What were you doing there, Charlie? And why the cross-dressing costume?”

      She turned her face inward, doing the cuddling he’d suggested. Moments before he’d been cold and uncomfortable. But now he felt abundantly warm, almost too much so. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if his damp clothing started to steam.

      She was a very soft, very feminine weight nestled into his lap. And he really did enjoy her scent; something about it hit him on a gut level, very basic and primitive, forcing him to react in spite of himself. Overall, it was the kind of thing men fantasized about. Except for the kidnapping and the irritating storm.

      “I was there to spy on someone.”

      He hadn’t expected that, and the immediate conclusion he came to had a volatile effect on him. He stiffened, his voice sounding cold and hard even to his own ears. “A lover? A husband?”

      She chuckled. “Nah, I have no interest in either of those, thank you very much.” There was a heavy silence, then she added, “I suppose you could say I was actually spying for someone else.”

      “A friend?”

      “Mmm. I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.”

      “Well, you blundered into a mess and now I have to rescue you.”

      “Just like a fabled hero?” Her hair tickled his chin as she shook her head. “Not likely. I can take care of myself.”

      “I’m the first one to admit I’m not hero material. But I am bigger and stronger and I know the situation, whereas you’re small and weak—”

      She punched him in the stomach and he wheezed, then immediately flattened her against him so she couldn’t retaliate further.

      “—and you obviously don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

      “Okay, so tell me. Who are these clowns who grabbed us and what are you going to do about it?”

      He twisted to look down at her, and she lifted her face at the same time. Their noses bumped. Harry’s thoughts scattered, and he struggled to bring them back to order. It wasn’t easy.

      “First I’m going to get you home and safe and out of my way. Then I’m going to get Floyd and Ralph, on my own ground, and pound some sense into them.” He hesitated, pondering his own words and the probability of enacting them. “Maybe. I still have to weigh my personal vendetta against a promise I made to get them both legally stopped.”

      “A promise to who?”

      “The friend who makes burnt sugar. He owns a shop in the area. Floyd and Ralph work for Carlyle as petty extortioners, and my friend refuses to pay. He’s been threatened, and I don’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

      “What had you planned to do today?”

      As she asked it, her gaze dropped to his mouth and one small hand opened on his chest. She looked vaguely confused, as if dealing with unfamiliar feelings. Harry understood completely, since he was in a similar predicament.

      He forgot to answer her for the longest time. He could feel that small palm, warm and still, like a brand against his flesh. It aroused him, and surely that was insanity.

      “Harry?”

      He forcibly shored up his flagging wits. “Today I was just sizing things up.” He touched her cheek where the bruise was visible, along with a little swelling. His tone lowered with regret. “Damn, I’m sorry you got hit.”

      “I’ve