White Heat

She dipped the brush again. “So you’re suggesting we let it all hang on a ring?”

“Works for me.”

Finally dropping the manipulative tactics, she straightened. “Oh, come on. Let’s just say you’re my brother! We don’t even want to get close enough to rub up against each other. How convincing will body language like that be?”

Want had nothing to do with it. He glanced over to tell her they’d just have to improve their acting and caught a glimpse of her dress bunched up around her hips, bare legs plainly visible. Another inch or two and he could’ve spotted her panties.

Rachel wasn’t trying to entice him. That was obvious from her careless attitude. She was so sure he wasn’t interested, she saw no point in being cautious, which wasn’t very wise if they were going to be living together. Maybe he wasn’t in love with her, but that didn’t mean he was blind. He could appreciate her physical assets the same as the next guy.

“Convincing enough, I hope,” he said. “And one other thing.”

She made a careful swipe with the polish, then another. “What’s that?”

He waited for her to look at him. “Unless you want me to knock down that invisible wall you’ve constructed between us, I wouldn’t tease me if I were you. That’s not a punishment I’ll tolerate.”

Her jaw sagged. “Tease you?”

When he shifted his gaze to her legs, his meaning finally seemed to register.

“I’m painting my toenails!” she said. “You think I’m trying to punish you? That I’m trying to do it by arousing you?”

She didn’t have to try. That was the problem. “Just put your dress down,” he said with a scowl. “And leave it there.”

4

She wasn’t the only one nervous about sharing a bedroom. Nate’s grumpiness made that clear. He probably wouldn’t refuse a quick lay if he was in the right mood—he hadn’t refused last time, had he? But he didn’t want her, and he couldn’t be any more obvious about it. She wasn’t willing to get burned a second time. She’d already offered him her heart and soul, and he’d tossed them right back at her. Hell would freeze over before she ever made him that offer again.

Ignoring his order to keep her dress down, she raised it again and proceeded to paint the rest of her toenails. Without shifting her dress she couldn’t do it comfortably. If he thought ordinary behavior constituted teasing, that was his problem. They’d be “married” in name only. Until they moved into the commune, they wouldn’t even share a bedroom.

Soon after she’d finished, the scenery outside changed from the green and brown of the rolling hills surrounding L.A. to the monochrome beige of flat desert. By afternoon, they couldn’t get a radio signal and Rachel lamented the fact that she hadn’t brought her iPod. The only sound, other than the warp of their tires on asphalt, came from the fan of the air conditioner. It hummed at full speed but pumped hot air into the cab. According to Nate, they must’ve lost their coolant somewhere along the highway because he couldn’t get the AC to work any better.

“Why do you still have this old truck?” she grumbled.

“Because I like it. It has character. And it comes in handy for work—and play.”

Besides using it on various undercover jobs—jobs like this one—he sometimes took it four-wheeling with the guys. But she never would’ve agreed to ride with him if she’d thought they’d have to travel without air-conditioning. She would’ve flown into Tucson and had him pick her up there. At least that would’ve eliminated this extended trek across the hottest desert in North America. It had to be one hundred and twenty degrees outside. The truck felt like an oven.

“I can’t believe this,” she complained. “We’re in the Sonoran Desert. It’s the middle of July. And we don’t have air.”

“Roll down your window.”

She did as he suggested. The wind caused strands of her hair to come loose but did little to cool her off. Drops of perspiration rolled down her back and between her breasts. She’d abandoned her sweater long ago. Now she kept raising her skirt over the closest air-conditioning vent to funnel the air up under her dress, which clung miserably to her if she didn’t.

“Do you want me to drive?” she asked, suddenly so restless she felt she couldn’t tolerate another mile.

“I’ve got it,” he said, but when she continued to shift and squirm, he pulled to the shoulder and turned off the engine.

“Change your mind?” she asked.

“No, I’m getting you a cold drink.”

He was hot, too. She could see the dampness of his T-shirt, could smell the slight tang of his sweat—and wished she found it distasteful.

A moment later, her door opened, and he stood there with a bottle of water he’d taken from the cooler in back.

“Thanks.” She reached out, but he twisted off the lid and squeezed it down the front of her dress.

Gasping at the cold, she grabbed hold of the bottle and fought to turn it back on him.

“Hey, I’m just trying to help!” he said, laughing at her futile efforts.

Mad enough at his surprise attack to scramble out and get her own bottle, she flung water at him while he circled the truck to avoid her. She got him by acting as if she’d given up, then pivoting abruptly when he made a move to get in. But he didn’t seem to mind. He merely removed the cap from a third bottle and poured it over his head.

“Better?” He grinned as he dribbled the last few drops over her head.

Knowing she looked bedraggled, she glanced down at her soaking dress. She wasn’t willing to give him any credit, but she did feel cooler. “A water fight. That’s your solution?”

“I enjoyed it,” he said. Then, in a motion that seemed as impulsive as it was unexpected, he used his thumb to stop a drop of water from rolling down to her cleavage.

Rachel caught her breath at the contact. Looking up to see him watching her intently, she stepped out of reach. “It’s my turn to drive,” she said, and hopped in before he could protest.

This was the way Nate liked Rachel best—completely undone. Her hair was a mess, her face devoid of what little makeup she’d put on, her dress damp and wrinkled and hugging every curve. He could even appreciate the thin sheen of sweat on her smooth skin. The dampness caused the soft tendrils of hair at her nape to curl.

God, she was pretty. At times she took his breath away.

“What?” She glanced over as if she could feel his scrutiny and didn’t like it.

“Nothing.” He turned his attention to the rocks, soil and cacti flying past his window. During moments like these, he was so tempted to act on the attraction between them it was all he could do to keep his hands to himself. He wouldn’t have bothered to fight the impulse if she was half as resilient as she pretended to be. But her desire to love him showed in those wide blue eyes every time she looked up at him. He couldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability; he wouldn’t break her heart. He, of all people, knew what could happen if he did.

“We haven’t talked about Portal,” she said.

He adjusted his seat belt. “There’s not a lot to say about Portal. It’s a very small town.”

“How small?”

“Maybe fifty people, mostly ranchers, artists, bird-watchers and nature enthusiasts. Paradise used to be even smaller than Portal, until the Covenanters moved in.”

“Why aren’t we starting off in a bigger place?”

“The closest town with any significant population is Willcox. They have about thirty-five hundred people, but it’s an hour and a half from Paradise. I felt that was too far and we’d have trouble making contact with the cult.”

She fought the wind whipping at her hair by anchoring several loose strands behind her ears. “But how can a cement contractor expect to earn a living amid fifty ranchers, artists and bird-watchers? I doubt they’re the type to pay for a lot of concrete work.”

“I’m actually playing an out-of-work contractor. With the downturn in the economy, I’ve decided to go after my real aspirations—photographing wildlife. I’ll be taking pictures for a coffee-table book I hope to sell.”

Her eyebrows slid up. “Did you bring a camera?”

“Of course.”