Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

Looking every bit like a man at war with himself, he shoved both hands deep into his pockets as if he were afraid to touch her again. “Good night, Drea.”

The doorjamb poked into her back as she watched him walk down the hall and disappear behind the door on the other side of the bathroom. She held onto the discomfort, hoping it would distract from the realization that she’d just thrown herself at a former lover with more notches on his bedpost than there were colors in her eye-shadow palate, and he’d turned her down without a second thought. Maybe trusting him wasn’t so much an issue as trusting herself around him.

Chapter Nine

“If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.” - Katharine Hepburn

Four-hundred-and-eighty-two sheep later and Cam was just as awake as he’d been when he’d shut the bedroom door behind him two hours ago. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the welcome in Drea’s dark eyes and heard her sharp intake of breath when she parted her mouth. The memory of her pink tongue against her full bottom lip had him as hard as a teak two by four.

And he’d fucking walked away from her open invitation.

Like a no-nuts asshole.

No. Like a man who was trying to be more.

More of a no-nuts asshole, walking away from what he wanted.

“You’re a moron, Hardy,” he grumbled as he tossed the sheet off and stared at the ceiling.

She deserved better than him, but remembering that got harder with every second that passed. Screw this. If he wasn’t sleeping, he might as well work—his stomach growled—and get a snack.

He’d do some research, check in with the Maltese team, and pull together an outline of a plan. That should shock the shit out of everyone at Maltese. He rolled up into a sitting position and rubbed the back of his head, the same spot his mom had always patted when she’d remembered he was around. It hadn’t been often, but it had always settled him. Still did.

He lowered his feet to the thick carpet and grabbed his jeans from where they were draped across end of the bed. He stood and slid them on, then left the top button undone. Sure, he was commando, but it wasn’t like he’d run into anyone this hour. He pulled his laptop out of the messenger bag—custom made to fit in his motorcycle saddlebag—and headed into the hall.

He stuck to the quiet side of the stairs, ninja mode, a trick he’d learned in the first few weeks after the judge had taken him in.

A dim glow peeked out from beneath the swinging kitchen door. Adrenaline spiked his blood. He went on full alert.

If the crime boss’s goons had found their hideout, shit was about to hit the fan. Cam wasn’t about to let Drea or the judge go down in the crossfire. He’d take care of this on his own, here and now.

The only weapons he had on him were the laptop and the advantage of surprise. He’d done major damage with much less before. He gripped the seven pound rectangle of aluminum and micro-processors and lifted it over one shoulder like a baseball bat. He nudged the swinging door forward with his bare toes. It swung open fast, and he burst into the room.

The last thing he expected to see was Drea’s hourglass figure outlined by the fridge light. She wore an apple green T-shirt and black cotton shorts that looked as soft as he was suddenly hard. The laptop slipped in his hands, but he managed—just barely—not to let it go crashing to the tile floor.

“What are you—?”

The rest of his sentence couldn’t be heard over Drea’s surprised squeal.

She spun around, holding a jar of pickles in her upraised hand like a hand grenade that she was about to fling at the enemy.

“What the hell, Cam?” She lowered the jar to the island with a heavy clank and slapped her hand over her heart, which drew his attention to the top’s dangerously low V-neckline. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry about that. I thought you were…” He let his words trail off. The last thing he wanted was to make her think trouble would find them here.

She smirked. “One of Diamond Tommy’s thugs?”

Of course she’d know exactly what he’d been thinking. That’s when he noticed the butcher’s knife within easy reach on the counter by the fridge. Looked like he wasn’t the only one feeling a little on edge.

“Is there something you need to tell me?” He pointed at the pickles.

“Very funny.” She flipped him off. “I was going to make a sandwich.”

“Great minds think alike.” He pulled two plates down from the nearby cabinet and laid them down on the island in front of her.

She narrowed her eyes and gave him the mother of all you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me dirty looks. “You can make your own.”

He had absolutely no idea what he’d just said wrong, but he was going to roll past it. “Of course.”