Page 40 of Hotter than Wildfire

She was right to be afraid because that fucker Montez was still after her and would be for the rest of her life unless Harry stopped him. Preferably dead.

Her running days were over, though. Harry would stand for her.

Part of the hesitation was over him, he knew that. He’d done everything possible to reassure her, but it was clear that her last memory had been him running toward her at breakneck speed with a gun, and then she’d woken up in a strange place with a gun wound.

The human mind works on all sorts of levels. It was capable of fine sentiments and refined thinking, which was very good while drinking tea and discussing the politics of the day and the latest movies.

But what saved your life was the primitive part of your brain. The one that took signals from the world as it is, not as you’d like it to be. The part of your head that pinged and sent up smoke flares when dangerous men are around.

Harry was a dangerous man.

Harry looked at her through the eyes of a mercenary, a man trained to break people. She was sleek and fit, but slender. She moved with the grace of a dancer, not an athlete. She was extraordinary, with a once-in-a-generation talent, beautiful and graceful—and prey.

They’d break her in five minutes.

Her luck couldn’t hold out forever.

It wouldn’t be luck operating in her life from now on, it would be Harry, and he’d bend the fates his way. He’d bet on himself against any man, and he was highly motivated.

Not to mention he could always count on his brothers, Sam and Mike. The three of them were unbeatable. You didn’t want to mess with Harry Bolt, especially when backed up by Sam Reston and Mike Keillor.

She was watching his face, trying to take her cues from him, looking a little lost and maybe even scared. His usual expression—or so his brothers told him—was grim. He knew how to scare and intimidate, he had that down pat. But now he needed to hearten.

A smile, that’s what was needed. And he knew how to do it, too. Tighten muscles at corners of mouth, show teeth…

By God it worked! Ellen’s face lightened and she smiled a little in return.

Step number two, feed her.

He took her by the hand and turned toward the kitchen. For the first time, he was glad he had a big house. When Sam had found the apartment for him, he’d hated it. It was so big and empty, with room after room he didn’t need and didn’t want. It was still mostly empty space, because he’d never taken the time or the trouble to decorate.

But now he was glad that it took a while to get from the bathroom to the kitchen, because he could hold her hand. Her hand was small and soft in his and it felt…good. Damned good.

He nearly snorted, thinking of what Mike would say. Mike, Mr. Unromantic, Mr. Fuck-‘em-and-leave-‘em. Holding hands wasn’t part of Mike’s style. Harry wouldn’t have thought it his style, either, though it had been a long, long time since he’d touched a woman in any way.

Maybe that was why he got off on this so much. He was just holding her freaking hand, something kids did on a playground, not that he’d ever held a girl’s hand when he was a kid. As a kid, everyone had avoided him. His household had been bad news even in the slums they’d lived in.

Now he got it, totally. Got why there were all these gauzy ads on TV, youngsters holding hands in a park, oldsters holding hands in the old folks’ home.

It was nice. It was more than nice. It was warmth and connection. She looked up at him as they crossed the huge bare expanse of his living room and smiled. He smiled back, lost himself in her eyes, and barely missed smacking his shin on the coffee table.

He instinctively shortened his strides, slowed down to keep pace with her. She was still weak and moved slowly.

Fine with him. He’d walk holding hands with her till sundown if he could. He was still savoring the feeling of her palm against his, trying to figure out the last time he’d held hands with a woman, when they finally arrived in the kitchen.

Her eyes widened when she saw what was on the table. A French press full of steaming coffee, a big platter of bacon and eggs and toast, two stacks of silver dollar pancakes and a small pitcher of blueberry syrup.

And—because Nicole had insisted—a big bowl of peeled and diced fruit and a couple of jars of plain lowfat yogurt, which he thought tasted like cardboard. But you didn’t say no to Nicole. That was the law.

Harry held out a chair and she slid in as if her knees wouldn’t hold her any more. He frowned. She was still weak. She needed food and rest and exercise, in that order.

He slid into the chair at right angles to her. “I can’t claim all the credit for this breakfast,” he said, pouring her some coffee. He held up the milk pitcher and raised his eyebrows. She nodded and he turned her coffee a pale tan. “Nicole and Sam’s housekeeper decided a couple of months ago that I needed fattening up and she’s just continued bringing down food by the bucketful ever since.”

Her eyes widened. Harry knew what she was thinking. He was a solid two twenty. It was all muscle, but no one looking at him now could possibly know that he’d been reduced to bone and gristle a year ago.

She’d taken two silver dollar pancakes, poured four molecules of blueberry syrup over them and was eating daintily.

Everything about this was just so great. Eve, in his kitchen. Okay, Ellen. But she was also Eve. And—unexpected bonus—lusciously beautiful.