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Tracing a fingertip over the scar on his chest, she asked, “Is this a souvenir from your captors?”
“One of many.”
She flattened her hand against his skin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...”
He swallowed hard, unable to shift his gaze from her plump lips. With a voice rough around the edges, he said, “You don’t have to keep being sorry, Scarlett.”
“I know.” Her long lashes fluttered. “I’ll just... Good night.”
“Good night.”
She spun around and almost ran to the bedroom. When the door clicked shut, Jim let out a long breath.
How the hell was he supposed to let that woman go anywhere?
* * *
SCARLETT PRACTICALLY DOVE into the bed. She dragged the pillow against her chest, burying her face in it.
Bad move. The pillowcase had Jim’s scent on it—clean, masculine, totally irresistible. She tossed it aside.
When she’d touched the scar on his chest, she hadn’t wanted to stop there. She could’ve run her hands all over his hard body and died a happy woman.
She’d put her momentary lapse in sanity down to smoke inhalation. She didn’t need a complicated man like Jim in her life, didn’t need to fix him, didn’t need to help him solve his problems.
She could allow herself one little taste, a little autumn fling. He’d made it pretty clear he wouldn’t kick her out of bed or off his couch if she made that move. But who was she kidding?
Flings and shallow affairs were reserved for shallow men—not guys like Jim. If she succumbed to her physical desire for him, she’d be jumping into the deep end without a life jacket.
She rolled to her side, bringing her knees up to her chest, trying not to think about how much warmer she’d be curled up next to Jim. Closing her eyes, she relaxed her muscles and began to drift off.
Minutes or maybe hours later, a crash from the other room had her bolting upright in bed. Had Jim just had another seizure?
Bumps and thumps resounded from the living room, and Scarlett scrambled from the bed. Her gaze darted around the dark room and settled on the shotgun mounted on the wall. She stood on her tiptoes and lifted the gun from its brackets as the cacophony from the other room continued.
Raising the gun to her shoulder, she crept from the bedroom into the living room. Two dark shapes scuffled and scrabbled on the floor, rocking this way and that. Her heart skipped a beat. Someone had broken in and attacked Jim.
She primed the shotgun, pointed the barrel at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The blast rang in her ears and plaster showered down around her.
The fighting stopped and one of the men staggered to his feet and turned on the light.
Jim, still wearing just his boxers, sporting a trickle of blood beneath his nose, stared at her, and then jerked his head toward the man moaning and sputtering on the floor.
Jim let out a string of curses.
Scarlett turned the gun on the intruder, whose curses had turned into a laugh.
Was he crazy? She leveled the gun at the man’s head. “Jim, are you okay? My God, did this man break in?”
“He didn’t have to break in. I imagine he still has a key.”
“What? You know him?”
“He’s my brother.”
Chapter Nine
Still cackling, the man sat up and rested his back against the couch. “You still got it, little brother. Always were tougher than me.”
Scarlett’s mouth dropped open, but she kept the gun trained on Jim’s brother.
“What the hell are you doing here, Dax?”
Dax Kennedy wiped a hand across his mouth as his gaze traveled to Scarlett. “You didn’t tell me you had a little honey with you, bro.”
Jim stepped between her and Dax’s gaze. “You can put the gun down, Scarlett.”
“Sorry about that.” She lowered the shotgun and brushed some plaster from her arm. “But what were you guys rolling around the floor for? I thought someone was going to get killed. I thought Dax was a stranger.”
“That’s Dax’s idea of a joke. He let himself in with his key and jumped me. I didn’t know who the hell he was and he didn’t bother telling me.”
“What would be the fun in that?” Dax pushed up from the floor and adjusted his leather jacket, which sported a patch with the letters LOC and a skull with handlebars through it.
