Buch lesen: «Working With Heat»

Working

with Heat

Anne Calhoun

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/cosmo

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Dear Reader

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright

Chapter One

“Watch it, love,” a man said, extending one arm to stop Milla Jackson from riding her bike into oncoming traffic on Whitfield Street.

“Thanks,” Milla said, and flashed him a smile. Taking advantage of the traffic, she leaned over the bracket holding her phone to her bike’s handlebars and thumbed in a quick text.

I’m here & looking forward to meeting you.

Well, almost there. The Crazy Bear, the bar in London’s tony Fitzrovia neighborhood where she’d agreed to meet her blind date, stood across the street, not yet flooded with smart media types looking to unwind after a busy day. Milla shifted her weight and looked forward to relaxing in the outdoor patio. After six glorious weeks of backpacking through Sweden, Norway and Iceland, she was back in heels, working as an assistant at the Darmayne Gallery in Mayfair.

Her phone buzzed as she set off across the street. Milla returned the now-distracted stranger’s favor and tugged on his sleeve to prevent him being flattened by an oncoming cyclist, got a nod of thanks in return, then her phone buzzed.

I’m outside.

Okay, then. No Great or See you soon. She pedaled along the pavement until she found a spot to lock up her bike just down from a flashy yellow Lamborghini idling in a no-parking zone. Bike pannier in hand, she used the back of the hand holding her phone to swipe her heavy fringe off her forehead, then snapped pictures of the street, the bar, the car. She never knew which image would spark an entry on her American-girl-in-London travel website and YouTube channel, and the city was showing off in the middle of its glorious, warm, sunny, short summer. To celebrate the weather, she’d worn strappy heels and a floaty vintage halter dress she’d picked up at the boutique where her friend Kaitlin worked part-time, in the hopes that this date would be worth the bike ride from Mayfair. Lately her dates had been missing a certain something she couldn’t quite name.

But there were no snappily dressed men, young or old, sitting alone on the Crazy Bear’s patio. Bewildered, Milla peered up and down the street, then hauled open the heavy door and keyed Where are you into her phone as she walked into the bar.

The interior was striving to be the final word on flamboyant. Red carpet dominated the floors, while red leather covered most of the chairs and booths. What wasn’t red was black, with the exception of the white bar stools lined up in front of bar running the length of the back wall. In the afternoon light the picture she took looked like a bordello caught yawning in the middle of the day.

Milla lifted her hair from her nape and caught the bartender’s eye. “A Manhattan, please,” she said.

Her phone buzzed again. I’m outside.

Maybe he’d meant he was on his way when he said outside the first time. Mildly annoyed, Milla waited while the bartender mixed her drink and set it in front of her. She snapped a quick picture, then mass-blasted it to her social media sites with the caption Like me, a Manhattan(ite) in London.

It was a bit of a stretch. The child of a former marine who’d eventually gone into the security industry, she’d been born in London and raised all over the world before attending Hunter College in New York. When people asked her where she was from, it was easier to claim New York than explain her convoluted history.

“I’m going to take it outside,” she said.

“You have to pay for it first,” he said.

“How much?”

“Ten,” he said.

Ten pounds for a single drink? The night was going to get really expensive if they stayed for a meal, but that was getting ahead of the game. She still hadn’t seen her date yet, and maybe she could talk him into going somewhere less...crimson. Milla fished out her credit card and handed it over, then collected her drink, receipt, phone and wallet, and went back outside.

There were still no men sitting alone in the patio, so she walked to the edge of the canvas railing enclosing the seating area and looked up and down the street. Then she texted, I’m outside. We agreed on Fitzrovia location?

Movement caught her eye. The man who’d been sitting in a convertible yellow Lamborghini the entire time she’d been in the bar boosted himself up in the driver’s seat, spread his arms wide and yelled, “Hello, darling! Shall we go for a ride?”

Heads turned up and down the street, staring first at the man in the car, then at Milla. Her jaw dropped. He’d watched her go in, then watched her come back out again, checking her out both front and back, making sure she was worth parking the car before making himself known to her. “You did not just do that to me,” she muttered. “You did not just do that to me.”

“Actually, he did,” said a woman sitting on the patio.

Milla squared her shoulders and flashed a really big smile. “I really just wanted to get a drink,” she called back, hoisting her ten-quid cocktail to demonstrate.

The crestfallen look on the man’s face was almost worth the price of the drink. Almost. “Oh. I’ll park the car.”

He revved the engine and screeched around the corner in search of parking that would set him back fifteen pounds for half an hour. Milla looked at her watch. She could stay, or, if she pedaled like a madwoman, she could still make it to Spitalfields and the Fire Spell in time for the pub quiz.

No contest. She threw back the Manhattan, slammed the empty glass on a table and bolted for her bike.

* * *

“Budge over,” she said.

Kaitlin Connolly, one of her roommates, pushed through the growing crowd at the Fire Spell, their local pub in Spitalfields, and set a round of pints on the table. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on a date.”

Milla eased into the repurposed pew against the wall, kicked off her heels under the table and looked around. Mismatched vinyl tablecloths sporting polka dots, birds or red gingham, and small wood carpenter boxes holding ketchup, salt, pepper and malt vinegar. This was much more her style. “It was over before it began,” she said of the date.

“What happened? No, wait until I’m back. It’s my turn to buy the round. Pint of Dark Star?”

“A half, please. I’ll get the next one,” Milla said.

She wasn’t the only usual suspect late for the weekly pub quiz. Kaitlin and Elsa, her roommates in the first-floor flat they rented in renovated house in Spitalfields, in London’s East End, were there and holding chairs. Kaitlin returned with Milla’s half and set it on the table at the same moment bodies slid into the empty seats to either side of her.

“Hi, Charlie,” Kaitlin said. “You’re late. You’re supposed to get him here on time,” she added, wagging an admonishing finger at Billy.

“I did my best,” Billy protested.

“Got caught up at the studio. Sorry, love,” Charlie said, and gave her a quick kiss of greeting.

Kaitlin turned for the bar yet again, and Milla turned to exchange a quick cheek kiss first with Billy, then with Charlie Tanner, the artist who owned their house and lived on the top floor. He wore a loose, round-collared white shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, faded blue jeans and boots as scarred as his hands and arms. The shirt hid the wiry strength of his shoulders and torso, honed by years of hoisting molten glass and turning it into the colorful spiraling shapes he sold to galleries in Asia and America.

“You’re supposed to be careful,” Milla said, ghosting the tip of her finger over a new, angry red burn nestled among the tattoos coiling along his forearms. She’d never really studied them before. One in particular caught her attention, an explosion of color from letters she couldn’t quite make out.

Heat flashed between them, sending an electric charge along Milla’s nerves. Charlie’s gaze lingered on her face, and for a moment they were the only two people at the table. She registered details about him in a way she never had before. His blue eyes were deeply set under a high forehead. His soft blond hair curled damply around his temples and ears from a recent shower. Both his hair and beard were longer than normal, which meant a long stretch of eating and sleeping at his glass studio a few streets away.

His blue eyes flicked down to her fingertips, resting lightly on his forearm. “And you’re supposed to be on a date. What are you doing here?”

“Another failure,” she said, but she didn’t lift her hand. This was what was missing from her blind dates—chemistry, the zing that set her nerves humming and made the whole world more vibrant. “Definitely qualifies as epic. Might even be classic,” she said, fighting to sound normal, because she had no idea if Charlie felt the same new connection. Probably he still saw her as one of the girls downstairs. Just a friend.

“Did I miss the story?” he asked.

Was that relief flashing in his eyes?

“She was waiting for me,” Kaitlin said and handed Charlie his pint. Milla’s hand dropped naturally from his arm, and she reached for her phone out of habit. “That’s it?” Kaitlin added. “No one else coming through the front door like we’re in a French farce, not a pub?”

“We don’t know anyone else,” Elsa said. “Everyone we know and love is right here.”

“Cheers to that,” Milla said, and lifted her pint to clink glasses.

“So, spill,” Kaitlin said. “This might be the shortest date on record.”

“What’s going on?” Billy asked.

“Milla, despite being one of the most famous travel vloggers—”

“At this table—” Milla said.

“—and a master of all things internet, is loathed by online dating services, which unerringly suggest the worst possible dates,” Kaitlin finished.

“If there’s a commitment-phobic fuckwit within fifty miles, some computer somewhere will match Milla with him,” Elsa added.

“Following the theory that my followers can’t possibly do worse than computer algorithms, I’ve been running a poll on my website. This week’s date was my fans’ choice, and he turned out to be an egomaniacal fuckwit,” Milla said as the quizmaster distributed sheets of paper for the first round. She searched through her bag for her lucky pen and gave the end a few experimental clicks. The quiz was about to start, and she couldn’t take her mind off Charlie, the little smile creasing his cheeks as he listened.

“So, what happened?”

She relayed the story, right down to the yellow Lamborghini and the hello, darling, and everyone at the table dissolved into laughter. “Because, of course, all I’m interested in is his car.”

“Have you noticed that men barely ask you about yourself?” Elsa said.

“I’m sorry, were you speaking?” Kaitlin said, deadpan.

“It’s funny to watch them flail for more things to tell you about themselves. And then I...”

“Oi,” Charlie said. “Half the time we’re not sure if we’re allowed to ask you about yourselves. Are we chatting you up or a creeper?”

“My entire life is online,” Milla pointed out. “I think it’s fairly obvious cars aren’t high on my list of priorities.”

The quizmaster tapped the mic to get their attention. “Right then, folks. Your entry fee is going to the Spitalfields Trust, restoring the East End, so you have nothing at stake besides bragging rights and a fabulous T-shirt, designed by our very own up-and-coming graphic designer Kaitlin Connolly.” Kaitlin waved, and a ragged cheer went up. The quizmaster pulled his cell phone from his pocket and waggled it at the crowd. “No using these to look up answers. Put them on the table where we can all see them.”

The sound of electronic devices thudding against the plastic tablecloths competed with the music for a moment. Milla took a picture of the pile, hurriedly sending it into her social media streams. At the Fire Spell for the pub quiz for the Spitalfields Trust. Come on down! #Pubquiz #thefirespell

“Come on,” Charlie chided. “You’ll be all right without that.”

“Just one more thing...” she said distractedly. She’d been tossing ideas around with a couple of travel sites that had showed some interest in sponsoring her trips in exchange for advertising, but so far none of them had actually made an offer. Her future depended on a steady online presence and increasing numbers of fans and followers.

Charlie plucked her phone from her hand and dropped it in the pile.

“Hey! I wasn’t done.”

“Whatever tweets or texts or messages you’re waiting for will be there in a couple of hours.”

“Are you calling me an addict?”

“It’s practically adhered to your hand.”

“It’s my work,” she said.

“Work is, by definition, something you leave in order to spend time with people. I left my work at the studio. You leave yours right there,” he said, nodding at the pile of phones in the center of the table.

“Yes, and two hours from now your paper will be covered with doodles and sketches for your next piece. I just doodle and sketch into my phone. If I took that pen from you, you’d be having kittens in no time.”

“Children. Stop squabbling,” Kaitlin said. “There is a T-shirt at stake.”

“We always come in last,” Elsa pointed out.

“But this week the topic is ‘80s music,” Kaitlin said. “Have you not looked at the sheet?”

“Sweet!” Milla lifted her hands and did a little chair dance.

“An area of expertise?” Billy said.

“I’m the worst possible person for a pub quiz team. I only know random historical facts about the places I’ve lived or visited, but I have an inexhaustible knowledge of pop hits from the ‘80s. And punk. And hair bands. All the ‘80s music, actually,” she said.

“Really?” Charlie said incredulously. “Is that what’s coming up through the floor when you’re getting ready in the morning?”

Milla’s phone, screen down on top of the pile, buzzed. She reached for it, but Kaitlin smacked her hand. “We actually have a shot at this,” she said. “Don’t shame us.”

The entire crowd shamed cheaters by forcing them to wear a filthy, ragged fool’s cap for the next round. The highly effective method virtually eliminated what little cheating might happen in a charity quiz. “We have a shot at winning a T-shirt,” Milla said.

“A very cool T-shirt,” Kaitlin said. “Designed by one of London’s up-and-coming graphic designers.”

“Can’t you make yourself one?” Billy asked.

“I could, but that would be cheating. I want to win one,” Kaitlin said. “Look sharp, everyone.”

The quizmaster settled onto his stool and started reading out the questions. The team huddled together around Milla. She was acutely aware of Charlie’s body pressed into hers, the heat he seemed to absorb from the furnace heated to over eleven hundred degrees Celsius, the tensile strength in his arms and hands. He shot her a conspiratorial grin, then leaned over to murmur in her ear.

“Be here, Milla. Be here, now.”

His breath against her ear and cheek reminded her exactly how long it had been since she’d felt a man’s rough skin against her face as he whispered to her. She bit her lip and felt her cheeks flush, and was glad everyone’s attention was focused on the quizmaster’s brisk pace.

“The first quiz, boys and girls, features singles with the words boys or girls, plural or singular, in the title. I’ll give you the band’s name. You give me the song title.”

Milla’s knee bounced in excitement, until Charlie pressed his thigh to hers.

Definitely a mutual attraction. A shiver zinged up her spine, raising gooseflesh on her bare arms.

“Chilliwack.”

“‘My Girl (Gone, Gone, Gone),’” Milla whispered as she scribbled it down.

“Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney.”

“Oh! Oh! ‘The Girl Is Mine’!” Kaitlin hissed. Milla nodded.

“Don Henley.”

“‘Boys of Summer,’” Milla, Kaitlin and Billy all chorused.

“Manhattan Transfer.”

“‘The Boy from New York City,’” Billy said confidently.

“Cyndi Lauper.”

“‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun,’” Charlie said.

Milla smiled at him, her eyes alight. While Charlie was in and out of their apartment on a regular basis, he didn’t go out much other than to come to the pub quiz every week. “Nice one.”

“You knew that answer.”

“That’s not always the point.”

“Pet Shop Boys,” the quizmaster continued.

“Is that the answer?” Billy asked, looking up at the quizmaster.

“No, ‘West End Girls’ is the answer,” Milla said and hummed the song’s chorus. “You know. East End boys and West End girls.”

Charlie’s grin disappeared. He lifted his pint and finished it off. “Next round’s mine,” he said and got up.

“It’s supposed to be mine,” Milla protested.

“You’ve got this. I’ll get the drinks,” he said, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Milla watched him walk to the bar. By the way his smile shattered into shards, there was a story she didn’t know. But unlike many of her dates, Charlie didn’t talk about himself.

She reached for his sleeve. “Just a half for me,” she said gently. Given the vibe humming between them, she wanted her wits about her.

They played the next two rounds, placing near the bottom of the rankings thanks to back-to-back science-related rounds. Charlie went to say hello to a friend at another table. Milla snagged her phone from the pile to skim her social media accounts, and saw a new text.

Why are you being such a bint about this?

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Milla said into one of those random silences that fell in crowded rooms.

Billy choked on a swallow of Guinness. Heads turned at the tables in their vicinity.

“Sorry,” Milla apologized to the room in general.

Kaitlin leaned over her shoulder. “Is that from...?”

“Lamborghini Man? Yes, yes, it is.” She sat in the ready position, thumbs poised over the keyboard, considering her options. She’d snapped a photo of his car before she knew her blind date was sitting in it. She could post it with the registration tag blurred. Compensating much? would make a perfect tag.

“What’s going on?” Charlie said, standing by the table.

“Milla’s date texted her,” Elsa said.

Charlie lifted an eyebrow. “Apologizing for being an arse, I assume.”

Milla showed him the text. The smile disappeared from his mouth, and the muscles around his eyes tightened; in an instant Charlie went from being a good-natured artist willing to offer opinions on outfits to the girls who shared his house to someone who looked like he’d pull out a knife in an alley. And there’s the East End boy, she thought.

“It’s no big deal, Charlie,” she said.

“It means whore. Bitch. It’s a big fucking deal.”

“It happens,” she said, and showed him the tweet with the picture of his car. “I posted about going on a date. People are asking why I’m at the pub quiz already. I could post this.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “You’d do that?”

Her anger passed as swiftly as it came. “No. I’m going to ignore him. It’s the worst thing I can do to an attention whore.”

Elsa, Billy and Kaitlin were arguing over what to grab for dinner. “It’s not the worst thing I can do to him,” Charlie said, his tone hard and flat.

He’d never gotten this angry at one of her dates before, although none of them had crossed the line into name-calling. They’d just been self-centered, angry, living with parents, fixated on a previous girlfriend or, as she saw now, just plain old lacking in chemistry.

There was no lack of chemistry between her and Charlie. She took a chance. “I’d rather you walked me home. It’s been a very long week.”

The light in his eyes changed, the heat tempering his anger into something softer, more interesting, more dangerous. “I can do that,” he said.

“Curry it is,” Kaitlin said decisively. “You coming?”

“I’m going home,” Milla said, keeping her voice casual. “I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk her home,” Charlie said. “I’m knackered, too.”

London’s summer sunset stretched across the sky in hues of orange, pink and red. The air was warm, scented with city smells, exhaust fumes, rubber, the curries and kebabs from the Bangladeshi restaurants on nearly every block. Milla unlocked her bike and together they strolled down the street, Charlie with his hands in his pockets, Milla pushing the bike with one hand and snapping pics with her phone in the other. Charlie paused and looked around while she did. His movements were quick, glancing around, conveying an impression of contained energy, as if he’d learned to keep himself under control, but just barely. He’d told her once he was twenty-eight. She could only imagine him at her age, twenty-four. The price he’d paid to learn control was evident in his wary eyes, the set of his shoulders.

“How’d you get into the habit of putting your life online?” he asked as he watched her.

“My dad was an MP—military police, not member of Parliament—in the Marine Corps. We lived all over the world, just me and him, and the internet was the best way to stay in touch with family back home and with other kids I met and then moved away. I was pretty young when I started taking pictures and writing a travel blog. By the time I was in high school in Guam...” She paused to think. “No, it was Oman, just before Dad left the Corps. By then, I wasn’t just blogging, I was making videos and posting them to YouTube.” She shrugged. “By the time I started college, it was more than a hobby. Then my grandmother shared the YouTube channel with a friend who sent it to her daughter who worked at HuffPo. That’s when I started getting more followers, getting a little more traction.”

“And here you are,” he said lightly, but shadows lingered in his eyes.

She quickly cropped then uploaded the photo of the sunset. “You’re offline enough for both of us. We’re yin and yang, maintaining balance in the universe,” she added, flicking him a smile.

He smiled back and opened his elbow, inviting her to loop her arm through his. She did, and once again the heat of his body seared through the thin cotton of his shirt. With her arm looped through his she couldn’t take pictures, but she didn’t want to let go, either. She tucked her phone in her front pocket and matched his slower pace. Funny, she thought. I couldn’t wait to get away from Lamborghini Man, but I don’t want to miss a moment of this walk.

“How did you learn so much about ‘80s music?”

“It’s the music my dad listened to, and I could count on VH1 or MTV in English wherever we were living. I watched Behind the Music, Where Are They Now, that kind of thing.” Something clicked into place inside her. With a sweeping gesture she took in Spitalfields. “The song. It’s about London’s East End.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “You didn’t know that?”

“The lyrics didn’t mean anything until now. So my date was doomed before it began. He’s a West End boy and I’m an East End girl,” she said with a laugh.

Charlie’s lips twisted into a smile. “You’re not really an East End girl.”

“I live in the East End,” she protested.

“I live in the East End,” he replied. “You use it as a base for all your travels. You must be getting itchy feet. Where’s the next trip?”

“The Orient Express,” she said. It was a total turnaround for her. Rather than hopscotching through Europe on discount airfare, she would travel by train through to Istanbul. It was romantic, large scale, with a rich history to mine, and maybe the kind of thing that could catch an editor’s attention. A millennial’s perspective on a decidedly twentieth-century method of travel, through lands reshaped by war to a city with a history dating back nearly ten thousand years. The idea was either brilliant or complete pants. She wasn’t sure which.

“The Orient Express still runs?”

“Not as a single trip, but you can cobble together the same itinerary. I’ve almost saved up the money. Another couple of weeks and I’m off again.”

“Sounds cool,” he said.

His hip brushed hers with each step, the shift and flex of muscles and bones heating her from the inside out. “We haven’t seen much of you lately. The pub quiz, mostly. What’s going on?” she asked lightly.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, but his attention was focused mostly on her thumb, gently tracing the old burns on his forearms revealed by his rolled-back sleeves. “I’ve been busy.”

“A creative rush?” she asked, pushing a bit, curious to know how much he’d reveal, trying to piece together what she’d picked up from Elsa and Kaitlin, who had lived in the ground-floor flat longer than she had. Charlie was a glass artist who sold pieces in galleries around the world, he was from the East End and...he’d been married before.

“You could say that,” he said as he unlocked the front door of the house he owned in Princelet Street. Milla bumped her bike up the steps and into the foyer, tiled in the original black-and-white octagonal tiles. The house reminded her of Charlie, a run-down Georgian on the outside, but the interior was an intriguing blend of old architectural details and new appliances and lighting.

He hoisted her bike into the rack he’d installed when he realized all three girls walked or biked to save money and were afraid of having their bikes vandalized if they were locked up outside. Thoughtful, Milla added to the list in her mind.

“Sounds like your readers aren’t doing a better job of picking your dates than the dating websites,” he said with a grunt.

“Thanks,” Milla said. “All relationships fail until one doesn’t. I’m not going to close myself off just because someone calls me a name or a crashing bore backs me into a corner at a bar and natters on endlessly about the derivatives market or circuitry.”

“Or glass.”

“You’ve never backed me into a corner and yammered on endlessly about your art. I have to practically pry details out of you.”

He paused in the entryway and let the door to the street close behind them. To the left was the door that opened into the flat she shared with Elsa and Kaitlin. In front of them were the stairs that led to the second and third floors, where he lived. Her heart started to pound in her chest, slow, deep thuds that pushed her blood through her veins in thick, heated pulses. He leaned against the wall opposite her, looking for all the world like a good male friend making sure his good female friend was safely in her flat before he went on his way. But with his hands shoved in his pockets and his shirt open at his throat, he was right out of her dreams. The summer sun gilded his hair, picked out glints of gold in his scruffy beard, highlighted his pulse at the base of his throat. He looked at her, his blue eyes dark and intense under his eyebrows, making him look just a bit dangerous.