She shook her head, pressing her hands to her sides because they were beginning to sweat. And shake. “I took the stairs.”
“You climbed ten flights of stairs to—”
He was interrupted by the sound of static again. Jane’s entire body flooded with relief as a voice filled the car.
“Folks, you still there?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, where else would we go?” she muttered.
Looking like he was smothering a smile, Becker moved back to the intercom. “Still here,” he said.
“It seems we’re experiencing some technical difficulties,” the man said apologetically. “The repairman is on his way over to take a look.”
Jane’s heart took off like a terrified horse in a thunderstorm. Oh shit.
“Shouldn’t take too long to get you folks out of there,” the man—no, the devil—added. “Half hour, hour tops.”
Jane promptly dropped to the ground and stuck her head between her knees. She sucked in shallow breaths, knowing she was making a fool of herself, but unable to stop the terror spiraling inside her.
“Okay, thanks. Keep us updated please,” Becker said into the intercom. And then he was by her side, on his knees beside her. “Jane. Jane, look at me.”
Miserably, she raised her head, ashamed of the tears prickling her eyelids.
“Just breathe, okay? Breathe with me.”
She opened her mouth, but when she tried to inhale, her throat tightened. “There’s no air,” she wheezed. “No. Air.”
She grew light-headed, her cheeks so hot she knew they must look like two enormous apples. And her heart…oh God, she really was going to have a heart attack. In this miniscule elevator car with no air and walls that were closing in on her and—
A pair of strong arms wrapped around her and suddenly she found herself in Thomas Becker’s lap. His hands cupped her scorching cheeks, those brown eyes blazing with intensity. “Jane, look at me. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’ll get out of here in no time, all right? And there is plenty of air, so you really need to stop hyperventilating before you pass out.”
Pass out? She was more worried about her heart bursting right out of her chest. As panic spiraled through her, she buried her face against Thomas Becker’s sturdy chest and started to cry.
Fucking wonderful. Not only was he going to be late for his appointment with the realtor, but now he had to contend with the panicky, crying sexpot in his arms. With a sigh, Becker awkwardly patted Jane Harrison’s back, attempting to offer reassurance, but all he got in return were a few more muffled sobs and a growing erection. The hard-on couldn’t be helped. The woman in his lap was smoking hot, with high, full tits, shapely legs that were bare beneath that short skirt of hers, and a firm ass that felt pretty damn good against his thighs. And she smelled incredible, like honey and lavender and a flowery perfume that made his groin ache. He couldn’t resist pressing his face to the wild mane of red hair spilling down her back, inhaling her sweet shampoo as the soft tresses tickled his nose. He forced himself to pull back, because one, it was inappropriate to smell a woman’s hair while she was crying in his arms, and two, because he really, really didn’t need this headache right now.
His shoulder was fucking throbbing, the bullet wound still in its early healing stages, and he knew he’d overdone it in the physical therapy session today. But hell, he needed to get back in fighting shape, and fast. He was going stir crazy in his hotel room, dying to get back to work, and if it meant pushing himself to his physical limits, so be it.
“Jane,” he said firmly. “Look at me.”
When she didn’t lift her head, he did it for her, grasping her chin with both hands and tilting it. He found himself staring into a pair of big blue eyes awash with tears.
“There’s plenty of air, okay?” he said in the same calm, reassuring voice he used when dealing with hostages he’d rescued. “We’re going to be fine.”
She didn’t respond. He could see her pulse throbbing in her slender neck, a sign that her panic hadn’t diffused, despite his words.
With a sigh, he brushed away her tears with his thumb. “I get you’re scared, but there’s no reason for it, all right? We could survive in here for days. You won’t pass out, you won’t have a heart attack, and you won’t stop breathing.”
She blinked, sending another tear down her unbelievably smooth cheek, which he couldn’t resist caressing. “You promise?” she finally murmured.
“I promise.”
A flicker of relief filled her gaze. “Do you…would you mind holding me a bit longer?”
Becker suppressed a groan. Did he mind? Hell, yes, because any moment now, she was going to snap out of her panic-induced haze and notice the massive erection pressing against her thigh. But since he wasn’t an asshole, he couldn’t very well push her out of his arms when she was still so shaken up.
“I don’t mind.” Damn, his voice came out thick, hoarse.
“Thank you.”
They sat there for a few moments in silence, Becker painfully aware of the woman in his arms. She was all curves, a glaring contrast to his ex-wife, who’d been far too thin for his liking. He’d always urged Alice to gain a few pounds, add some curves to her stick-straight figure, but Alice was all about her image. She’d been modeling since she was eighteen years old, the same age Becker had been when he married her. They’d managed to make it work for fourteen years, shocking really, considering their hectic schedules. With Alice working on becoming a supermodel and Becker traveling the world with the Navy, it was a wonder they’d been able to stay married for that long.
Becker resisted a sigh. Shit, he really needed to quit thinking about the divorce. It had been finalized months ago, and yet here he was, constantly thinking about his ex-wife. Maybe he needed to take a page out of his teammates’ books and indulge in some random, no-strings sex.
And double shit, because sex was definitely something he shouldn’t be thinking about either. Not now, anyway.
The woman in his lap shifted, letting out a wobbly breath that broke through the silence. “Okay, this isn’t working,” she choked out. “Maybe you can try to distract me? Talk to me about something.”
Becker fought a wave of discomfort. Wonderful. If there was one thing he sucked at, it was talking. Especially to women.
“Please,” she added, obviously seeing the reluctance in his eyes.
“Talk about what?” he finally asked, caving in.
“Anything. Tell me about the bullet wound in your arm, your favorite movie, your pet peeves. I don’t care.” Another shaky breath.
“Um, okay.” He paused. “Well, bullet wounds fucking hurt.”
Her lips quirked, and Becker was startled by the little spark of pleasure he got from knowing he’d made her smile. “What does it feel like? Is it like a knife wound? Because I know what that feels like.”
“When the hell did you get a knife wound?”
“College. I was a reporter for the school paper and I went to interview this meth addict for a piece I was doing. Only he was super high and thought I was a narc.” She offered a small shrug, as if to say no biggie.
Despite himself, Becker grinned. “Remember earlier how I said you were persistent? Well, correction—you’re nuts.”
“It was an important story. Getting knifed added some color to the piece.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “So, the bullet…?”
“Right. Well, to be honest, I didn’t even feel it at first. Adrenaline running too high, you know. I was too focused on getting your sister into the chop—” He narrowed his eyes. “All this is off the record, right?”
Jane made a face. “Unfortunately. But I still think you should let me interview you.”
“Not interested.”
“Fine.” She gave a little pout, which brought another smile to his lips. “At least finish the story.”
“Yes, ma’am. So, like I said, didn’t feel a thing at first, not until I climbed into the chopper. Then the pain hit me, like a strea
k of lightning. Arm started throbbing, head spinning from the loss of blood. Felt like someone stuck a live wire straight into my bone.”
“Is that the first time you’ve been shot?”
“First time I’ve had a bullet in me, yeah. I’ve been grazed a few times, knifed, slashed by a machete once…” His voice drifted, and he smiled at the horror in her eyes. “Part of the job.”
“I could never do it,” Jane said frankly. “A job where I’m constantly getting injured? No thank you. I’d way rather interview people in the comfort of their homes.”
He shot her a curious glance. “What kind of stories do you write?”
“Whatever I get assigned. Last issue I had a piece about insider trading, the one before that was a story about human trafficking.”
“And now you’re working on a story about your sister?”
She nodded then released a long breath. To his relief, this one didn’t sound shaky. She was evidently calming down. “I was so worried about her, Becker. When her office called and told us she’d gone off the radar, I thought she was dead.” Jane swallowed. “I always tell her not to take such risky assignments, but she never listens.”
He arched a brow. “Would you ever turn down a story because someone told you there might be some risk?”
The corner of her mouth curved. “No. I guess it runs in the family, huh? Pigheadedness is probably the only thing I have in common with them.”
“You don’t get along with your family?”
“No, I do. I love them to death. But sometimes I feel like the odd man out, you know? My mom, Dad, Liz, my brother Ken—they’re all so similar. Look alike, think alike. Hell, they all chose the same career. Photographers, all of them!” She shook her head, looking baffled. “Journalism is a related field, I guess, but I know squat about photography. We have dinner together every Wednesday night, and the four of them drone on and on about new techniques they’re using or what not, and I just sit there, twiddling my thumbs.” She halted suddenly, her cheeks reddening. “Sorry, I don’t mean to complain. You’re probably bored by my rambling, huh?”
Actually, he was the farthest thing from bored. Becker couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed listening to a woman talk. And he knew exactly what Jane was saying. How many times had he sat at the dinner table listening to Alice go on and on about her headshots and runway walk and the latest fashion trends, then watching her get all huffy when he had nothing to contribute to the conversation? Too many times.
“I don’t mind the rambling,” he admitted. “I find you interesting.”
She smiled again. “Thank you.”
Fuck, he liked that. Thank you. Alice had never been able to take compliments, always feigning humbleness while in reality she loved hearing how wonderful she was.
He swept his gaze over Jane’s beautiful face, and then, before he could stop himself, lightly ran his hand over her hip. Her lips parted slightly, a flicker of arousal in her eyes, and Becker’s hand instantly stilled. Shit, what was he doing? The air between them sizzled, while the heat from her curvy little body seared into him and made his pulse race. He realized she was the first woman he’d been attracted to since the divorce, and the notion unnerved him.
Clearing his throat, he struggled to snuff out the flame of desire burning in his body. “So, did you always want to be a journalist?” he blurted out.
She blinked, as if snapping herself out of her own sexual haze. “Uh, yeah. Ever since I was a kid. I used to write articles about everyone in the neighborhood.” She grinned. “I was convinced Mr. Jervais from across the street was up to no good, so I would spy on him and then write about what I saw.”
“What did you see?”
“Well, he took out the garbage a lot, so I decided he was getting rid of dismembered body parts. And he spent a lot of time in his garage, which was obviously where he killed his victims.”
Becker laughed. “Poor man. I hope you didn’t show him any of the stories.”
“No, my parents made me shred them. They said even ten year olds could be arrested for slander and harassment.”
“And ten years later, you’re still at it, huh?”
“That would make me twenty. I’m twenty-eight, thank you very much. But I appreciate the compliment. And yes, I’m still at it. I’m going to win a Pulitzer someday, you know.”
The flash of ambition he saw in her eyes brought a wave of uneasiness. He’d seen that look far too many times in his ex-wife’s eyes.
“And what about a husband and kids? Do you see that in your future too, or just the Pulitzer?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Sure, I want those things too, but there’s no rush. I want to focus on my career right now, make a name for myself. There’ll be time for all the rest.”
Becker stifled a snort. How many times had he heard that one? There’s no rush. There’s time. Alice had spouted that bull for fourteen years of marriage, before finally dropping the bomb that she never planned on starting a family.
A spark of bitterness ignited in his gut, but he forced himself not to reveal his thoughts on the subject to Jane. He seriously needed to stop comparing her to his ex. He didn’t even know this woman. He had no right judging her choices and goals. So what if they weren’t aligned with his? Wasn’t like he was going to marry the girl.
“I do make plenty of time for sex, though,” she added with a small grin.
His hard-on returned with full-force, straining against his zipper. No doubt Jane felt it straining against her too, because her eyes widened slightly. “Oh my,” she murmured.
Becker rolled his eyes. “That’s what happens when you say the word sex while you’re sitting in a man’s lap, sweetheart.”
“Do you want me to say it again?” she asked with an impish look.
“Seeing as we’re trapped here in this elevator, I can’t really stop you from saying anything, can I?”
He instantly knew he’d said the wrong thing because Jane’s blue eyes flickered with terror. She glanced around the small space, as if remembering where they were and why there were there. Her throat worked as she swallowed repeatedly, and Beck could practically hear her pulse began to race. Shit. Why on earth had he reminded her they were trapped in an elevator?
“Jane—” he started.
“How long has it been?” she cut him off. “Didn’t he say a half an hour? It feels like ages since—”
“Jane—”
She shifted in his lap, hand fumbling toward her purse. “My phone has the time on it. I need to see—”
“Jane—”
“—how long we’ve been here. Do you feel hot too or is it just me? And it is getting hard to breathe, because I really can’t—”
Becker pressed his lips to hers. He hadn’t planned on kissing her, but it was the only way to shut her up, to distract her before she hurled herself headfirst off another panic cliff.
Only, the second his mouth touched hers, he forgot all about why he’d kissed her in the first place. Instead, all he could think about was…well, kissing her. Kissing the holy hell out of her.
So he did.
Chapter Two
Jane let out a startled squeak, which quickly transformed into a whimper as Becker’s tongue slid deftly into her mouth. Oh, sweet Jesus, this man could kiss. You wouldn’t think it, based on his stiff, serious demeanor, but evidently all the intensity he kept bottled up came pouring out when he kissed.
Her surroundings completely faded as she lost herself in the kiss. His mouth was firm and warm, his tongue lazy as it danced with hers. Jane’s entire body went soft, her muscles turning to jelly while her thighs quivered. She ran her fingers over Becker’s buzz cut, his short spiky hair tickling her palms. He responded by sliding one hand to her waist, while angling her head with the other in order to deepen the kiss.
Jane moaned into his mouth, unable to stop herself from rubbing against the bulge in his jeans. An answering moan sounded deep in his throat. His fingers tightened over her hip.<
br />
“We should stop,” he ground out, breaking the kiss.
“Probably,” she said with a faint smile.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Becker’s brown eyes glimmered with heat. Jane’s pulse thudded in her throat.
And then they were kissing again, and the word stop was blown away by a gust of mutual attraction. This was crazy. She’d had one-night-stands before, but always with men she’d known for more than twenty minutes, damn it. And never in an elevator. Yet Jane couldn’t stop the rush of desire swirling through her body. She placed her palms against Becker’s rock-hard chest, moaning at the feel of his defined pecs and the thump of his heart under her fingers. Becker’s hands were also busy, unbuttoning her suit jacket, slipping under the lacy white camisole beneath it. He stroked the bare skin of her belly, then moved his hands north and cupped her full breasts.
“Christ,” he choked out, squeezing her breasts over her bra. “I could probably come just from fondling these.”
She let out a soft laugh. “And I could probably come just by doing this.” She rubbed her aching sex against his crotch again to illustrate her point.
Becker groaned. “You realize this is a really bad idea, right?”
“Oh, it’s a terrible idea,” she agreed, and then she shrugged out of her jacket and peeled the camisole off her chest.
Becker sucked in a breath, those intense dark eyes widening at the sight of her lacy black bra. Slowly, he took off his own shirt and this time her eyes widened. His chest was absolutely spectacular, broad and rippled, with a dusting of brown hair leading down to his waistband. That tender spot between her legs began to throb, making her move restlessly against him.
“Are you turned on, Jane?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yes.” Her voice came out in a hiss.
“Yeah? Let’s see how turned on you are.” His big, warm hand reached between her legs to stroke the damp crotch of her panties. He groaned. “Christ, feel how wet you are.” His gaze locked with hers. “You really want to do this?”
“Yes,” she said again.