behind him.
Belatedly, Arizona shut her mouth. Oh, how she hated when he called her “little girl.” As of today, she wasn’t quite as young as he thought, and given her experiences, well, she hadn’t felt like a kid in a very long time.
Her brows snapped down, and her spine stiffened. She would not let him get to her. Huh-uh. No way.
This was her game. She would call the shots, and if anyone had to be tongue-tied, it’d be him.
She shoved to her feet, but didn’t stomp. Excesses of emotion gave away too much. She didn’t want him to know how he affected her.
At the bathroom door, voice cold and collected, she stated, “I’ll be the kitchen.”
Minutes later, just to prove a point, she went about making coffee.
* * *
SPENCER STOOD WITH HIS HANDS braced on the porcelain sink, his head hanging, his muscles twitchy.
What the hell?
Sure, he knew Arizona Storm was a reckless, impetuous, headstrong girl. He’d figured that out in the first few seconds of making her acquaintance.
But breaking and entering?
Why the hell had she sat there watching him sleep?
He felt…violated. Angry.
He felt extreme pity. For her.
Damn, but he didn’t want her, not in his house, not in his head. He could control the first.
Hadn’t had much luck controlling the second.
Not trusting her to respect his privacy, knowing damn good and well she would snoop without remorse, he gave up the idea of a shower and shave and instead rushed through brushing his teeth, splashing his face and finger-combing his hair.
Since she wasn’t in his bedroom anymore, he took the time to pull on his jeans, but rather than mess with the holster, he just stuck the gun in his waistband. He grabbed up his knife, opened it, closed it again and slid it into his pocket.
Barefoot and shirtless, he went in search of Arizona—and he had to admit, anticipation chased away the cobwebs of old memories and lack of sleep.
Seeing her slumped in a kitchen chair, arms crossed, one foot hooked behind a chair leg, jolted his senses even more.
God Almighty, she was a beauty.
Slim, long-legged and generously stacked, with a face like a wet dream, Arizona would turn heads wherever she went. Dark, wavy hair hung down her back, usually in disarray. Honey-colored skin seemed in direct contrast with light blue, heavily lashed eyes. A full mouth, a strong chin, high cheekbones…
He wondered at the mixed heritage that had produced such a dream.
As he stood unnoticed in the doorway, she chewed at a thumbnail. Arizona didn’t wear makeup, or polish her nails, or do much of anything to enhance her looks—and she didn’t need to. She could wear burlap and men would burn for her.
“Nervous?”
She went still before affecting a bored expression and swiveling her head to face him. “Do you always sleep ’til noon?”
“When I’ve been up all night, yes.” He made a beeline for the coffeepot but didn’t thank her for making it. After all, she’d come in uninvited. “You want a cup?”
“If you have sugar and milk.”
“Creamer.” He poured two cups and set them on the table, then got the creamer from the fridge. The sugar bowl sat in the middle of the table, framed by salt and pepper shakers.
Like many of the things in his kitchen, they resembled cows in one way or another.
His wife had bought the novelty items years ago.
While blowing on the hot coffee, Spencer ruthlessly quashed bad memories. Arizona loaded her coffee with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a liberal splash of the cream.
He watched her lush mouth as she sipped, sipped again.
Shaking himself, he took a drink, and nearly choked. Strong enough to peel the lining from his throat, it was the worst coffee he’d ever tasted. Arizona didn’t seem to notice, though, so he manned up and drank without complaint.
The overdose of caffeine would do him good.
Silence dragged out while they each gave attention to their coffee. He wouldn’t be the first to break.
Finally she eyed him. “How come you were out late? Carousing?”
Actually, he’d needed to expend some energy for reasons he wouldn’t yet examine too closely. Shrugging, he said, “I hit up a bar, found a little trouble.” He looked at her. “You know how it is, right?”
To his disgruntlement, she nodded. “Yeah, I did the same. But I fared better than you.” Her mouth quirked in a small grin, and she winked. “No black eye.”
Had she really been in a bar? Looking for trouble?
Again?
He didn’t need to defend himself, not to her, but still he said, “You should see the other three guys.”
“Yeah? Only three?” Tsking, she let her gaze drift over him. “Any other bruises?”
“No.”
She propped her chin on a fist. “One lucky punch, huh?”
Did she have to appear so amused by idiotic drinking and brawling? “Something like that.” Actually it was a thrown chair that had caught him, but whatever. He wouldn’t encourage her with details. “So tell me, little girl. What were you doing in a bar?”
She looked away. With one finger, she traced the rim of her coffee cup. “Sometimes,” she said low, her voice almost whimsical, “I just need a distraction.”
His chest tightened. He waited to see if she’d elaborate, if she’d share details of her tragic background with human traffickers. She had a need to even the score with people already dead, the monsters who’d hurt her badly.
Suddenly she leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”
Damn, he didn’t want to play these games. “Depends.”
She scowled. “On what?”
“On whether or not keeping it is in your best interest.”
Sitting back in irritation, she demanded, “Why does that concern you?”
He countered with, “Why do you want to tell me?”
For long moments they stared at each other, and then she broke. “Fuck it. I don’t. Not anymore.” After downing the rest of her coffee, she scraped back her
