Hotter Than Hell

Chapter 3

I'm startled when his rough fingers slide across my neck and over my jaw. Talk about electrical currents. I'm frozen by his touch and yet I want to jump up and run from the room screaming. His fingers stop at the source of my pain and I flinch.

An "Awwwe" escapes me. He lifts his hand away and gently lets me rest back against the pillows.

"Do you know what day it is?" he asks.

A bit of my apprehension recedes. You don't make a cement pillar out of someone after asking them questions that determine the extent of brain trauma.

"Wednesday?" It comes out as a question.

"The date?"

I need to think about it for a moment. Fourth of July was last Saturday. "July eighth." This time it's not a question. I'm gaining my bearings. My eyes are also adjusting to the shadows and I can make out more of Moon's features.

No pictures do him justice. He looks like a dark version of an Italian mob boss. I can't help but remember the bits and pieces that came through about him while I was an officer. He's of mixed heritage-African American and Mexican National. Seeing him up close and personal makes me wonder more about his heritage because he's f*****g gorgeous.

I took notice of him while I was a cop due to the way he leads his life. His criminal empire encompasses all of Arizona and extends to the border towns within Mexico. His list of criminal activities is extensive. He's also accepted within the echelon of the rich and famous. From athletes to movie stars to musicians, he's part of their world. It's his money and good looks. Of that, I have no doubt.

He intrigued me from the first time I heard the rumored stories about him. His private life is very private so I've never been sure what to believe and what to throw in the trash. The story told is that Moon's American father was a plastic surgeon who died in South America while providing facial reconstruction to children in need. It's also rumored that Moon's criminal career began after he sought revenge against the rebels who killed his father. Somehow Moon manages to stay ten steps in front of the feds. Mix in his philanthropy with the poor and you have a modern-day Robin Hood who kills, sells female flesh, keeps the illegal drug and gun supply-train running, and also takes excellent care of the people who support his criminal activity. Law enforcement hates him, and I've never been exactly fond of the legend he's created.

So why is my body responding to his touch, his voice, and his damn scent? My headache should keep these thoughts at bay, but the rush of heat that has flooded my veins, the flutter low in my belly, and the sudden awareness between my legs are not a good sign.

"Why am I here?" I ask while trying to control my rapid breathing. It's most likely not the best question. With my throbbing head and over-active libido, intelligence is a luxury.

His fingers twine in my hair without the slightest pull on my scalp. We both stare at his fingers as my hair slides across his skin. "My men weren't sure what to do with you. They went for Dandridge and apparently you stepped in the way." He speaks offhandedly like he's unaccustomed to being questioned.

Shit, Dandridge. "Is he alive?"

"Dandridge?"

"Maybe you shouldn't answer that so once I'm able to walk, you'll be more amiable to allowing me to leave." My words are rushed. My nervousness skyrockets. I hope he thinks I'm joking.

His gaze moves back to mine and he doesn't ease my mind with so much as a grin.

"Gomez will drive you home as soon as I'm assured your concussion doesn't require a physician." He continues holding my hair, which I find very odd. "Dandridge is in a bit of pain, but he'll survive."

I'm not sure what to make of this. "Will he be leaving with me?"

Moon's intensity increases and his fingers tug a bit on my hair. I don't breathe. "He's been dropped at his car, and if he can't drive himself home, he'll call a cab."

"You hurt him?" I need tape over my mouth. I'm asking too many questions.

Moon's voice turns hard. "Dandridge hurt one of the girls. He got off lucky."

Dandridge's wife, Penny, told me to be careful because her husband gets a little heavy-handed when mad. If Harry's still breathing, I can live with him getting his ass beat. I think.

"My camera?"

He takes his time answering each question. He's so focused on me that it makes me very uncomfortable. "On the dresser," he says as he nods across the room. "Your pictures of Dandridge are worth a small fortune." Without giving me time to stop him, he releases my hair, leans over, and turns on the light.

It blinds me. I bury my head into the pillows. "Why did you do that?" I whine, my fear entirely forgotten.

He doesn't speak. His fingers thread into my hair again after he moves the pillow away from my face. His thumb slides over my temple in a slow circle that feels heavenly. The soothing touch makes me want to purr. My s****l awareness increases tenfold. It's a moment or two before I'm willing to risk opening my eyes. When I do, Moon's sinful gaze is locked on mine.

Holy f**k.

He has deep, intense blue eyes with shards of silver that are accented by his mocha skin. He's literally Dwayne Johnson gorgeous with a tumbler of blue eyes thrown in to make a woman's panties combust. I don't know how to explain what happens as I fall into his eyes. Not fall-dive. My insides turn to slush. It's like I've inhaled a narcotic that causes psychosis. I can't seem to stop staring or get my bearings. With a solid blink, I jerk myself from the blue sea and absorb the rest of him.

He's wearing a white, button-down shirt with the cuffs hanging loose. The top three buttons at his neck are undone displaying a bit of his chest and flawless skin. The material of the shirt stretches over his heavily muscled biceps and forearms and across his equally defined torso. He untangles his fingers from my hair and rests his hand beside my hip. His other hand is on his knee. His fingers are long and powerful. A heavy gold ring with a large black stone is on the ring finger of his right hand. A simple gold band circles his thumb. His left hand is bare. I've never been fond of men wearing jewelry, but on Moon, it makes a statement. I'm just not sure what that statement actually is.

He allows my appraisal and I still don't get a smile or even a leer that says, I know you like what you see. My gaze moves to his lips. They're full and lush-totally kissable lips, and there's not a woman alive who wouldn't want those lips on her. A small scar about a half-inch long is at the corner of his lower lip. It does nothing to diminish his attractiveness. It actually does the opposite and adds a dangerous, bad boy, all-man quality.

"Have dinner with me," he murmurs. The question startles me.

The Moon-induced fog clears slightly from my brain. "I'm a cop," I say, and immediately I know I should have said retired or former. "Retired," I add on stupidly.

His lips press a little more firmly together, subtly changing his expression. "I know exactly who you are, Miss Kinlock." My name on his lips sounds incredible which is stupid and somehow I must gain control of myself.

How does he know my name? My identification was in my back pocket. I slide my hand beneath the sheet to see if it's still there. My heart rate jacks up ten notches. Not only is my wallet missing, so are my pants.

"Where are my clothes?" I demand in rising panic. He's too damn close for me to be lying here with no pants.

He moves in closer and he's way in my personal space. "Settle down. They're on the dresser." His warm breath fans my face and it's all about his lips again. What the hell is happening to me? All I want to do is slide my tongue across his mouth and taste him. Instead, I glance up and meet his gaze. Death, my brain says. Irresistible, my heart snaps back. I would swear all the blood in my body has settled between my thighs. He raises his hand and trails his fingers down my cheek and farther. His thumb and forefinger close around my chin and his head dips lower.

He's going to kiss me.

"Stay as long as you need. Press zero on the house phone and Gomez will drive you home." His lips briefly touch my forehead. "Hasta que nos encontramos de nuevo," he whispers.