Crazy Cool Read online

  A freight elevator big enough to haul automobiles to the seventh-floor garage clung to the side of the reinforced brick building like an upended suspension bridge, with its exposed guide rails and open-cage construction. Hawkins keyed a combination into the control panel, and when the lift door opened, drove Roxanne up onto the platform. They’d installed a newer, fully enclosed automobile lift on the north side five years ago, but the only one who used it with any regularity was Dylan, whose need for speed usually superseded the aesthetic advantages of slowly crawling up the side of 738 Steele Street with a view of the city and the mountains opening up to the west.

  As the elevator started its journey skyward, he punched a few keys on Roxanne’s onboard computer, calling up Skeeter. This close to home, the damn thing ought to work. Kryptonite, Skeeter was always telling him. He was like kryptonite to the computer’s motherboard. Everybody else at Steele Street had one of Kid’s inventions installed in their cars, and they all worked. His was the only one that needed to be within ten feet of the main office to fire up.

  Skeeter would have already tracked them onto the elevator and would know they were home.

  “Skeeter—Kid and Dylan?” he typed in and got an automated reply. Hell, Skeeter wasn’t going to save his ass tonight.

  “Shadow to DOD.” The message flickered across the small screen embedded in the dash, the first part referring to Dylan. “Superman to Colorado Springs. Kid Chaos to Stavros’s. Captain America to Stavros’s, then to Toussi Gallery for McKinney show. Skeeter to dinner. In case of emergency, dial 111–111–1111.”

  And Skeeter would come running, probably from the Cuban deli on the corner.

  Hawkins had figured Kid would go to his dad’s, and he knew why Dylan hadn’t wasted any time heading to Washington, D.C. They were going back to Colombia, and Dylan would want the authorization to do what had to be done. Captain America was Quinn, heading over to his new sister-in-law’s show after paying his respects at the Chronopolous home.

  Maybe he’d have Kat try to call Cunningham again, try to set up a meeting for early morning. He wanted this thing narrowed down. One of the Prom King guys was dirty and all but aching to get caught. Why else leave all that crap at her apartment?

  Well, he was happy to oblige, the sooner the better.

  He glanced over at Kat, and his gaze narrowed.

  She’d taken the lid off her coffee.

  Why?

  The lids were designed to keep the coffee in the cup. A person didn’t need to take it off to drink.

  Of course, if a person was more interested in spooning the whipped cream out with their stir stick than drinking the coffee, there might be a reason to take the lid off, but not in a car—not in Roxanne.

  The old freight elevator hit a rough spot and shimmied for a few seconds until it screeched its way past the sticking point. He watched out of the corner of his eye while she licked cream off the stick and balanced the cup away from herself, making sure it didn’t spill—and he was duly grateful when it didn’t.

  They went through the same sequence of events at every floor, successively negotiating every one, thank God.

  When they stopped at the seventh floor, he swung out of Roxanne and went over to open the cage. The seventh was where Steele Street kept their main offices and a whole lot of the cars they all drove most of the time. The garages took up a number of the lower floors. The eighth floor was the armory. His apartment was on the eleventh.

  It took less than a minute for him to walk over to the freight door, pull it open, and turn back toward Roxanne.

  Geezus. He tilted his head to one side to better see into the interior of the car.

  How in the hell . . . ?

  He took a step forward, and tilted his head to the other side, beginning—just beginning, mind you—to get some idea of just how much freaking whipped cream there was in a triple order.

  Plenty. More than enough to slide a bit down the windshield and still have some left over to drip off the ceiling. Enough to land on the front of her dress and leave a bit on her nose. Enough to get in her hair, and way too much to clean up with the tiny little napkin she was wiping around all over the place, making it all just so much worse. There was enough to leave a dollop on the steering wheel, which she was dutifully scooping up with her finger and sucking off while she tried to dab a chocolatey-looking spill off the dash.

  Wow. She was amazing. Like Godzilla in Tokyo. Total destruction.

  He crossed the elevator and leaned down in the passenger side window, resting his arms on the door.

  She swung her head around, looking guilty as hell, the empty cup in her lap, her eyes wide, her finger still in her mouth, eating the evidence. She had a whipped-cream mustache, and it was all too much, way too much for him to handle anymore. He gave up. He was done, with nothing left to fight with, absolutely nothing.

  She started to speak, but it was way too late to talk.

  “Hawkins, I’m so—”

  “Shhh, Kat,” he said softly, leaning farther in, his hand sliding around the back of her neck, his mouth coming down toward hers. He licked the whipped cream off her upper lip, then sucked the whipped cream off the tip of her nose and slid his tongue across her cheek.

  “Christian . . . I—” Her breasts rose on a quickly indrawn breath.

  He didn’t stop. He laid a wet trail down the side of her neck to her cleavage.

  Mocha. God, she had coffee and chocolate all over her—and whipped cream.

  He raised his head and looked down past her lap. A smear of whipped cream was sliding off her thigh. He caught it with his hand and licked it off his fingers, and then he kissed her, with the sweet taste still in his mouth.

  A soft sound came up from her throat, and he knew exactly what it was: surrender. Just as well. The war had been lost.

  He pressed her back in the seat, his mouth more demanding. He’d wanted her for so long, all those agonizing nights in Canon City. He’d wanted the smell of her, and the taste of her. He’d wanted that sweet Kat softness, the softness of her mouth and skin, the softness of her touch, the tenderness of her kiss, the way her hands had moved over him, sometimes with gentle reverence, exploring, and sometimes with desperate need.

  There was one thing he knew about their time together: She’d been as fascinated with him as he’d been with her, physically, emotionally, and she hadn’t been afraid, which he’d found amazing.

  She should have been afraid. He’d been nothing but trouble, and always on the lookout for more, too dumb to be afraid of anything. He and the rest of the Steele Street regulars could outrun the cops and outsmart the gangs, which had left downtown Denver an open field for the lot of them. They’d made a living; they’d made some enemies, and they’d drawn some lines none of them had ever crossed.

  But he was the only one who had spent a month in the Brown Palace making love to an American princess—and he wanted to do it all over again. Thirty days and thirty nights of trying to get enough of her.

  Reaching down inside Roxanne’s door, he pulled a lever under the passenger seat. The seat went back, reclining all the way, and he climbed through the window after her, easing himself down on top of her, heading for the backseat.

  Moving the empty cup off her lap, he slid his hand up under her dress. Oh, yeah, this was what he’d wanted.

  “Haw-kins,” she gasped, and he covered her mouth with his own, still so sweet.

  Rolling onto his side in the passenger seat, he pulled her against him, his hand sliding over lace panties, under them.

  “Hawk—”

  He kissed her again, working a number on her lips, sucking her tongue inside his mouth, opening his wider over hers—taking her.

  Pulling her thigh up over his, he reached down and pushed off one of her sandals, then ran his hand all the way down her foot, massaging her instep, her sole. She sighed in his mouth, the sound dragged up from deep inside, her leg sliding higher up his hip. Her hands were on his chest, either holding on to him or
pushing him away. He couldn’t really tell, not yet.

  Maybe she didn’t know yet, either, but her mouth was sweet under his, her tongue teasing him, turning him on like it was hardwired to his groin, getting him hot like her underwear got him hot.

  Man, she’d had a big day, real tough, and his had been kind of a toss-up between sucking eggs and hitting the fan—and this was exactly what he needed, what he’d wanted to give her since she’d stuck her hand down his pants and pretty much sealed his fate. He was doomed. He wasn’t going to work her out of his system, not anytime soon, probably not ever—and he wanted her. Every cell in his body was primed for making love to her, for drowning himself in her. He lifted his mouth from hers and kissed her bare shoulder, licked her skin.

  “Hawkins, please . . .” she murmured, her breath warm against his ear.

  Please what? he wondered, stopping. After a long few seconds of silence, he pressed another kiss to her shoulder and raised his head.

  Some things a guy just had to know.

  Meeting her gaze, he ran his hand back up the side of her dress, under her arm. “Please what, Kat?” He found the zipper tab and started pulling it down. “Please make love to me, Hawkins, because no one else ever, ever, ever . . .” He repeated her words, knowing exactly what she’d meant, because no one else had “ever, ever, ever” done it for him, either. He’d had great sex, yes, but nothing like the way she’d done him, from the inside out with so much love in his heart he’d thought he might die from it.

  A guy only gave that away once, and he’d given it to her.

  He slid his hand through the zipper opening, leaning his mouth down to her ear. “You know I’ll do it for you, Kat,” he whispered, giving her a kiss and sliding his nose across her skin. “I’ll do it for you every time, if that’s what you want.” And he would, a hundred different ways and start all over again.

  He grazed her jaw with his teeth, felt her tremble. A shuddering sigh left her, and he felt her hips rise toward him, the smallest movement, but he felt it.

  “You—you don’t even like me.”

  Well, that wasn’t precisely true, and he was bound to like her even more once he got her naked, but that was not the right thing to say—even if it was true.

  And it was. There was something very likable about a naked woman in your arms who was melting all over you, ready to take you inside, especially if you thought she was the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen and her mouth was sweet, and her hands were on you, and you knew, deep in your heart, just how good it was going to be between the two of you.

  What wasn’t to like about that?

  “No,” he countered. “The problem here is that I like you too much.” It was a flat-out admission and his cue to back off. Maybe take stock of the situation, reclaim a little pride, but he didn’t take his hands off her. He didn’t lean back and give her some room, and he didn’t lift his head from the curve of her neck.

  Quite the opposite—he opened his mouth on the soft, sweet skin beneath her ear again. He tasted her with his tongue. He slid one hand up her body and moved her hair back over her shoulder, letting the silky strands drift through his fingers.

  It was just one big mistake after another: using his other hand to slide down over her bottom and press her into his hips, helping her with that decision, grazing her throat with his teeth, letting her scent seduce him.

  Geezus, how he’d missed her, her tenderness, her willingness, the mind-blowing softness of her mouth, and beneath the ice, the heat. She’d been so young, so sweet, and the most amazing lover he’d ever had, including every one he’d had since—not the most skilled, but the most amazing. She’d spoken French to him, whispered in his ear, and damn near set him on fire. He’d loved it.

  He’d loved her, like no one before or since.

  He tightened his hold on her and slid his mouth over the top of hers, claiming her. He wasn’t going to let her go, not tonight.

  KAT wanted to cry, and if she had been able to catch her breath for even a second, she might have—but she wasn’t going to be able to catch her breath, not with Hawkins kissing her, touching her.

  He had magic hands, utterly magical, and the taste of his mouth left her breathless. No man had ever tasted like Christian Hawkins: darkly delicious, primal male, answering a need in her she hadn’t known she had until the first time he’d kissed her. She’d wanted him so badly all day, even more than she’d wanted him that first night so long ago, and she’d wanted him so badly that night, she’d all but thrown herself at him.

  She’d been so frightened then, in pain where her arm had ached, distraught over what had happened to her and to her dress—and she’d been enthralled, absolutely mesmerized by the heart-stoppingly beautiful boy who had saved her. He was the most fascinating mix of street toughness and natural elegance she’d ever seen, six incredible feet of raw, lean power, silky dark hair, and cheekbones—tattooed, carrying a knife, rough talking, and yet so careful with her. He was so sure of everything, of facing those boys, of the wild car he drove, of what to do with her, sure of everything from the instant he walked into the alley until he walked her to her hotel room door. He hesitated there, and she’d been so afraid he would leave, she’d hardly been able to speak.

  But she’d gotten the words out, and he agreed to stay a while, until she felt safer, felt better. Room service had saved her. She’d ordered three times: dinner, dessert, and champagne. He thought it was all pretty cool.

  She thought he was cool. Self-assured enough to openly appreciate the hotel suite and the incredible food, and so gorgeous she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him—something he’d finally noticed.

  “Do I have ice cream on my face?” he asked over cherries jubilee, leaning across the table with a curious grin.

  She’d ordered the dessert just to have the waiter flame it up and hopefully impress him. She’d really wanted to impress him. He was everything she’d never had, everything she wanted to be—wild, free, not living by anybody’s rules.

  “No,” she said, embarrassed to have been caught staring—again.

  He laughed then, leaning back in his chair and running both of his hands back through his hair. Amazingly, for a guy who ran around on the streets of Denver and seemed to have more than a passing acquaintance with the alleys, he’d been wearing slacks, not jeans, and the oddest, silkiest palm-tree shirt that would have looked affected on any other boy. On him it had looked so laid-back cool.

  “God, I’m going to be in so much trouble,” he’d said to the ceiling, then let out another short laugh and brought his chair back down onto all four legs. “I had two more cars on my list to pick up tonight. Two cars Sparky isn’t going to get, and that’s going to get me on his list—which is not such a good place to be.”

  “I’m sorry.” She hadn’t known what else to say, even though it was a bald-faced lie. She wasn’t sorry for anything that had brought him into that alley, into her life. It had only been a week later that she’d finally correlated “picking up cars” with “stealing cars.” By then, she was too addicted to him to care.

  “Creed and J.T. are going to wonder what happened to me,” he’d said, leaning back over the table and idly picking up her hand.

  There was nothing idle about her reaction. It was the first time he’d touched her since he’d grabbed her in the alley, and she was electrified by his touch.

  “It’s getting late.” He started to rise to his feet, and panic set in. She couldn’t let him go. She’d never see him again if she let him go.

  She rose with him, her hand still in his.

  “How about more champagne?” she’d asked, and immediately felt foolish. It was such an obvious ploy.

  He’d grinned and dipped down to better see her face. Even though she wore heels, he towered over her.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “No.” She’d looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . well—thank you, Christian. Thanks for taking me to the doc
tor, and for what you did. It was . . . very brave.” And that sounded too stupid to bear.

  Her blush deepened, and she swore at herself. Very brave . . . God, like he was a little kid or something.

  He didn’t say anything for a long time, and she just couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not after saying something so dumb.

  He still had ahold of her hand, though, and during the long silence, he slowly slid his thumb over the ridge of her knuckles—and her heart started to race.

  “Only girls who kiss me call me Christian,” he’d said, entwining his fingers with hers. “Everybody else calls me Hawkins. Just Hawkins.”

  It was all the encouragement she’d needed.

  “And how many girls have you kissed, Christian?” she’d asked, daring to glance up at him.

  “Just two.” His grin had broadened. “Just mi abuela, my sweet little grandmother . . . and now you.”

  He’d bent his head down to hers and brought his other hand up to cup her face, and within half a minute of his mouth touching hers, she’d known he was such a liar.

  Oh, God, he’d known how to kiss. He’d played with her mouth. He’d seduced her completely, without touching her anywhere else—and he’d forgotten nothing.

  Nothing. No one kissed like Christian Hawkins. She opened her mouth on his and just breathed him in, tongues sliding, lips pressing. With everything about him so hard, the inside of his mouth was so very, very soft . . . wet. He tasted faintly of espresso, which was so very Hawkins, something rich, dark . . . sensually intense.

  His hands were hot underneath her dress. Her underwear had disappeared. She was barefoot—and with just his kiss, he’d already taken her past “Oh, God, should I do this?” to “Please, God, don’t ever let him stop.”