 
**WILD FOR HIM  
** An _Aftershock_ Novella  
Jill Sorenson

Copyright © 2014 by Jill Sorenson

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Digital Edition

Mitch Stone is a man with a plan. Drive to San Diego, rescue his lady from the earthquake rubble and salvage their long-distance relationship. But instead of playing hero, he gets stuck volunteering at an evacuation center with his girlfriend's quirky best friend.

Gwen Tagaloa is a woman on the edge. She's a tattoo artist do-gooder who would never cross the line with her best friend's man. Especially not an iceberg of a man like Mitch Stone. She appreciates his help and doesn't even notice his rock-hard muscles. Much.

After Mitch gets his heart broken, Gwen discovers that love—like an earthquake—can strike when you least expect it.

_Publisher's Note:  
_ This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
**Table of Contents**

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Author's Note
CHAPTER ONE

Gwen Tagaloa had the rudest awakening of her life.

She was shoved out of bed, thrown across the floor and doused by a full cup of water from her nightstand.

What the hell?

Before she could draw breath, she was pelted by multiple objects. Her alarm clock, cell phone and a heavy wooden tiki statue came crashing down on her head.

She cried out in shock, holding a hand to her wet hair. The room continued to spin and shudder, rocking her bed against the wall like a supernatural phenomenon. She couldn't make sense of what was happening. There was no one else here. She hadn't gotten lucky last night. She hadn't even gotten drunk.

The bookshelf careened toward her and she snapped out of her stupor. She scrambled to get away, but her legs were tangled in the blankets and the floor was still bouncing. Paperbacks rained down on her, followed by the empty shelves.

Earthquake.

It was the Big One. She'd been born in San Diego and she'd never felt anything like this. The area was known for small tremors, which usually didn't scare her. She knew she was supposed to stand in a doorway or crawl under a desk, but she couldn't move.

Gripping the edges of the bookshelf for dear life, she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the end to come.

Then, as soon as it began, it was over.

Not the world. Just the quake.

The ground stopped moving and the rattling went quiet. Multiple car alarms blared in the distance. Her neighbor's dog was going nuts, barking up a storm. Gwen pushed aside the bookshelf and disentangled herself from the blankets. Standing, she left the bedroom and ventured into the hallway. Picture frames had fallen from the walls. She skirted around the glass in her bare feet.

The kitchen was a disaster area. Her coffeemaker, set to automatic, had toppled over, smashing against the tile and spilling fresh brew across the floor. Ignoring the mess, she hurried to the front door and went outside.

"Oh my God," she said, clapping a hand over her mouth. The middle of the street was buckled and raised. Vehicles wouldn't be able to get through her neighborhood. She glanced around in horror, stunned by the damage. She lived on the lower floor of a two-story condo. The upper floor was for sale, and empty. Although the building looked stable, some roof tiles had fallen and the stucco was cracked.

Her neighbor walked out in his robe, his dog on a straining leash. He was about sixty and newly retired. His hair was sticking up all over the place. Gwen couldn't remember his name. Walter, maybe.

"Everything okay?" Gwen asked him.

"I think so," he said, gaping at her.

It dawned on her that she wasn't dressed. She was wearing a tank top and panties, no bra. Her hair was wet. The tattoos on both arms added to her disreputable appearance. She was inked up from shoulder to elbow and then some. Although she didn't care what her neighbors thought, she usually drew the line at parading around in her underpants.

Before she could hurry back inside, the earth starting rumbling again.

Aftershock.

Gwen hit the deck. She got down on her belly and covered her head as the ground undulated beneath her. This quake was almost as strong as the first, and it seemed to go on forever. More glass shattered and objects fell from the sky. Roof tiles crashed on the sidewalk right next to her. She got body-slammed against the lawn, her elbows and knees smarting on the slippery grass.

When the quaking ceased, she rolled over and sat up. Jesus. Now she was grass-stained, tattooed and indecent. But she was alive, and unharmed. She was lucky. She lived in a quiet area a few miles from downtown San Diego. The shantytowns of Tijuana were just across the border. Many people could be trapped and suffering.

Or dead.

Gwen's parents lived in Hawaii, and her brother played football in Seattle. They were all probably safe. Unless there was a tsunami.

She scrambled to her feet, her pulse pounding. Her neighbor had fallen on the sidewalk, but his wife had come out to help him. He was still ogling Gwen's bare legs, so he must be okay. Gwen went back inside and searched for her phone in the twisted pile of blankets on the floor. When she found it, she only had one bar.

"Shit," she said under her breath.

Instead of trying to make a call, she sent texts to brother and her mom to let them know she was okay. Then she pulled on a pair of jeans and stuck the phone in her back pocket, glancing around the room. It looked ransacked, as if she'd been robbed. She didn't have a landline. Her flatscreen was busted, so she couldn't turn on the news. A quick flick of the light switch indicated there was no electricity.

Now what?  
The internet.

She grabbed the laptop from her messenger bag and booted it up. Although the device didn't appear damaged, her connection was dead.

Damn.

She gave up on communication and finished getting dressed. After tying back her long black hair, she put on her sturdiest shoes, a pair of vintage combat boots, and grabbed a checkered flannel shirt to cover her arms.

People were injured, maybe dying—and she could help. She'd majored in Health and spent two years in the Peace Corps. Now she owned a tattoo parlor called Native Ink. Working as a tattoo artist had given her some medical experience. She had gloves and bandages in her messenger bag. Grabbing it, she headed out into the fray.

For the next several hours, she went door-to-door, checking for injuries. Most of her neighbors were at work. The earthquake had struck around 8:00, in the middle of the morning commute. Native Ink didn't open until noon, so Gwen always slept in late. She found two older couples at home and a mom with three small children. They were fine, just shaken up. She assisted an elderly man with a dislocated shoulder and recruited a teenage boy to help her turn off water valves.

Aftershocks continued to strike without warning. Explosions lit up the sky in the west and clouds of smoke billowed along the coastline.

By midday, she'd heard the devastating news on multiple radios. The earthquake's epicenter was in the heavily populated downtown area. San Diego had been declared a state of emergency. First responders were overwhelmed with calls and the entire city was under evacuation. Residents were urged to head east on foot. All major roadways had been compromised and traffic was at a standstill. Drivers had been forced to abandon their cars. Even the injured were encouraged to move out, rather than wait for rescue. Those who couldn't evacuate risked secondary disasters like fires and gas leaks.

Gwen went home and packed a bag, feeling numb. She hoped Native Ink wasn't totaled, because her insurance didn't cover earthquake damage. She was also worried about her best friend Helena, a zookeeper at San Diego's Wildlife Park. Gwen had tried to text Helena earlier, with no response.

Taking a deep breath, Gwen filled her backpack with necessities. She wanted to bring her keepsakes and tattoo drawings, but it wasn't practical. On her way out, she picked up one of the smashed frames from the floor in the hallway. It was a picture of Gwen, her mom and her brother at his college graduation. He looked so tall and proud. They were all smiling.

Gwen removed the photo from the frame and slipped it into the pocket of her backpack, blinking the tears from her eyes. There was no tsunami warning for Hawaii, so her family would be fine. She just missed them.

The residents from her the neighborhood left as a group. They headed to the closest evacuation center, which was four miles north at the football stadium. It was a grueling trek through midtown, and slow going.

The roads were riddled with cracks and rubble and raised sections of asphalt. Some of the older buildings were destroyed. There were car accidents and dead bodies, bloodied limbs and dusty faces. It looked like a warzone.

Gwen couldn't believe her eyes. She stopped to help often and their group grew steadily. They trudged toward the stadium en masse, forming an exodus. Soon evening fell, bringing cooler temperatures and a comforting darkness. It was better not to see the ravaged scene in harsh sunlight.

When they arrived at the rescue center, she broke away from the group and sat down on a curb in the parking lot. She liked being around people. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed tattooing so much. Everyone who came into her shop had a story to tell. Offering a friendly ear was part of her service.

But she was too overwhelmed to start helping just now. She needed a break before she joined the crowd.

She took her cell phone out of her pocket and turned it on, eager for word from her friends and family. To her dismay, there was only one message, sent hours earlier. It was from Helena's estranged boyfriend, Mitch.

Well, maybe estranged wasn't quite the right word. Mitch had moved to Denver six months ago, and Helena hadn't gone with him. They were trying out the long-distance thing. As far as Gwen could tell, it wasn't working.

Mitch had written a stilted text that fit his rigid personality.

_Hello Gwen,_

_I hope you are okay. I haven't heard from Helena. Please let me know if she has contacted you._

_Best regards,_

_Mitch Stone_

Best regards? She was surrounded by wounded people and covered in dust. She imagined him speaking in a robotic monotone, which she often mimicked to make Helena laugh. It wasn't funny now, of course. Nothing was.

Gwen responded:

_Hey Mitch: I texted H but I'm not sure it went thru. I'm fine, at evac center._

_  
_

She hit send and waited, hoping for an instant reply. Mitch was boring and uptight, but comfortingly familiar. She wanted to connect with someone, anyone. When her phone chimed a few seconds later, she was delighted.

_  
_

_I'm glad you are safe. Helena is okay also. I just talked to her mom._

Tears filled Gwen's eyes at this news. Thank God. Mitch continued:

_  
_

_I know that cell service in the city has been unreliable. Is there anyone you want me to contact for you?_

Gwen blinked away the tears and typed back her mother's number in a hurry.

_  
_

_My mom is in Hawaii. Please tell her I'm fine!_

After hitting send, she stared at the screen with bated breath. It took several minutes for Mitch to respond.

_  
_

_Done. Your mom was very relieved to hear from me. She says she loves you._

Gwen let out a strangled sob, overwhelmed with emotion. Her mom must have been worried sick.

_Bless you_ , she texted back, sniffling.

Mitch's answer was a smiley face. Gwen laughed at the unexpected sight, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She was reluctant to end their exchange, but she had to save her batteries so she signed off. Maybe Mitch wasn't the cyborg she'd always considered him to be. Maybe he was more like an iceberg, with hidden depths.

She remembered an incident about two years ago, before he'd lost his job and withdrawn even further into his hard shell. Gwen had accompanied Mitch and Helena to the beach on a hot summer afternoon. The good thing about Mitch was that Gwen never felt like a third wheel around him. He reminded her of a bodyguard, hard-muscled and remote.

On this particular day, they'd all gone swimming. The waves were strong enough to wreak havoc on bikinis. Helena and Gwen had been laughing about almost losing their tops. Even Mitch had smiled at this, proving he was a flesh-and-blood man. The next instant, Gwen got stung by a jellyfish. She wasn't a wimp about pain—she was a tattoo artist, after all—but it burned like hell. She'd hobbled back to her towel with Helena, whimpering.

"I'll help you," Mitch had said.

"Are you going to pee on me?"

He frowned in disapproval. "No, I'm going to carry you to the lifeguard station."

Although Gwen was a curvy woman and no lightweight, Mitch had lifted her easily. He'd delivered her to the lifeguard station without breaking a sweat. It was awkward, but sweet. She'd appreciated the gesture.

Bolstered by the pleasant memory, she rose to her feet and tucked the phone into her pocket. Then she squared her shoulders and walked towards the stadium, rolling up her sleeves. Ready to work.
CHAPTER TWO

Mitch started driving as soon as he heard.

He watched the news in the office for a couple of minutes, gathering information. Major earthquake, 8.5 on the Richter scale. Widespread destruction. Huge chemical spill and massive fires at the coast. That was all he needed to know.

His boss had granted him permission to leave, but Mitch would've gone regardless. He got behind the wheel and drove for eighteen hours straight.

The only person from San Diego he'd been able to communicate with was Gwen Tagaloa, Helena's best friend. He'd tried to call and text Helena repeatedly, to no avail. He'd spoken to Helena's mother, who lived in Oregon, around noon. Helena had texted her mom with the news that she was okay. Although Mitch was glad to hear it, his tension wouldn't ease until he saw her in person. He knew how dedicated she was to her job as an elephant keeper. She'd risk her life to protect those animals.

He'd spent most of the drive with his hands clenched around the wheel in a tight grip.

He shouldn't have left her.

It was obvious now. He'd made a mistake in coming to Denver. He'd been brought so low by the long months of unemployment, the seemingly endless stretch of feeling like a failure. He'd jumped at the chance for a new start, even if that meant testing the bonds of their already-strained relationship.

He wasn't sure what else he could've done. They hadn't been happy together before he left San Diego, either. Since he'd been gone, she'd become increasingly distant. He'd been working around the clock to impress his new boss. Their phone conversations had been stilted. He could feel her slipping away.

"Fuck," he muttered, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. He'd been with Helena for six years. She was the only woman he'd ever lived with, the only one he'd ever loved. He didn't want to lose her.

He didn't like losing.

He reached the outskirts of the city in the wee hours of the morning. There was a roadblock with National Guard troops denying access to vehicles. He turned around and tried another route, but he couldn't get through anywhere. The troops were letting in emergency service personnel only.

Luckily, Mitch was familiar with the area. He parked at Mission Trails Park, home to his favorite jogging path. He had a pair of worn-out tennis shoes in his workout bag in the trunk. Putting them on, he locked up and took off running.

He ran eight miles straight. When he arrived at the football stadium, he was winded, muscles burning, soaked in sweat. He'd sent a text to Gwen earlier. He took his phone out of his pocket to check for her response.

_I'm at station 12_

The stadium was packed with people of all ages and ethnicities. Dirty-faced children and stark-eyed adults. Families huddled together, praying for lost souls. Critically injured patients stretched out in bloody rows.

Christ.

Mitch wasn't a religious man, but this looked like the second coming.

Gwen wasn't at station 12. He tried to text her again, but his cell phone had lost service. The entire city was a dead zone. After wandering around for a few minutes, he climbed into the stands and searched the chaos from above. He spotted a curvy young woman at station 14 with a sleek black ponytail and tattooed arms.

Gwen Tagaloa always stood out from the crowd.

She was beautiful in an unusual way, and friendly with everyone. She chatted with strangers and had a face like "ask me anything."

He didn't get it.

Helena and Gwen, though best friends, were polar opposites. Helena was quiet and contained, with a cool reserve that Mitch had always admired. Gwen was more social. She had a confident attitude and a bold, sexy style. Today she was wearing black jeans with a red tank top. The clothes fit her body well, and she had the kind of curves that attracted male attention. He forced his gaze above her shoulders.

She was talking to an older woman on a stretcher, holding her hand. A male nurse or EMT was tending the woman's wounds. Her expression was tense with pain. Gwen leaned forward and said something to the injured woman that eased the lines in her forehead. Then the EMT finished his work, and Gwen released her hand, smiling.

Mitch climbed down the concrete steps, working his way toward her. Gwen's eyes brightened with recognition as he approached. She was a hugger, so he steeled himself for the inevitable. As she wrapped her arms around him, her breasts touched his chest and he felt something stir inside him.

Okay, it wasn't exactly _inside_ him. It was outside.

It was his penis.

He'd had a similar reaction to her a year or two ago. She'd gotten stung by a jellyfish at the beach and he'd carried her to the lifeguard station for first aid. Her wet, sandy body had been plastered against his bare chest. She was almost as heavy as Helena, which had surprised him. He'd looked down at her petite form, wondering where she kept the weight. Then he'd readjusted his grip, and her bikini top had shifted, exposing the edge of one brown nipple. He'd gotten an eyeful and almost dropped her.

Mitch pushed that mental image back into the spank bank where it belonged and released her in a hurry, feeling guilty. Gwen was Helena's best friend. They were in an evacuation center, surrounded by suffering. This was no time for an inappropriate erection.

On the other hand, his body's natural response to her was sort of life-affirming. He'd struggled to find work last year, and his libido had flagged. He'd hated being on unemployment, doing nothing. One night in the middle of sex with Helena, he'd lost his erection. Just lost it. Worse, Helena had been unable to rouse him.

The experience had been humiliating.

He'd shied away from her for months after that. He'd been afraid to fail again. When he got the job offer in Denver, however, his spirits had risen. So had his dick. He'd rallied good and hard before he left, his manhood revived.

It occurred to Mitch that Helena might have told Gwen about his performance issues. They were best friends, after all. He grimaced at the thought.

"You got here fast," Gwen said.

"I drove all night."

"I meant from Mission Trails."

He wiped his sweaty forehead, self-conscious. "I ran."

"You must run six minute miles."

"More like seven or eight."

She studied him for a moment, as if she couldn't quite believe he was real. Her gaze wandered over his damp work shirt and khakis, incongruent with his running shoes. Then she glanced away, her chin quivering. "Sorry," she said in a choked voice. "It's just really good to see a familiar face."

Mitch nodded tersely. It was good to see her, too, but he didn't know how to deal with female tears.

Helena _never_ cried. He liked that about her.

He glanced around for a solution, or an escape route. There was a table set up with a chow line about a hundred feet away. Relief workers were ladling out some kind of food into plastic bowls. "Have you eaten?"

She took a deep breath and shook her head. "I haven't even sat down."

He could use a break, too. The long drive and hard trail miles had sapped his energy. He'd just turned thirty-five and he felt every year. His calves burned and his knees ached. "Let's get you taken care of."

Fresh tears welled in her eyes and he felt a funny little twist in his chest. Ignoring it, he guided her toward the food line, where they accepted bottled water from an aid worker. They were given a choice between raisin oatmeal and scrambled eggs with red pepper. Gwen chose oatmeal. Mitch had eggs. Although he didn't want to take food that was meant for survivors, there appeared to be plenty.

They sat down in the bleachers and ate. The meal was lukewarm and bland, but filling. He shoveled eggs into his mouth with a quickness. Gwen finished her oatmeal and drank all of her water, uncharacteristically silent.

"Where were you when it hit?" he asked.

"At home, in bed."

He tried not to picture that. "Good thing you weren't at the shop."

"Yes."

Her tattoo parlor, Native Ink, was closer to the epicenter. So was the wildlife park where Helena worked. "Do you have any family here?"

"Just some cousins in the LA area," she said. "My parents are both in Hawaii and my brother's in Seattle."

Her brother, Manu Tagaloa, played professional football for the Seattle Thunder. Now this was a topic Mitch could get excited about. He loved football, and her brother was an amazing athlete. "He had a great season."

She smiled with pride. "I think so."

"He should have been MVP."

"Maybe next year."

"I still can't believe you two are related."

A crease formed between her brows. "Why not?"

He gestured to her figure. "Because you're so..."

"What?"

He wasn't sure which descriptor to use. Pretty, soft, hot... "Small."

"I'm not small."

"Compared to him you are."

She narrowed her eyes as if he'd given her a backhanded compliment. He hadn't meant any offense. Her brother was a tight end, muscular and broad-shouldered. Mitch was a big man himself at 6'3 and 200 pounds. Helena was tall and strong for a woman. Gwen was medium-sized, he supposed. Her breasts certainly weren't small.

Damn. He shouldn't have said anything.

"How about you?" she asked. "Do you have any family here?"

"No. Not in San Diego."

She gave him an expectant look, waiting for more.

"I'm from Burbank."

"Your parents are there?"

"My mom is."

She didn't ask where his dad was, and Mitch didn't offer more information. It was kind of a sore subject. "Are you an only child?"

"I am."

"I didn't figure you for a volunteer."

"I'm not volunteering."

"Then what are you doing here?"

Breaking the rules, that's what. The stadium was supposed to be off-limits to everyone but emergency service workers and survivors waiting to be transported. "I'm worried about Helena."

"You said she was okay."

"I don't think she'll evacuate."

Gwen knew as well as he did how dedicated Helena was to the animals at the park. She wouldn't leave them by choice. "They'll make her leave," Gwen said. "She's not in charge. If it's not safe, she'll have to evacuate."

Mitch wasn't convinced. "I'm going to check on her."

"You'll get arrested. There's a barricade."

"I'll wait until nightfall."

She stared at him like he was crazy. "What will you do when you get there, toss her over your shoulder?"

It was a fair question. Helena wouldn't take kindly to caveman tactics. He could overpower her, but not easily, and she'd never forgive him for it. "I don't know what I'll do. Maybe I can stay and help."

"You're not a zookeeper. If you want to help, help here."

Mitch had already made up his mind; he was going. He had a bad feeling about Helena. Not that she was in danger, necessarily, though she might be. What he knew without a doubt was that their _relationship_ was in danger, and he had to do something to fix it. He had to take drastic action to win her back.

Failure was not an option.

In the meantime, there were many hours before sundown. "You need help?"

"Of course."

"I'm not good with people."

"It doesn't matter," she said, not arguing this point. "Your strong back will more than make up for your lack of warmth."

She made him sound like a service ox. "Do I have to hold hands with anyone?"

"Not if you can do the heavy lifting, tough guy."

"Okay," he said, amiable. "It's a deal."
CHAPTER THREE

Mitch Stone surprised her.

Gwen had known him for six years but she'd never really seen past the rock-hard surface. He didn't make any attempt to be funny or cool, like most guys. He was the strong, silent type to an extreme. He reminded her of a military man, though he worked as a structural engineer. He was rigid and unyielding.

He was also kind of hot.

Although she'd noticed that before, his level of attractiveness hadn't made much of an impression on her. His broad shoulders and sculpted biceps were pleasant to look at, but he was Helena's boyfriend, not a sex symbol. He also had a bland personality. She didn't like him or dislike him. He was just...there.

Mitch treated Helena well enough, and that was all that mattered to Gwen. She didn't interfere in her friends' relationships. If Helena wanted to date a brick wall of a man, that was her business. Gwen knew they were having problems, however. Helena hadn't been happy with Mitch before he left San Diego. Since then, she'd grown even more dissatisfied. Gwen didn't think they'd last as a couple.

She wasn't going to tell Mitch that, of course. But she'd sensed the separation, and her feelings toward him had changed.

Suddenly he seemed a lot less boring.

He'd been carrying medical equipment and lifting injured people all day. There was something about a sweaty, hardworking man that pushed her yes-buttons. He was brisk and efficient. Volunteering agreed with him. Although he didn't have the best bedside manner, he wasn't rude or unkind. She got the impression that he enjoyed strenuous activity and was glad to offer his assistance. He liked staying busy.

As he set down a large box of medical supplies, his damp shirt stretched across his back, drawing her attention.

Mercy.

She'd seen a lot of impressive physiques at Native Ink. San Diego was full of hot men, and she'd tattooed some gorgeous bodies. So why was she panting over Mitch Stone? He had a nice canvas, but she wasn't going to work on it.

Her reaction to him felt strange and wrong. Maybe it was her mind's way of taking the focus off the devastation all around them. She couldn't deal with so much death and suffering. His well-developed muscles were a convenient distraction.

She remained active throughout the day, handing out bandages and cleaning minor wounds. There were more injuries than the medical professionals could keep up with. Survivors continued to arrive in large, weary groups. They needed food and water and rest. Busses were overloaded and rescue workers were overwhelmed.

And this was only the tip of the iceberg.

The real disaster area was miles away, at the epicenter. Gwen had heard about massive fires and collapsed buildings. She imagined people stuck in the rubble, bodies burning. There were bridges and freeways down.

When she finally got a break, it was early evening. Mitch finished bringing in a load of supplies and joined her at station 12. Dinner had been served an hour ago. There was still a food line, but it was short. Stomach rumbling, she shuffled through the line with Mitch. They accepted cold sandwiches and lukewarm sodas.

She sat down next to him and devoured her sandwich, along with a small bag of chips. The sugary soda gave her a much-needed energy boost. She hadn't slept at all last night and she didn't think she'd fare any better tonight.

She glanced at Mitch, wondering if he planned to lie down. There were hundreds of tents and cots sets up on the field, but she didn't think there was space available. People were sleeping in the stands, sprawled across seats in the bleachers. She longed to rest, too. She wanted to close her eyes and feel strong arms around her.

She might be able to leave tomorrow, after fresh volunteers arrived. There weren't enough busses for everyone and those with serious injuries were being transported first. Able-bodied residents had the option to stay here at the stadium or continue walking to the next rescue center, ten miles away.

"What are you going to do tonight?" she asked.

He just shrugged, looking across the crowded area. He had close-cropped brown hair, thinning on top, and intelligent blue eyes. A square jaw, covered in stubble. It wasn't the kind of face that women swooned over, but she liked his features. His disheveled appearance and bloodshot eyes tugged at her heartstrings. She felt a stab of guilt for checking him out.

He was here for Helena. _Her best friend, Helena_.

"Have you heard anything?" she asked.

"No. You?"

Gwen shook her head. Her cell wasn't working. "She might be on her way here."

"She might be."

By the way he avoided her gaze, Gwen assumed that he was planning to sneak past the barricade and go on a foolhardy rescue mission. He probably couldn't be talked out of it. "Do you really think she's in danger?"

"I don't know."

She waited for him to elaborate.

"I have to do something."

"Why?"

"I shouldn't have left."

Gwen softened with sympathy. "You couldn't have prevented the earthquake."

"Maybe not, but I can turn things around. I can make it right."

She gave him a doubtful look.

His eyes narrowed. "What did she tell you?"

"Nothing."

"Come on."

"I have to follow girl code. You should ask her how she feels, not me."

"Girl code," he muttered, his mouth twisting. "Is she seeing someone else?"

Gwen was shocked by the question. "Are you?"

"Fuck no."

She believed him. "Helena's not either."

He shook his head in frustration. "What should I do?"

Gwen couldn't offer any advice because there was no solution to this problem. Helena wouldn't leave her job for Mitch. In Gwen's opinion, Helena wasn't in love with him anymore. She just couldn't bring herself to admit it.

"I might be able to move back," he said.

"Really?"

"My boss is considering an expansion site in Southern California. I wasn't going to tell Helena until I knew for sure."

This was his only hope for salvaging their relationship. Gwen finished her soda, contemplative.

"You think it's too late?"

"I didn't say that."

"Why did you ask if I was cheating?"

"No reason."

"There's a reason."

"It's just that cheaters tend to suspect others of cheating," she said, waving a hand. "They assume everyone does it."

"You mean Brian?"

Her ex. Gwen was still bitter about him, and it had been three years since their breakup. "He used to accuse me, yeah."

"That guy was a fucking asshole."

"Yes."

"You should've let me beat him up."

"Probably," she said with a tired smile. "I appreciated the offer."

"Anytime," he replied, smiling back at her.

The sight made her heart thump hard in her chest. She'd forgotten that he'd offered to knock Brian's block off after Gwen caught him with another woman. Mitch wasn't the brawling type, but he clearly had protective instincts. He looked like he could handle himself in a fight. Her gaze dropped from his boyish grin to his strong forearms. Nothing boyish about those. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue shirt, exposing sinewy muscles and thick wrists. Veins stood out on the backs of his hands.

She glanced away, flushing. What was wrong with her? She had to get a grip and stop staring at him like this.

"You should get some rest," he said.

"So should you. I'm not the one who's been acting like He-Man all day."

He sputtered in surprise. "You asked me to help."

She realized that she sounded ridiculous. She'd practically called him a show-off. "Sorry. You did a good job."

"Too good?"

Now he was teasing her. "Don't get a fat head, Mitch."

His eyes darkened as if she'd said something suggestive. Then he rose from the aluminum bench, moistening his lips. "I have to go."

She didn't argue, although she had a bad feeling about his plan. There might be looters and gang members roaming the streets. It wasn't safe for him to travel alone at night though an area that looked like a warzone.

She also questioned his motives. Mitch seemed to think that Helena needed him, and maybe she did. But Helena was no delicate flower, and he seemed driven by insecurity, rather than concern for her welfare.

"I'll be okay," Mitch said.

"Text me if you can."

He nodded curtly. She walked with him to the edge of the station. Although she tried to hide them, her stupid emotions got the better of her again. She didn't want him to leave—he was the only person she knew here. Tears of exhaustion and defeat filled her eyes. He leaned in to kiss her cheek, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear. Then he turned and strode away, leaving her in a crowd of strangers.

***

Mitch didn't know what the fuck he was doing.

Kissing Gwen on the cheek? He didn't even kiss Helena on the cheek.

Maybe that was the problem. He'd never been romantic. He wasn't demonstrative. He kept his emotions close to the vest, where he could guard them. Public displays of affection and overblown gestures weren't his style. So why was he riding to Helena's rescue like a white knight?

He didn't feel brave. He felt desperate, as if he was running away from something. Escaping a dangerous situation, rather than taking control.

He shook off the discomfort in annoyance as he walked across the huge parking lot. Leaving Gwen didn't sit well with him, but staying with her tonight wasn't an option. He'd been having strange thoughts about her. Strange, _dirty_ thoughts. It was probably just a symptom of his strained relationship with Helena.

He'd noticed Gwen's face and figure before. He wasn't the type of guy who drooled over his girlfriend's friends, but admiring a pretty woman wasn't a crime. She had a great smile, smooth skin, glossy black hair. Men stared at her wherever she went. He'd seen their eyes following her. They looked at Helena, too.

Men noticed beautiful women. It was normal.

Gwen seemed extra tempting right now because he didn't have a history with her. There was no baggage between them, no embarrassing failures. He'd always had a strong sexual appetite, barring the rough patch he'd hit last year. Now his dick wanted to get back in action. He also hadn't touched a woman in months, and he was lonely. He had to get away from Gwen before he did something he regretted.

Although he hadn't slept in 36 hours, he was filled with nervous energy. He left the bright lights of the football stadium and headed west. There were groups of people shuffling toward the evacuation center. Weary travelers, cloaked in darkness. If they wondered why he was walking the opposite direction, they didn't ask.

After he'd gone several miles, he stopped seeing evacuees. Those who hadn't reached their destination had sought shelter for the night. The stragglers were the last of the city's displaced residents. There were some stubborn people who'd decided to stay and protect their homes or businesses. Others were injured and unable to move.

The damage grew increasingly worse. There was rubble on the sidewalk and buckled asphalt everywhere. The air grew thick with smoke. He was beginning to think he'd have to turn around and look for another route. Then he spotted a group of young men in the middle of the street, carrying baseball bats.

They didn't appear to be evacuating.

Shit.

Mitch was a big man who rarely had to worry about his personal safety, but this was an unusual situation. There was no law here. He didn't want to get jumped. Police officers and other first responders were saving lives at the epicenter.

Instead of continuing towards the threat, he ducked behind a tree in someone's front yard. The group of men stormed down the street, the lower halves of their faces covered in handkerchiefs. They might actually be protecting the neighborhood, rather than looting it. Mitch couldn't tell, and he wasn't going to push his luck. Heart racing, he crept closer to the side of the house, keeping his shoulders low. He tripped on a stack of loose bricks and almost fell into a recycling bin. Cringing, he crouched in the bushes.

It smelled like cats.

Ugh. He hated cats.

He also hated clutter, and there was a lot of it piled near the house. He'd grown up in a place like this, full of clutter. His mother was a collector. He'd called her right after the earthquake, and she was fine. It was a good thing she didn't live here in San Diego; she'd be buried in her own junk. The last time he'd visited he'd found a desiccated kitten beneath an old wardrobe.

Shaking his head at the memory, he waited in the shadows and tried to ignore the stench. When the baseball bandits were out of sight, he rose from his hiding place.

"Help me."

He froze at the sound of a woman's voice. It was coming from inside the house. There was a broken window about five feet off the ground. He stepped closer, trying to peer inside. "Hello?"

"Help me," she said again. "I'm stuck."

He found another window with a busted screen. Tearing it loose, he shoved up the window pane and climbed inside.

It was very dark. And very crowded.

He hadn't thought to bring a flashlight on this excursion, which was his mistake. The living room appeared to be loaded with boxes and bags of clothes.

Just like Mom's.

"Here," the woman said. "By the TV."

Mitch made his way toward the weak voice, skirting around stacks of books and magazines. His eyes began to adjust to the meager light, and he spotted an elderly woman on the floor. She was lying on her side with her right leg wedged between an old television and a storage cabinet. The furniture must have fallen over during the earthquake, and she'd been trapped ever since.

He wasn't sure how to proceed. Picking up the TV was no problem, but what if freeing her did more harm than good? He wasn't a doctor. She might have a broken leg or crushed artery or something.

"Lift this thing off me," the old lady said.

"I don't know if I should."

"Of course you should."

"I can get bring someone to help you."

"How soon?"

Mitch couldn't give an estimate. It might be days or it might be hours. Instead of answering, he moved around to the other side of the TV and inspected the damage. "Can you wiggle your toes?"

"I can wiggle your ears."

He laughed at her response, dragging a hand down his face. "What's your name?"

"Louise."

"I'm going to touch your foot."

"Be my guest."

Trying to be gentle, he palpitated her orthopedic shoe. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

He figured the circulation wasn't completely blocked off. That was a good sign. After a short deliberation, he righted the television set.

She pulled her leg free. "Thank you," she said weakly. "Thank you, thank you."

Mitch nodded, relieved she was okay. She maneuvered into a sitting position, but she didn't try to stand up. He didn't think she could walk.

Now what?

He was going to have to carry this old lady to the evacuation center. He couldn't leave her here, so his plan for the night was screwed. He'd have to wait to see Helena. His heart sank at the realization. She probably thought she didn't need him. He wanted to prove her wrong. He wanted to win her back.

He wanted to win.

With each passing moment, he felt her slipping out of his grasp.

But unless he found someone else to take care of Louise, she was his responsibility. He couldn't abandon her, the way his father had abandoned him and his mother. Mitch was struck by a fresh wave of guilt for abandoning Helena.

So he picked up Louise, with some difficulty, and headed toward the door.
CHAPTER FOUR

Gwen stayed up all night again.

She figured she could sleep during the day, after the new volunteers arrived. So many people needed a friendly face and comforting hand. Although the work was exhausting, physically and emotionally, she felt good about it. She liked helping people and serving her community. San Diego was a happy place, known for beautiful beaches and perfect weather. The downtown area had been hit hard, but they would bounce back. They would support each other and come out stronger. Gwen was proud to contribute.

She tried not to think about Mitch. She was so busy that she succeeded, for the most part. But every so often her cheek would tingle from the memory of his kiss, and her breath would hitch in her chest.

Why had he _done_ that?

Mitch Stone wasn't a kisser. He wasn't even a hugger. He avoided handshakes, small talk and pleasantries. If she remembered correctly, she'd never seen him kiss or hug Helena goodbye. They gave each other curt nods.

Helena was just as aloof as Mitch, but that didn't mean there was no passion between them behind closed doors. She'd told Gwen that he was a "hard worker" in bed. Gwen had laughed at the time, asking if he clocked his hours. Now she pictured his sweat-dampened shirt and felt an illicit thrill. He was a hard worker, all right.

Helena had confided in Gwen about their problems, too. She'd said that Mitch had stopped initiating sex well before he left for Denver.

"Why didn't you initiate it?" Gwen had asked.

Helena had just sighed, shaking her head.

Gwen understood her reluctance. Helena wanted to feel _wanted_ . She didn't need to beg for any man's interest. Life was too short to waste on an ill-fated, long-distance relationship. Gwen had encouraged her to move on. Helena wasn't happy with Mitch, but she hadn't done anything about it. Maybe she still had feelings for him. Or maybe she was just reluctant to deal with the emotional fallout of a difficult breakup.

Gwen was relieved of her duties around dawn. She used the restroom and washed her hands, grimacing at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her tank top and dark jeans had bloodstains on them. There were circles under her eyes. She looked like hell. She needed a shower, a hot meal, and a soft bed. In that order.

She wouldn't get a bath or a bed until she left the shelter, so she went in search of sustenance. There were drinks and snack bins set up by the tables, and they'd be serving breakfast soon. She grabbed a bottle of water and stood in the breezeway, waiting for daybreak. Smoke clogged the horizon and stung her tired eyes. All of the horrors she'd witnessed over the past 48 hours seemed to crowd in on her, overwhelming her senses. She wanted to see her mother's face. She needed to get some rest before she collapsed.

Her attention shifted to an approaching figure. Another new arrival. It was a man, carrying an injured woman.

It was Mitch.

Her spirits lifted like the sun breaking through clouds. She hadn't realized how alone she'd felt without him. The woman in his arms was about seventy, with frizzy gray hair. Her right leg was discolored and swollen.

Gwen rushed to his side. "What happened?"

He didn't answer. "Where can I set her down?"

She led him toward the triage area and helped him lower the woman to an available cot. Then she got them both water. The old lady seemed confused, and Mitch was exhausted. A medical technician took the woman's vital signs and started an IV. The woman had a broken ankle and she was dangerously dehydrated. According to the tech, she wouldn't have survived another night without fluids.

The woman reached out to grasp Mitch's hand. "Don't leave me, Bobby."

"I won't," he said gruffly, glancing at Gwen.

"I gave her a sedative," the tech said.

It didn't take long for the lady to drift off. Only then did Mitch release her hand and rise to his feet again. He accompanied Gwen to the breakfast line, where they accepted a hot meal and ate in silence. She didn't ask Mitch about the night he'd had. She was glad to see him, glad to be sitting down. Glad to be alive.

After breakfast, another volunteer approached them. "There are some tents open now, if you two want to rest."

Gwen collected her backpack and headed to the opposite side of the stadium, where the tents were set up. Most had been filled with survivors overnight, but families with young children were being transported now, along with injured residents. Single, healthy adults like Gwen and Mitch would have to wait until this afternoon.

The tents weren't spacious, but they were private and blessedly dark. There were sleeping mats, small pillows and blankets on the floor. Gwen collapsed on a mat, removing her boots with a groan. She'd love to take off her bra and jeans, but she settled for unfastening the top button. Mitch stretched out beside her.

"Sorry," he said, tucking his hands behind his head.

"For what?"

"I smell bad."

She inhaled, detecting the odor of male sweat and smoke. It wasn't unpleasant. Then she sniffed her own armpit. "Maybe I smell worse."

"Impossible."

"I have armpit stubble."

He looked at it and arched a brow. "That doesn't mean anything."

"I'll bet my feet stink."

"If I took off my shoes, we'd both pass out."

She laughed weakly, surrendering. "Okay, you win."

He made a sound of agreement.

"That was nice," she said softly. "What you did for that lady."

"Anyone would have done it."

"Most people couldn't have lifted her up, let alone carried her for miles."

He shook his head in denial. "I didn't want to help her. I wanted to leave her there and keep going."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know."

Gwen waited for him to explain.

"Her house was cluttered with junk."

"What kind of junk?"

"Books, clothes, old magazines."

"And that bothered you?"

"Having so much stuff is a hazard. People can't get in, you can't get out."

"You got in," she pointed out.

He sighed, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. "My mother...collects things."

"Ah."

"Useless things."

"You worry about her."

His mouth twisted with displeasure. "I've tried to help her organize. She won't get rid of anything. It drives me crazy."

"Why do you think she keeps things?"

"I think it makes her feel less alone."

Gwen nodded. "How long has she been this way?"

"As long as I can remember. She got worse after my dad left."

"When was that?"

"Twenty years ago."

"Where did he go?"

"Northern California."

"Do you still talk to him?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "Neither one of us makes the effort."

"Isn't it his job to make the effort?"

"I'm not a kid anymore."

"You'll always be his son."

His eyes shifted to meet hers. Her parents had moved back to Hawaii five years ago, but they talked every day. She couldn't imagine not having them in her life by choice.

"Is this why you don't get attached?" she asked. "Because your mother won't let go, and your dad can't hold on?"

"I get attached," he said in a clipped voice.

"Not easily."

He acknowledged this as truth. "I might not get attached easily, but I can hold on. I can hold on forever."

She leaned back against the pillow, wondering if he wanted to keep Helena because he loved her, or if he had other reasons. Either way, Gwen hadn't given him enough credit. He wasn't cold or remote, just guarded. "I told Helena she should break up with you," she said, feeling guilty.

His brows drew together sharply. "Why?"

Gwen didn't answer.

"When did you tell her that?"

"Months ago."

"She didn't do it."

"She has a mind of her own."

"So she didn't agree with you."

Gwen wasn't so sure. "If you want her back, you can't be so disconnected. You both have to reach out."

"You don't think I can make it work?"

"Not by yourself. It takes two."

He fell silent for a moment, contemplative. "Are you a tattoo artist or a shrink?"

"Tattooing is very therapeutic," she said. "People tell me their stories while I work. Talking to someone can help ease the pain."

"So I need a tattoo, is that what you're saying?"

She smiled at his joke. "It can't hurt."

"Where should I start?" he asked, touching the underside of his arm.

His biceps were impressive. She could do beautiful things with that firm, supple flesh. "Maybe a tribal band."

"Shouldn't I belong to a tribe before I get one of those?"

"I'd put myself out of business if I believed that."

"Will you tattoo anything?"

"No. I draw the line at hardcore pornography and racist stuff. I don't work on private parts, either."

"You get customers who ask for that? Dick tattoos?"

"Sometimes."

"Jesus Christ. You need a bodyguard."

"I have coworkers."

She worked with two other artists, both male, so she was never alone at the shop. Jeff and Ian took care of the drunks and weirdos for her. Not that she couldn't remove an unsavory character from the premises herself, but it was nice to have backup.

It was nice to feel Mitch's protective vibe, too. And his strong physique, so close to hers. He was an intriguing blend of tough and tender. She couldn't believe he'd opened up to her about his parents. He hadn't seemed offended by her advice about Helena, either. He wasn't dumb—but she'd known that already. She'd mistaken him for a man with too much brains and brawn, too little heart.

"I'm glad you're here with me," she said.

"So am I," he replied, sounding surprised.
CHAPTER FIVE

Mitch woke up in a state of acute discomfort.

Every muscle is his body felt strained. His arms and shoulders throbbed from overuse. His calves and thighs were tight. Dull aches had settled into his joints and permeated into his bones, reminding him of his age.

Despite these complaints, or perhaps because of them, his dick was rock-hard.

He'd had this experience before. A few years ago, after participating in a triathalon he'd suffered from a condition he called perma-boner. He was too tired to fuck or even jerk off, but apparently not too tired to get hard. One of life's little cosmic jokes.

His fuzzy brain registered his arousal and overall weariness along with a flood of more exciting sensory details. There was a pretty female neck under his lips. Soft skin beneath his palm, and a curvy ass pressed against his stiff cock. He groaned, moving his hand lower. She gasped at his touch, and he startled fully awake.

Oh fuck. This was Gwen. And he had his hand _in her pants_.

Somehow he'd unzipped her jeans and slid his fingertips into the wedge. He could feel her heat radiating through a tiny scrap of damp lace. Warning bells sounded inside his head, telling him to get out of there now. But his damned hand listened to his cock instead. It stayed right where it was, stroking that sweet cleft.

She made a strangled sound, like a moan. But she also gripped his wrist to still his motions.

He didn't misinterpret this signal; she wanted him to stop. Letting his fingers go slack, he waited for her to release his wrist. When she did, he removed his hand and eased away from her, his heart thumping in dismay.

What the fuck had he done?

He'd felt up his girlfriend's best friend, knowingly. While she was sleeping. That's what he'd done.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his senses reeling. "I was..."

She rolled over to study him. Her dark eyes were swollen and her ponytail was askew. "Dreaming?"

He didn't answer. He hadn't been dreaming. His gaze drifted down to her unzipped jeans, which revealed the soft skin of her belly and a hint of black lace. Those panties just barely covered her pubic hair. If she had any. His fingers flexed at the memory of her damp warmth. He closed his hand into a fist, hating himself.

"It's okay," she said. "You must have thought I was Helena."

Helena. The name on her lips was like ice on his cock. Helena. He repeated it silently until his arousal abated. He loved Helena. Gwen was really nice, and really fucking sexy. He shouldn't have touched her, but he'd been half-asleep. He had no control over his physical response. She was a beautiful woman. It didn't mean anything.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"It's already forgotten."

She wasn't going to tell Helena. That made him feel worse, like a sexual harasser who was going to get away with it because his victim was afraid of losing her job. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

It was dead. Fuck.

"I have to get out of here," he said, lumbering to his feet with a grimace. His muscles screamed in protest.

She didn't argue. They left the tent and discovered it was almost lunchtime. Instead of waiting for another meal, they used the public restrooms and got in line for the bus. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as they waited among a crowd of bedraggled survivors. His screw-up had broken the bond they'd forged over the past two days, and he didn't know how to fix it.

They boarded a bus two hours later. It was taking residents out of San Diego County, to San Bernardino Hospital or Riverside Transit Center. From there they could arrange for pickup or use public transit.

Mitch needed to get his car, so he asked the bus driver to stop along the way. Gwen didn't want to stay with him. No surprise.

"Text me after you charge your phone," he said.

"I will."

"Take care."

"You too."

He didn't kiss her on the cheek this time. Feeling dejected, he hopped off the bus and watched it disappear. Then he walked about two miles to his car, his spirits heavy. He was worried about Helena. If she'd been hurt, he'd never forgive himself.

He might not forgive himself anyway.

His car was sitting in the parking lot at Mission Trails, untouched. There was dust and bits of ash on the surface. He climbed behind the wheel and plugged in his phone. Then he turned on the engine and started driving.

Something was wrong; he could sense it.

He stopped at a fast food restaurant for a hot meal and a cold soda. Revived, he checked his phone for messages. There was one from Helena. She was okay.

We need to talk.

Tears burned in his eyes as he read the text. She'd been taken to San Bernardino Hospital for a minor injury. She needed stitches. Breathing a sigh of relief, he sent her a text and pulled onto the freeway, heading north. It was late afternoon when he arrived. She hadn't replied to his message, and the hospital was a madhouse. After searching the halls for her, he asked a nurse where Helena might be. The nurse said they were taking care of superficial wounds in the cafeteria because of overcrowding.

His heart lodged in his throat as he strode down the corridor. As soon as he saw Helena, everything would be fine. She'd be surprised to see him. She'd realize that he was committed to making their relationship work.

And then everything would be okay. When her arms slipped around his neck, all of his tension and confusion and guilt would ease.

It was going to be so great.

_We need to talk_ , she'd texted. What did that mean?

The cafeteria was huge, and packed with people. He searched the crowd for Helena but didn't see her. As he walked through the doors, he examined the space again, scanning the tables in methodical rows.

There.

Helena was a tall, striking woman, hard to miss. She was sitting at the edge of a table with one shoulder exposed. There were a couple of bloody slashes on her upper arm. They looked like animal scratches.

She wasn't alone. There was a disheveled man with her, standing too close for comfort. He clasped her hand in his and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

Like a lover.

Mitch's stomach dropped at the sight. This motherfucker was trying to steal his girlfriend!

He waited for Helena to pull her hand away or tell the guy to get lost. She didn't. She looked embarrassed, but not displeased. Mitch couldn't fucking believe it. Just twenty-four hours ago, he'd asked Gwen if Helena was seeing someone else. It had been an impulsive question, inspired by his own inappropriate thoughts about Gwen. He hadn't really suspected Helena of cheating. She wasn't the disloyal type.

And yet, here they were.

Mitch sized up his rival, ready to rip his goddamned lips off. The guy appeared to be in his late twenties. He was handsome in a scruffy-surfer kind of way. Not a bulky bodybuilder, but no weakling.

Mitch was older, uglier, and bigger. He was going to crush this pretty boy into dust. Curling his hands into fists, he strode forward.

"What the fuck is this?" he asked Helena.

Her lovely face went pale and her eyes darkened with concern—for her companion. She glanced at Mitch's rival, moistening her lips. "Maybe you should leave us alone to talk."

"Yeah," Mitch said, glaring. "You should run while you can."

Surfer-boy wasn't just bold; he was stupid. "I don't think so," he said, moving into a protective stance.

As if he considered Mitch a threat _to Helena_.

Mitch saw red. He was about to grab the guy by the collar and toss him through the nearest window when a nurse arrived.

"Is there a problem?" she asked, her face wary.

"We can take it outside," his rival said.

Mitch nodded eagerly. Maybe surfer-boy wasn't as dumb as he looked. As they walked through the cafeteria and down the corridor, Mitch reminded himself that he hadn't been an angel lately. He'd kissed Gwen on the cheek and put his hand down her pants. He could withhold judgment of Helena for now.

But that didn't mean he wasn't going to kick this lover-boy's ass. No one touched his girlfriend and got off easy.

They went outside to a courtyard. There were people milling around. Surfer-boy continued to a grassy area underneath a tree, where he stopped and turned around. "I just want to talk," he said, raising his palms.

"You think I came out here to talk?"

"Give me a chance to explain, and then you can take a free shot."

Mitch didn't wait. He just punched the guy in the face. His opponent's head rocked back and he stumbled sideways, rattled.

"Okay, that was your free shot," the guy said. "The next one won't be."

"Good."

"I didn't mean to take her away from you—"

Mitch punched him again. It wasn't a direct hit, because his opponent had the sense to duck this time. He also lowered his shoulder and drove it into Mitch's stomach, taking the fight to the ground. That was fine; Mitch was a good grappler. They traded a few more blows, tumbling across the grass. The guy was in better condition than Mitch had anticipated. Mitch's arms were sore from the long night. His opponent maneuvered him into a choke hold. When Mitch finally broke free, he was winded.

They were both winded.

Mitch socked the guy once more in the gut, for good measure. But it didn't carry the same heat as his first strike. His rival moved out of range and sat upright, holding a hand to his stomach.

"Had enough?" Mitch asked.

"I could go for a little more. Just give me a minute to catch my breath."

Mitch realized that his opponent was joking around. It occurred to Mitch that he'd met this clown before. He was one of Helena's coworkers. Josh something or other. "You're that... _security guard_."

"Josh Garrison."

"You knew about me," Mitch said.

"I knew you left her."

Mitch wanted to punch him again, but he restrained himself.

"I've always had a crush on her," Josh said. "She wasn't interested, because of you. But then you moved away, and the earthquake hit, and...things changed. We've been through a lot in the past few days."

Mitch closed the distance between them and grabbed him by the front of the shirt. "There's only one thing I need to know. Did you fuck her?"

Josh seemed reluctant to answer the invasive question. "I'll tell you this," he said calmly. "I love her."

Mitch let go of his shirt, stunned.

"I haven't told her yet," Josh said. "If she picks you over me, I'll walk away. I won't interfere in your relationship."

The nerve of this fucking guy. "You're lucky I didn't beat you into a pulp."

"Be my guest. Just don't lay a finger on her."

Mitch's anger faded into resignation. "Fuck you," he said tiredly. "Fuck you for even saying that."

The altercation was over, so Mitch walked away. They hadn't drawn a big crowd, but there were a number of curious onlookers.

Mitch went back to the cafeteria, his stomach roiling. Helena was getting stitched up. Her face was drawn with pain. He pictured her with Josh, naked and panting underneath him. She'd always been wild in bed.

Shoving aside that mental picture, he reached out to hold her hand. She accepted his comfort, seeming surprised. The nurse finished the sutures and placed a bandage over Helena's shoulder. Then she moved on to the next patient.

Helena let go of Mitch's hand and straightened her clothing. "Did you fly in?"

"No, I drove straight through as soon as I heard."

"Long trip."

"Yeah."

He asked about her wound, and she told him she'd been attacked by a lion. He was glad she wasn't more seriously injured.

They fell into an awkward silence. Mitch knew he had to say something or risk losing her. She might already be lost. "I can't blame you for...whatever happened with that guy. I don't like it, but I understand. I've been gone for months. Even before I left, we were struggling. I wasn't providing for you."

"I didn't care about that—"

"I wasn't satisfying you."

She fell silent, unable to disagree.

He soldiered on, with difficulty. "I knew you weren't happy, and I knew the long-distance thing wasn't working out, but I didn't expect this."

"Neither did I."

"I feel like a fool."

"No," she said. "You're not."

"I am. I left a beautiful woman alone and unfulfilled."

She shook her head in denial.

"I thought you'd miss me."

"I did."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

Her mouth twisted with regret.

"You didn't ask me to come back," he said.

"You didn't ask me to move to Denver, either."

"Would you have considered it?"

"No."

"You always loved your elephants more than me."

"That's not true," she said, but it was a weak protest. When the going got tough between them, she'd retreated into work.

So had he.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, pensive. "My boss has been looking into a new job site in Southern California. I might be able to transfer."

She stared at him in shock.

"I was hoping to surprise you with the news in person." They'd scheduled a visit for early summer because he hadn't been able to get away over the holidays. "I can see that I shouldn't have waited."

"Why did you?"

"I wasn't sure you wanted me back, to be honest. You've been distant. We haven't talked about staying together."

"We haven't talked much, period."

"I know," he said. "I take responsibility for that. This is all my fault."

"It's _not_ your fault."

"I left you unattended."

"And I dug under the fence?"

He didn't understand what she meant, but he was determined to win her back. "You made a mistake. I can overlook it."

She inhaled a sharp breath. "You can?"

"I still love you."

His romantic declaration didn't seal the deal. If anything, she seemed even more upset, as if his words pained her. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "Even before you left, we'd drifted apart. I should have been honest about my feelings back then. The only thing I can do is be honest now. I'm not in love with you anymore."

Mitch flinched as if he'd been struck. "Maybe you never were."

Her eyes darkened with hurt, which didn't make him feel any better. He couldn't believe what she'd just said. He had to get out of here before he exploded. He'd forgiven her for cheating, and she'd rejected him anyway.

He'd lost her.

Unfuckingbelievable.

Jaw clenched in anger, he walked away from her, striding through the cafeteria. Her new boyfriend was waiting by the door, watching to make sure Mitch didn't put his hands on her. As Mitch passed by, he shoved Josh into the hallway, sending him sprawling.

Then he kept going and didn't look back.
CHAPTER SIX

Gwen walked from the transit center to downtown San Bernardino.

It was late afternoon by the time she found a hotel with a vacancy. She plugged in her phone and collapsed on the bed, exhausted. She was so embarrassed about getting tangled up with Mitch this morning.

So. Embarrassed.

Ugh.

Her zipper must have slipped down after she fell asleep. She shouldn't have unfastened the top button. Maybe she'd been having a sexy dream. Either that or her body had responded to his unconsciously. She'd woken to his hand between her legs and his erection prodding her bottom. Her nipples were stiff, her sex swollen. When he'd stroked her tingling flesh, she couldn't prevent a moan of pleasure from escaping her lips.

God.

She could never tell Helena about this.

He'd recoiled in shock, seeming horrified by the accidental touch—and her heated response. Even as she'd flushed with shame, her eyes had wandered down to his straining cock. It looked big.

She was going to hell. Straight to hell.

Her phone chimed with a new message, startling her out of the sexual daze. She might have drifted off for a few minutes. She picked up her cell and glanced at the screen. Mitch had sent a new text.

I found Helena at the hospital. She got stitches but she is okay. Where are you?

Gwen texted back the address of the hotel and her room number. They might need a place to stay tonight. Every hotel in Southern California was filled to capacity with displaced residents. If Helena was injured, she'd be more comfortable here than an evacuation center. The room only had one bed, and sleeping next to them would be awkward, under the circumstances, but that's what friends were for.

They shared beds. Not boyfriends.

Gwen went to the bathroom, tugged off her clothes and climbed into the shower. The hot spray made her feel better. She put on her only clean clothes, a tank top and a pair of drawstring pants. Then she brushed her teeth and tied back her hair.

She studied her reflection in the mirror, her heart racing. She'd always preferred dramatic makeup and stylish clothes, especially for work. She couldn't wait to be back in her tattoo shop. Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought of the earthquake damages. Native Ink meant the world to her.

Exiting the bathroom, she flopped down on the bed and turned on the TV. Images of devastation assaulted her. She stared at the screen, feeling numb. Thousands of people were dead and she was crying about a building. Bricks and stones.

A knock on the door interrupted her reverie. She switched off the news and answered it. Mitch was standing there with a paper bag in one hand and a belligerent look on his face. The air smelled like rain. There was a storm brewing.

"Can I come in?"

She stepped aside. "Where's Helena?"

"With her new boyfriend."

Gwen shut the door behind him, frowning. "What?"

He placed the paper bag on the table and sat down in the only chair. Lifting a bottle of tequila from the bag, he twisted off the cap. "She's seeing someone else."

"Who?"

"Some security guard. Josh."

"You're kidding."

"Don't I fucking wish." He tilted the bottle to his lips and took a healthy swig.

Gwen had met Josh at one of Helena's work functions. He wasn't really a security guard, but close enough. He'd asked Helena out on a date a few years ago, and she'd turned him down. She didn't even _like_ him. "When did this happen?"

"After the earthquake."

"Wow."

He drank more tequila, nodding. There was a red mark on his cheek and his knuckles were scraped.

"You fought him?"

"I did."

Gwen didn't ask who won. She assumed Mitch had, because Josh wasn't quite as brawny. Neither of them were brawler types, but they were both strong men. She was still trying to wrap her head around Helena hooking up with Josh.

"I'm sorry for showing up here," he said. "I didn't know where else to go."

"No problem," she said, perching on the edge of the mattress. She felt awkward in his presence, after this morning's incident. They were alone in a tiny room. She wasn't wearing a bra. She didn't know if she could trust herself to be alone with him. Especially now that Helena was out of the picture.

This was all so...bizarre.

He extended the tequila in invitation. "I'll sleep in my car. But if you don't mind, I'd rather not drink alone."

After a short hesitation, she accepted the bottle. What the hell. Getting drunk was practically required in this situation. She knocked back a quick shot, grimacing as the strong, smoky taste burned down her throat. He smiled at her reaction. When she returned the bottle, he lifted it to his lips again.

She touched a hand to her wet hair, self-conscious.

His gaze flicked over her. "You took a shower?"

She nodded. "You're welcome to it. Do you have any clean clothes?"

"Gym clothes, in my car."

"Go for it."

He studied her breasts for a moment, taking another drink. She'd caught him looking at her several times over the past few days, which was unusual for him. He'd never shown an interest before. Or he'd been more discreet about it.

Shrugging, he set the bottle on the table and retrieved a duffel bag from his car. After he ducked into the bathroom, she examined the tequila bottle. It held 350 ml, and it was still half-full. Mitch was a teetotaler who got drunk off a couple of beers. If he downed the rest, he'd be hurting tomorrow. She lifted the rim to her lips and took a healthy swig, getting rid of as much as she could.

Coughing, she set the bottle on the table. She was already beginning to feel the effects. Her chest was warm and her head light. Alcohol buzzed in her veins, offering its pleasant blur. She could be a good friend to Mitch, a shoulder to cry on.

Nothing more.

She wasn't interested in his well-muscled torso, or his big hands, or that excitingly large piece of equipment between his legs.

Nope. Friends.

When he came out of the bathroom, she gave him an extra-friendly examination. He was wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. It hung open on the sides, revealing his lean rib cage. The fact that he had a great body was no surprise. She'd seen him shirtless more times that she could count. She'd admired him in front of Helena before, even joking that it was the reason Helena kept him around.

She should feel bad about that, but she didn't. She couldn't drum up any shame whatsoever.

"Damn," Mitch said, picking up the bottle. "You didn't wait."

His clean, masculine scent permeated the room. She inhaled deeply, scanning his bloodshot blue eyes and scruffy jaw. His hair was so short it didn't look any different wet. "Sorry."

He sat down in the chair and stretched out his long legs. His feet were bare. "It's okay."

She forced her gaze to his. "What did Helena say?"

"About what?"

She just stared at him.

His mouth formed a bitter twist as he knocked back another shot. "She said she's not in love with me anymore."

Gwen nodded. She'd suspected as much.

"Did you know?" Mitch asked.

"I knew she wasn't happy."

He set the tequila aside and smoothed a hand over his head, pensive. "I can't believe she chose him over me. I told her I still loved her. I even said I could forgive her for sleeping with him."

"She slept with him?"

"I don't know," he muttered. "I think so. He wouldn't tell me."

"That didn't bother you?"

"Fuck yeah it bothered me," he said, snarling. "I just thought it was my fault, in a way. For leaving her."

"Did you tell her you might come back?"

"Yeah. It didn't matter."

"I'm sorry," she said, reading the pain on his face.

"I should have reached out, like you said."

"I said it takes two," she reminded him. "Helena's not really in touch with her emotions, either."

"I liked that about her."

Gwen laughed, despite the seriousness of the conversation. "You liked it because she didn't require you to open up."

He mulled this over, his brow furrowed.

Gwen had contemplated the issue of compatibility before. She and Helena had a yin and yang thing going. Their different personalities balanced each other. Helena had the tendency to be closed off and anti-social. Gwen drew her out of shell.

Mitch sort of hermited alongside her.

Gwen wasn't sure how to tell him that. She didn't want to imply that his relationship with Helena been doomed from the start. "You guys were fine when everything was going well," she said, choosing her words with caution. "But the true test of a relationship is how you weather the storms. If you don't talk about your feelings or share new experiences, the bond between you can't stay strong."

It was a direct hit, judging by his expression. And he didn't like hearing it. "Sage advice," he said, drowning his sorrows with more tequila. "I should get that tattooed somewhere so I never forget it." He touched the straits of muscle along his ribcage. "Maybe here, in cursive. Isn't that the place for life mottos?"

She snatched the bottle from the table and downed the rest. He was being a sarcastic ass. It was kind of sexy. His body was sexy, too. She'd love to work on him. The rib cage was one of the more painful locations for the needle, but he was a big boy. He could handle it. She'd tattoo him anywhere he liked.

"Do you have a rib tattoo?"

She sucked in a surprised breath. "You don't remember?"

"Show it to me."

"You've seen it before."

"Yeah, but I didn't look hard enough."

A red warning light flashed before her eyes, like a beating heart. The room seemed to pulse with heat. She rose to her feet and tossed the empty bottle in the trash, trying not to stumble. "If you want to see my work, you can make an appointment at the shop." Hopefully it hadn't burned to the ground.

"Tell me about the ones on your arms."

When she sat down on the bed again, he moved from the chair and took a seat beside her. Something very inappropriate was happening between them. She should put a stop to it. She shouldn't be alone with him. It was always a risk for a woman to entertain a man in a hotel room. He might try to get lucky.

She might let him.

"Are these Samoan tattoos?"

"Just this one," she said, indicating the dotted band on her left arm. "Traditional tatau is done with all-natural tools and ink. You can see the difference in color."

He nodded. "You do that in your shop?"

"Oh, no. I mimic the style, not the method. _Tatau_ is super painful. It's more about the spiritual process than the end result."

"What about the others?"

She had an eclectic mix of body art. Some words and images, some designs and geometric shapes. There was a bold, Japanese-style koi fish on her right arm and a red hibiscus flower on her left.

"This is pretty," he said, brushing his fingertips over the deep red petals.

She shivered at his touch. "Thanks."

"You did the design?"

"Yes."

"It looks sexual."

She'd always liked the strong femininity of the image. He was looking at her arm like he wanted to fuck it, which should have alarmed her. Instead, she was excited. His gaze moved to her breasts, now punctuated with stiff nipples, and rose lazily, settling on her mouth. She held her breath as he leaned in, brushing his lips over hers.

He didn't retreat to gauge her reaction, like she'd expected. He went in for the kill, gripping her waist with big hands and covering her mouth with his. She didn't push him away, either. Her palms flattened against his chest, and she delighted in the hard muscles there. She parted her lips on instinct, inviting him in. His tongue delved inside. They shared a thrilling, tequila-laced kiss.

It felt so right. So wrong. So good.

She blamed the alcohol for the way she responded, with a hungry mouth and eager hands. It was the tequila that had her moaning and begging for more. She twined her tongue around his and laced her fingers through his short hair, drunk on him.

He was just as wild as she was, if not more. With a low growl, he pushed her back on the mattress and climbed on top of her. She welcomed the action, breathless. His erection was a hot band against her belly, his tongue thrusting deep inside her mouth.

Oh yes.

She didn't want to stop him, but...they were moving so fast, into a place they probably shouldn't go. She just needed a second to think this through. Breaking the kiss, she turned her head away so he couldn't recapture her lips. There was something she had to ask him first. "Did you come here for this?"

His answer was to roll away from her, cursing.

"You wanted to get back at Helena by fucking her best friend, is that it?"

"No," he said. "That's not it."

"Don't lie."

"I don't want to get back at her. I just want to fuck you."

"Since when?"

A muscle in his jaw ticked. "It's a recent development."

"Hours?"

"Days."

She didn't know if she believed him. Or if the time frame made any difference.

"I knew it was you this morning," he admitted.

"What?"

"I was awake. Half-awake, but I wasn't dreaming. I knew it was you."

A shameful pleasure washed over her at the memory of his fingers between her legs, stroking her sensitive flesh. "Is that why you told Helena you could forgive her for cheating? Because you felt guilty?"

"Yes," he ground out.

She drew in a ragged breath, considering. "I won't let you use me to hurt her."

"Then don't tell her."

Gwen wouldn't normally hook up with a friend's ex. It just wasn't done. She didn't want to jeopardize a 20-year friendship, and she'd already crossed the line by kissing Mitch. On the other hand, Helena had stepped out on him first, so maybe all bets were off. And, like he said—she didn't have to know.

Gwen moistened her lips, weakening. Two wrongs didn't make a right. But four shots of tequila and an extra-strong dose of sexual chemistry made an irresistible combination. She'd survived a devastating earthquake and endured its harrowing aftermath. Now she wanted to feel pleasure again. Pure pleasure.

He slid his arm around her, as if sensing her capitulation.

"We can only do this once," she said.

"Once?"

"One night," she amended.

Murmuring an agreement, he touched his lips to her arched neck. "I'll try to make it worth your while."

She threaded her fingers through his hair and brought his mouth to hers. They shared another heated kiss, tongues tangling. For a rigid, uptight sort of guy, he was a good kisser. Maybe the tequila had loosened him up.

It had definitely worked some magic on her.

His fingers flexed at her waist, plying her further. She moaned and pressed her breasts to his chest. He took the hint and slid his hand under her tank top, filling his palm with her soft flesh. His sudden exhale against her mouth told her he liked the feel of her. Tearing his mouth from hers, he pushed up her tank top, exposing both breasts.

"Christ," he said, reverent. "You have beautiful tits."

She shut him up with another kiss, though she appreciated the compliment. They wrangled with his t-shirt and her top, kissing hotly as they discarded both. She took off her pants next. Then she was naked except for her pale yellow panties. He stared at her body, his erection tenting the fabric of his basketball shorts.

She was ready to just do it, like wild animals, but he didn't rush. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples and sucked each one thoroughly. Then he kissed a path along her rib cage, studying the tattooed script there.

"What does this say?"

_'Avetu ni lo, aumai ni lo.'_ One good turn deserves another."

He looked up at her. "I have to admit, that's an excellent life motto."

She gasped as he moved his lips along her quivering stomach. When he lowered the waistband of her panties, she held her breath. She wasn't completely bare, the way some men preferred. She liked the dark triangle of hair above the smooth lips of her sex. It made her feel womanly.

He liked it too, judging by his heated gaze. Stripping her panties all the way off, he shucked his basketball shorts. His cock was ruddy and thick, flushed dark with desire for her. Heat pooled between her legs at the sight of him.

"Do you have a condom?" she asked.

He nodded, looking around as if he'd forgotten where his stash was. Rising from the bed, he ducked into the bathroom. She admired his well-muscled butt as he went. He returned with a new box of condoms and tossed them on the bed.

"Where did you buy these?"

"At the liquor store."

She was too eager to be offended by his presumptuousness. He was a boy-scout type. Nothing wrong with being prepared.

Instead of suiting up, he stretched out beside her and kissed her again. She slipped her arms around his neck, touching her breasts to his chest. That glorious cock brushed her belly, making her moan. He pushed her legs apart with his hand and cupped her sex. She was hot and swollen, slick with moisture. Watching her face, he traced her slit with his fingertips. When she whimpered, he slid inside, thrusting in and out. She groaned as he withdrew his slippery fingers from her snug sheath.

"I want to taste you," he said, circling her clit.

She let her head fall back against the pillows, lost in pleasure.

He moved down her body and replaced his fingers with his tongue. She smother a cry with one hand, making a fist in the sheets with the other. Oh my. He _was_ a hard worker. He worked her hard, suckling her clit and burying his fingers deep inside her, stroking her fleshy walls until she exploded.

"Oh God," she said, shuddering. She came with her legs spread wide and her stomach clenched, hips bucking against his avid mouth.

After she was done, her orgasm wrenched from her like water from a dishrag, she reached for him languidly. His cock was jutting upright, leaking at the tip. She squeezed his thick shaft in approval.

"One good turn deserves another," she said, lowering her mouth to him.

"No."

"No?"

"I'll come."

"Don't you want to?"

He watched her pump him up and down, mesmerized.

She flicked her tongue over him, licking the pearly drop at the slit. It dissolved in her mouth, salty and hot. His expression was a cross between pleasure and pain. Enjoying herself, she stretched her lips around him and swallowed as much as she could, almost gagging on his considerable length.

He made a fist in her hair to hold her still. "I might only be good for one time," he said in a hoarse voice. "Let me fill up that sweet pussy."

Jesus. The man had a nice cock, a silver tongue, and a rock-hard body. What more did a woman need? He let go of her hair and she released him. Lying on her back, she parted her legs. "Do it."

He tore open a condom and rolled it down his shaft. "How do you want it?" he asked, positioning the tip against her.

She didn't care. "However you like."

He entered her slowly, inch by inch. "Like this?"

"Yes," she panted, reveling in his possession. She wrapped her arms around his neck and locked her thighs around his waist. "More."

He withdrew and drove in again, burying himself to the hilt. "Like that?"

"Just like that."

He covered her mouth with his for a sex-laced kiss. It was as if he had to be inside her everywhere at once, to connect with her in as many ways as possible.

When she broke the kiss, he started to move, setting a punishing rhythm. Her breasts brushed his chest and his flesh slapped against hers as he pounded into her. The bed frame slammed into the wall with every thrust.

She loved his intensity. He worked hard for her, his shoulders bunching and the cords in his neck pulled taut. She clung to him, watching his thick length plunge in and out of her, making mindless sounds of pleasure. It was so good. She was so full of him, so enamored with the strum and drag. Her clit pulsed with new life.

"Come again," he said, gripping her hips. "Come for me."

She reached between their bodies to stroke herself. She stroked him, too, spreading two fingers to feel him piston inside her. Then she pressed those fingers to her clit, jiggling fast and hard to match his pace.

He couldn't wait for her. Letting out a strangled sound, he jerked against her, his body quaking from the power of his release.

"Sorry," he said when he'd recovered his breath. "That was way too quick."

She laughed, kissing his relaxed mouth.

"Don't stop on my account."

"What?"

"Keep going. It looks so hot."

It was more embarrassing to touch herself after he'd finished, but she was so close. She resumed stroking, swirling her fingers over her sensitive clit. He felt full and fat inside her, not soft yet. She came with a startled cry, lights flashing behind her eyes and her inner muscles squeezing around him.

"Jesus," he groaned.

She murmured something unintelligible in response. Her mind was blank, her heart pounding.

He wrapped his hand around his shaft and withdrew from her body, heading to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. Then he collapsed behind her on the bed, drawing her into his arms. She would protest his sweaty embrace, but she was too satiated to move. And his body felt nice against hers.

He felt...right.

"Give me a minute, and we can try again," he mumbled.

Seconds later, they were both asleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN

The next three weeks went by in a blur.

Mitch had woken up in the hotel room with a sour stomach, aching muscles and a pounding head. Not to mention another raging hard-on. He'd wrestled into his clothes, trying not to disturb Gwen, and slipped out into the brutal light of dawn.

He was still sick about it.

Sick and guilty and desperate to do it again.

He'd driven straight through to Denver, torn between giddy excitement and self-loathing. He'd enjoyed her thoroughly, and not just because she was fantastic in bed. He liked her. She was sweet and sexy and smart.

She was also Helena's best friend.

Full stop.

They had no future together. Even if he didn't live thousands of miles away, he could never date her. He shouldn't have fucked her.

It was easier to come to terms with the end of his relationship with Helena. They'd been drifting apart for over a year. Now that the shock had worn off, he realized that their breakup had been inevitable. The circumstances sucked, but his heartache had faded. Maybe Gwen was right, and their bond hadn't been strong enough to last.

He was actually more upset about how he'd left things with Gwen. He'd done her wrong, and he didn't know where to go from here.

Should he call?

He'd been torturing himself with this question for twenty-one days now. He wanted to hear her voice.

He was miserable.

His work situation sucked, too. He loved his new job and he liked Denver, but he'd been angling for a transfer back to Southern California. Now that Helena had dumped him, there was no reason to return. Was there?

The earthquake damage had helped pave the way for his transfer, ironically. San Diego was being rebuilt and the construction business was booming. There was big money to be made in structural engineering again, and his boss was looking to expand. He needed a definitive answer from Mitch about coming back.

Mitch was stuck.

If he didn't have a chance with Gwen, why not stay in Denver? It was better to make a clean break and move on. He pictured her smiling face, remembering how she'd felt in his arms. How she'd responded to his touch.

Christ. He couldn't get her out of his head. They'd had the hottest sex of his life. Her breathy little moans and enthusiastic touch had driven him crazy. She'd acted as if he was some kind of stud, and he'd relished every second of it.

He had to call her.

Decision made, he jumped up from his desk and took his phone outside. It was a beautiful spring day in Denver. This morning's rain had scrubbed the streets clean and left the air pure. Now the sun was out in full force.

Denver was no San Diego—no place had better weather than San Diego. But it was crisp and clear and majestic.

Instead of calling Gwen's cell number, he did a search for Native Ink. No one actually talked on cell phones anymore, and he didn't want to resort to texting. It was too impersonal, too easy to ignore. He thought he'd have a better chance if he caught her off-guard. When he found the number, he entered it and hit send.

"Native Ink," she answered, after two rings.

Score.

He already knew that the shop hadn't been destroyed. He'd checked her web site, which had been updated with the latest information. The tattoo parlor was three miles away from the epicenter, in an area that had sustained minor damage. She was having some repairs done and planned to re-open this week.

"I'm thinking about getting a tattoo," he said.

She paused, perhaps recognizing his voice. "Your first?"

"Yes."

"What are you interested in?"

_You_ . "Maybe a life motto on my rib cage. I saw one I really liked a few weeks ago and I can't stop thinking about it."

Now she knew it was him. "Why are you calling me, Mitch?"

"I wanted to apologize."

"For what?" she said, sounding annoyed.

Shit. He'd already screwed up. "I don't know," he said, faltering. "For leaving without saying goodbye. For not calling sooner. For...using you."

"You regret it?"

"No. Do you?"

"I had a good time."

"I remember."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. He'd meant that as a compliment—his favorite part of the evening had been watching her climax. But he couldn't tell her that right now. She wasn't tipsy and vulnerable, sitting next to him on a hotel bed. They hadn't engaged in an intimate discussion or spent a couple of harrowing days together. He couldn't just make suggestive comments and expect her to melt into a puddle. He had to try something else before she hung up on his stupid ass.

"I have to go," she said.

"Wait—fuck. I'll be quick, okay? Hear me out."

"There's nothing to say."

"I want you."

"Mitch—"

"I want to see you again."

"It's a rebound thing. You'll get over it."

He didn't think he would get over it. They'd made a real connection after the earthquake. Volunteering at the rescue center had been a life-changing experience for him. He felt like a new man, and Gwen was the reason.

"You were right about me and Helena," he said. "We didn't communicate and that's why we fell apart. So I'm trying to reach out to you and tell you how I feel. You said it takes two, but someone has to go first."

Although she stayed quiet, he sensed her softening. Was he on the right track?

"I called my dad last week," he said.

"You did?"

"Yeah. We talked about football. It was weird, but..." he trailed off, his throat tightening. "He seemed glad to hear from me."

"That's nice," she said quietly.

"I like you, Gwen. I liked spending time with you. I even liked volunteering at the evacuation center, and not just because you were there. It was good for me to step outside of my comfort zone."

"What do you expect me to say?"

"Say you'll give me a chance."

"You live in Denver."

"I told you I might come back to San Diego. It's looking more likely now that new construction is underway all over the city. My boss asked me if I was sure I wanted to transfer. I have to make a decision by Monday. I had to talk to you first."

"This is crazy."

"I can't sleep at night. I stay up late, fantasizing about you. I think about the way you smell and the way you tasted. I'm a walking hard-on." He let out a frustrated breath, glancing around to make sure no one was listening to his inappropriate conversation. "That was oversharing, wasn't it? I'm still new at this."

"You're doing okay."

"Yeah?"

"Tell me more about your hard-on," she said huskily.

He almost dropped the phone. "I'm at work."

"So am I."

"What are you wearing?"

She laughed at the abrupt question, and the sound filled his heart with hope. "I'm wearing a flowered dress."

"Flowers like the one tattooed on your arm?"

"No."

"How short is the dress?"

"Short enough."

He contemplated talking the call into the parking lot, or a bathroom stall.

A bell chimed in the background at her shop. "The repair man is here. I have to get off."

"What? No."

"Bye, Mitch."

"Hold on! Can I call you again?"

"I'll be home tonight."

He pumped his fist in the air. "I can't wait."

"You'd better," she said, and hung up.

He stared at the phone in his hand, his pulse racing. Was she toying with him? He hadn't convinced her to be his girlfriend. He knew that much. But she'd offered him another conversation.

An _intimate_ conversation, unless he'd misunderstood her.

Damn. This was exciting.

If she wanted him to work for it, he was ready. Working hard was something he'd always excelled at. He worked hard at his job. He worked hard at the gym. It was about time he applied the same dedication to his personal life.

He'd fought for Helena and lost, maybe because he'd waited too long, and they hadn't been right for each other anyway. With Gwen, he felt like everything fit. He wasn't a big believer in fate, but he was struck by the overwhelming sense that they were meant to be.

He wasn't going to let her slip away.

***

Gwen checked her appearance in the mirror, her stomach clenched with unease.

She was wearing a sleeveless print dress with a stretchy belt that accented her curves. Her makeup was perfect. The red lipstick set off her dark hair and honeyed skin tone. Skinny black heels gave her the boost she needed. Turning around, she considered the length of her skirt. It was short. Too short?

She favored bold styles and rarely worried about showing a lot of leg. Today she had to talk to Helena about Mitch. She wasn't sure if she should dress down or sex it up. Maybe a more sedate outfit would make her feel less guilty.

Screw it.

Grabbing her purse off the bed, she sailed out the door before she could change her mind. She wasn't going to turn into Suzie Homemaker or hide her body in shame. She'd slept with her friend's ex-boyfriend and she'd enjoyed the hell out of it. She might as well look the part, like Scarlett O'Hara in that scandalous red gown.

She drove to Grape Day Park for the ceremony. Helena and her new boyfriend were receiving public service awards for their brave actions after the earthquake. They stood side-by-side on the stage next to firefighters and police officers.

Gwen's heart swelled with pride, despite her nerves. She'd encouraged Helena to wear a slim-fitting skirt and heels with her zookeeper uniform. She looked tall and strong and beautiful. More importantly, she looked happy.

It was a lovely spring day, balmy and mild. Everyone on the stage had risked their lives to help others. The dead were honored, as well as the living.

After the ceremony, Helena and Josh separated to mingle with the crowd. Josh shook hands with everyone near him, and he seemed comfortable in the setting. Helena chatted with a few of her coworkers in a quiet, shaded area.

Gwen stepped forward as the others drifted away. Helena smiled her relief. She didn't like parties or social events, so Gwen often "saved" her from having to interact. They stuck together and Gwen did all the talking.

The arrangement worked for Gwen, too. Helena's statuesque figure and striking looks drew men like flies. Gwen had met a number of attractive guys simply by standing next to her and reeling them in.

Apparently she didn't mind Helena's leftovers.

Pushing aside the ugly thought, Gwen grabbed a flute of champagne from a nearby tray and joined Helena in the shade. Helena was watching Josh talk with a family near the stage. He was tall and handsome in his security officer uniform.

"Your new boyfriend is hot," Gwen said, taking a sip of champagne.

Helena murmured an agreement.

"How's it going between you two?"

She moved her gaze from him to Gwen. "It's good," she said, smiling again.

Gwen was relieved. Helena didn't appear to be having second thoughts about Mitch. She'd been spending every spare moment Josh, and he was clearly in love with her. They were a cute couple.

Gwen drained her champagne glass to bolster her courage. It wasn't fair to do this in public, but she'd made her decision last night and she couldn't bear to wait. If she didn't hurry up and speak, she might chicken out. "I have to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"You know I saw Mitch at the evacuation center."

Helena nodded.

"We kind of...well, we were worried about you."

"I was fine."

"You were getting attacked by animals left and right."

Her friend shrugged, as if wrestling a lion was no big deal.

"Mitch really pitched in to help," Gwen said. "We were working side by side for hours, and we talked a lot...."

"Mitch talked a lot?" Helena asked. "My Mitch?"

"He's not your Mitch anymore."

"Oh," she said, appearing stunned. "Wow."

Gwen cringed in regret. She'd never wanted to hurt Helena. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Even if you did, I'm the last person to criticize."

Helena meant that she'd cheated on Mitch, so she couldn't judge. "That's not true," Gwen said. "I've been your best friend since sixth grade. I wouldn't make a move on your boyfriend."

Helena waited for her to continue, her brows arched. Obviously, Gwen _had_ made a move on her boyfriend. She'd just waited until Mitch wasn't her boyfriend anymore. He'd still been off-limits, according to girl code. Gwen understood that she'd crossed the line, and she hoped Helena would forgive her.

"The thing is...I knew it was over between you."

"Did you tell him that?"

"No," she said. "But I felt it, and I started looking at him in a new way. He was lifting heavy stuff, and getting sweaty, and..."

"You wanted him."

"Yes."

Helena gave her a sidelong glance. "I'm not sure why you're telling me this if nothing happened."

"Something happened. After your breakup."

"I see," Helena said quietly.

"I feel awful," Gwen said.

"Because he used you?"

"No, I didn't mind that part. He was really sweet about it, actually."

"Sweet?"

Gwen wasn't sure how much to reveal about her budding relationship with Mitch. Since their first conversation last week, they'd talked every night, sometimes for hours. She'd learned so much about him. They'd also had blistering-hot phone sex.

"He's called a few times," Gwen said. "I'm thinking about going to visit him."

Helena raked a hand through her hair, appearing flustered.

Gwen hadn't planned on telling her that she'd slept with Mitch. There was no reason to throw their one-night stand in Helena's face. The real issue was that Gwen wanted to date him—but she wouldn't, if it bothered Helena. Gwen couldn't throw away a twenty-year friendship for a man, no matter how good he made her feel.

"Are you mad?" Gwen asked.

Helena picked up a flute of champagne of her own. "No."

Gwen grabbed a refill. She needed it.

"Is he planning to stay in Denver?" Helena asked.

"He doesn't know yet."

"And this thing between you two is serious."

"It might be."

Helena sipped her champagne, contemplative. "He'd better come back to San Diego," she said finally. "I don't want you to move away."

Gwen's eyes filled with tears. "You don't hate me?"

"No, Gwennie," Helena said, opening her arms. "I love you."

Overwhelmed with relief, Gwen hugged her friend. Helena wasn't the type to engage in public displays of affection, so this was a big deal for her. It was a big deal for Gwen, too. She would've been devastated if Helena had rejected her.

And it would have broken her heart to end things with Mitch.

Gwen realized that she was falling for him. She hadn't allowed herself to consider the possibility before. Now that Helena had given the okay, Gwen was flooded with the feelings she'd been trying to hold back.

She was falling for him.

Mitch could actually be the one. It was an exciting, terrifying thought. He'd been hiding right under her nose for years. If he hadn't moved away, and the earthquake hadn't struck, and Helena hadn't connected with Josh, Gwen would never have developed feelings for Mitch. No one could have predicted this outcome.

When Helena released her, Gwen found a napkin to dab her eyes. Josh had excused himself from the crowd to join them.

"What's up?" he asked Helena.

"Gwen is dating Mitch."

"Your Mitch?"

"He's her Mitch now."

Josh arched a brow at Gwen. "Mitch has good taste."

Gwen laughed, wiping her eyes.

"If he doesn't treat you right, let me know," Josh said. "I beat him up once and I'm not afraid to do it again."

"I'll keep that in mind," Gwen said, smiling through her tears.

Josh smiled back at her.

Gwen handed her empty glass to Helena. "I'm sorry," she said abruptly. "I need to go for a walk and clear my head."

"I'll come with you."

"No. Stay and enjoy yourself."

Although Helena protested, Gwen gave her another quick hug and left, clutching her handbag under one arm. Her spike heels dug into the grass as she crossed the park. She took a deep breath, trying not to break down again.

She had to call Mitch and share the good news.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Gwen couldn't wait for her next date with Mitch.

It was just another phone date, and she'd much rather see him in person, but she couldn't plan a visit to Denver yet. The repairs were done at Native Ink and she was open for business. Unfortunately, she'd lost an employee. Jeff's apartment building had burned down and he'd moved to LA to stay with his brother.

She still had Ian, and they were managing. Despite the city-wide construction and widespread tragedy, or perhaps because of it, the appointments had been full. She'd have to hire another artist for the busy summer months because she couldn't afford to turn away paying customers. The earthquake damages had been expensive.

Mitch wasn't sure when he could come back to San Diego. He estimated it would be at least a month before he got confirmation from his boss about the transfer. Then it might be six months or more until the expansion site was ready. He was taking a vacation at the end of June, so she'd see him in six weeks.

Six long weeks.

It was the same amount of time that had passed since their motel room hook-up. Six weeks since she'd touched him. Six more until she could touch him again.

They spoke on the phone almost every night. She'd tell him about her day, and he'd listen with genuine interest. Their exchanges often became heated. She was having better sex in this relationship than all the others combined—and they'd only done it once in person.

So far their cyber-encounters had been varied and imaginative. Mitch was awkward at dirty talk, which she found incredibly hot. He stammered and groaned a lot. His breath quickened when she described what she was doing. His responses were so earnest. It was obvious he'd never done anything like this before.

Neither had she.

He'd grown bolder over the past month, using more graphic language and making very specific requests. At his urging, she'd touched herself in front of the mirror in her bedroom. She'd gotten off in the bathtub, soapsuds clinging to her breasts. She'd climaxed on all fours on the living room couch. She'd stroked herself slowly to the sound of his voice, and climaxed in seconds with the help of her vibrator.

Although she hadn't sent him any naked pictures, she'd been feeling naughty this afternoon at work. She'd slipped her phone under her skirt and snapped a photo of her lacy red panties. The shadow of her pubic hair was apparent beneath the sheer fabric. She texted the image to him, her heart racing.

His response made her laugh out loud: _brb, masturbating_.

Now she was home, lying in bed. He'd promised to call at the usual time. Her hands itched to get started. There would be no preliminary conversation tonight. She just wanted to touch herself, imagining him touching her.

The arrangement wasn't completely satisfying, of course. If self-pleasure was enough, no one would bother with a partner. She longed for his heavy weight on top of her and his callused palms on her skin. Her hands were too soft and small.

Her vibrator, while effective, couldn't compete with him.

She picked up her phone to check the clock. He was late. That wasn't like him. Maybe he hadn't been joking earlier, and he'd already gotten off. She waited ten more minutes, her nipples tight and her sex pulsing. Then her phone rang.

Finally.

"Sorry," he said. "I got hung up."

"It's okay." She'd fallen asleep on the couch once and missed his call entirely, so she could forgive a late start.

"I liked your text today."

Her pulse kicked up a notch. "I liked yours, too."

"Are you still wearing those panties?"

"Yes."

"What else?"

"Nothing."

His sharp intake of breath excited her. "Take another picture."

She smiled at the request. "Why don't you take one?"

"Of what?"

"Whatever comes up."

He laughed, a deep rumble that sent shivers along her spine.

She was just teasing; she didn't really expect him to send her a dick pic. "Speaking of photos, I found another good one online."

"Tell me about it."

She often browsed the web for tattoo art. Some of the images were pornographic, which was par for the course on the internet. Last week she'd come across one of a man with tattooed shoulders going down on a pretty blonde. Her face was contorted in ecstasy.

When she'd mentioned the picture to Mitch, he'd looked it up and said a lot of hot things about wanting Gwen in the same position.

"It shows a dark-haired woman with half-sleeves."

"Like yours?"

"Kind of. She's on her knees in front of a man."

"Doing what?"

"Sucking his cock."

"Describe it."

"It's big. Like yours."

He cleared his throat. "What's she wearing?"

"A frilly apron. It makes a bow in the middle of her back. Her head is turned toward the camera, so you can see her mouth on him. But she's also bent forward, so you can see..."

"Her pussy?"

"Yes."

"Send me a link."

She did, waiting patiently for him to check it out.

"I want you like that," he said, a moment later. "I want your mouth."

Sliding a hand into her panties, she started stroking.

"Are you touching yourself?"

She stroked faster. "Mmm."

"Christ. Don't come without me."

"You'd better hurry."

"Are you wet?"

"Very."

"Where do you want me?"

"Inside me. In my mouth. Anywhere." She brought her slippery fingers to her lips and sucked them, moaning.

"Fuck, baby."

He was breathing hard into the receiver. She imagined him with his pants around his ankles, his cock in his fist. Then she heard a click, as if the call was dropped. She was about to ask if he was still there when the doorbell rang.

She sat up in bed, startled. Who would drop by this late?

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"The doorbell."

"Ignore it."

"I can't," she said, putting on her robe. "It could be an emergency. A neighbor might need help."

"I need help," he muttered.

She hurried down the hall and turned on the exterior light, peering through the peephole. There was a large man standing outside her door. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and she couldn't see his face.

Heart racing, she stood on tiptoe to study the rest of him. He had an erection straining the front of his jeans.

Retreating in shock, she ducked into the hallway. "There's a pervert at my door," she whispered into the phone. "I have to call 911."

"Wait—"

She hung up on Mitch and dialed the number with trembling fingers. The man rang the doorbell again. He started pounded on the door. Oh God.

"It's just me," the man outside said. "Gwen, it's me."

She paused, listening. "Mitch?"

"Yes! Open the door."

When she looked out again, he'd tugged down the hood to reveal his features. She unlocked the door and let him in. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd surprise you."

She smacked his arm. "You scared the shit out of me!"

"Sorry," he said, grinning. "I guess I overshot my mark."

After a moment of staring at him in disbelief, it dawned on her that he hadn't dropped by for no reason. He had news to share. He wouldn't have flown in from Denver just to spend the weekend with her.

Would he?

"I got the transfer."

Her mouth dropped open. "You did?"

He nodded. "I'm here for two weeks to check out the expansion site. Then I'm back in Denver for a month. After that, I'll be in San Diego full-time."

She threw her arms around him, unable to contain her excitement. He returned her embrace, laughing. Tears flooded her eyes.

He was coming back to her. For good.

"I can't believe it," she said. "I can't believe you're really here."

"I'm really here. Your very own pervert."

She pressed her lips to his, overjoyed. He lifted her against the wall and kissed her back with a hungry growl, his big hands roving over her lace-covered bottom. He was still aroused, his erection jutting at the front of his jeans. After a long, tongue-tangling kiss and some frantic groping, she tore her lips from his.

"This calls for a celebration," she said, unbuttoning his fly.

"Does it?"

She sank to her knees before him and freed his cock from his briefs. He was rock-hard and pulsing with desire. Instead of teasing him with soft licks, she closed her mouth around him and took him deep.

He groaned, threading a hand through her hair. "I like the way you celebrate."

She sucked him up and down, over and over.

"I love you, Gwen."

Almost choking, she released him. "What?"

He cupped her cheek. "I love you."

"You can't say that during a blow job."

"Why not?"

"Every man is in love when he's getting a BJ."

"I can wait until you finish, and say it again."

She rose to her feet, stunned. He didn't seem bothered by the interruption. He met her gaze steadily, daring her to dispute him. He was a steady guy. Solid. Too structured, perhaps, but there were worse flaws in a man.

Gwen hadn't allowed herself to fall for him until she'd talked to Helena. Since then, she'd been teetering on the edge. She hadn't wanted to get too invested in a long-distance relationship. She had a business to run. She couldn't move out of town.

Now that she knew he was coming back to stay, there were no more obstacles in the way. And she felt herself topple, head over heels in love with him.

"I think I love you, too," she said.

He arched a brow. "You think?"

"It's a new feeling. I need to test it out."

"Okay," he said gamely. "I'll take you to bed and we can test it all night."

She wanted to finish what she'd started, but she didn't protest when he swept her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom. They had plenty of time to explore each other. The rest of their lives, in fact.

She couldn't wait.
Author's Note

Thanks for much for reading Wild for Him. If you have time, please consider writing a brief online review. Reviews help new readers find me. Feel free to visit my website, sign up for my newsletter and like me on Facebook!

Check out Josh and Helena's story in _Wild_ (Aftershock #5):

_Wild passion_

Zookeeper Helena Fjord has a dangerous job at San Diego's Wildlife Park. She's got no time for nonsense, and no interest in handsome, laidback security officer Josh Garrison. She steers clear of his silly pranks and sexy smile—until disaster strikes.

_Natural instincts_

Josh has been coasting ever since his Navy SEAL dreams went up in smoke. He's always had the hots for Helena, but the lady is off limits. When a devastating earthquake hits, the unlikely pair must work together to secure the park's borders. With wild animals on the loose, aftershocks imminent, and fires blazing across the city, they face serious peril—and a powerful attraction. Josh vows to protect Helena at all costs. But who will safeguard her heart?

If you prefer contemporary romance, these novellas are light on the suspense:

  * "Scenes of Peril" from _Passion & Peril_  
Snowed in with a sexy stranger.
  * _Island Peril_  
Stranded with a handsome adventure guide.
  * "Holiday Secrets" from _Risky Christmas_  
Sexy holidays with the hot surfer next door.

Full-length romantic suspense from my Aftershock series:

  * Aftershock (Aftershock #1)  
A female paramedic and a former Marine get trapped with a group of survivors.
  * Freefall (Aftershock #2)  
A rugged rock climber teams up with a female park ranger to solve a murder.
  * Badlands (Aftershock #3)  
A bodyguard with a tortured past falls for his client.
  * Backwoods (Aftershock #4)  
A family camping trip gone terribly wrong!

Looking for more heat? Try _Riding Dirty_, the first book in my new Dirty Eleven MC series! This is erotic romance with very explicit language and edgy sexual situations.

_He's her weapon of choice_

Psychologist Mia Richards wants revenge. Her new client, tattooed Cole "Shank" Shepherd, provides the perfect means. She just has to manipulate the felon-turned-informant into eliminating her husband's killers—members of Cole's rival motorcycle club. The first step, seducing Cole, is simple. As for walking away before she falls hard—it's already too late...

Dirty Eleven practically raised Cole, and he plans to double-cross the cops rather than sell them out. But smart, sexy Mia is an irresistible distraction. While she's evaluating his mind, all he can think about is her body...until he discovers her true intentions. Walking a fine line between desire and betrayal, they'll have to outrun her past, his enemies and the law for a love that's dangerously real.

**Excerpt**

PROLOGUE

Michelle knew something was wrong as soon as she walked through the door.

There was mail strewn across the floor, as if Philip had knocked it off the counter and not bothered to tidy up. That wasn't like him. Voices in the study alerted her that he wasn't alone. He made his own hours, and often invited colleagues up for a drink or to debate about art. But the tone of the discussion struck her as strange. It sounded more like barked orders than a friendly quarrel.

"Philip?" she called out, setting her satchel on a chair.

Feeling a stab of unease, she strode down the hallway. The door to the study was ajar. When she reached the threshold and peered in, her world tilted on its axis. Making sense of the scene was difficult; the visual images were scrambled. Philip was on the floor with his arms tied behind his back. The wall safe stood open, and there were two other men in the room. All three turned to look at her.

She got the impression of puzzle pieces, floating independently. Philip on the ground. Two  strangers, dressed in black. One held a gun. He had a tattoo on his wrist, between his glove and the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"No," Philip shouted.

One second ticked by, maybe two, while she stood frozen. Then she turned and broke into a run. She didn't even try to make it to the front door. She was wearing designer high heels, and her ankle twisted as she fled. Smothering a cry of distress, she ducked into the guest room. There was an antique phone on the nightstand, totally inappropriate for an emergency. She didn't have time to dial 911. Instead of reaching for the receiver, she dived behind the bed and scurried underneath it, praying she'd be left alone.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out other sounds. When a hand wrapped around her ankle and tugged, she screamed at the top of her lungs. The man dragged her across the polished wood floor. Rolling over, she kicked out with her free leg, but failed to connect. He caught her other foot and wrenched her legs apart. Some kind of mask covered the lower half of his face. He had dark eyes.

Those eyes were all she could see. Her soul seemed to separate from her body, drifting up to the ceiling. When he clamped a gloved hand across her mouth, she snapped back into reality. She bit down on his palm and bucked underneath him, pummeling him with flying fists. One of her wild blows connected with his throat, and his grip loosened. Her hands found the phone cord. The heavy antique piece came crashing down on his head.

It was just enough to hurt. Not enough to stop him.

With a growl of fury, the masked man picked up the phone and threw it, smashing a hole in the drywall. Then he grabbed her by the front of her blouse and slammed her into the hardwood. Pain exploded in her skull. Lucidity flickered in and out like candlelight. When she came to, her hair was wet and warm.

"Fucking bitch," the man said, straddling her waist. "I was just going to fuck you. Now I'm going to fuck you _and_ kill you."

Another voice said, "Get off her."

The man looked over his shoulder. His partner, also wearing a half mask, was standing in the doorway.

"No DNA," the partner said.

"No witnesses," her attacker replied. Then he grabbed a decorative pillow from the top of the bed and held it over her face.

Michelle didn't think she had any fight left in her. She was wrong. Instinct took over and her muscles sprung into action. Robbed of oxygen, fueled by panic, she clawed at his forearms, searching for tender skin. Her fingernails found no purchase, only slick leather. Her heels scraped uselessly across the floor.

_Stop fighting._

Philip's voice spoke to her. Not from down the hall, but from another place.

_Play dead._

She forced her arms and legs to go slack. The man continued to smother her, not letting up until she was almost unconscious. When he lifted the pillow to study her, she kept her eyes open, staring sightlessly into the dark recesses under the bed. Her lungs ached to draw in a full breath, and black stars twinkled behind her eyes. Her bladder released in an embarrassing rush, as if her system was shutting down.

The man made a noise of disgust and dropped the pillow. He scrambled to his feet to avoid getting wet. Urine soaked into the fabric of her skirt, which was bunched around her hips. She lay in a puddle of her own body fluids, dying.

"What a waste," her attacker said.

"You're a sick fuck, you know that?"

"You told me to take care of her."

"I meant knock her out or tie her up. Jesus Christ."

Unable to draw a breath, she let the black fog take her.

CHAPTER ONE

Mia Richards rose to her feet as her new client, Cole "Shank" Shepherd, walked through the door.

She'd anticipated feeling resentment toward him, even loathing, so she schooled her features into a pleasant mask as she stepped forward to greet him. Not too pleasant—there was no need for coy friendliness or overt displays of interest.

Yet.

The stark prison photograph she'd pored over the night before hadn't done him justice. With his chin up and his head tilted to the side, displaying the spider's web tattoo on his neck, he'd resembled an ordinary white male thug. All hard edges and hooded eyes. He was better looking in person. Taller and more intimidating. She registered his towering height along with the span of his broad shoulders, his bulky biceps and ink-sleeved arms. He wore a plain T-shirt with no leather jacket for protection; maybe he'd left it with his bike. Faded Levi's covered his long legs. His scuffed motorcycle boots were almost Frankensteinian.

She lifted her gaze to his face. His eyes were the color of amber ale, pale brown and a little bloodshot. He had dark hair, cut razor-short on the sides and longer on top. His jaw was angular, his nose had seen better days, and his mouth was a sardonic slash. There was a sharpness to him that extended beyond his features.

Mia felt a jolt of unease. She hadn't expected him to be so attractive. He was the kind of man who would draw female attention wherever he went, based on his build alone. Some women were excited by danger. They probably went crazy for his tattoos and checkered past, too. Mia was disturbed by her own lack of repulsion. Executing her plan was going to be even more difficult than she'd imagined.

Tamping down her nerves, she offered him a polite smile. "You must be Cole. I'm Mia Richards."

He gave her figure a brief perusal as they shook hands. She'd taken pains with her appearance today, applying extra makeup and styling her sleek brown hair in tousled waves. Her slim-fitting skirt clung to her hips and her silk blouse accented soft curves. Overall, the effect wasn't showy or obvious. That was next week.

His hand was big and rough, dwarfing hers. The warmth of his skin seemed to soak into her bones, making her aware of the chilly air-conditioning. She'd cranked it down to compensate for her nervous sweat, and the one-hundred-degree heat outside. Although it was late October, the blazing temperatures hadn't waned. It was summer all year round in Indio, California.

He smiled back at her in a way that suggested he liked what he saw. There was a hint of dark humor in his expression, as if he thought this was all a ruse. "Should I call you Dr. Richards?"

She released his hand and closed the door behind him. "I have a PhD in psychology, but I'm not a medical doctor. You can call me Mia."

"Mia," he said in a lower pitch.

God. The man's voice was a deadly weapon. Instead of using him as an informant, the DA should be employing his services to interview uncooperative female suspects. They'd melt into puddles as soon as he spoke.

She gestured to a set of chairs by a coffee table. "Make yourself comfortable."

"I thought there'd be a couch."

It was a typical comment in her field of work. She doubted he meant to be suggestive, but her mind conjured a vivid picture of him pushing her down on leather cushions. "Sorry," she said, flushing. "No couch."

He examined the room with acuity, as if searching for hidden cameras or escape routes. There were no secret-spy devices in here, as far as she knew. A single window dropped three stories to a crumbling asphalt parking lot. The chairs were cheap, with worn mauve wool cushions and polished beige wood. An art piece of smeared pastels hung on the far wall. She'd seen better prints at fast-food restaurants.

"Is this your office?" he asked.

"No, it's just a space that was private and available."

He returned his attention to her. He didn't seem eager to get started, but that wasn't unusual for required sessions. Many of her clients were reluctant and incommunicative. She didn't take it personally. What concerned her more was her ability to act natural in such a high-intensity situation. She'd been waiting three years for this opportunity.

Three weeks ago, when she'd glanced at Cole's file, she'd known he was the one. The perfect instrument for her needs. She hadn't anticipated her physical reaction to him. She'd been numb for so long, she'd forgotten she could feel.

"Do you know what a forensic psychologist does?" she asked.

His eyes dropped to her mouth and lingered there. "No."

She got the impression that he didn't care what her lips said, or did, unless it included performing blow jobs. Her cheeks heated again as she imagined that scenario. The carpet on her knees. His hands in her hair. "Most people don't."

"Forensics means dead bodies to me," he said. "But I'm still alive. For now."

Mia didn't blame him for assuming his days were numbered. He was in a very vulnerable position. "Forensic scientists often study evidence, including dead bodies, but forensics is anything related to law. Forensic psychologists work in the justice system. We counsel victims of crimes, correctional inmates, police officers..."

"You've worked with inmates?"

"I have."

He gave her a skeptical look. "Male inmates?"

"No," she admitted.

"Figures."

"Why?"

"You'd start a riot in Chino."

He was speaking of the prison where he'd spent almost four years. Mia didn't acknowledge his comment on her appearance. Male patients had complimented her before. Sometimes they hit on her as a defense mechanism. Although she wanted Cole to find her attractive, she hoped she hadn't overdone her makeup and outfit. She was conventionally pretty, not a bombshell. Her curves weren't riot-worthy.

Clearing her throat, she soldiered on. "The important thing to be aware of is that there is no confidentiality agreement between us. If you share incriminating details, I'm under no obligation to keep them secret. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good," she said. "I want you to feel safe here."

"Safe," he said, his lips twisting. "Right."

"Being a criminal informant is incredibly stressful."

"No shit."

"In this space, you don't have to pretend you're anything else. You can let down your guard with me. I'm not an investigator."

"You just work for them."

"As an impartial consultant."

"There's no such thing as impartial."

He wasn't the trusting sort. That was fair; she wasn't trustworthy.

"I have to evaluate officers, too, so I'm hardly one of their cronies. My assessments wouldn't be very useful if they were biased."

His eyes slid down her legs and back up. "Why you?"

"Why me?"

"They picked you for a reason."

"I was qualified and available."

"You're young and hot. I've been in prison for years. They thought I'd be more likely to show up for a doctor who gave me a hard-on."

His crude words sent a thrill down her spine. The sensation felt strange, foreign. As if her body belonged to someone else. Had the DA investigator chosen her to tempt Cole? She hadn't considered this angle before, but it made sense. Damon Vargas was a shark. He'd asked her to work pro bono so they could keep this assignment off the books. As a victim of a home invasion robbery by motorcycle club members, Mia had a strong motivation to help the investigation. She also had to take extra precautions to protect her identity.

"These sessions are required," she said.

"My participation isn't."

"I won't be able to evaluate you as stable if you don't cooperate."

"I signed on to be a _rat_ ," he said, leaning forward for emphasis. "I agreed to collect dirt on my uncle and regurgitate it to that DA prick. I didn't say I'd sit in an office with a sweet little piece and cry about my childhood."

Although his combative attitude was no surprise, she hadn't expected him to be so frank. "We don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

"Looking at you makes me uncomfortable."

She studied him with trepidation. He was quick and sharp, parrying like the object of his nickname. She didn't know if she could handle him as a client, let alone for other activities.

"Would you prefer a male psychologist?"

"Hell no," he said. "I've had enough male company."

"Then I guess you're stuck with me."

He settled back in his chair, resigned.

She reached for her pen and notebook on the coffee table. The familiar weight in her hands felt reassuring. Professional. She'd never counseled an informant before. The last time she'd tangled with a violent criminal, he'd attempted to rape her and smothered her with a pillow.

She didn't trust Cole not to hurt her. She didn't trust any man.

But "Shank" Shepherd wasn't known for abusing women. Cole had earned the nickname after taking vengeance on the man who'd raped his female cousin. He'd stabbed the perpetrator with a broken bottle, almost killing him. This vigilante act had led to his first felony arrest, a two-year stint for aggravated assault when he was just nineteen. His more recent sentence was for arson. Cole had torched a liquor store owned by a wife beater with motorcycle club ties.

The fact that Cole had been caught for these particular crimes didn't mean he was a noble crusader for female victims. Some men took up arms because they liked to fight, not because they believed in the cause.

Mia didn't choose Cole just because he had a soft spot for women. She chose him because they had common enemies. He had a hair-trigger temper and a tendency toward aggression. She needed a blunt tool, nothing more. She hadn't considered his masculine appeal or his other good qualities, but she should have. An unattractive, morally repugnant man would be easier to use and discard.

"How do you feel about being here?" she asked.

"Trapped."

"Coerced?"

"I made my own bed," he said, after a pause.

"You can tell me if you've been mistreated by anyone in law enforcement."

"I'm not worried about that. I can defend myself."

She supposed that was true; he looked like a coiled mass of tension, ready to spring.

"According to your file, you were offered an early release in exchange for insider information about the Dirty Eleven Motorcycle Club. Your uncle is the president."

"That's right."

"Investigator Vargas said you took the deal because two inmates made an attempt on your life."

He touched the tattoo on his throat, reflexive.

"What happened?"

"They caught me in the laundry room, where I worked. One of them hooked me around the neck with a twisted towel."

"How did you escape?"

"I flipped him over on his back and knocked the wind out of him. His buddy went down after a few punches. The first guy was harder to beat, but I got lucky with a choke hold. He was unconscious by the time the guards got there."

"Why would they want to kill you?"

"They're Aryan Brotherhood," he said, shifting in his seat. "We don't get along."

"You and them, or them and your club?"

"Both."

"Would they have made another attempt?"

"Definitely."

"Could you transfer to another prison?"

"Not with only six months left in my sentence."

"What about solitary confinement?"

"The guards are in their pockets. They can get me anywhere inside."

"And outside?"

"I have more protection."

Mia clutched the pen, nodding. No wonder he felt trapped. The Aryan Brotherhood was one of the most powerful prison gangs in California. Cole could either act as an informant or take his chances inside. If he failed to cooperate with the investigation, he'd get sent back to Chino to serve the rest of his sentence.

"You were released yesterday. How are you adjusting to the change?"

"Okay, I guess."

"What have you struggled with?"

"Sounds. I'm used to prison sounds. Harsh noises that bounce off walls. Men shouting. The guards wear rubber-soled shoes that squeak on polished concrete. Even in the exercise field, it's isolated. Every sound is confined. Out here, there are a million random noises. Traffic and music and open space. It goes on forever."

"How does that make you feel?"

His brows drew together. "It doesn't make me feel anything. It just is."

"You've given a vivid description of the way you experience sounds."

"So?"

"Sounds are difficult to put into words, like emotions. But you express yourself well. I'm sure you can apply that skill to describing your feelings. Articulate people are excellent candidates for therapy."

He seemed insulted by her suggestion. "I don't need therapy."

"What do you need?"

"A ticket to Mexico and a fake ID."

"You're wearing an ankle monitor," she reminded him. An alarm would go off if he tried to tamper with the device or leave the country.

He stared out the window, a muscle in his jaw flexing. Investigator Vargas considered Cole a flight risk. Fleeing to Mexico might be a safer choice than ratting out his uncle or returning to prison.

"Have you seen your uncle?" she asked.

"Not yet. I didn't go home last night."

"Where were you?"

"Out with the guys. At a club."

"All night?"

"Most of it."

"You left with someone?"

"What difference does it make?"

"We can talk about your prison time, if you'd rather."

"I left with someone," he said, drumming his fingertips on the wood armrest. "That's why I went there. To get drunk and get laid."

"How did it go?"

"Which part?"

"Any of it. You can describe the whole evening, or just focus on one moment that stands out to you. One feeling."

"The music was too loud," he said. "I had to lean in close to hear my buddies. That was annoying. They were talking while some of the girls were onstage, drinking more than watching. They were soft."

"The dancers?"

"The guys. Men in prison are hard. Not just their bodies, but their faces and their attitudes. They're on point all the time, defensive. The guys in my crew are more settled. Some of them have families."

"And that makes them soft?"

"That and a beer gut, yeah."

"Do you look down on them?"

"No, I envy them. The way they can just relax and not pay attention to every sound or movement."

"Who did you go home with?"

"One of the strippers."

"Was she attractive?"

His hands flexed on the armrest. "Yes."

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Pretty much."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic."

"It wasn't my best performance."

She smiled at the self-deprecating comment. "Are you going to see her again?"

He shrugged, smiling back at her. "Maybe."

Mia figured he could have a different woman every night if he wanted to. That didn't necessarily mean her plan would fail. But she wasn't sure she could go through with it. He was so much more compelling in person. She'd approached the idea of seducing him with a certain amount of detachment. It was another unpleasant task to complete, an indignity to endure. She'd never thought she'd feel the slightest hint of attraction.

Their session was almost over, so she set aside her notebook and they discussed his next appointment. He was supposed to meet with her twice a week at 5 p.m. His "parole officer" was in an office down the hall. Mia was his "life coach." He was required to check in with DA investigators before his visits with Mia. They'd be keeping close tabs on him but not following his every movement.

"Are you married?" Cole asked, glancing at her hands.

She realized that she'd been rubbing the empty spot on her ring finger. Nervous habit. "No, not anymore."

"What happened?"

"He died."

Cole didn't say he was sorry for her loss. He didn't say anything at all, and his silence was an overwhelming relief. She hadn't known she'd wanted that. Needed it. For someone to just accept this news with calm quiet.

"My little brother died a few months ago," he said finally.

Mia returned his favor and didn't respond. It wasn't easy.

"He got stabbed with his own knife and buried in a shallow grave in the badlands."

"Were you close?"

Cole nodded. "He idolized me."

She wondered if Cole would end up the same way. Another body in the desert, picked apart by crows. As he dropped his hand to the armrest, the letters on his knuckles caught her eye. T-I-C-K was spelled out across one. T-O-C-K said the other. She was about to ask what it meant when her phone trilled, signaling the end of the session.

"Time's up?" he guessed.

She stood with him, smoothing her skirt. "Unfortunately, yes."

He seemed relieved, as if talking to her had been torturous.

"You did well," she said honestly. "I want you to feel comfortable here. I'm the only person outside of law enforcement who knows about your assignment. In this space, you have nothing to hide."

"Everyone's got something to hide," he said, pinning her with his gaze.

She stared back at him in silent acknowledgment. If he knew what she was hiding, he'd never return to this office. He was a formidable opponent. She hoped she hadn't made a mistake in selecting him to exact vengeance on her enemies. She might lose her career, her assumed identity—even her life. But this _existence_ she'd eked out for herself wasn't living, anyway. She was an empty shell of a person. She'd been numb for almost three years, burying herself in unsatisfying work. There was no joy. No peace. No solace.

Only her thoughts of retribution kept her going. She wanted the men who'd killed her husband and left her for dead to bleed out in the streets. And the weapon she'd chosen for the job was Cole "Shank" Shepherd.

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