Bolt: Bolt Saga: Volume One Page 8

  “More accurate,” Fershan puts in.

  “And so much more serious than ‘god,’” the redhead retorts.

  “And none of it matters right now.” Emma whirls, stabbing a frown at them both, instantly resetting me to suave mode. My composure is still a masquerade but the only logical choice. No way can I let my whole staff witness how fast this woman gives me wood when flaunting her finest case of peeved. Goddamn, she’s resplendent. How the hell have I stayed away from her for three days?

  Inwardly, I put Karma on notice. Tonight, no matter what it takes, this heart-halting dream of a female will be mine again.

  With my gaze still glued on her, I nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember something about him on the news a few days ago. Looks like a motocross poser? Disappears once the cops get on scene?”

  “Doesn’t disappear.” Wade steps forward while asserting it. “Just bolts so fast, it looks like he does. Get it?”

  Though I render agreement with a jerk of a brow, the redhead—her name badge appropriately reading Scarlett Firenze—now decides to buddy up with Fershan for a shouted, “Gotta bolt! Whoop!”

  Holy fuck.

  Emma gives up her frown long enough to join the group in a cheer. Holy fuck, the sequel. Silver lining? The residual humor on her face turns into stunning glints in her eyes, blazing as she turns and explains, “Obvious morale boosts aside, Bolt’s benefiting the city in more ways than he ever intended. Especially downtown, where he’s been focusing his adventures lately.”

  I’m tempted to laugh. Instead, I arch a brow. “Adventures?”

  Her giggle is like bright bells. “Ass kickings? Escapades? Bold acts of mind-boggling bravery?”

  “You could really keep that up, couldn’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Another little laugh, infusing the air with more warmth. “Probably.” Then even more laughing, shooting white-hot flares through my nervous system. “But I won’t.” She nods again at the rooming list. “Because of him, occupancy for tonight just went from thirty-five percent to ninety-eight percent. We’re hoping to call a full house by midnight.”

  “Holy fuck.” I utter it aloud now, indulging a laugh of my own. Talk about things I couldn’t have predicted.

  Wade strides over. “Dude’s been on fast-forward the last few days. Everything from putting down bank robbers to yanking kittens out of trees, from here to Ojai and back. The national news feeds have started carrying updates, and now the guy even has global followers.”

  I deepen my scowl. “Followers? What do you mean?”

  Fershan holds up his phone. Sure enough, there I am. Out of focus, yes. Masked, yes. But the header on whatever social media platform it is—they all look eerily the same lately—proclaims me as “Your friend Bolt: Making vibrators obsolete.” My gaze bugs wider at the number of followers. “Holy shit.”

  “You mean holy ker-ching.” Wade smirks. “Because a whole bunch of those”—he stabs a finger at Fershan’s phone—“are about to be a whole lot of those.” He sweeps the same finger upward, indicating the nearly empty tower of guest rooms over our heads.

  “A tour group.” As Neeta explains the point further, she pulls off her blazer. Only now do I realize her normal shiny business blouse isn’t beneath it. Instead, she’s wearing a polo shirt with the Richards Resorts logo embroidered in the upper right corner. “They left Santa Barbara this afternoon bound for Anaheim but chose downtown LA instead.”

  “Yeah, baby.” Wade pumps a fist. “A Bolt in leather is now hotter than the world’s most famous mouse.”

  “Anyhow.” Emma stresses the point by peeling the light sweater away from her own shoulders, revealing a shirt that matches Neeta’s. “With the last-minute booking, housekeeping didn’t know to staff up for a fast turn, so the management meeting has been replaced by room-flip duty.”

  She beams a gloating grin while delivering the news. I say nothing, letting her have a moment of thinking she’s done with dealing with me for the night. But only a moment. When it’s over, I shuck my jacket and roll up my shirtsleeves. “Excellent. What floor do you need me on?”

  As I expected, she thuds into silence. As I also foresaw, she’s not the only one—though I can’t blame the group for going slack-jawed. I throw my shoulders back, returning the questioning stares with one of conviction. This is different, shaking people up for good reasons—and not when they’re about to piss their pants because I just yanked a robber out of their face or levitated their cat out of a tree. This feels pretty good. Actually, this feels damn good.

  “Mr. Richards.” Neeta spreads her arms. “That’s so kind of you, but—”

  “But what? You’re shorthanded, right? Then let me help.”

  Everyone but Emma—who still pierces me with those twin irises of electric blue—exchanges skittish glances. With arms still open, Neeta approaches me like a trainer would a wild lion. “We were going to tackle the rooms in teams of two.”

  “And there’re thirteen of you here.” I lift my winning grin. In my other life, I called it the look, a deal-closer that scored me everything from sold-out concert tickets to top-shelf booze. Right now, it only turns the woman’s patient smile into a forced grimace.

  “Really, Mr. Richards. It’s not necessary.”

  “Oh, for the love of…” Emma wheels around. “I’ll partner with him.” She mutters it like the kid taking her turn with the tagalong little brother.

  “How big of you.” I add a slight bow to my drawl.

  “Emma.” Neeta’s tone is terse, her lips barely moving. “You don’t have to—”

  “She’ll partner with me.”

  My growl isn’t answered by anyone else. There’s no more time anyway. The team gets down to business, quickly dividing up assignments for the rooms. The entire time that’s happening, Emma stabs fresh glares my way. I return them with the Zen stare of a jujitsu master, having more fun than when I leveled everyone in the room with my surprise appearance.

  And it’s not the first time I plan on getting my way tonight.

  Chapter Six

  Emma

  Damn it.

  On about twenty different levels.

  How many times have I resolved not to end up in exactly this situation, with exactly this man, over the last three days?

  Okay, not the exact same. In the scenarios I’ve been banishing from my imagination more adamantly than chocolate mint ice cream during PMS, I haven’t had a dusting mitt on one hand and a porta-vac in the other. A rhino-sized housekeeping cart hasn’t been wedged between us in the back elevator.

  And Reece hasn’t looked half this good.

  Cheese and rice, there has to be a law against the man getting even hotter when covered in dust, dander, and sweat from changing bed sheets, scrubbing showers, and replacing coffee packets. With his sleeves rolled up, dark stubble shadowing his jaw, and chunks of his thick hair tumbling over his glasses, he’s like a dirtied-up version of a Rolex ad.

  Oooooh. There’s an idea.

  On the other hand, I’m fairly sure I’m the first person on the planet who’s ever seen him like this, and I’m not certain I want to share the privilege with everyone else. It feels…special. Intimate. Inaugural. Several times over the last hour, I’ve caught the man peeking in mirrors and windows, as if even he doesn’t recognize himself. When was the last time he busted his ass for someone other than himself? Though technically, the effort is still about him. In one way or another, some of tonight’s windfall for the Brocade will breeze back over to him—but it’s still nice to see him actually acknowledge that fact.

  “Sewing kit for your thoughts.”

  I leave my musings with a giggle, accepting his offer of the room amenity. His arms are folded over the top of the housekeeping cart, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles in his forearms. Dear God, how I want to lean forward and explore those striations. With my tongue.

  Which would make you different from all the girls in the country club clique…how? Which would prove your
resolve that life can be about more than a man, a mansion, and the most perfect lawn on the block…how?

  “Do I need to offer a pillow chocolate for your thoughts too?”

  I smirk and reach for the foil-wrapped candy as the elevator dings at our new floor. “Now that’s what I’ve been holding out for.”

  But at the speed of light, he snatches my chocolate prize out of reach and the entire cart off the elevator. For a second, I stand and gawk, wondering what trick I’ve just missed—though the Muzak version of Ed Sheeran’s latest hasn’t progressed more than a handful of notes.

  “How…the hell…” I struggle for words that won’t make me sound six kinds of crazy. Not that he’s listening. I race to keep up with his long strides down the hall, concentrating on matching two of my steps for every one of his.

  “Hop to it, Bunny.” He moves with lithe grace even while towing the massive cart, making my throat go dry. It’s one thing to flip through gossip magazine pictures of his globe-trotting exploits but another thing to witness the natural athleticism required for adventures like cycling the Dolomites, kayaking in Costa Rica, snorkeling in Tulum—and those are only the locales I can recall. “We’re on a schedule,” he says while waving a keycard to unlock our next room.

  Room being an understatement.

  We’re now tackling our first suite on the rotation, and it’s one of the biggest in the hotel. The view is nearly as incredible as the one from the penthouse—not a surprise, since we’re just two floors lower. I gasp after pulling the drapes open and stop for a moment to simply stare. The city is a twinkling carpet tonight, cars forming moving threads in a tapestry of mostly amber, emerald, and cobalt. In the distance, the towers of Century City stand like diamond-studded obelisks.

  “Wow.” I can’t help but murmur it, though I refrain from any China references now. There’s a tiny win, at least.

  “You mean that, don’t you?”

  I gasp again—this time from wondering how the man got from trashing empty bottles from the bar across the room to standing right behind me. Since this main part of the suite can patch into the hotel’s house music, Ed Sheeran is still there to remind me not more than a few seconds have gone by.

  “Of… Of course I do.”

  Maybe I can pretend my way back to normalcy. Hell, it’s worked for the last hour. We’ve been a good team, turning rooms at impressive speed. But everything changed back in the elevator, with that single look he bore into me. With that stupid sewing kit he offered. With the chocolate he used as a follow-up. With his charming demand to see into my thoughts—as if he even needed to go through that motion. The way the man can always see into me already…as if he has upgraded x-ray vision… I mean, screw knowing my underwear color. Reece Richards can see the spectrum of my damn thoughts.

  I should be worried about that, right? Even a little more than worried? Something like alarmed? Scared?

  But all I can think about is how good it feels. To be seen…by someone as beautiful and intense and forceful and commanding as him…

  “I mean, it is beautiful.” After two more seconds of his expectant silence, I stammer, “Right?”

  He pulls in a breath. I can all but hear the gears in his head working. “It’s a city,” he finally murmurs. “All cities are beautiful in their own ways, I guess. Lights. Architecture. Movement.”

  “Life.” My exhortation has him do a double take. I know it as certainly as I know the lyrics of the song coming from the hidden speakers over our heads. “It’s life.” And it bears repeating, as I take a step closer to the glass. “A collection of lives. Every one of them is a different story, a different dream, a different goal…but all working together too. Meshing and mixing and reaching for something better than what they were the day before and twining with that same energy in others.” I huff out a little laugh. “Oh, God. I just said all that out loud, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.” His reply, quiet as mine, is filled with a confident husk. I know this because he’s stepped over, sliding closer behind me…and now nearly presses up against me. I sigh deeply, fighting not to lean back into his strength and size and heat. Instead, I focus on his movements, steady as Tulum seas, in the shifting reflection of the tinted glass. “And I could listen all night.”

  My laugh is nearly a snort. “You want some butter for that order of corn, mister?”

  He shifts a little closer. “Only if bunnies like corn.”

  They do. Oh God, they do. Too much…

  “And butter?” Melted to liquid, like the texture of my blood because of his nearness?

  “Tell me more.” His tone is rougher now. Lower. A voice for the bedroom…

  Oh, no.

  I can’t start thinking this way.

  We can’t start thinking this way.

  But all he’s asked for are words.

  Words are safe, right?

  “It’s also…energy.” I must sound ridiculous by now, but he didn’t flinch from all the quixotic shit I’ve already spouted, so why not? “A vibrancy, you know? A pace. A collective craziness, I guess. It’s something…”

  “Something what?” he prompts, filling in my self-interruption.

  “Bigger.” I go with the first thought in my head…my soul. “It’s just…bigger.” But what does “bigger” mean to a guy who’s been around the world at least a dozen times? “To me, anyway.”

  I drag a breath in. The air is suddenly heavy, probably from the weight of my self-consciousness. I feel stripped and vulnerable. It’s not comfortable, but stepping away isn’t an option—especially as Reece moves even closer, nearly caging me against the glass with his tall, hard body.

  Time for a tactics switch. Big-time.

  Snark to the rescue. “Okay, buddy.” I pivot, facing him now and turning up a palm. “There are my thoughts. Now pony up the chocolate.”

  The man isn’t deterred. His face is set in serious lines. His eyes are steel gray. “That’s important to you, isn’t it?” He clarifies. “Living…bigger. Having…more.”

  “No.” I let him see my wince. “Not having more.” I close my hand, pressing the new fist to the center of my chest. “Being more.” At a loss for how to explain further, I face the glass again. “There just has to be…something more.”

  And now there isn’t anything left to say. But why does it feel like I haven’t uttered anything at all? The air is still too thick, and the new song filling it isn’t any help. The Weeknd starts singing—I don’t recognize which song, but does it matter when it’s The Weeknd?—and my mind starts surrendering even more to the heat of the man pressing closer. I know it before even lifting my head to see him, a beautiful blur reflected by the window, towering over me with sensuous intent.

  “There is.” His assurance is a warm breath in my hair, a vibrant caress along my nape. “There is more, Velvet.”

  I swallow hard. Fight the shivers coursing down my spine, inching their way toward the front of my torso…into the curves of my shoulders and the tips of my breasts…

  “Easy for you to say,” I whisper. “You’ve already had more.”

  “Not yet.” Aside from a frisson of tension in his shoulders, nothing else changes. He pushes in tighter. Forms his chest to the back of my head, frames his thighs to either side of my hips. And holy wow, what the backs of his fingers start doing to the lengths of my arms…

  “Not yet?” I stammer. “What part of ‘not yet’ are you referring to? Swimming with the sea turtles in Tulum or skiing the Alps at Christmas? Or maybe…”

  What the hell was I saying again? I care about that less than the title of the song playing around us, though the lyrics are magic in my senses. Words of being freed by a simple touch and never having to rush…

  “You’re my more, Emmalina.”

  It’s pure heat against my neck.

  Liquid fire through my body.

  Awakened truth in my spirit.

  A force I can no longer fight. We can no longer fight.

  “Oh.” It escape
s on shaking breath as my head drops, unable to stay upright as this man slings a net of arousal across my whole body. I’m helpless in his snare, muscles going limp and nerves turning to ash, though I still try to fight the pull by slamming both hands against the glass and pushing back. No use, especially as I drag my stare up, only to have my vision filled by our reflection.

  Our reflection.

  One word now. One image now.

  Bodies pressed. Breaths mingled. Energies joined. Desires awakened.

  “Oh.” I have no idea how I’m able to repeat it or if it even makes sense. “I…I see…”

  “Do you?” His growl is a visceral vibration instead of a spoken reply, pressed into my neck as he slides his left hand along my arm. When he gets to the end, he meshes his fingers with mine against the window. Our clasp forms a heated cloud of condensation. “Do you really see?” He scrapes the corner of my jaw with the edges of his teeth. “Or should I show you?”

  Yes. Show me. Please.

  “No. Th-That’s okay. I-I believe you.” I push through the haze of lust, clinging to my last thread of pragmatism. “Reece. We need to…get back to work…”

  In my head, it sounds like badass management girl. On my lips, it’s more like lusty French maid. The syllables break into breathy pieces as he sweeps his lips up and down my neck.

  “Work? What is this strange ‘work’ you speak of?”

  I push out a dry laugh. He doesn’t. In the dark world beyond the glass, where our figures still tangle, he hunches over me like a forest beast examining its prey—before deciding the best way to kill it. I marvel at how tiny I look compared to him. How helpless. How stunned. Enthralled by my predator’s power…

  “Emma,” the beast softly snarls. “Emma, Emma. How did I go so long without this? Without you?”

  That isn’t supposed to make it all right.

  The goo of my kneecaps tells me otherwise.

  I sag against him, startled when my bare backside scrapes the prominent bulge in his pants. How the hell has he hiked my skirt and dropped my panties before I’ve realized it? And why the hell didn’t I heed Neeta’s advice and not borrow some housekeeping uniform pants for this duty? And what the hell am I doing now, letting myself tremble and whine at the sight of his long fingers against my bare thigh…before he slides them toward my core…