White Heat by Brenda Novak Read Free Book Online Page A

grumpiness made that clear. He probably wouldn’t refuse a quick lay if he was in the right mood—he hadn’t refused last time, had he? But he didn’t want her, and he couldn’t be any more obvious about it. She wasn’t willing to get burned a second time. She’d already offered him her heart and soul, and he’d tossed them right back at her. Hell would freeze over before she ever made him that offer again.
    Ignoring his order to keep her dress down, she raised it again and proceeded to paint the rest of her toenails. Without shifting her dress she couldn’t do it comfortably. If he thought ordinary behavior constituted teasing, that was his problem. They’d be “married” in name only. Until they moved into the commune, they wouldn’t even share a bedroom.
    Soon after she’d finished, the scenery outside changed from the green and brown of the rolling hills surrounding L.A. to the monochrome beige of flat desert. By afternoon, they couldn’t get a radio signal and Rachel lamented the fact that she hadn’t brought her iPod. The only sound, other than the warp of their tires on asphalt, came from the fan of the air conditioner. It hummed at full speed but pumped hot air into the cab. According to Nate, they must’ve lost their coolant somewhere along the highway because he couldn’t get the AC to work any better.
    â€œWhy do you still have this old truck?” she grumbled.
    â€œBecause I like it. It has character. And it comes in handy for work—and play.”
    Besides using it on various undercover jobs—jobs like this one—he sometimes took it four-wheeling with the guys. But she never would’ve agreed to ride with him if she’d thought they’d have to travel without air-conditioning. She would’ve flown into Tucson and had him pick her up there. At least that would’ve eliminated this extended trek across the hottest desert in North America. It had to be one hundred and twenty degrees outside. The truck felt like an oven.
    â€œI can’t believe this,” she complained. “We’re in the Sonoran Desert. It’s the middle of July. And we don’t have air.”
    â€œRoll down your window.”
    She did as he suggested. The wind caused strands of her hair to come loose but did little to cool her off. Drops of perspiration rolled down her back and between her breasts. She’d abandoned her sweater long ago. Now she kept raising her skirt over the closest air-conditioning vent to funnel the air up under her dress, which clung miserably to her if she didn’t.
    â€œDo you want me to drive?” she asked, suddenly so restless she felt she couldn’t tolerate another mile.
    â€œI’ve got it,” he said, but when she continued to shift and squirm, he pulled to the shoulder and turned off the engine.
    â€œChange your mind?” she asked.
    â€œNo, I’m getting you a cold drink.”
    He was hot, too. She could see the dampness of his T-shirt, could smell the slight tang of his sweat—and wished she found it distasteful.
    A moment later, her door opened, and he stood there with a bottle of water he’d taken from the cooler in back.
    â€œThanks.” She reached out, but he twisted off the lid and squeezed it down the front of her dress.
    Gasping at the cold, she grabbed hold of the bottle and fought to turn it back on him.
    â€œHey, I’m just trying to help!” he said, laughing at her futile efforts.
    Mad enough at his surprise attack to scramble out and get her own bottle, she flung water at him while he circled the truck to avoid her. She got him by acting as if she’d given up, then pivoting abruptly when he made a move to get in. But he didn’t seem to mind. He merely removed the cap from a third bottle and poured it over his head.
    â€œBetter?” He grinned as he dribbled the last few drops over her head.
    Knowing she looked