TEMPERATURE'S RISING Read online

  "She's a lawyer."

  "Is she? Good for her." He meant it. He'd always liked Meg. "I figured she'd do well."

  "And she's married. Her name's Crinshaw. Margaret Crinshaw."

  After a moment's deliberation, Jack remembered where he'd heard the name before, and felt his face freeze into a bland mask. Margaret Crinshaw. The attorney who was handling the malpractice suit against him.

  "I'm here on business, Dr. Forrester," Callie disclosed, her tone surprisingly gentle, "to investigate the malpractice charge against you."

  Slowly he straightened his stance. He couldn't find the voice to reply. Callie Marshall had come back home to build a case against him. She'd be working on Grant Tierney's behalf—another weapon in his never-ending arsenal. Disappointment shot through Jack with stunning force. Anger, too. How could she side against him?

  He was past the point of anger at Grant Tierney. He'd been his enemy for so long now, Jack expected the worst from him. The lawsuit itself wasn't particularly worrisome, either. He knew it held no merit. But Callie's cool announcement that she'd be working against him bothered the hell out of him.

  Forcing his jaw to relax, he asked in a conversational tone, "Are you an attorney, too, then, Ms. Marshall?"

  "No. An investigator." She strolled past him in her bare feet, across the tiled floor, looking tense but somehow regal. "I work for attorneys in Tallahassee. I help them gather facts and evidence for various cases."

  "And this case is just … business as usual for you?"

  "Yes." She avoided his gaze, training hers on the life jackets and rafts stacked against the far wall. "Business as usual. Meg felt I'd be the best investigator for this case since I'm familiar with the community."

  "And why did Meg take the case?"

  Callie lifted her shoulder in a dispassionate shrug. "She's known Grant as long as you have. She's been handling some of his real estate dealings, and saw no reason to turn down this case."

  Jack inclined his head and studied her. Callie hadn't been the cool, detached kind when she was younger. She'd been passionate about every quest she'd ever undertaken, even if the goal was only to have a rollicking good time. She'd been passionate about her friendships, too, rushing to the aid of any pal in need. She'd been emotional. Reactive. Righteous. Open. Intensely loyal.

  Now she claimed to be investigating this case against him—her childhood friend—strictly for business reasons.

  He didn't believe it. He'd seen the flash of emotion in her eyes, just moments ago. He wanted to know what that emotion had been, and why she was hiding it. Something had gone wrong—terribly wrong—for Callie Marshall to be working against him. Twelve years had passed and they'd lost touch, but she couldn't have changed that much.

  "I'm not guilty of malpractice, Callie."

  She held up a hand. "Stop right there. I can't discuss the case with you."

  "You don't want to hear my side of it?"

  "No." Her response had sounded too fervent, almost panicked, in the quiet of the boathouse. In a softer, more modulated tone, she amended, "At least, not now. I didn't come prepared to talk to you about it. I didn't even know this boathouse was yours. I was on my way to Grant Tierney's place. If it wasn't for that alligator, I'd—"

  "When will you want to hear my side of the case?"

  She eyed him in exasperation. "If I ever want to hear your side of it, Dr. Forrester, I'll ask for it."

  He raised a brow. "Maybe I won't be willing to give it then."

  She, too, raised a brow. "Maybe you won't have a choice."

  A challenge, if he'd ever heard one.

  The lady herself presented an even greater challenge. She intended to proceed with her "business as usual," as if their friendship had meant nothing to her. He knew her better than that, he swore he did. He just had to peel away this cool, polished coat of armor she was wearing and let the real Callie Marshall come out and play.

  The evening suddenly held a lot of promise.

  Crossing his arms, he shifted his weight into a confrontational wide-legged stance. "Are you telling me, Ms. Investigator, ma'am, that you just happened to be strolling by my boathouse when a gator showed up out of nowhere and, uh, chased you into it?"

  Callie's eyes widened and her jaw lowered in indignation. "I didn't know it was your boathouse. It used to be Mr. Langley's. And no, I wasn't strolling. I was driving to Grant Tierney's beach house when my car got stuck in the sand. I had to—" She stopped herself, refusing to ramble on defensively. "Are you insinuating that I'm lying about the alligator for some underhanded purpose?"

  "Now, now. I wouldn't use the term lying." He ambled toward a workbench and rested his hip against it. "Not in connection with a friend like you. I know you better than that."

  She compressed her lips and felt her face warm. He'd made his point. Why should he believe her about the alligator when she refused to even listen to his side of the malpractice suit? She wouldn't be drawn into that game, though. He wouldn't use their previous relationship to manipulate her investigation. "The truth will eventually speak for itself. Sooner or later, you'll know there's an alligator outside, probably still lurking in those bushes."

  "There haven't been many gators around these parts for years. Are you sure it was a gator?"

  "Of course I'm sure." Did he really not believe her?

  He frowned, plainly unconvinced. "What did he look like?"

  "Well, he had short, stubby legs," she started, "and a long, ugly snout. And his skin was—oh, what do you mean, what did he look like? He looked like an alligator! And he was dragging something orange," she suddenly recalled. "Fabric, I think." Biting her lip with renewed anxiety, she wrapped her arms around herself, vaguely conscious of a pain near her ribs, just below her armpit. She'd taken a fall, she remembered. Ignoring the ache, she asked, "Do you think it could have been orange clothing? A T-shirt, maybe? Could he have attacked somebody?"

  Jack squinted at her as if trying to decide how much stock to put in her story. "If it really is a gator, I suppose it's possible."

  "It is a gator! You've got to believe me."

  "There's one way to prove it beyond a doubt." He threw her a pointed glance. "I'm a great believer in proof, you know." His gaze then went to the door. With a decisive squaring of his jaw, he stalked toward it.

  She lunged at his arm with a panicked cry, digging the fingers of both hands into his warm, muscled biceps and holding on until he stopped. "Don't you dare go out there! You could be killed."

  "Oh, come on, Cal. Don't you think I could take on one measly little ol' gator?"

  Fear nearly squeezed her breathless. She remembered the crazy, death-defying stunts he'd pulled as a kid—like diving from high, rocky waterfalls, leaping between speeding boats, or swimming in shark-infested waters. She'd tried a few crazy stunts herself. But she'd grown up. He obviously hadn't. Releasing his arm, she threw herself between him and the door. "You can't go out there."

  His gaze played over her face, and familiar devils danced in his eyes. "That's not a dare, is it?"

  "No!" she exclaimed with a gasp. "It's not!"

  He grinned and reached around her for the door handle.

  She shoved his arm away and jockeyed her position, shifting to block him. "This is serious, Jack. Alligators are man-eaters. They mutilate their prey, drown it and drag it to their lairs to rot. Do you want to rot, Jack? Do you?"

  That gave him pause. He eased off in his attempt to reach the door handle and fixed her with a pondering look. "Doesn't sound too appealing," he mused. His face, she realized, was very near hers. He seemed to be giving the more gruesome aspects of gator behavior some serious thought.

  She hoped he was. She truly hoped he was.

  The moment stretched on, and she gradually became aware that she'd flattened her palms against his chest to hold him back. Smooth, hard muscle lay beneath the thin cotton of his T-shirt. She felt the strong, steady thumping of his heart, breathed in the virile warmth of his skin, thrilled to t
he power she sensed coiled within his lean body.

  He'd grown so amazingly strong and muscular.

  His salty, male scent provoked memories of times they'd wrestled around as kids. How different it would be to wrestle with him now. A slow, wicked heat spread through her at the thought. How very, very different.

  "Maybe," he said in a solemn half-whisper, "I can outrun that gator, ma'am."

  She blinked, stared, then snapped back to cold reality. "Outrun it!" she cried.

  "My boat is only a few dozen yards away. A short stroll down the dock. Of course, I'd have to stop and unlock the door to the boat slip when I got there, but—"

  "But nothing!" She shoved him as hard as she could, which barely set him back a step. He hadn't changed at all from the reckless daredevil he used to be. "You can't risk outrunning a gator. I'm lucky I made it in here alive. They're faster than horses. Like huge lizards. And you know how fast lizards can dart around."

  "Darn fast," he agreed.

  Was that amusement glinting in his eyes? "Damn you, Jack Forrester, do you believe me that there's a gator outside this door, or not?"

  "Of course I do. You wouldn't be yelling, hanging on to me and clawing my chest if there wasn't. Unless, of course—" his voice dropped a husky decibel and his wide, firm mouth turned up at one end "—circumstances were very, very different."

  His gaze meandered down her face in a thoroughly unsettling way. Warmth surged through her. She found it hard to breathe. He was teasing her, of course. Just teasing. But he'd never teased her in that particular way when they'd been kids. He'd never acknowledged that he was a man and she, a woman, or hinted at the things they could do.

  "If you believe me about the alligator," she whispered, shaken beyond all reason, "then get serious about the danger we're facing. Don't scare me anymore."

  "Just what is it you're scared of, Callie?"

  Nothing scared her more than her heart-thudding response to his hoarse, intimate tone and searching stare. She found herself wanting to give him whatever he was looking for. And more.

  "The alligator, of course," she managed to reply. Despite the chaotic pounding of her heart—and an increasing pain beneath her arm—she rallied enough to add, "I told you to call me Ms. Marshall."

  He drew back slightly, his mouth a firm line. "In that case, Ms. Marshall, don't you worry. Gators are mean, but they can't break down doors." He nodded toward the door, then returned his gaze to hers. "As long as that one stays shut, we'll be safe and snug."

  Safe and snug.

  Stranded alone with him.

  She considered outrunning that gator.

  "Relax," Jack said, notably unperturbed. "We may be here awhile."

  Her muscles tensed at the thought. She shouldn't be here, or anywhere near him. "How far away is your boat, did you say?"

  "At least a hundred yards."

  She frowned. Hadn't he said a few dozen before? "Isn't there any way to get to the boat from in here?"

  "Nope. I added this storage room onto the back of the boathouse as an afterthought. We'd have to walk around the outside. And if we made it to the boat slip, we'd have to stop to unlock the door. Come to think of it…" He patted his pockets, as if searching for something, then grimaced. "I believe I dropped the key. I'll bet it's lying out there in the sand somewhere."

  He shrugged apologetically. His windblown hair glimmered like a golden halo around his suntanned face. The angelic effect, however, only emphasized the rugged cut of his jaw, the savage scar on his cheek and the disturbing sparkle in his brown eyes.

  Never had a man looked so much like an angel and a devil at the exact same time.

  He reached behind her and flicked a switch. Light brightened the place. She glanced around and realized the room had been tiled and finished, complete with a sink, refrigerator and fish-cleaning board.

  Before she could comment, Jack's gaze swung back to her in a double take and narrowed on her blouse, just beneath her left breast. "What's that?" He moved a step closer, scrutinizing. "Is that blood?"

  She glanced down in surprise. She'd been conscious of pain since she'd fallen on the boathouse step, but hadn't thought much about it. Now she noticed a red stain slowly spreading across the white silk of her blouse.

  Blood.

  A feeling of wooziness came over her, and she looked away from the stain. She was an adult now. The sight of blood shouldn't bother her. Curling her bottom lip between her teeth, she forced the faintness away. The injury couldn't be too bad, she assured herself. It didn't hurt that much.

  As the ramifications of her situation sank in, she devoutly hoped the bleeding would stop on its own without requiring the local doctor's attention.

  Unfortunately, it seemed she already had his attention.

  "What happened?" he demanded, drawing his golden-dark brows together in concern.

  "I … I fell," she said, embarrassed to tell him even this much about the injury. "On the boathouse step, when I was running from the gator."

  "I'd better take a look at it." Decisively he ordered, "Take off your blouse."

  * * *

  2

  « ^ »

  "Take off my blouse? Absolutely not. This little scratch doesn't need medical attention."

  "And how do you know that?"

  "It hardly hurts at all," Callie lied, trying to look unaffected by the pain even as she held her arm away from her body at an awkward angle. "What I really need is a cell phone. Don't you carry one for emergencies? We can call the authorities about the alligator. I tried my phone back at the car, but the batteries must have—"

  "Sorry," Jack interrupted. "I'm not carrying a cell phone. They don't work well out here. I have a beeper, but that won't help us now. Besides, your injury might need stitches. Who else are you going to get on the Point to stitch you up?"

  "I don't need stitches." She hoped. She didn't particularly like the idea of a needle piercing her flesh. Even worse, though, was the prospect of taking her blouse off in front of him.

  He frowned. "You're not afraid to let me take a look at your wound because of that lawsuit, are you?" He peered suspiciously at her. "You're not doubting my intentions, or my ability to help?"

  "I hadn't thought of that," she admitted with surprise. She had every right to worry about a doctor she was investigating for malpractice. She didn't doubt his intentions were good, though, or that he was capable of dressing a wound.

  "The claim is bogus, Callie. Malicious."

  She pursed her mouth. She wasn't in the best position to challenge that. Not while she was stranded alone with him and struggling to ignore the sweet metallic scent of blood and the slippery feel of it against her skin. "We'll see."

  "Yes, we will. If you don't bleed to death first."

  She felt herself blanch. Surely the bleeding would stop soon. Surely they'd think of a way out of here. "It barely hurts," she maintained, feeling light-headed. "It's nothing."

  Jack raised a shoulder. "Then please, make yourself at home." He gestured toward a few patio chairs. "Have a seat. Feel free to bleed as much as you'd like. Ooze to your heart's content."

  She lifted her chin at his sarcasm. That small act of defiance made her dizzy.

  With a rueful smirk, he muttered, "I'll round up some first-aid supplies. Get that damp, sandy blouse off the wound, and sit down before you fall down."

  Callie swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and sat down in a patio chair, while Jack strode to a stainless steel sink and rifled through an upper cabinet. His muscle-hugging shirt and tight jeans drew her gaze to places she shouldn't be noticing. He looked strikingly unlike any doctor she'd ever visited.

  But he is a doctor. He sees women without their blouses every day. No amount of reasoning helped. She couldn't, wouldn't, take her blouse off in front of him.

  The pain in her ribs—below her armpit, near her breast—began to seriously throb. What damage had she done? She lifted her arm and craned her neck to see, but her breast got in the way. Un
willing to let this inconvenience dissuade her, she said, "If you'll just lend me a wet cloth, a bandage and some ointment, I can patch this up myself."

  "Yeah, you're a real Florence Nightingale." He shot her a droll glance. "Don't look at it, Cal. If you pass out, you'll hurt yourself even worse."

  Feeling undeniably woozy, she focused on him instead of her wound. He retrieved a large white box from the upper shelf, then turned on the water and thoroughly soaped his hands clear up to his wrists, as if he were scrubbing for surgery.

  Anxiety knotted her stomach. "Give me a little more credit than that," she chided with false bravado. "I haven't passed out over the sight of blood in years. I'm not a kid anymore, in case you haven't noticed."

  He paused. Smoothly, then, he dried his hands, ambled toward her with the medical kit and pulled up a chair. Leaning close, he met her gaze. "I've noticed."

  An illogical warmth flushed through her.

  She could see how her sister had fallen in love with him. His potent masculinity and dark, stirring regard were enough to disarm any woman. Except her. She knew him too well to allow her common sense to melt away in the heat of his stare.

  "Your blouse is still on."

  She felt a flush climb into her cheeks. "Even if you treat this wound for me, I'm still investigating the case against you. Just because you're being nice doesn't mean—"

  "So that's the problem. You think you'll be indebted. Forget it. I'm only doing what has to be done. I mean, how would it look in the headlines—Woman Bleeds to Death in Surgeon's Boathouse." He shook his head in mock reflection. "Couldn't be good for business."

  She almost gave in to a smile. Almost.

  Her anxiety wouldn't allow it. Her hands involuntarily clutched the fabric below her collar, closing defensively over the top buttons. "Jack," she whispered, her back against the proverbial wall, "I … I can't take my blouse off in front of you."

  He stared at her, incredulous. "You're embarrassed to take off your blouse?"