Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(60)

"No," I said helplessly. "I can't get into that car when I'm all disgusting and dirty."

Hardy opened the door and manhandled me inside. "Get in, darlin'. We're not walking home."

I cringed every second of the short drive to 1800 Main, knowing we were ruining the interior of his car.

And there was worse to come. After Hardy parked in the garage beneath our building, we approached the elevator that went to the lobby. I stopped like I'd been shot, and looked from the elevator to the stairs. Hardy stopped with me.

The absolute last thing I wanted to do was in get back on another elevator. It was too much. I felt every muscle tense in rejection of the idea.

Hardy was silent, letting me struggle through it. "Shit," I choked out. "I can't avoid elevators for the rest of my life, can I?"

"Not in Houston." Hardy's expression was kind. Soon, I thought, the kindness would turn to pity. That was enough to spur me forward.

"Cowboy up, Haven," I muttered to myself, and pushed the up button. My hand was shaking. While the elevator cab descended to the garage, I waited as if I were at the gates of hell.

"I'm not sure I actually thanked you for what you did," I said gruffly. "So . . . thank you. And I want you to know, I'm not usually . . . troublesome. I mean, I'm not one of those women who needs to be rescued all the time."

"You can rescue me next time."

That actually pulled a smile from me despite my anxiety. It was exactly the right thing to say.

The doors opened, and I just did it, made myself walk into the metal box, and I hunched into the corner as Hardy followed. Before the doors had closed, Hardy had pulled me into a tight-bodied clinch, length to length, and our mouths came together, and it seemed as if everything I had felt that day, anguish, anger, desperation, and relief, all surged to a flash point of pure white heat.

I responded with frantic kisses, pulling his tongue into my mouth, wanting the taste and feel of him all over me. Hardy gave a short, sharp pant, as if taken unawares by my response. He gripped my head in his hand and his mouth worked over mine, hungry and sweet.

In a matter of seconds we were at the lobby. The doors opened with an annoying beep. Hardy pulled away and tugged me out of the elevator, into the shining black marble lobby. I was sure we looked like a pair of swamp creatures as we went past the concierge desk to the main residential elevator.

David, the concierge, gaped as he saw us. "Miss Travis? My Lord, what happened?"

"I had a little . . . sort of, well . . . accident at Buffalo Tower," I said sheepishly. "Mr. Cates helped me out."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No, we're both fine." I gave David a meaningful look. "And there is really no need to tell anyone in my family about this."

"Yes, Miss Travis," he said, a little too quickly. And as we went to the residential elevator, I saw him pick up his phone and start to dial.

"He's calling my brother Jack," I said, trudging into the open elevator. "I don't feel like talking to anyone, especially not my nosy, interfering — "

But Hardy was kissing me again, this time bracing his hands on the wall on either side of me as if I were too dangerous to be touched. The hot openmouthed kiss went on and on, and the pleasure of it was overpowering. I reached up and let my hands follow the thick slope of his shoulders, the muscles bunched and rigid.

I was dimly amazed by the effect of my hands on him, the way his mouth locked on mine as if he were desperately feasting on something that might be taken away. He was aroused, and I actually wanted to touch him there, put my hand on that heavy bulge. My trembling fingers slid over the flat reach of his stomach, crossing the warm metal buckle of his belt. But the elevator stopped, and Hardy gripped my wrist, tugging it back.

His eyes were a hot, soft blue, his color high as if with fever. He gave a shake of his head to clear it, and pulled me from the elevator. We were at the eighteenth floor. His apartment. I went with him willingly, waiting at the door as he entered the combination. He misdialed, causing it to beep indignantly. I bit back a grin as he swore. He gave me a wry glance and tried again, and the door opened.

Taking me by the hand as if I were a small child, Hardy led me to the shower. "Take your time," he said. "I'll use the other bathroom. There's a robe on the back of the door. I'll fetch some clothes from your apartment later."

No shower had ever been as good as that one. I doubted any future ones would even come close. I turned the water temperature up to near-scalding, groaning with pleasure as it rushed over my cold, aching limbs. I washed and rinsed my body and shampooed my hair three times.

Hardy's robe was too big for me, trailing the floor by at least a half-foot. I wrapped myself in it, in the scent that was now becoming familiar. I tied the belt tightly, rolled the sleeves up several times, and looked at myself in the steam-slicked mirror. My hair had sprung up in curls. Since there were no styling tools other than a brush or comb, there was no help for that.

I would have expected to feel drained after what I'd experienced, but instead I felt alive, overstimulated, the soft terry of the robe abrasive on my tender skin. Wandering to the main room, I saw Hardy dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, his hair still wet from his shower. He was standing at the table, pulling sandwiches and containers of soup from a paper bag.