Black Heat by Ruby Laska Page A

between his, trying to communicate some warmth to her chilled skin.
    "You wouldn't understand," she said.
    But he did. He understood entirely too well.
    "Roan, you have incredible potential," he tried, hating the look on her face—self-doubt and disappointment hidden behind a wall of bravery that tugged at his heart.
    "I hate that word," she said, tugging her hand back.
    "I'm sorry, wrong word, what I meant was..." He swallowed but didn't let go of her hand. His mind emptied of anything that made sense. It wasn't potential ; he used to hate that word too, issued too often by his case workers and high school counselors and even one of the older cops who'd wanted to help him turn things around when he'd been picked up for vandalism.
    But what else could he offer this woman, with her fierce independence and all that long hair she hid behind? This woman whose best friend was a damaged dog named Angel, who had no idea the effect she had on him, even dressed in smudged work pants and an old sweater?
    Her hand warmed in his. Her lips parted and she caught her breath.
    And then, somehow, she was in his arms.
    He kissed her, his lips greedy for hers. Her back was lean and muscular under his hands; her hair fell across his neck. She made a sound in the back of her throat, a low cry that spoke of longing and sadness and need.
    "Roan," he muttered, his face against her neck, feeling her pulse race against his skin. "You have no idea how beautiful you are."
    "Quiet," she demanded, wrapping herself more tightly around him. "Don't say anything."
    She slipped onto his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands tangling in her hair, and all he wanted to do was keep kissing her, touching her, holding her. He also wanted so much more than that, his body responding as though he'd never touched a woman, as though he'd been starved for her, only her, always her.
    But then her eyelashes brushed against his cheek and he felt the dampness of her tears. She quickly wiped a hand across her eyes, but it was too late; the mood had changed.
    He drew back from her, his pounding heart drowning out what he needed to say. "I'm sorry," he managed, but he didn't even know what was wrong. "Did I—is it—"
    "I have to go," Roan muttered, scrambling away from him. She pushed her hair back from her face and grabbed her handbag from the table. "I have to get back to work. The door locks when you close it. Angel's fine where she is. If you could...if you could just go—"
    She was out the door, shutting it firmly behind her. Out the window he watched her run across her lawn, down the street, her hair flying behind her. No bicycle—of course, she'd left it at the shop. Still, it was a half mile at least. She had to know that he would have driven her, no matter what happened between them, no matter how upset she was at what they'd done. He slammed one fist into his other hand, uttering the kind of oath he'd given up a long time ago.
    Frustration. Not just the ache in his body, the tension of all that unreleased longing—but also the frustration of things ending this way. He hadn't meant to kiss her. Hell, he was pretty sure she'd started it—no, strike that, neither one of them had started it. It was like a pair of magnets, pulled together despite all the other forces acting on them—except instead of gravity and friction and distance, the forces that should have kept Roan and Cal apart included the fact that he'd found her breaking into the farmhouse, and the fact that they were both carrying around some serious baggage from the past. They had too much in common—parents who'd died, unimpressive school records, a history of trouble wherever they could make it. Wasn't it opposites who were supposed to attract each other?
    But when Cal looked in Roan's eyes and saw the turbulence there, the rivers of pain that emptied into her heart, there was a rush of recognition that felt like...home. He'd dated women whose biggest concern was the sale at the mall or the