Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

JAKE

This woman is a tornado of chaos. One minute she's giving me shit, the next she's coming on too strong, and then there's her cat, who seems intent on ruining this apartment…

There's a story with the cat, and it's not the one she's telling me.

It was stupid to invite Elaine in here—the kind of stupid that gets a man in trouble. It would be stupider to ask her to stay. But she just kissed me, and my dick is at war with my brain. So I shift on the couch and lift a hand up into the black satin waves of her hair and kiss her red-painted lips, needing them to open for me and let me in.

I have the stupid urge to impress her. She might not think much of my drawings, or my fake career in talk therapy, but I'm good at some things. Maybe, if I play my cards right, she'll let me show her all of them. I suck on that bottom lip I've been eying for the past hour, full and lined with red, and she releases a gusty sigh and leans in closer—then surprises the hell out of me by climbing onto my lap.

Oh, hell yeah. My hand finds her curvy hip and slides around it, drawing her closer, letting her feel how much I appreciate her. My dick was already half-mast, and now it's painfully hard. But I haven't gotten the green light to involve my dick, so I focus on her sweet lips opening to me, her legs straddling me, knees on either side of me on the couch cushions. I pull her closer, deepening the kiss and rocking her against my body, and she rocks back harder, her teeth clashing against mine almost as if she wants to bite me.

We're all over each other, feral, and it hits me that this has escalated quickly. Too quickly. I don't know shit about this woman, other than that she's lying about something, possibly multiple things. So am I, but I haven't really lied to her. Not about anything except for Jake Jeffries being a head shrinker.

Lying isn't something I do because I like it. It's a survival tactic, a job, a trick of the trade.

She meets my gaze, and something glints in her eyes before she really does bite my lip—sending a bolt of pure need straight to my dick. I'd meant to back off, to guide her back to her own square of the couch, but damn it, I don't have it in me. At this particular moment, she's my own personal kryptonite. The sweet distraction I didn't realize I needed after my evening with Anthony Rosings Smith. She wants me, and I want her. Can't I just shut off my brain for half the night? Won't that help me mentally prepare for what's ahead?

I slide my hand around her hip and squeeze her ass, bringing her closer. Sighing into her sweet mouth when she grinds against my dick, the friction the kind of sweet torment that has driven men to acts of insanity.

I guess bringing a strange woman home to the apartment you're staying in for a few weeks before you steal a priceless piece of jewelry qualifies one of them.

And this isn't even the first time I've made that particular mistake. Last time, at least I had the excuse of being so drunk I could barely stand.

Then there's a crash and a yowl from behind the couch, and Elaine practically leaps off of my lap.

I get up, my dick jutting against the zipper of my pants, and see that the cat has emerged from behind the refrigerator with a glue trap attached to the side of his—or I guess her—body.

"Oh no," Elaine says, running to her. The cat steps back and hisses, and again I have an itch in my brain—a feeling of something not being quite right with the two of them.

I scratch my head, trying to get my brain working again, but too much of my blood is still down south. "The guy who owns this place must have put them behind the fridge. They're glue traps, for—"

"I know what they are," she says, biting her own lip this time, glancing up at me with those whiskey eyes. "I don't think he—she's going to let us get it off. We have to find the closest animal clinic."

"Isn't there a vet you go to?"

"Yes," she says, reaching for the cat, who swats at her with a paw and hisses, clearly not into the idea of letting anyone near her or the glue trap. "They told us never to come back."

What, now?

"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something?" I ask, that once mild brain itch turning into a poison ivy patch. My dick has deflated, because this situation feels strange, to say the least.

She made it sound like the cat's dying of incurable cancer, but if that animal's sick, she's spry as hell.And cancer doesn't explain why she looks like she's been living hard for months.

Besides, who the fuck doesn't know whether their own cat is male or female?

Is the cat even hers?

The more I think about it, the more the whole thing stinks worse than those trash bins outside do, even though I can't wrap my head around what she could possibly be up to. She can't know who I really am or why I'm here.

So maybe she is crazy.

Elaine just stares at me and grabs the beer she left on the kitchen counter, taking a long pull of it. "Can you look up the closest place on your phone, Jake? Please ."

The cat's pawing at the glue trap now, and it hits me that it's a hell of a way for a mouse to go out. Stuck where it stands, no ability to escape. Trapped. Doomed. Celestially fucked. I decide I'm going to look behind the fridge later and remove any traps that might still be back there. No one deserves to die like that.

But first I have to get Elaine and her cat out of my apartment. There's something off with her, badly off, and I would have noticed if my dick weren't such a fan of her.

So I grab my phone off the coffee table and start Googling. But I've barely entered in a search when I hear the sound of something spilling, followed by an oh shit and another yowl.

When I turn around, Elaine has somehow managed to spill what looks like her entire beer down the front of her shirt.

How? The opening in the bottle shouldn't be large enough.

"I'm sorry," she says, lifting a hand to her wet chest. For a second, my gaze is drawn down to the slope of her tits, pressing against the front of the wet fabric…but I force myself to look away.

"I don't even know you," she says, looking at me with gorgeous whiskey eyes full of worry. "You must think I'm…"

"No," I say quickly, even though the real answer is yes. "But you're right. You should get Professor X some medical treatment."

"Except…" she pauses. "Could I please borrow one of your shirts? I don't really want to go to the clinic smelling like a brewery." She smiles at me. "I know it'll be much too big, but I can tie it up with a knot—and return it later of course."

It's a reasonable request, and to tell her no would make me a jerk. So I nod. "Yeah, no problem," I say, even though I have no intention of collecting it later.

I bring her inside the bedroom, feeling her presence like it's branding me, because even though I've decided this is a no-go, dead-end situation, she's still a gorgeous woman, and she's about to strip down in my room. Put on one of my shirts.

My attention shifts to the feathers all over the floor and the murdered pillow lying amidst them.

There goes Jake Jeffries's security deposit.

"Sorry," she says self-consciously. "She really likes feathers. I have to sleep on foam."

"No problem," I lie.

I tug a navy blue T-shirt out of the drawer, gritting my teeth, and then back out of the room. Trying not to think of her perfect tits exposed to the functional dresser and the ugly Home Sweet Home prints on the wall.

The door slams shut in my face.

Yes, this woman is a fucking tornado, and I already have whiplash.

"This was a bad idea," I tell the cat in an undertone, then run a hand through my hair. She yowls and bats at the glue trap, eyes full of fire.

I have to keep a low profile until Saturday, then I need to blow town as soon as possible.