“Get up, Carly. Get up and move!” The command, spoken out loud, gave her motivation.
She picked up her robe, opened the door, and stepped out onto the third-floor balcony that ran the length of her apartment. Downtown Fort Worth shimmered in the near distance like a movie set backlit by a haze reflected from the canopy of clouds. Wind whipped past her body with a chill factor unexpected. March in Texas was like that. Eighty-five during the day. Thirty-five by dusk. Tornado weather.
But tonight there was only the cold breeze that felt good against her skin after her dream of unbearable heat. Yet the restless feeling supplanting it wasn’t better. It stung like the winter-tinged air.
Restlessness was dangerous. It was the call of the nomadic life she’d left.
She’d come home, after a decade away, to put down roots. To make a stand, on her own terms. But the fire the night before had destroyed more than merchandise. It had put an abrupt end to her hopes that the transition would be simple, and easy.
Once more she was a tangled mess of loose ends. With nothing to show for her efforts. So then, who was she?
Carly Harrington-Reese was no longer a simple eastside girl. Nor was she a world traveler, with too many high-profile acquaintances but few real friends. She’d jettisoned both former selves for Arnaud. And lost everything. Now here she was again, with nothing to show for putting everything she had into a project.
“Not now,” she whispered to herself. Tonight the dead should stay buried.
Once pushed aside, the anxiety of her dream descended again.
Carly pulled her robe closer, eyes darting right and left. Why did she feel spied upon? As if it was possible for someone to search her out on her third-floor private balcony. No reason to fear anything.
Yet, at the moment, she felt very unsafe. Unsheltered. She could have died the night before. She hadn’t let herself really think about that until now. It was too scary. But that explained the dream. Her unconscious dealing with what she refused to. It didn’t explain why she was suddenly thinking of Noah Glover and Harley.
She knew next to nothing about Noah Glover. She did know he commanded the loyalty of a dog willing to risk his life to save his handler. Harley had brought his owner to her attention. If not for the big bear of a shepherd, they might both have died in the fire. A fire deliberately set.
Carly shivered and wrapped her arms tight about her waist. Who in her life would be willing to risk death to save her? Cousin Jarius? Yes. But he was a police officer. Protecting the public was part of his job description. Not that she needed saving, exactly. She needed comfort. The nudge of her body down low confirmed what she hadn’t been thinking, waking her libido.
“Fat lot of good that’ll do you, Carly.” There was no one to call.
Suddenly she remembered how Noah had looked in the nude, his jaw set in defiance while his body arrogantly ignored all proprieties. No defensive gesture on his part to cover anything. He didn’t need it. Everything on display was worth staring at.
He was hard, everywhere. Muscles strapped his shoulders, rippled down his arms and impressive thighs. Yeah, about those thighs. Firemen spent a lot of time climbing and carrying heavy equipment as they did so. Noah must still work out with them to stay ready, if needed.
A suddenly warmth spread across her skin. She’d seen tons of perfectly toned bodies before. Slept with a few. But gazing at Noah had been a distinct departure. This was a real man, built for real life, not the runway or a perfectly staged photo opportunity. They weren’t movie muscles. His body was built for work.
It was a novelty to look at a man who hadn’t been manscaped within an inch of his life. Noah was all raw male with just enough red-blond hair covering his chest to make examining him interesting. For instance, whorls of hair encircled each of his flat male nipples, erect in the chill of the room. That light furring tapered down his chest to flank his navel before arrowing down to the payoff.
And it was worth it.
Even half aroused in a nest of red-gold curls, there was no mistaking the potential of his johnson, yet to be fulfilled.
Carly slapped a hand against her cheek, shocked that she’d remembered so much of him in such detail. “You don’t even like blonds.”
Not exactly true. She had just never been drawn to light-haired men. But she wasn’t thinking about “men.” She was remembering in pulse-accelerating detail one man. And to think she thought she hadn’t paid that much attention.
She suspected most women only had to look at Noah Glover to want to crawl into bed with him. Despite his ordeal, he’d looked like an ancient gladiator standing in that hospital room—solid, hard, willing, and able to have whatever he chose.
Stirrings of sexual warmth surged through her, bypassing attraction, longing, and desire. The punch it packed was one hundred percent lust spreading into her breasts and clenching low down in her pelvis.