Frozen Heat (2012) by Richard Castle
DEDICATION
To all the remarkable,
maddening, challenging,
frustrating people who inspire us
to do great things
ONE
“Oh, yeah, that’s it, Rook,” said Nikki Heat. “That’s what I want. Just like that.” A trickle of sweat rolled down his neck to his heaving chest. He groaned and bit down on his tongue. “Don’t stop yet. Keep it going. Yes.” She hovered over him, lowering her face just inches from his so she could whisper. “Yes. Work it just like that. Nice, easy rhythm. That’s it. How does it feel?” Jameson Rook stared at her intently just before he pinched his eyes into a squint and moaned. Then his muscles went slack and he dropped his head backward. Nikki frowned and brought herself upright. “You can’t do that to me. I cannot believe you’re stopping.”
He let the dumbbells hit the black rubber floor beside the exercise bench and said, “Not stopping.” He pulled in a chestful of air and coughed. “Just done.”
“You’re not done.”
“Ten reps, I did ten reps.”
“Not by my count.”
“That’s because your mind wanders. Besides, this rehab is for my own good. Why would I skip reps?”
“Because I turned away once and you thought I wasn’t looking.”
He scoffed, then asked, “… Were you?”
“Yes, and you only did eight. Do you want me to help you do your physical therapy, or be your enabler?”
“I swear I did at least nine.”
A member of Rook’s exclusive gym slid in behind her for some free weights, and Nikki turned to gauge how much of her and Rook’s childish exchange he’d picked up. From the tinny music spilling from his earbuds, the only thing the other man heard was the Black Eyed Peas telling him it’s gonna be a good night while he stared in the mirror. Heat couldn’t tell what the guy admired more, the row of plugs from his new hair transplants or the snap of his pecs under his designer wife beater.
Rook stood up beside her. “Nice chesticles, huh?”
“Shh, he’ll hear you.”
“Doubt that. Besides, who do you think taught me the word?”
Chesticle man caught her eye in the mirror and favored her with a wink. Apparently surprised that her knees didn’t turn to jelly, he racked his weights and moved on to the tanning beds. Moments like that were precisely why Heat preferred her own gym, a throwback joint downtown with painted cinder-block walls, clanging steam pipes, and a clientele there to work instead of preen. When Rook’s visiting physical therapist—whom he’d dubbed Gitmo Joe—called in sick for his morning session and Nikki volunteered to spot him in his rehab routine, she had considered using her club instead. But there were negatives there, too. Well, one. Namely Don, her ex-Navy SEAL combat training partner with whom she had a history of grappling in bed, not just on the wrestling mat. Don’s trainer-with-benefits days had come and gone, but Rook didn’t know about him and she couldn’t see the point in forcing an awkward encounter.
“Whew. I don’t know about you,” said Rook, toweling his face, “but I’m ready for a shower and some breakfast.”
“Sounds great.” She held out the dumbbells to him. “Right after your next set.”
“I have another set?” He maintained the innocent pose as long as he could pull it off, and then snatched the weights from her. “You know, Gitmo Joe may be the spawn of an unholy union between the Marquis de Sade and Darth Vader, but at least he cuts me some slack. And I didn’t even take a bullet to save his life.”
“One,” was all she said.