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  Blowing it Off

  Lexxie Couper

  Stimulated, Book One

  A fire has destroyed the studio of glassblower Phoebe Masters. And she knows what that means—a visit from the arson investigators. The two men who reduced her heart to cinders. Men she’d hoped never to see again.

  One wild weekend with Phoebe overwhelmed Will Bradley and Damon Hunt. Like wankers, they blew it off, burning any chance for a future with the talented beauty. The investigation gets them back in her life, but now they have to prove the three of them were meant to be together. Their strategy?

  A body-blazing inferno none of them will ever be able to extinguish.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Blowing it Off

  ISBN 9781419934742

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Blowing it Off Copyright © 2011 Lexxie Couper

  Edited by Kelli Collins

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication June 2011

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Blowing it Off

  Lexxie Couper

  Dedication

  To Heather Boyd. Who wrote me a little note halfway through my battle with this book (and the subsequent self-doubt that came with that battle) and hid it in my handbag for me to find, knowing it would make me smile. Which it did.

  And to my dad, the best Vice Captain my hometown’s fire brigade ever had.

  Author Note

  Morpeth is a real village, forty minutes’ drive north of my home. The places and beauty of the town mentioned in this tale are true. The people I mention, not so much.

  Trademarks Acknowledgements

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Alien: Twentieth Century Fox

  Bilbo: The Saul Zaentz Company, DBA Tolkien Enterprises

  Ducati: Ducati Motor Holding S.P.A.

  Hells Angels: Hells Angels Corporation

  Superman: DC Comics Inc.

  Wheaties: General Mills IP Holdings II, LLC

  Chapter One

  Morpeth, Australia

  “You know they’re going to call the big guys in for this, don’t you?”

  Sliding her fingers over the smooth, solid length gripped firmly in her left hand, Phoebe Masters flicked a sideward glance at the tall streak of stunning blondeness beside her and bit back a sigh. “I don’t want the big guys.”

  The blonde—a.k.a. Sami Charlton, a.k.a. BFE (Best Friend Extraordinaire), a.k.a. Australia’s most successful female motocross rider—let out a chuckle. “I don’t think you’ll have a choice, Pheebster. Your studio’s been gutted. With a fire this bad you know they’re going to call in the investigation team. If Dad was alive he’d tell you the same thing.”

  Phoebe’s stomach lurched and she ground her teeth. Damn it, when she’d up and moved from Newcastle to the utterly parochial, completely charming historical village of Morpeth six months ago, she’d planned to never see the investigation team again.

  “And I don’t believe for a second that you don’t want to see them.”

  Sami’s calm statement made Phoebe’s pulse pound just a little harder in her neck. She bit back another sigh. Here she was, standing in the smoking, charred remains of what was once her studio, the place she spent every day blowing molten glass into artworks of stunning beauty, with the acrid, wholly jarring stench of scorched wood and wet timber stinging her sinuses with every breath. Reminding her with no uncertainty that everything she held dear and valuable was destroyed—and she was thinking about Damon Hunt and William Bradley.

  “I don’t want to see them,” she grumbled, glaring at the object she gripped in her hand, the only thing salvageable in the heartbreaking mess. A long, thick shard of glass that, thanks to the fire, now looked like a massive, slightly demented glass dildo.

  “See who?”

  The gruff male voice behind Phoebe made her jump, the glass length almost slipping from her fingers as she did so. She pulled a face, wrapping her fingers tighter around the accidental dildo like it was her one and only life preserver. “No one.”

  “The investigation team from Newcastle,” Sami said to the elderly man now standing on Phoebe’s left. “This has to be arson. There’s no other explanation for such an accelerated burn of materials designed to withstand high temperatures, don’t you think?”

  The old bloke’s wiry salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose up his creased forehead and he tugged at his somewhat scruffy firefighter’s uniform with calloused hands. “And what would you be knowin’ about arson and accelerated burn, missy?”

  Phoebe let out the sigh she’d been holding back for the last five minutes or so. “Captain Kilgour,” she placed her fingers lightly on the prickly old firefighter’s arm, “this is my best friend, Sami. Sami’s dad was the commander of the Newcastle District Fire Investigation Unit.” She turned and gave Sami a pointed look. “Sami, this is Keith Kilgour, the captain of Morpeth’s fire brigade.”

  Kilgour squinted at Sami. “Was?”

  Sami nodded. “Was.”

  Phoebe knew her best friend wasn’t going to expand on her answer. The death of her father in a house fire still hurt Sami deeply.

  Kilgour’s eyes narrowed even farther before he returned his attention to Phoebe. “Well, much as I hate the idea of those upstart buggers from the city coming here and tellin’ me my business, the young missy is right. There’s somethin’ about the feel of the place I don’t like.” He sucked in his checks and smacked his lips. “It tastes wrong.”

  Sami nodded. “Too bloody right.”

  Phoebe frowned, ignoring the fluttering little knot in her belly at the “upstart buggers from the city” coming anywhere near her. “So what you’re telling me,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her breasts, “is I can’t start cleaning up until the investigation team—”

  “William and Damon,” Sami interjected.

  Phoebe gave her a scowl. Damn, she was one for providing details today. “Until the Newcastle team comes up and—”

  “Work their magic,” Sami finished for her, a grin playing with the corners of her lip-glossed mouth.

  Phoebe scowled harder. Were it not for Captain Kilgour standing beside them, Sami would be finding herself the recipient of a bloody good punch to the arm. Work their magic? Under no circumstances were Will Bradley and Damon Hunt working any kind of magic on her again. Ever.

  “That’s right, Ms. Masters,” Captain Kilgour agreed, giving Phoebe what she suspected was supposed to be a reassuring smile. “The Newcastle boys will need to take a
look at this before you can touch it.”

  Phoebe let out a shaky sigh. Damn it.

  “I could take a look around, Dad.”

  A younger version of Keith Kilgour, dressed in a pristine firefighter’s uniform that almost—almost—hid a paunch and narrow shoulders, sidled his way over the charred mess, giving Phoebe a wide smile as he plucked the glass shaft from her hands. Blue eyes tried hard to hold hers, the effort lost when Captain Kilgour barked out a laugh.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Harvey. You barely passed the last fire science and behavior training course.”

  Harvey Kilgour’s fleshy cheeks glowed red and Phoebe suppressed a need to shuffle her feet. Since moving to Morpeth, she’d more than once had to decline Harvey’s eager invitations to coffee, lunch, dinner, breakfast, a trip to the local drive-in. Six months of being “courted” by Harvey. And that was the word he used whenever he asked her out, courted, as if their relationship was anything more than determined suitor and non-interested recipient. Several rejections later and he still hadn’t taken the hint. Still, seeing him get shot down by his father was a touch uncomfortable.

  It wasn’t that Harvey was grotesque or repulsive; he wasn’t. In fact, he seemed quite personable in a slightly desperate, puppy-dog kind of way. He was polite, charming, had an old-fashioned sense of propriety and an almost boyish innocence about him. He’d turned up with handpicked flowers a few times, had offered to fix anything in her home or studio if needed. When she’d come down with that very nasty dose of the flu, he’d arrived at her door with a steaming boiler of vegetable soup so bloody delicious, it was all she could do not to run her fingers around the inside of the pot when it was all gone. Soup he’d made. How could she say no to a guy like that?

  How indeed? But she had. Often.

  For reasons she couldn’t put her finger on, something in her belly told her to stay away from Harvey—or at least keep him at arms’ length. Something that made her feel…unsettled.

  What? More unsettled than the way Damon Hunt and William Bradley make you feel? Is that even possible?

  Yeah, but that unsettled had nothing to do with an inexplicable discomfort and everything to do with two tall, dark, sarcastic and alpha-to-the-extreme men awakening sexual longings she couldn’t deny no matter how hard she tried.

  A shiver rippled up her spine and before she could shut it out, a flash of memory blinded her…

  William’s towering form, buck naked and completely aroused, his dark blond hair a tousled mess, his eyes glinting with hunger as Damon impaled her on his equally impressive cock. Damon’s full lips traveling over her throat, his strong hands squeezing her backside, her moans of rapture a familiar soundtrack to a weekend spent—

  “Better go write the report—”

  “Can I walk you to the—”

  “Time I hit the road—”

  Phoebe blinked, the cacophony of voices jerking her from the wholly unsettling memory. Her heart pounding too hard for her liking, she looked at Sami, for the moment needing to focus on one thing, one speaker—and her best friend was the least…vexing. “You’re going?”

  Sami pulled a face. “Yeah, I know. I suck. But I have a photo shoot with Inside Motor-Sport magazine this afternoon and a meeting with my agent in less than three hours.”

  Phoebe shot her watch a quick glance. With the way her best friend rode the classic Ducati she loved like a…well, a lover, Sami would make it back to Sydney with time to spare, as long as she wasn’t arrested for speeding.

  “Okay,” Phoebe grumbled, turning completely to the Amazonian blonde to give her a hug. “Next time come up for longer than just a night.”

  Sami squeezed her back. “Hey, if some prick hadn’t burned your studio down I’d be mooching off you for brekkie and you’d be wishing I’d hurry the hell up and go home.”

  Phoebe chuckled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Sami flashed the kind of grin that made her the darling of the motocross world—cheeky, sexy and very, very devilish. “Of course I am. Say g’day to Damon and Will for me.”

  Phoebe’s belly flip-flopped. “Bugger off with you, Charlton.”

  With another squeeze, this one a tad gentler, Sami turned on her heel and strode from the blackened mess of Phoebe’s studio, hips swaying. “Better still,” she tossed over her shoulder, swinging her helmet beside her leg like a schoolgirl swings her school bag, “give them both a kiss.”

  “A kiss?” Captain Kilgour’s voice sounded mortified.

  Phoebe bit back a sigh and, turning from the sight of her friend’s departing leather-clad form, gave the firefighter a placating smile. “She’s kidding.”

  Harvey laughed, slapping his dad on the back. “Of course she is, Dad. Why would Phoebe want to kiss the arson investigators?”

  Warmth crept up Phoebe’s neck and over her cheeks and, unable to stop herself, she pressed her thighs together, the sudden flush of tension tickling her labia, making her want to groan. Why would she want to kiss the arson investigators? She wouldn’t. Especially when those two men were Damon Hunt and William Bradley.

  Yeah, right.

  * * * * *

  “Head’s up, Tiny, we’ve got a job.”

  William Bradley spun on his desk stool to glare at the tall man crossing the room toward him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Tiny?”

  Damon laughed, dropping into the low, beat-up couch sitting in the middle of their cramped office. “Well, seeing as it’s been eight years now since I first met you, I’m guessin’…” he affected a pensive expression, crossing his ankles on the cluttered coffee table and lacing his fingers behind his head, “a lot. Besides, you’re a short-arse. What else am I going to call you?”

  Will shook his head and rolled his eyes, giving his partner an exasperated look. “I’m two inches shorter than you.”

  Damon held out a hand. “There you go. Short-arse.”

  “You’re six foot three!”

  Damon grinned. “My point exactly.”

  Will threw a tennis ball at him. “Yeah, yeah, Stretch. Tell me about the job.”

  “You’re going to love this. It’s in Morpeth.”

  Every muscle in Will’s body tensed. He drew in a slow breath, leaning forward on his stool. “Morpeth?”

  Damon gave him a single nod, his brown gaze steady.

  Will pulled in another breath. Morpeth. The village pretending to be a town north of Newcastle was populated by entrenched, born-in-the-blood locals and artisans inspired by the timeless beauty of the place. Not the kind of place an arson investigator usually found himself. But then, he’d felt an almost palpable urge to jump in his car and drive north more than once since a particular artisan took up residence.

  Damn, his heart shouldn’t be thumping as hard as it was.

  He narrowed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge how dry his mouth had become. “What’s the job?”

  If possible, his partner’s eyes grew mischievous and intense. “Investigating a suspicious fire that destroyed an art studio.”

  Will’s heart thumped harder. “What kind of art studio.”

  Damon’s lips curled. “A glassblower’s art studio.”

  “I take it by the smile on your face the artist wasn’t in the studio when it went up?”

  Damon shook his head. “Not according to the report from one Captain Keith Kilgour of the Morpeth Bush Fire Brigade. The owner of the studio was, to quote Captain Kilgour, ‘extremely agitated and reluctant to notify the Newcastle Arson Investigation team’, end quote. Reading between the lines, I suspect Kilgour wonders if the artist is pulling an insurance job.”

  The wind left Will’s lungs in a gush. He slumped back on his stool, dragging his hands through his hair. Fuck. He’d spent the last six months doing everything to convince himself what he and Damon had shared with a certain glass artist now living in Morpeth was nothing more than a weekend fling. He’d tried his hardest but now, here he was—palms sweaty just thinking about the possibili
ty of seeing her again, of more than seeing her, when he should be thinking of nothing else but a fire scene.

  Easier said than done when Phoebe Masters was involved. Bloody frustrating pain-in-the-arse woman. Knowing her, the moment they walked into her studio she’d walk out the other door.

  But what if she’s happy to see you? It’s been six months since she left. Six months to forget how monumentally you and Damon fucked-up the last time all of you were together. What if she’s calmed down? Changed her mind?

  Damon cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re thinking one of two things, Tiny, and both are going to send you crazy.”

  Will’s own eyebrows rose up his forehead, his gut churning. “What are they exactly, Stretch?”

  Damon returned his feet to the floor and leaned forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “One, the second we cross the threshold of Phoebe’s studio, she’s going to throw herself at us and beg us to pick up where we last left off—in bed together, fucking each other senseless.”

  It wasn’t just Will’s stomach that reacted to Damon’s first scenario—his balls and dick tightened, the image his friend painted affecting him with the subtle blow of a sledgehammer.

  “Or two,” Damon went on, his stare locked hard on Will’s face. “She’s going to tell us to fuck off.”

  The sledgehammer slammed into Will’s gut again. Damn Damon and his keen insight into the human mind. Made for a bloody brilliant arson investigator, a great boss; made for a bloody annoying best mate.

  The man studying him hadn’t started out his best friend but somewhere over the last eight years of working together, that’s exactly what he’d become. Which meant Damon knew just about everything going on in Will’s life, and was involved in just about everything going on in his life as well. Sometimes Will had to wonder if that was a good thing. He bit back a curse. “And how did you arrive at those options, boss?”