The Screwdriver - Dirty Martini 2 Read online

  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 possibility 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?”

  Damon gave him a wry grin. “’Cause I thought the same fucking things the second I read Phoebe’s name on the report.”

  The confession jerked a humored snort from Will. “So much for being the detached wankers Phoebe accused us of being the day she left.”

  Damon laughed. “No, she accused you of being a detached wanker. She called me a flippant, indifferent arsehole.”

  Will scrubbed at his face with his hands. “She’s not going to be happy to see us, is she?”

  Damon laughed again. “After the way we behaved? Not at all.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Damon flashed him a broad grin. “Hope to fucking God we can change her mind.”

  “Tricky.”

  “You better believe it.”

  “She told us what we did together was never going to happen again.”

  “True.”

  “That after the pair of us blew it off as a simple been-there-done-that fuck-fest instead of acknowledging what it really was, the pair of us could kiss her arse goodbye.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Plan?”

  Damon laughed a third time, the sound far more deprecating than any Will had heard from his friend before. “Be our charming, lovable selves?”

  Will rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s going to work.”

  “It worked the last time.”

  “Until she accused us of being indifferent arseholes and detached wankers the night before she moved to a whole other town.”

  Taking my heart with her.

  A heavy pressure squeezed Will’s chest at the thought. That’s exactly what had happened. None of them—neither he, nor Damon nor Phoebe—had anticipated a night out for drinks to celebrate Phoebe’s new, dedicated studio in Morpeth would turn into a weekend in bed together. But it had. Three years of knowing each other, of relaxed flirting, friendly banter and good-humored mocking over other boyfriends or girlfriends had unexpectedly and surprisingly led them to a situation so unbe-fucking-lievable, the shock had sent them all for a spin.

  A bloody big spin. Because Will knew after two mind-blowing days and two equally mind-blowing nights of watching his mate fuck Phoebe, of fucking her while his mate watched, of all three of them fucking each other at the same time, that two days and two nights wasn’t enough. He’d had no idea what Phoebe expected after the weekend ended, but he knew what he wanted—more. And he knew Damon wanted more as well. Not just sex, but…more.

  It had scared the shit out of Will, big time. The knowledge that he was prepared to commit to a relationship society deemed unacceptable with his two best friends left him reeling. And even though Damon hadn’t admitted it at first, it had scared the shit out of him as well. So they’d acted like it was nothing, like it was just a bonk to say adios. By the time he’d seen the truth in Phoebe’s eyes, the proof that she wanted more than just a goodbye fuck, that her silence was wounded embarrassment, it was too late. They’d brushed off something incredible and swept Phoebe’s heart away with it. Dickheads.

  “We were chicken-shit cowards the last time.”

  For a second time, Damon’s unexpected confession made Will snort. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “So this time, we’re not. We don’t pretend otherwise. We don’t pretend the whole thing is just a same-old, same-old.”

  “And how are we going to do that? Considering she doesn’t want jack-shit to do with us?”

  Damon flashed a grin—the same grin Will had seen him use more than once when on the scent of an arson, the grin that said I have you in my sights, buddy, and you are going down.

  “We hit her with both barrels and let her know without a doubt what we want…”

  “Her. Forever.”

  Chapter 2

  Phoebe heard the solid thud of a car door slamming outside her gutted studio, a second before she heard another one. Her heart, obviously into the whole “slamming” notion, decided to join in and slam into her throat.

  She let out a ragged, strangled breath, every nerve-ending in her body thrumming with charged tension. They were here. Shit, they were here.

  She jolted to her feet, dragging her fingers through her hair.

  And then plonked down onto the charred work stool again, gnawing on her thumbnail. She had no idea how to proceed with the next…the next… Hell, how long were they going to be here? How long did it take to decide whether a fire was an act of arson? An hour? A day?

  A day. Jesus, how would she survive a day in Damon and Will’s collective presence?

  The pit of her belly fluttered, or was it the junction of her thighs? She couldn’t tell. She was so freaking flustered she didn’t know what part of her body was reacting to the men’s arrival.

  Yes, you do, Pheebs. You’re just trying to pretend you don’t. You’re turned-on. Already. Just the thought of being in the same room as Will and Damon, of seeing their
towering, hard bodies, of hearing their deep voices, smelling their subtle aftershave, is making your sex throb and pulse like a—

  She ground her teeth. Damn it. She wasn’t turned-on. Nothing was throbbing and pulsing, thank you very much. She wasn’t that stupid. Yes, they’d all shared something she couldn’t hope to describe, but as it had turned out, she was the only one who’d been emotionally moved by it. Getting excited about Damon and Will turning up at her door now was just plain idiocy. She wouldn’t have it.

  Rising to her feet again, Phoebe ran her hands over her clothes—her favorite pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt depicting Leonardo Da Vinci’s face covered by the slimy facehugger from the film Alien. She wasn’t going to let the two arson investigators know how unsettled she was. They would see the woman they first met all those years ago at a Newcastle school fair, where she’d been demonstrating glassblowing techniques and they were answering questions on home fire safety and letting little kids sound the fire engine’s siren. A woman in control of herself, relaxed, a touch left-of-center and far too busy being a successful artist to waste time being distracted by two gorgeous, sexy-arsed—

  Someone knocked on her studio’s blackened, buckled door.

  Her mouth went dry. “Oh boy.”

  She stared at the door. Took a deep breath—and coughed it out again as the acrid taste of burnt word, metal and plastic poured down her throat, past her slamming heart and into her lungs.

  Tears leaked from her eyes and she sucked in another breath—and coughed more.

  Oh lovely, now they’re going to think I was crying. Brilliant. Bloody brill—

  The knock came again, louder this time. Like a fist pounding the smoke-painted door. “Phoebe?” a deep voice called from the other side. Damon. “Phoebe, are you okay?”

  She spluttered out a “yes”. It sounded like a hiccupping cat meowing.

  Oh, freaking great. She stumbled forward a step, trying not to tumble over the black corpses of what only yesterday were her favorite work chair and drafting board. Tears leaked from her squinted eyes.

  “Phoebe?” A different voice this time. Will’s. Deep and loud and worried. “What’s going on?”

  “C-c-coming!” she choked. She sounded like a strangled cat this time.

  She took another step and kicked a pile of damp, gray mush she guessed had once been her polishing rags. “Shit!”

  Of course, that word left her constricting, burning throat quite clearly, didn’t it?

  “What the fuck is going on in there?” Damon shouted, followed by another fist-pound on the door. She glanced at it through stinging, tear-blurred eyes, wondering how it was withstanding such a beating. She remembered all too well the massive strength in Damon’s arms. And Will’s as well. The heavy door rattled in its frame, buckled to the point she’d barely been able to lock it.

  Damn, why had she come through the back door? If she’d already muscled open the front door, none of this would be—

  “Open the fucking door, Pheebs.”

  “Coming!” she snapped. Just as she slammed her shin (Jesus, is slamming the action de jour or what?) into what was probably her tool chest, pre-fire. “Damn it!” she yelped, struggling to stop her fall forward even as smoke-tainted air rushed back down her throat.

  And she burst out coughing again; wheezing, gasping coughs that covered her cheeks in tears.

  Oh this is just freaking awesome.

  “Fuck this.” Will’s growl barely reached her ears through the door and over her hitching coughing fit. What did reach her ears, however, was the loud bang as her door slammed open (great, more slamming), revealing Damon Hunt and William Bradley in a shower of splintered wood.

  They both stood gaping at her for a split second, both tall, both dominating the doorway, both too damn sexy for words…

  And then she was coughing again, stumbling backward, her pulse thumping at the force of just how goddamn perfect they were, how much she’d missed them.

  They were beside her before she knew it, two sets of warm, strong hands curling around her arms and pressing to her back. “How long have you been sitting here breathing this shit, Masters?” Damon demanded.

  “Way to go with the gentle approach, Stretch,” Will snarled.

  She coughed again, eyes squeezed shut. She wasn’t ready to open them. Jesus, her heart was still competing with all the other slamming of the day—this time doing its best to slam its way out of her chest. Damon Hunt and Will Bradley were touching her. Again.

  She was a goner.

  “Hey, if the woman’s been sitting here all morning waiting for us to show up, she’s got a lungful of smoke and charcoal dust and carcinogenic shit,” Damon pointed out. “She should know better.”

  “I—” she began, trying to straighten.

  “Cool it, Damon,” Will growled. “You’re scaring the artist.” His hand smoothed up Phoebe’s back to rest beneath the heavy mass of hair at her nape. She should have tied it up in a ponytail; both men loved her hair down and free. What had she been thinking, leaving it out?

  “I’m not—”

  “Scaring the artist? This is the same woman who took on that Hells Angel in the pub only a year ago, remember? I don’t think—”

  “Can I—”

  “And she’s been living in Morpeth,” Damon raged. “Who knows how soft and arty-fartsy she’s got since—”

  “Arty-fartsy?” Phoebe yanked herself free of their hold, stomping back a few steps to glare at them both, hot anger replacing the confused terror in her chest. “Who the hell do you think you’re calling…”

  She faded off, unable to miss their wide grins. Their wide, cheeky, oh-god-how-she’d-missed-them grins. They’d been baiting her.

  “Good to see village life hasn’t softened you up, Masters,” Damon said with a smirk, the sinful curl of his lips making Phoebe’s pussy constrict.

  “Still, it looks like you’ve forgotten how to breathe properly,” Will noted, his milk-chocolate-brown eyes seeming to glint with mirth. “I’d say too much fresh air getting into your lungs, but then, you’re standing amongst a charcoal pit, so that can’t be it.”

  Both went silent, waiting for her to say something.

  She couldn’t think of a word. Not one.

  How ‘bout, “kiss me, now”?

  “Hello Damon, William.” She nodded at them, keeping her voice as calm and formal as she could. Not easy, given that her pussy was tingling from all the vivid memories her brain was feeding her body about the two men before her. Damn brain. What the hell did it know?

  Damon cocked a straight, dark eyebrow at her, crossing his sublimely muscled arms over a chest she knew for a fact was equally as sublime. “Hello, Phoebe,” he mocked, his voice just as calm and formal as hers.

  Beside him, Will rolled his eyes. “Pheebs.” He gave her a steady look and she had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself from stepping toward him. Toward them both. They’d made themselves pretty clear six months ago. She wasn’t going to be foolish enough to let them play with her heartstrings again.

  They could play with your body, though? Surely just one more time? Or twice? Three times? For old times’ sake? Maybe four—

  Damon cast a slow inspection around her studio before turning his gaze back on her. “So, someone been playing with matches, I see? Tsk tsk, didn’t you know little girls who play with fire get burned?”

  “Bloody hell, Damon.” William rolled his eyes again, stepping away from Damon with a shake of his head. “Do you think you could be any more lame?”

  Damon laughed. “Probably. If I tried hard enough.”

  Phoebe stood frozen, watching them both. Goddamn it, she’d thought she’d braced herself for this, for their unique brand of disarming charm and humor. But no, it seemed she’d been a complete failure. Listening to them bounce insults off each other was the closest thing to foreplay she could think of without involving any physical activity. It had always been this way—they goofed around, she laughed at the
ir sarcastic wit and when they parted, she’d go back to her home with a stupid grin on her face and gooey warmth in her soul.

  It wasn’t until their weekend together that she realized it was the two men making her so goddamn euphoric, of course. When that realization hit her, it was too late.

  She ground her teeth. No. She wasn’t going to be foolish. Not again. It had hurt too much getting over them the first time.

  She tilted her chin and straightened her shoulders, swallowing the lump in her throat before licking her lips. “Is there anything I can tell you about the fire?” she asked, shoving her hands in her hip pockets. “Any questions you need me to answer?”

  William and Damon passed a quick glance between them. A tension settled over Damon’s body, his jaw bunching a second before William shook his head. “Not at the moment, Pheebs,” Will answered, turning back to her. “We’ll have to go over this place with a fine-tooth comb, however. Is your mobile number still the same? We can call you when we’re finished.”

  Prickling disappointment crept through her. They were asking her to go away.

  Of course they are, Masters. Isn’t this what you wanted? To not have anything to do with them again? What did you think they were going to do? Ask you to strip naked and become the filling in a manwich?

  “Yes,” she blurted out.

  Her cheeks filled with heat and she blinked. Jesus, what was she doing?

  Both William’s and Damon’s eyebrows pulled into slight frowns. “Phoebe?” Damon took a step toward her, his size-fourteen foot somehow silent on the charred and littered floor. “We—”

  “Will call you when we’re done,” William finished, cutting him off.

  For a brief moment—the time it took Phoebe’s heart to thump twice in her chest—it looked as if Damon was going to ignore his partner. Damon was the senior investigator after all, and three years older than Will, but then the man nodded, his expression becoming set. “Don’t leave town,” he uttered, the grumbled command nothing like his normal humor-laced voice.

  She laughed, a nervous little hiccup of sound. “What would you do? Track me down and drag me back?”