Wet and Reckless

By Samanthe Beck

She’s a walking, talking disturbance of his peace…

When former Navy SEAL West Donovan trades covert ops for small-town cop, he craves calm and order. Rescuing a sexy, law-bending hitchhiker during a rainstorm raises his gut-level trouble detector—plus a few things south of his gut—into the red zone. He vows to help this particular tumbleweed find her way and keep it professional, but when she becomes his downstairs neighbor, professionalism is sorely tested. He’s got red lingerie infiltrating his laundry, sultry songs invading his bedroom, and suddenly he’s the one in need of rescue.

Aspiring singer/songwriter Roxy Goodhart ventures to Bluelick, Kentucky to outrun her latest mistake. It’s a doozy, involving a lying ex-manager, a dire lack of cash, and a teensy bit of grand larceny. Landing in the long, strong, entirely too tempting arms of the law is no way to keep a low profile while she re-builds her “L.A. or bust” fund. Taking an apartment that—oops—puts her under West…er...in his path every day doesn’t help. Testing his impressive reserve is beyond reckless, but she’d love to test it…all…night…long.

Each book in the Private Pleasures series is STANDALONE:
* Private Practice
* Light Her Fire
* Falling for the Enemy
* Wet and Reckless
* Undercover Engagement

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: May 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781640636064

Samanthe Beck

USA Today bestselling author Samanthe Beck lives in Malibu, California with her husband, their turbo-son, and two furry ninjas named Kitty and Frosty. When not writing fun, sexy, contemporary romances or lazing on her beach towel with her face snuggled to her Kindle, she searches for the perfect ten dollar cabernet to pair with Ambien. Connect with Sam via her website at www.samanthebeck.com to check her progress on that never-ending quest, or to get the latest on her upcoming books.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Samanthe Beck. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

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Parker, CO 80134

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Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Heather Howland

Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations

Cover photography by deagreez1/Deposit Photos

ISBN 978-1-64063-606-4

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition May 2021

For the fans of Bluelick, KY. Welcome back!

Chapter One

Hey, handsome, maybe next time you’ll let me fiddle with your nightstick?

The question, delivered with a smile and a wink, replayed in West Donovan’s mind as he steered his cruiser along Route 9. Thunderheads gathered above the treetops to the south, but the impending summer storm didn’t threaten his mood. Nonexistent traffic, a handful of miles, and a mere fifty minutes stood between him and end of shift.

An hour from now, he could be down at Rawley’s Pub enjoying a hot meal, a cold beer, and, if things went his way, a cocktail waitress with a little kink for cops. She’d been very friendly last Friday when he’d gone for happy hour with fellow officers of the newly established Bluelick PD.

As he’d settled his tab, she’d leaned in and whispered her not-so-innocent invitation. He suspected she’d called him handsome because she couldn’t remember his name. Not a problem. She might be bad with names, but he didn’t consider that a deal-breaker. He’d spent a notable portion of his adult life proving to all interested parties’ satisfaction that they didn’t need to be on a first-name basis to pass a few mutually entertaining hours together.

He glanced at the clock on the dash. He and Callie with a C could go at each other all night, and she could call him whatever she damn well pleased the entire time. His fingers tapped out a beat on the steering wheel as he contemplated the possibilities.

Thunder rumbled overhead. He rounded a curve just as the first fat raindrop splattered on his windshield, and the cruiser’s headlights caught a figure standing by the side of the road. It didn’t take law enforcement training to know everything about this particular figure spelled disaster—from the skimpy top sliding off slender shoulders, to the tiny skirt ending high on coltish legs. And the exclamation point on this living, breathing dress code violation? The extended arm with thumb cocked in the classic hitchhiker pose.

He slowed the car, and Hitchhiker Barbie broke into a hip-swaying happy dance, which got other portions of her anatomy bouncing.

He did not share her enthusiasm. Plans for a hot meal, cold beer, and obliging waitress slipped down a few notches on his timeline. He pulled onto the shoulder and killed the engine. Silently, he counted down the seconds until she realized she’d thumbed a ride from the po-po. Three…two…one.

The dance stopped so abruptly he almost laughed. Then she did the least logical yet most predictable thing possible. She picked up her stuff and took off in the opposite direction. Sort of. The weight of her bags prevented a quick getaway.

Good call, genius, he grumbled. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Where the hell do you think you’re going? He shoved his hat on and got out of the car. A cannon blast of thunder rent the sky. Seconds later, rain battered the pavement. The furious cadence drowned out his long-suffering sigh.

Catching her wouldn’t be a problem, but frankly, he was in no mood for a foot chase. He drew a breath and yelled, Stop, in the don’t-even-try-it tone he’d perfected over two years spent with the NYPD.

She skidded to a halt, dropped her things, and raised her hands cautiously to either side of her head—nice touch—before she slowly turned.

He closed in. Not fast, not slow, but at a deliberate pace intended to discourage her from succumbing to the flight instinct again. Maybe he looked a little too intimidating, because at about three feet out, she swayed.

Fuck. He moved quickly and managed to catch her before she hit the asphalt. Even as dead weight, there wasn’t much to her. When had she last eaten a decent meal?

His concern for her well-being escalated as he hefted her into his arms and her head rolled toward him. A pale cheek settled against his biceps at the same time a soft breast nestled against his chest then shifted slightly with each steady, unlabored breath she took. This imparted two important pieces of information. Normal respiration, which relieved a fractional measure of his initial concern, and, while young, she wasn’t a teen. Also a relief. No need to bring social services into the mix. He carried her to the cruiser and laid her boneless body across the backseat.

Her small build had fooled him into mistaking her for a minor. Also, her outfit practically begged for a week in detention. A decades old black-and-red Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers tour T-shirt someone had decided looked better as a tank top hung on her like a sloppy hug from a drunk ex-boyfriend, showing off glimpses of a red lace bra beneath. The jean skirt was straight out of the Daisy Duke style guide. Threads from the ragged hem contrasted with sun-kissed thighs. Scuffed black motorcycle boots put the finishing touch on an ensemble guaranteed to induce a seizure in any self-respecting parent.

But her face, though smooth and disarmingly innocent in repose, lacked the round-at-the-edges look of an adolescent, and everything from the neck down definitely belonged to a full-grown woman. The realization did little to diminish the inevitable wave of protectiveness that came from having her unconscious and in his care. And it did absolutely nothing to alleviate the immediate and uncomfortable tug of lust that came from having a rain-soaked stunner stretched out in his backseat.

Her head lolled to the side. Two scarlet cornrows arrowed away from her temple, highlighting a refined cheekbone while warning him refinement wasn’t a quality she embraced. Twin streams of red flowed from the braids like colorful tributaries into the waterfall of blond hair spilling across the seat.

Between the biker boots and rock-chick wardrobe, she looked like the result of a one-night stand between Harley-Davidson and Harley Quinn. The tangle of earrings dripping from her ear only reinforced the impression, as did the scale of musical notes inked along the inside of her left arm. They disappeared under a stack of skinny, metal bracelets. A silver guitar pick with the name

Roxy

engraved on it hung from a chain around her neck. Small, tarnished angel wings dangled from a navel piercing exposed by the rucked-up hem of her shirt. Something about the vulnerability of that tugged at him. Following an instinct that had nothing to do with training or experience, he carefully eased her shirt into place and put the thought of tarnished angels out of his head.

While her size certainly didn’t intimidate, she was still unconscious, unidentified, and an as yet unquantified risk. Runaways came in all ages and from all backgrounds. They ran from responsibilities, bad decisions, toxic relationships, or combinations thereof. Too soon to tell which category his hitcher fell into, but she fell squarely into a category called Trouble. The kind that, as part of the thin blue line in Bluelick, Kentucky, he got paid to detect and deter. That made her his trouble for the next little while.

His original plans for the end of shift started to look remote. Even the most accommodating cocktail waitress wouldn’t hang around all night. A rain check—ha ha—was probably the best he could hope for. He waited for disappointment to settle on him for real, but it didn’t. It rolled off quickly. Too quickly. Okay, no rain check.

He felt her radial pulse. A consistent rhythm beat beneath his fingers, which reassured him enough to defer thoughts of calling the EMTs. She wasn’t about to crash on him. But she wasn’t an immediate source of answers, either. For those he eased out of the cruiser and walked a few steps to her duffel bag and what turned out to be a guitar case. The duffel proved minimally informative—old, Army surplus, with Goodhart stenciled across the side in black, block letters. A crumpled Greyhound tag hung from the handle. He flipped it over. The first line read Roxy Goodhart. A thick scribble of blue ink obscured the address and phone number. The city might have been Nashville, but he couldn’t be sure. If so, she’d traveled a long way to end up hitching rides along a slow stretch of Route 9. He lifted the bag and guitar and carried them to his car.

Her gear fit securely in the trunk of the cruiser. After stowing it, he returned to the open passenger door and leaned in to check on her. Droplets of rain rolled off the brim of his hat. One landed on her upper lip, another on her lower, and still another on her chin.

That knee-jerk tug of lust returned with a vengeance.

Impatient with himself, he whipped the hat off. Then he wiped his hair off his forehead and took a deep breath. The scent of her—a disturbing combination of honeysuckle and rain—filled the cruiser, teasing his nose and provoking appetites he refused to examine too closely. Another thing he didn’t want to examine too closely? What she had under her barely legal skirt, but training and experience wouldn’t allow him to just toss someone into the back of his car without checking for weapons. Her wet T-shirt concealed nothing. The only weapons beneath were courtesy of Mother Nature. The skirt didn’t hide much, either, but he had no way of knowing if she’d tucked away a blade or a canister of pepper spray unless he patted her down.

Swallowing past his dry throat, he felt her front and back pockets and then slid his palms over the worn denim covering the curve of her ass. His hands volunteered to take a second, completely recreational sweep of the area, but his brain put a lockdown on the impulse at the same moment a husky voice murmured, …Gibson?

He shoved his hands down the shafts of her boots to make sure they hid nothing nefarious and then eased away and watched as long lashes fluttered open and swept him back to a vacation he’d taken in the Florida Keys, where the water had been exactly the same clear, turquoise shade as her eyes. She’d lined them with some iridescent junk that reminded him of peacock feathers and hadn’t held up well against the weather, but something about the smudged makeup made her look intriguingly debauched.

Save the intrigue for what the hell she’s doing here and who the hell Gibson is.

Her pupils were huge but responsive, the whites of her eyes clear, which brought his concern for her physical condition down another degree. Didn’t mean she wasn’t on something, but both factors had him moving alcohol or some other intoxicant down a couple notches on his mental checklist of reasons she’d passed out.

Gibson? he questioned. Might as well know if some asshole was hiding in the weeds.

She stared at him for a long moment and then glanced around the interior of the cruiser. The lack of shock or disorientation gave him the impression she knew where she was and how she’d gotten there.

My guitar. Her voice vibrated over him, raising the hairs on his forearms as effectively as if she’d whispered in his ear. She volunteered nothing more, but flags of color unfurled across her cheeks. Apparently, she wasn’t accustomed to regaining consciousness in the back of a police cruiser with an officer of the law looming over her.

Accustomed or not, she pulled herself into an upright position. He allowed it, backing off to let her swing her legs down and gritting his teeth against the flashes of lace afforded by the gaping T-shirt. When her boots hit the floorboard, he waved her over and took the space next to her. Your guitar is in the trunk, along with your bag.

With quick, absent moves, she rearranged the chain around her neck so the guitar pick nestled between her breasts then flicked her arm and sent the bracelets tumbling to her wrist. Beneath her lashes, she gave him the side-eye. Are you taking me into custody, Officer…?

Donovan. That depends. Have you done something illegal?

Of course not. The words came out fast, but her gaze skidded past him like a prisoner making a break for freedom.

Aside from hitchhiking, he added, which, for the record, is illegal in the entire state of Kentucky.

Her eyes darted to his, wide and anxious. I didn’t know, but I was stranded and kind of out of options. Isn’t there some leeway under the law for special circumstances?

He resisted the pull of those big, pleading eyes. I’m just guessing at this point, Ms. Goodhart, but something tells me you’re a walking, talking set of special circumstances.

She huffed out a breath and stared into the gloom again, seemingly captivated by the sun’s fight to break through the thinning edges of the clouds. After a few seconds, she asked, How do you know my name?

From the APB.

The words brought her attention back to him, and she swallowed so hard he heard her throat contract. An APB on me? Are you serious?

Quite the poker face, this one. No. I got your name from your bag.

Oh.

The exchange didn’t exactly incriminate her, but it cemented his decision to run her for warrants. Replacing his hat, he said, I don’t suppose you have any ID to back it up?

My wallet is in my bag.

She definitely sounded hesitant, which supported his suspicion she had something to hide. Rain’s stopped. Let’s go around to the trunk and have a look.

He stepped out before she could reply and offered his hand to her in a way that didn’t really give her a choice. Still, she managed to avoid his outstretched arm and exit the vehicle on her own. He closed his fingers around her elbow as they walked to the trunk. Yes, her color was back, and she appeared stable, but a head-rush could change her status quickly. He didn’t want any harm coming to her on his watch. Any additional harm, he corrected, noting she favored her right foot with every stride.

Ms. Goodhart, did you hurt yourself when you fainted?

She slid him a sidelong glance but kept walking. Make that limping. Everyone calls me Roxy. And I’m okay. It’s just these boots. I have a little hot spot on my heel.

He looked at her boots. Not new, but not designed for long walks in the rain. He’d check the damage after he checked her ID.

They reached the back of the cruiser, and he popped the trunk. She took a second to bundle her hair into a knot, treating him to another view of red lace through the gaps in her shirt. With her hair under control, she unzipped the duffel and started digging. Bracelets jangled as she searched.

Jumbles of clothes, lingerie—it was hard to tell the difference—tumbled from the bag. Within seconds, it looked like a Fredrick’s of Hollywood had exploded in his trunk. He rescued a red cowboy boot before it hit the pavement, but not in time to catch the crumpled pack of cigarettes that fell out. Lovely. He picked them up and slid them into his shirt pocket.

Bingo! She tore the Velcro flap of a red nylon wallet emblazoned with grinning silver skulls and spent another few seconds rifling through overstuffed slots meant to organize credit cards, pictures, and whatnot. Finally, she held up a photo ID as if she’d retrieved a map to the universe.

He tossed the boot into the duffel. She held out a hand for the cigarettes, but he shook his head. Let’s see the ID, he said and plucked the card from between her fingers. Roxy stared back at him from a Texas driver’s license, instantly recognizable despite a spiky fringe of platinum bangs obscuring her unmistakable eyes.

According to the vital stats, Roxanne Belle Goodhart had called Austin home at the time the license was issued. She claimed five feet four inches of height—he called bullshit on that—weighed one hundred and ten pounds, and had recently celebrated twenty-two years of decorating the planet with her presence.

Five-four?

She re-zipped her duffel and pulled herself up to full height. On the nose.

Maybe in the shit-kickers. He committed her driver’s license details to memory. You’re a long way from Austin.

She shrugged, but the casual gesture didn’t dissipate the nerves humming off her like electricity from a high-voltage line. I’ve been traveling for a while. Going where the opportunities take me.

He handed the ID to her. You know this license is expired, right?

I planned to renew it when I got home. I just… She trailed off and shrugged again. Now she looked a little lost. I haven’t figured out where that is yet. I have a passport. Somewhere. She gestured toward the duffel.

Later. Right now, Roxy, I want you to take a seat in the cruiser.

Color drained from her face. She took an unsteady step away. He grabbed her arm to catch her, noting the jump of muscles beneath his grasp.

Am I under arrest?

Chapter Two

You’re in pain, Officer Donovan replied in a deep voice that managed to sound authoritative even when mildly exasperated. He removed his hat and used it to gesture at her foot before adding, The car seems like the best place to put you while I try to do something about it.

Apparently confident of her compliance, he turned, placed his hat in the trunk, and retrieved something from one of the well-ordered side compartments. Roxy watched the play of muscles under his rain-dampened uniform. Sure, he could bust her seven ways from Sunday, but she couldn’t help admiring the easy grace in his tall, athletic frame.

When he turned to her, he had a first aid kit in his hand and an expression that gave nothing away. She wondered if he had to practice his stoic face or if it came naturally. Natural, she decided, when he nudged her toward the backseat. Cool, contained Officer Donovan wasted no words or movements.

Just before she reached the door, she turned and made a last-ditch effort to avoid returning to the confines of the cruiser. I’m fine.

Not true. Her heel ached, and the trace of citrus in his soap or aftershave reminded her she hadn’t had a bite to eat since the dried apricots she’d called breakfast hours ago. But she’d rather crawl the rest of the way to Bluelick than voluntarily get in the police car. Authorities tended to pigeonhole her right away as a stray. Someone who had been damn near everywhere but belonged nowhere. They also tended to meet that status with a lot of displeasure and suspicion. So far, she’d picked up plenty of both from this particular representative of Bluelick’s finest.

We’ll see. He crowded her until he had her trapped between the vehicle and his body. Sit.

Then somehow, without even touching her, he succeeded in making it happen. She stumbled and landed on her ass in the backseat. The impact dislodged the knot from her hair. She raised her hands to brush it away from her face, and her bracelets tinkled down her arm in a musical cascade.

A trio of ugly, faded-to-purple bruises adorning her wrist reminded her of a couple important truths. Namely, a woman in her position couldn’t afford to let her guard down, and she wasn’t always the best judge of character. As casually as possible, she lowered her arms. The bracelets tumbled down, hiding the bruises. She risked a glance at Officer Donovan. His body completely filled her view, blocking the door and creating a big, insurmountable barrier. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the car. Pressure built in her lungs, and her pulse skittered. They were out here alone. He had all the power. Anything could happen, and no one would miss her.

Relax, he said, as if sensing her rising paranoia. He didn’t offer any additional words of reassurance, simply crouched in front of her, head bent, and concentrated on working her boot off. She stared at the top of his head and then bit her lip to keep from groaning when he pulled the boot over her raw heel.

I am relaxed. Lie. Why would I be tense?

I don’t know. He didn’t glance up. His short, damp hair stood on end in places and looked as soft as sable. Why would you?

Because she’d been caught hitchhiking? Because everything she owned in the world was currently in the trunk of a police car? Because, technically, she’d resorted to the five-finger discount to retrieve Gibson from a pawnshop owned by one of the most notorious loan sharks in Nashville before boarding a bus to Kentucky? Instead of voicing any self-incriminating responses, she said, You could be some kind of deviant cop who picks up stranded women, shoves them into your trunk, and nobody hears from them again. I read the news. It happens. Even as she put the irrational thought into words, she fought an impulse to run her fingers over the close-cropped hair at his temple and find out if it felt as velvety as it looked.

My trunk is currently full of your sh—stuff, so consider yourself safe, but for someone who puts her trust in the hands of strangers by hitchhiking, you have a very dark view of human natu—Jesus, Roxy.

The last bit drew her attention to her foot, currently cradled in his hand. Her size seven look positively dainty in comparison. Dainty and fragile. The impression unsettled her enough to lift her foot out of his hold, and that’s when she realized the cause of his outburst. Blood darkened the heel of her sock.

The scarred leather motorcycle boots she’d bought yesterday from Music City Pawn & Loan probably hadn’t been the smartest use of fifty bucks. Forty-five plus tax to be exact, but she hadn’t hung around for her change because the purchase had been a diversion—a way to distract the clerk while she’d liberated Gibson and hauled ass. She should have chosen something cheaper, but the tough black boots had spoken to her. They’d said, We take no shit. She definitely needed to take less shit, so she’d bought the darn things. At the time, she couldn’t have guessed she’d end up wearing them to hike the final leg of her journey to Bluelick. It looks worse than it is.

Eyes as gray and turbulent as Kentucky storm clouds commandeered hers. We’ll see.

That’s all the warning she got before he tugged her sock off. She sucked in a breath and willed herself to keep still.

He scanned her face. Okay?

Yes. She held out her hand for the sock and tried to pretend she didn’t want to curl up into a ball and whimper.

He placed the sock in her open palm, and their fingers touched for an instant. The pain in her heel subsided as the small contact set off a flurry of quakes throughout her body. Fantasies filled her mind—those same enticingly callused hands dragging her clothes out of his way. Removing her panties with one hard tug.

She glanced at his face in time to see his eyes darken with reluctant hunger. A muscle tensed in his jaw.

No. Uh-uh. Absolutely not, Roxy. Tangling with any man, much less a surly lawman who looked at her with alternating degrees of distrust and disapproval, ranked low on her to-do list. Her system craved the chemistry, that’s all. And chemistry had a way of blowing up on her.

Officer Donovan cleared his throat. Nice tat. With the pad of his finger, he traced the small flock of black birds winging their way up her ankle. Even his fingers looked official. Long, squared, with clean nails trimmed in neat, no-nonsense lines.

Thanks, she managed, while nerve endings all over her body reacted as if he’d stroked far more personal areas. An uncomfortably vivid scenario popped into her mind. Her, lying in the back of this very cruiser, floating just below consciousness while those official fingers carefully but thoroughly roamed over her body. Not another fantasy, her fired-up nerve endings assured her. A memory. He’d frisked her. The realization brought instant heat to her cheeks. She’d like to call the reaction mortification, but the sad truth was the idea of Officer Donovan