Crazy Hot by Tara Janzen

he agreed. “I saw a lot of things that summer.”
    He shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have let a slow grin curve his mouth when he did, but the soft wash of color staining her cheeks was worth it. He'd never seen a prettier shade of pink.
    R EGAN felt the heat flood her face and would have given anything not to be blushing like a schoolgirl. Anything. Damn him. She'd wondered exactly how much he remembered about the night he'd walked into her tent, and now she knew. Everything. And all of it was showing in his cat-in-the-cream smile.
    He was impossible, utterly impossible, with his wild story and wilder Camaro. Dinosaur bones and stolen government goods, and Jeanette and Betty, for crying out loud. She'd never known anyone who named his car, let alone every car he owned. And he was dangerous, unquestionably dangerous. He'd slipped on a shoulder holster and covered it with a denim shirt before entering the restaurant. She was eating dinner with a man carrying a concealed weapon—who had seen her naked.
    A second wave of mortification rolled through her, and she wanted nothing more than to excuse herself, incredibly graciously, and walk away from him and never, ever, have to see him again.
    But she still had to find Wilson, and every time Quinn Younger opened his mouth, she knew that no matter how awful the day had become, she'd been right to go to Cisco. If she was honest with herself, she also had to admit the truly awful part of the whole mess was that she remembered plenty about that night, too. Plenty.
    Embarrassed enough by her own memories, let alone his, she shifted her gaze from the table to the window and the mountains beyond. He'd been sixteen, pure adolescent renegade, and in her whole life, no one had ever looked at her as hotly as he had that night, standing there in her tent with his lazy, hip-shot stance and heavy-lidded gaze. His T-shirt had been white and clean, his arms hard and browned by the sun, the veins running down his forearms to the backs of his hands readily visible. His eyes had been so green, green fire, and they'd touched her everywhere, licked her skin like a flame, frightening her and exciting her at the same time. It had been better than sex. Better, at least, than any sex she'd ever had—which she well knew was a pitiful comment on her marriage. Her fault, Scott had assured her with his ego and arrogance intact. She just didn't have what it took—whatever the hell that meant. He'd been a little short on particulars.
    She probably ought to thank Quinn Younger for being living proof that at one time she had been able to hold a man's attention—except he hadn't been a man yet. He'd been a boy whose threadbare jeans hadn't done nearly enough to hide what she'd done to him. She'd noticed just before he'd turned to walk away, and if he hadn't ducked out of the tent, she might have asked him to stay. Not for sex, she hadn't been ready for sex, but the way he'd looked at her had definitely made her long for a kiss, her first kiss, a French kiss. That's what she'd wanted from him, to feel his arms around her and to look into those impossibly green eyes and taste him, to run her tongue over his oh-so-white teeth and feel his tongue in her mouth. To slide her fingers up into his silky dark hair, to touch his skin and feel his warmth surround her, and maybe to feel safe. Though how she'd thought she'd feel safe with a juvenile car thief doing time with her grandfather was something she'd never quite figured out. When he'd shown up in
People
magazine shortly after her divorce, it had all come back to her, how much she'd longed for the boy he'd been.
    Now he was back in her life, and he was pure trouble wrapped around a face she'd been going to bed with every night for the last five years—a situation that made her feel painfully ridiculous. He didn't know, of course, but it didn't matter. Just looking at him made her feel foolish. Physically, he was even stronger, harder, his face still perfect,