by Hope Ramsay
Jeff got their grudging respect. Danny got their grudging indifference. Either of those would be better than the way her family was trying to meddle in her life right at the moment.
Maybe she should divorce the family and see if that changed their behavior. And what better way to send a message to them than to go after the one thing she wanted most? The one thing they disapproved of.
She lugged her laundry basket out to the Z4 and wedged it into the sports car’s minuscule trunk. One thing was clear. She needed a bigger, more practical car, one she’d paid for on her own. She could hardly divorce the family if she continued to mooch off Daddy.
Maybe that explained why her father had reconnected her phone and reauthorized her American Express card. Maybe he thought bribing her would keep her in line.
She gave Muffin a little scratch under her chin. “I’ve been an idiot. You and Dusty are the best things that ever happened to me,” she said. Muffin gave her a sloppy kiss and then climbed into the passenger’s seat. Amy fired up the Beemer.
“I’m going to get my man,” she said to the dog, who woofed her support.
She headed out toward Dusty’s place, praying that she’d find him at home but knowing that he’d probably gone fishing today. She didn’t care. She’d wait for him. All day if necessary.
She didn’t get far down Morgan Avenue before the acrid smell of smoke reached her. A haze of it hung in the air well before she saw the burned-out foundry building. The building’s roof had collapsed, taking most of the back wall with it. Blackened bricks and the charred remains of beams had tumbled inward to make a huge, smoking pile of rubble. Yellow police tape ringed the site, and Paul LaRue, the chief of the Shenandoah Falls Police Force, stood near the wreckage with a group of firemen wearing hard hats.
Police cruisers and a fire engine blocked Morgan Avenue, and police were directing traffic toward Second Street. She pulled up to one of the policemen, who immediately said, “You’ll need to go around to George Mason Avenue if you’re headed anywhere on the east side of town.”
“What happened?”
“Old man McNeil set the place on fire. Unfortunately, he got himself caught in the blaze. Officer Pierce ran in to rescue him, but they both were injured when part of the wall collapsed.”
“Oh my God. How bad are they hurt?” Amy asked, her pulse running wild.
“Pierce managed to get them both out alive. The old man’s in a bad way. Pierce has some burns.”
Amy’s mind shifted into overdrive. Someone needed to be with Dusty right now. He probably blamed himself for what had happened. “Do you know where Dusty is?”
The policeman sobered. “No, I don’t. And I don’t give a damn. If he’d been reasonable about that park project, Ryan Pierce would never have gotten himself burned.”
Amy wanted to tell the man that the park project had nothing to do with this disaster. The county didn’t have the money to buy Dusty out yet, so even if Dusty had agreed to the sale, it wouldn’t have changed a thing.
Still, everyone in town would share the cop’s viewpoint once they heard the news about Officer Pierce. They would blame Dusty, and the facts wouldn’t matter.
“You need to let me pass. I need to get down to Dusty’s place, and the only access is off Morgan Avenue.”
“Sorry, ma’am, I can’t do that. This street is off-limits to all but residents. Besides, I think Dusty’s probably in DC right now, since his father was medevacced to the MedStar unit at Washington Hospital Center. Chief LaRue notified him early this morning.”
“Thanks,” she said, shifting the Beemer into reverse. She made a quick U-turn and headed in the opposite direction. It took only a few minutes to drive up to the inn, where she settled Muffin in the dog kennel with Sven. She tried to reach Willow but only got voice mail, so she left a message about Dusty and Muffin and then headed east on Route 7 toward Washington.
* * *
At ten fifteen on Monday morning, Dr. Lewis found Dusty in the waiting room at Washington Hospital Center and delivered the bad news. Daddy had died, but the cause of death had little to do with the fire.
It turned out that Chief LaRue had his facts wrong. Daddy had a few burns, none of them life-threatening, according to the docs. But he’d suffered a heart attack. The docs said it was quite possible that if Daddy had been squatting in the foundry building and using candles or building unsafe fires, the heart attack could have caused the fire and not the other way around.
“And Officer Pierce?” Dusty asked, his voice husky.
The doctor’s face brightened. “He’s doing fine. I don’t think there’ll be much scarring. But the burns are third-degree.”
Dusty nodded. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Did you want to speak with a chaplain?”
Dusty shook his head.
“All right. One of the hospital social workers will come down in a moment with some papers you’ll need to sign. She’ll have information on what happens next. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
The doc nodded and left the waiting room.
His loss? Was it a loss? He couldn’t decide. He collapsed back into the hard plastic waiting-room chair, dropped his head into his hands, and pressed his fingers to his eye sockets. He would not cry. Daddy didn’t deserve his tears.
The waiting room door swished open, and he looked up, expecting the social worker or chaplain.
“Amy?” He stood up. With her hair pulled back into a ponytail and dressed in jeans and sneakers, she reminded him of the proverbial girl next door. Adorable and sexy. And definitely an angel of mercy.
“I came as soon as I heard,” she said in a breathy voice, as if she’d run all the way from the parking lot. “How is your father? Is he—”
“He died.”
The minute Dusty said the word, his voice fractured into a million sharp shards like shattered crystal. All the pain of his childhood, all the fury of his teenage years, all the shame of his adult life came out of him in one long sob that he couldn’t choke back.
He turned toward the door. No way he wanted Amy to see him fall apart, but his emotions had another idea, and so did Amy. She intercepted him before he could escape, putting herself right in front of the door. Then she grabbed his arms in a surprisingly sturdy grip. The moment their gazes collided, the hurt he’d kept hidden deep inside burbled out of him.
A hoarse, strangled cry escaped him as a tsunami of pain tried to drown him. But Amy wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down so he could rest his head on her shoulder. She became his anchor. His safe harbor. His lifesaver.
She spoke not one word while he wept, but her tight embrace held him up. How the hell had such a little woman become so strong? How could she hold him together when it felt as if he’d come apart at the seams?
“It’s okay,” she finally said when he’d almost run out of tears.
He didn’t want to lift his head or meet her gaze. What would she think about a guy who cried like a freaking baby?
But, as usual, Amy had a few surprises up her sleeve. “Listen to me, Dusty,” she said in a fierce tone as she pulled back a little and forced him to raise his head and meet her gaze. “You are not to blame. Not for any of it.”
She had the truth of it, but the truth couldn’t wipe away the blame. Daddy had instilled this guilt in him as a young boy, and he would never lose it. He tried to push her away, but she wouldn’t let go. And her determined grip made him choke up a second time. Dammit all, he wanted to be good enough for her.
“I get it,” she said, seemingly unconcerned with the second wave of tears welling up in his eyes. “I understand. You think there’s no place for you with me. You think I’m not strong enough to be with you because your father screwed you up. Or because of all the stupid bullshit my father believes about you. But you’re wrong. I’m strong enough to love all of you, Dusty. Even the parts your father broke. And I know those parts make it hard for you to commit. But he
re’s a news flash. I don’t give a rat’s ass about that.”
The tightness in his throat disappeared. Damn. Amy had a talent for reading his mind. How did she know all this? How had she become so wise?
Maybe she’d always been that way.
She pointed one of her fingers at his chest and continued. “Dusty, I know you loved your father even though he hurt you. God knows I love my father, but I’m also angry with him. Did you know that he cheated on my mom? Yeah, he did. And they were miserable with each other. So believe me, I didn’t grow up in a blissfully happy home either. Not that I can fully understand what happened to you when you were a kid.”
“No, you can’t,” he managed in a still-shaky voice.
“No, I can’t. But I can affirm one thing. Your father was not worthy of your tears.”
And after she made this pronouncement, she bounced up on tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his. She didn’t sweep away his pain. He didn’t lose his fear about what her father might do to him if he let her into his life. But he suddenly didn’t care about any of that crap.
Amy was his beacon of hope, and maybe it was time to give hope a chance.
* * *
Amy hadn’t won her war against Dusty’s guilt. But when he thrust his tongue into her mouth, turning her sweet, desperate kiss into something hot and carnal, she counted it as a victory in the first skirmish. Maybe she shouldn’t use sex to pull Dusty back from the brink. After all, his father had just passed away.
But Amy didn’t want Dusty to mourn his father. Not if it meant he would wallow in guilt and shame. The way she saw it, the quicker Greg McNeil was buried and forgotten, the sooner Dusty could move on with his life.
She disengaged from his hungry kiss by linking a few little nips down his chin and neck before raising her head and inspecting him. Lines of exhaustion radiated from his puffy red eyes. His five o’clock shadow had grown into scruff. He needed someone to take care of him.
“Let’s find a place to crash,” she said.
“No. I should—”
She put her hand over his mouth. “No. You should crash. There’s no hurry. Someone ducked in a minute ago while you were having your moment. She left some papers on the chair. I think you probably have to sign some stuff, but that’s it. We can take care of that chore together. And we’ll call Willow and Courtney and ask them to make the arrangements. They’re good at that kind of thing.”
“But I should—”
“No. You don’t have to do this. Let your friends take care of it while you take a one-day vacation from your life. I suggest we find a hotel. How about the Hay-Adams?”
“The Hay-Adams? Can you afford that? It’s gotta be three hundred dollars a night.” Dusty’s eyebrows knit together.
She gave him her best rich, naughty-girl grin. “So?”
“But—”
“I have Daddy’s Amex card. He reauthorized its use because he thinks he can bribe me into behaving. The truth is, I had planned to cut it up into tiny pieces and throw them in his face, but I didn’t get the chance yesterday. So now I think I should use Daddy’s money for a room at the Hay-Adams.”
The corner of Dusty’s mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile but wouldn’t let himself.
“It’s okay. I know what you’re thinking—shacking up with me at the Hay-Adams would be so inappropriate given the situation. But you’re wrong about that.”
“Come here,” he said in a deep voice, settling his hands on her hips and pulling her toward him in a completely possessive way that woke up Amy’s girl parts.
“Yes,” she whispered, snuggling up into his chest.
“I want you,” he whispered.
“So? What’s the problem?”
He dipped his head and proceeded to kiss her senseless. When he drew back, his baby blues were heavy-lidded. “I should have my head examined. But I’m thinking that an afternoon with you at the Hay-Adams sounds good.”
* * *
Dusty left his old blue pickup truck in the parking structure at the hospital because, in addition to implying that Amy would give him her body, she’d also sweetened the deal by letting him drive the Z4, which he considered nothing but foreplay.
Man, that car was fast and smooth and handled like a dream. He enjoyed every minute behind the wheel, but he still couldn’t shake the guilt that niggled at him.
He ought to be planning Daddy’s funeral. But Amy had taken that job off his hands and handed it to Courtney. He could have stopped her, but he didn’t. He just felt relieved.
“You’re thinking too much,” Amy said from the passenger’s side.
He turned in time for her to give him one of her I’m-up-to-no-good grins as her ponytail streamed behind her in the wind. “It’s hard not to think,” he said.
She nodded. “I can see how that might be the case. So, should I start stripping in the car? Give you something else to think about?”
He laughed, and it broke something inside. How could he laugh at a time like this?
She reached over the console and ran her fingertips up and down his thigh, featherlight, and damned if that touch didn’t pull his mind right away from the guilt. Probably because all his blood rushed south.
Oh yeah, driving that car with her touching him counted as foreplay. Suddenly, being alive seemed almost miraculous. His breathing, his beating heart, the wind rushing through his hair, the sun beating down on his skin, the scents of the city, the noise of the traffic, and Amy’s seductive touch became one unified affirmation that life goes on and that life should be lived in the moment.
But that heady feeling vanished when Dusty pulled the Z4 into the circular driveway of the Hay-Adams, one of DC’s landmarks, located a mere block from the White House. Dusty had never seen the place before, and the granite grandeur of the facade, the polished brass of the front doors, and the crisp uniforms of the bellhops made him uneasy.
The place reeked of old-world money. A small-town boy like him didn’t belong here; nor was the Hay-Adams the sort of place that booked rooms by the hour.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, Amy, maybe we should go find a no-tell motel or something.”
Amy leaned across the console and gave him a quick kiss that scrambled his brain. “Just remember that your great-great-grandfather was an industrialist and a robber baron, which makes him exactly like the man who originally built the Hay-Adams.”
He glanced up at the building’s imposing facade and wondered if any of his forebears had ever booked a room here.
“Exactly,” Amy said, as if she could mind read. “And besides, I respect you too much to take you to a no-tell motel.” She delivered that line deadpan, although something sparked down deep in her eyes.
Another laugh stuck in his throat, just as one of the impeccably uniformed attendants opened the car’s door. It was now or never.
He decided to go back to living in the moment and climbed out of the leather-upholstered bucket seat and handed off the car keys. When he joined Amy at the hotel’s front steps, she took his hand and practically dragged him into the lobby, which featured ornately carved walnut pillars holding up a vaulted ceiling complete with plaster medallions covered in gold leaf.
The clerk behind the registration desk inspected Dusty’s work boots, blue jeans, and fishing shirt and judged him on the spot. His expression remained stern when he shifted his gaze and took in Amy’s holey jeans, skimpy cotton tank top, and sneakers. Amy had probably spent several hundred dollars for her ragamuffin look, but the guy behind the desk treated her like she was a bum or something.
The guy’s officious attitude chapped Dusty’s ass but had zero effect on Amy, who pulled a platinum Amex card out of her purse and slapped it on the counter. “We’d like a room, please. One with a view of the White House, if possible.”
The man picked up the credit card, and Dusty fully expected him to give them the brush-off. But instead the clerk inspected the name on the card, and his eyes widened. “Ms. Lyndon,” he said, one eyebrow cur
ling upward, “are you related to the senator?”
“He’s my uncle. And Representative Heather Lyndon is my cousin. But I don’t see why that matters. Do you have a room available or not?”
“Uh, yes, we do. With a view. Do you have luggage?” His gaze bounced from Amy to Dusty and back again.
“No. I have laundry in my car. We’ll get it if we need it.”
“Right.” The guy looked down and started processing their registration.
Amy leaned in to Dusty and whispered, “He’s an asshole. He doesn’t know that you’re the famous fishing guide.”
“I’m not famous.”
“Not yet. But you will be.” She looked inordinately pleased with herself.
The clerk finally produced a key, which opened a hotel room sumptuously decorated in neutral tones with brown velvet tie-back curtains draped over the bed’s mahogany headboard like old-fashioned bed hangings.
The room also had a view of the White House, but Dusty didn’t get much time to enjoy it because Amy turned toward him, snaked her arms around his neck, and pulled him down for another one of her soft, sweet, intoxicating kisses. He promptly forgot about the fire and the hospital and his own culpability in Daddy’s death.
All that guilt disappeared, and in its place something new and amazing blossomed inside him like the most perfect rose. In those kisses, Dusty found a belief that maybe one day he could become a man worthy of someone whose last name unlocked doors. In Amy’s kisses, Dusty found a new image for himself. Not the son of a drunk, but a fishing guide with a business of his own. A man who deserved respect, not blame.
Her kisses touched him down deep in the place where his darkest feelings lived, and they made him hungry. He backed her up against the hotel room’s door, trying to devour her as she slid her hands down over his shoulders to his ass. She pulled him closer so the curves of her thighs and breasts pressed hard against him. They were so close, and yet she still seemed out of reach. He ground himself against her, an inarticulate sound of frustration and need escaping him.
