Lucky's Woman

by Jones, Linda Winstead

  If he kept going, she was going to orgasm before the lovemaking actually began.

  No, this had been lovemaking from the moment he’d slipped his hand beneath her nightshirt.

  Lucky’s hand glided between their bodies and touched her. He stroked as he had earlier, bringing her to the brink and then gentling his touch. Could he feel her tremble? Did he know she was literally shaking with need?

  With Lucky’s mouth on her breast and his fingers working magic between her legs, Annie came. Hard. Her body bucked, she made a noise she did not recognize as her own. She held on to Lucky with all her might as the sensations whipped through her body. Outside the bedroom window, dawn was upon them. When she opened her eyes she could see Lucky’s face well. He was watching her so intently, she felt certain there was more intimacy in that gaze than there was in the sexual exploration of his mouth and hands.

  While his eyes and hers were locked, he entered her. She was wet, trembling, receptive. One long stroke, and she once again felt the need growing inside her. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the rhythm of making love. It was a lovely rhythm, and she soon forgot everything else but the way Lucky made her feel.

  Every inch of her skin was sensitive, exposed and quivering. Her hips and his met, again and again, and there was no thought involved. It was so right; so natural. There was a primitiveness to the way they made love, as if every move, every breath, was instinctive and inescapable and wholly theirs.

  Again, she felt the beginning wave of orgasm. Lucky drove deeper than before; he touched her in a place that grasped and fluttered in response to his thrust, and she came with a sharp cry. Lucky came with her, this time.

  All night, Annie’s thoughts had been hers and hers alone, but it seemed that she shared Lucky’s climax with him. Not in her head, but throughout her entire body. The experience took her to a new and unexpected place, and for a while—a few seconds or a few minutes, she couldn’t be sure—she was transported to a place where nothing existed but the two of them.

  For that short and wonderful time, she was filled with the knowledge that this man was hers, and always would be.

  But a few minutes later, when he left the bed, she had to remind herself that Lucky would only be hers for a short time. A very short time.

  It was an unfortunate fact of life that women sometimes—often, to be honest—made too much out of a little fun sex. Lucky would like to think otherwise, but he had a feeling Annie was one of those women. Yeah, he had been attracted to her from the start, and she’d been attracted to him, so maybe what had happened last night had been inevitable. That didn’t mean anything had to change. He worked for her; she wasn’t his type.

  In truth, sex always changed everything with women. Why couldn’t they be like men and just appreciate sex for the physical pleasure?

  He’d explored every inch of her body, and found no tattoos. Not a single one. In a way he was surprised. No tattoo meant his initial read of her had been wrong. He was never wrong, not where women were concerned. Not anymore.

  Lucky made his own breakfast. Cereal. Annie slept late. He worried incessantly about what she’d say when she finally got out of bed. If there were hugs and kisses and declarations of love—shudder—he’d have to make some serious changes around here.

  Maybe he could reason with her. Ha.

  It was after ten when she finally woke. He heard the shower running, and geared himself up to do battle, if necessary. Earlier this morning she’d caught him half-asleep and hard, and that explained away everything. The sex had been good, and she’d come like a woman who’d never had an orgasm before. He hoped that wasn’t the case. Women tended to get very clingy when they had their first climax.

  Annie soon headed into the kitchen, where Lucky was washing his breakfast dishes. Her hair was in that always-mussed style he was getting accustomed to. She wore her favorite pair of jeans, which were very faded and had a small frayed hole in the right thigh. Today she wore a green T-shirt with long, loose sleeves that had lace around the cuff. Her slender feet were bare. Her toenails had been painted red a few days ago. He liked them well enough, though he did think the pink polish was prettier on her.

  Like he cared what color her toenails were.

  He steeled himself for some emotional confrontation, as Annie headed to the refrigerator. She came out with a container of yogurt, and then grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer.

  “I’m starving this morning,” she said as she claimed a seat at the small kitchen table. “I guess that’s what I get for sleeping so late.”

  “Yeah,” Lucky said as he finished drying his cereal bowl.

  “What’s the plan for today?” she asked, and then she attacked her yogurt with relish.

  “We’ll go to your shop for a while and have lunch in town. This afternoon I need to make a few more phone calls.”

  “To see if you can find out if the man who murdered the Huffs has done this before,” she said.

  He had hesitated in mentioning that possibility to her, but since it was possible anything she knew might trigger a vision, he’d told her of his suspicions days ago. Not that it had helped. So far she couldn’t tell him if the man they were looking for had killed once or a hundred times.

  He made an affirmative sound as he put the bowl away.

  “We should go to the café across the street for lunch,” Annie said brightly. “They have great salads, and all this eating out is beginning to tell. I think I gained two pounds last week.”

  “You can afford to gain two more,” he said. As far as he could tell, her body was perfect as it was.

  She wagged her spoon. “Nope. Two more pounds turns to five more in a heartbeat, and if I gain five pounds then I have to start jogging or something just to get it off. It’s easier to catch it now.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with jogging.”

  “Spoken like a man who lives where the land is relatively flat,” she teased.

  Lucky breathed a sigh of relief. It looked as if Annie was going to ignore what had happened early this morning. Maybe she was one of those rare women who could enjoy sex for the sake of sex. He hadn’t pegged her as the type, but anything was possible. He’d been wrong about the tattoo, after all.

  Of course, she hadn’t looked directly at him since she’d entered the kitchen. Maybe she was intent on her breakfast, since she was hungry, but then again—maybe she was simply pretending that what had happened meant nothing. Annie had never struck him as the sneaky type.

  Since she wasn’t looking at him, he felt free to stare. Something about the feminine curve of her cheek and the swell beneath that snug shirt grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. His body responded. He wanted her again. Maybe on that table where she was finishing up her yogurt, maybe in the shower, or on the couch, or…

  Crap. Lucky turned around and left the kitchen before Annie had the chance to look his way and see what she’d done to him. Sleeping with a woman once could be brushed aside as casual and unimportant.

  Wanting her all the time would only lead to disaster, for him, and for her.

  He needed to get closer. Not into the house; not yet. It was too soon for him to visit and to touch. But he wanted to get close enough to hear their voices, to smell them. Watching from such a distance was no longer satisfying in any but the smallest way.

  Creeping through the woods, he made his way toward the house he’d been watching for over a week. It was broad daylight, but even if anyone saw him they wouldn’t think him out of place. He was a common sight in and around Mercerville these days, and if anyone questioned him he’d have a believable story to tell. He always did.

  Without making a sound, he made his way to the house until he could touch the exterior wall. She was still in there; he was gone. What would she say if he went to the door and knocked? She’d invite him inside, of course. She’d offer him iced tea and maybe cookies.

  But it was too soon for that. He made his way to the back of the house and the small, low door th
ere. It opened slowly and soundlessly, and he slipped into the crawl space and closed the door behind him.

  He turned on a small flashlight and oriented himself to the space. It was adequate. More than adequate, in fact.

  He had to stoop down to walk in the crawl space, and the floor was packed dirt and cold stone. A few old tools that looked as if they hadn’t been used in years were stored here. A rusty hacksaw. A square-head shovel, also rusty. The better tools were stored in a fairly new shed in the backyard.

  The backpack he wore contained everything he’d need. A blanket, to carpet the ground. A dim flashlight. Water. Granola bars, in case he got hungry. He took a moment to prepare the space, and then he lay down upon the blanket and turned off his flashlight.

  The house was old, and in some spaces light from the house shone down, slanting between old, loose floorboards. He’d have to be very, very quiet, so no one would ever know he was here. He closed his eyes and listened. Her footsteps sounded soft above him. A radio played in the background. Country music. He liked country music.

  Sometimes she hummed along with the music, if the song was familiar. She was cleaning, he guessed after a few moments of listening. She moved from room to room, and he heard the swish of a broom and the quick spray of cleaner or furniture polish. He liked that, that she kept her house so clean. She was a caring woman, a good woman.

  The phone rang, jarring him so that his eyes flew open. She answered. “Hello?”

  He listened to the one-sided conversation, and it didn’t take him long to realize that he was calling.

  “I could use a gallon of milk and some diet soda, if you don’t mind.”

  All was quiet for a moment, but for the country music in the background, and then she laughed. What had he said that was funny? It was annoying not to know, but it couldn’t be helped. Tonight, when the workday was done and they were both here, he’d be able to hear both sides of the conversation.

  She finished the phone call with a sincere “Love you, too,” and then returned to her chores.

  For a few minutes the man beneath the house remained very still. Love. It was the most powerful force in the universe, and it had once been his. That time was gone. Now he was forced to experience love through others, because he could never know it again. Never, never, never. Love remained elusive, just out of reach. Maybe this couple would help him to understand what love was, and then he could make her understand, and then he could be happy again.

  He hadn’t been happy for such a very long time.

  Above his head the woman began to hum again. Fittingly, it was a song about lost love.

  All day long, she’d felt as if her skin was on fire. For days, Lucky had been putting his arm around her, taking her hand, smiling at her. She knew it was all for show, but now everything felt different. What had happened in his bed had not been for show. It had been just for them.

  For her, everything was different. For Lucky, nothing had changed.

  His focus was all about finding the killer. They’d done their thing in town, holding hands and smiling and acting like blissfully content lovers, hoping to draw attention. He’d made phone calls and taken notes and made more phone calls. That was as it should be, right? She’d brought him here to stop a murderer—and her dreams. The fabulous sex was just a bonus.

  Or the biggest mistake of her life.

  It would be best to pretend that nothing had happened. She’d say good night, go to bed, lock her door and sleep alone. Lucky would continue to pretend that nothing had changed, and she’d pretend that taking a man into her bed could be in any way casual.

  Annie liked trendy clothes and popular music. She was, in most ways, a thoroughly modern woman. But when it came to sex, she couldn’t get rid of the notion that to invite a man into your bed and your body was important. It was no wonder that until this morning she hadn’t slept with a man in five years.

  It was a cool night, so a few hours ago, right after supper, Lucky had built a fire in the fireplace. He’d fed it now and again, carefully adding firewood when the flames grew too small. It was getting late now, and he was allowing the fire to die down.

  Their conversation had been all about the case, primarily about how it was not going well. His inquiries had revealed nothing of importance, though there were Benning agents and law-enforcement friends continuing to investigate.

  “So, anything?” he asked abruptly, glancing her way and—for the first time all evening—looking her in the eye.

  Annie shook her head. He’d been asking her all day about tapping into the killer’s brain, but no matter how hard she tried to reach beyond the small circle of her life, all she could see was Lucky. She couldn’t get away from his fear that she’d expect more than he had to give. His horror that she might cling. His absolute terror that a woman, any woman, might need him in anything more than the most superficial of ways.

  Making love to him had meant everything to her, but to Lucky it had meant less than nothing. Even though her body wanted his, and it would be so very easy to give him what he wanted without asking for more than he cared to give, she couldn’t.

  Annie curled up on her chair, and looked at Lucky with all the fearlessness she could muster. “I need more,” she said simply.

  For a moment he was silent and confused, and then he realized that she’d once again changed the subject without warning. “Sorry.”

  “I’m not,” she said clearly.

  When she allowed her mind to reach out she could see into his so clearly. It was frightening, and if he knew…if he knew how well she connected to him now, he would run for the hills, killer or no killer.

  He liked her well enough; he wanted her fiercely; he was terrified of her. He was terrified she’d get too close and make him feel something he couldn’t handle.

  There was another woman, from long ago, someone who’d hurt him so badly he had not yet recovered. The truth was, he might never recover. Lucky Santana was not the best at letting things go.

  “It’s not like what we’ve been pretending is in any way real,” she said. “We have to remember that. This morning, I allowed myself to forget.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “I was scared and you were there, and you were…” Horny sounded so crude, even though it was true. “You were willing enough, so it’s not like anyone got hurt.”

  If she let him get any closer, he’d break her heart when he left. And he was going to leave. As it was, she could watch him walk away when the time came without being destroyed. She was fond of him, and she would always remember what it had felt like when he’d made love to her, but soon enough she’d forget him and get on with her life.

  And there it was…the mental image of Lucky above her, the fan whirring, the scar. Last night they had not been in her bed, but in his. She’d thought maybe that was just an aberration, but the vision of what was to come remained with her. She had no sense of time, where that vision was concerned. Would he make love to her in that bed in a day? A week? A year?

  No, she wasn’t sure when the vision would come to pass, but she did know it wouldn’t happen tonight.

  Why did she see that vision so clearly, when she hadn’t seen their first time together at all? What was it about that particular instance that was so important she’d seen it the first time she’d touched Lucky?

  Maybe what she experienced—then and now—was simply a wish, not a vision at all. Just because she knew Lucky Santana was bad for her and her sentimental heart, that didn’t mean she didn’t want him.

  Chapter 9

  It was going on two in the morning, sleep was elusive and Lucky felt like a jerk. Maybe he was. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  He also felt as if he’d lost something, and that was foolish. He barely knew Annie Lockhart, so how could he have lost her? A little distance was best. A lot would be better.

  Still, after she went to bed he found himself e-mailing Murphy with a few requests. He hadn’t planned to be here so long, and he needed some supplies. Besides, he
was damned tired of Annie telling him he dressed like her father.

  If they’d attracted the attention of the man they were looking for, Annie hadn’t picked up on it yet. He had a feeling she would know when, and if, that happened—if it was possible. If her gift was as real as it seemed to be. If he hadn’t let a pretty woman hoodwink him.

  Now and then he wondered if maybe he’d allowed himself to be snookered. Maybe Annie didn’t have any psychic ability. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean she’d conned him. Maybe he’d spent the past week chasing after a boogeyman from a too-vivid nightmare and she truly believed her boogeyman was real. He’d been suckered into this because Annie was pretty and feminine, and she had big blue eyes that drew him in. She had the ability to look lost and vulnerable. It was his weakness, after all, this need to save the girl.

  “Sir Freakin’ Lucky,” he mumbled beneath his breath as he sent the e-mail.

  It was after three before he went to bed. Sleep was a while longer coming. The sheets smelled of her. The room smelled of Annie and sex and something else he couldn’t identify, as if she’d left a part of herself here. She was sleeping just down the hall, and when he thought of her lying in her bed, so near, he got hard again.

  Great. Just great.

  He finally slept, and when he did he dreamed of Annie. He woke just after seven to the mechanical ring of his cell phone. None too happy to be disturbed, he answered with a bark. “Santana. This better be good.”

  The last person he expected to find on the other end of the call was Truman McCain. The last thing he expected hear was “We’re headed your way. We’ll be there early this afternoon.”

  Annie busied herself with a new design—brightly colored sequined fish on a black-and-gold handbag—while Lucky buried himself in paperwork he’d gone over a hundred times. He seemed to think if he organized his notes in another way he’d see something he’d missed before. Anything to keep them from actually talking to one another.