2000 Kisses

by Christina Skye

  Patience shattered.

  He found her hips first, lifting her to meet his rigid heat. “Now,” he muttered, lost in her. Lost in heat and magic.

  Skin to skin, he felt the night close around them, a drifting warmth that left them cut off from noise, bustle, or the reality beyond the adobe walls.

  He whispered her name and felt her nails dig into his shoulders.

  Offering.

  Offering.

  The rush of hunger nearly overwhelmed him, but the way he touched her was gentle, questioning, open to the wonder of the night’s magic.

  Man to woman. Skin to wet skin.

  At his first stroke, she shivered, her eyes darkening with pleasure. Her legs straddled him as he built the pressure slowly. Again he moved, pleasure spilling like a dream.

  T.J. closed his eyes, caught in the churning sensations of warm desert wind, clinging water, the hot, sweet dance of her skin on his. Too long denied, his body screamed for a savage release, yet finishing was the last thing he wanted.

  So he played out the pleasure for both of them, his lips at her jaw while he slowly, exquisitely, brought them together as one. At the moment of full joining, a shudder worked through her, then ripped into him. Linked, bound, they felt every sensation as one.

  He smiled grimly as a new tremor rocked her where she held him. Even then he didn’t move, bending his head to plant a kiss in her hair, then framing her face with his hands, meeting her gaze.

  He saw trails of moonlight in her eyes, hints of promises as she moved against him, gripping his shoulders, and sliding along his heated length, while the water rippled with magic.

  Because he wanted to take, he gave. Because he craved speed, he chose delay instead. Slow, hot, and probing, he moved within her until she rocked backward, a broken sound of pleasure spilling into the air.

  T.J. knew he wanted nothing more than this, feeling her pulse where she sheathed him so tightly. He closed his eyes. “I need you, Tess. I’ve needed this forever.”

  Her answer was a broken laugh, a brush of hands, and the urgent movement of her body on his. Together they strained, yearned, matching stroke to stroke. She threw back her head, her soft moan drifting.

  Entranced, T.J. watched moonlight gild her body in the water. Then heat burst through him, and reason fled. All was hot pleasure, screaming need. Her fingers slipped and he gripped her hips fiercely. When her deep tremors began again, he drove blindly, pouring the heat of himself deep within her, grating out her name with a dark madness that knew no end until she wrapped her legs around him and joined him in the spinning silence.

  The water drifted.

  Wind played over their slick bodies.

  Tess drew a shuddering breath. “Was that normal?”

  There was nothing normal about what had just happened, T.J. knew. He had never come so close to seizing rather than sharing. “There’s nothing usual about anything we do.”

  He felt her move, felt the delighted laugh she pressed against his shoulder.

  “I wondered. It seemed—good.”

  His brow rose. “Good?”

  “All right, amazing. Stupendous.”

  His grin was slow and dark. Their bodies were still joined, drifting on the water, wreathed in steam. It felt as if they’d been this way forever, lovers keenly familiar with every nerve and mood.

  She eased up his body, smiling in dazed satisfaction. “So I suppose we should call it a night and try to get some rest.” She raised her arm, started to turn.

  T.J. moved first, catching her wrist and pulling her back against him. “That’s another thing you’ll have to learn. There’s no time clock or play book here. There’s only us, Tess, and I’m in no particular rush.” As he spoke, he moved deep within her.

  Her eyes widened. “Again? You mean you can—”

  Her words fell away in a shiver of pleasure as he showed her, hands to her hands, heart to her heart.

  High overhead, a single star tumbled from the darkness, then cut a bright silver curve across the velvet sky.

  Thunder rumbled.

  The sound of rain skittering over the tile roof above the bedroom roused T.J. He grinned at the feel of Tess’s hands draped over his chest, her breath soft at his ear as they nestled on soft sheets that carried a hint of Maria’s prized sage.

  When the phone rang, he answered quickly, not wanting to wake her.

  Grady sounded tired and just a little rattled. There was another dead coyote up by the Needle, according to Miguel. T.J. had also received a call from his old friend, the sheriff in Brinkley.

  “Probably calling about that hostage situation and the paperwork it generated.”

  “Most likely.” T.J. tried to shove the memory from his mind as he shifted the phone closer to his mouth. “Any report back on that rifle shell yet?”

  “Nope. But there are storm warnings. Possibly a big blow coming in from Mexico. And I almost forgot that one of those survivalists was in town, drunk as a skunk. Got into a shoving match with Tom Stoner from the Lazy C. I separated them and called someone to take that fellow back to their camp. He seemed nice enough, but Stoner sure was blowing fire.”

  T.J. muttered a curse. The last thing he wanted was for hostilities to flare into a volatile showdown between lifestyles and ideologies.

  “You think those folks could be behind the coyote killings? Stoner sure thinks so.”

  “Anyone could have done it, Grady. The question is why.”

  “Beats me.”

  Lightning crackled, and Tess muttered in her sleep, rolling closer to T.J.

  “You still there, Sheriff?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I heard something. You got coyotes up there tonight?”

  T.J. grinned. “Only one small one.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I’ll check in early. Let me know if anything else comes up.”

  “Will do.” Silence played out. “Never heard of one small pup howling before. Especially in a rainstorm.”

  “It appears there’s a first time for everything, my friend.”

  Tess stuck her head from beneath the pillow as he replaced the receiver. “What’s wrong?”

  T.J. pulled her onto his chest. “Not a thing. Sorry to wake you.”

  “I wasn’t asleep,” she said, yawning hugely. “Just drifting. I like the sound of the rain. Somehow you appreciate every drop when you’re in a desert.” Her fingers skimmed his chest. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Best in my life. Of course, I had an unbelievable dream. Something to do with a woman in black glasses and a hot tub.”

  “That makes two of us.” She combed her fingers through the hair at his chest. “Probably there was something illegal about what we did. Anything that feels that good has to violate one ordinance or another.”

  T.J. grinned again. “No, Ma’am. I checked, just to be sure.”

  “I think I saw shooting stars.” She leaned back on one elbow. “Then again, maybe that was an amazing hallucination. Do you know a lot about stars, McCall?”

  “I met a few in Hollywood.” He almost laughed at the way her brows flew up.

  “Hollywood?”

  “I did a little security work, a little stunt work. Some stand-ins.” He shrugged. “Pretty boring. Hurry up and wait, most of the time.”

  The dimple in her cheek was irresistible. “But it had its moments?”

  “I suppose.”

  She leaned away, eyes narrowed. “As in moments when you had to kiss beautiful half-clad women?”

  His lips twitched. “There might have been one or two. My recollection’s a bit hazy.”

  “I’ll just bet it is.”

  He caught her chin and brought her face back to his.

  “Am I dreaming or is that a major streak of green I see in your eyes?”

  “Jealous? Me?” She laughed tightly. “Not on your life.”

  “Is that a fact?” he drawled. “Then, why are your shoulders stiff and your hands clenched arou
nd that pillow?”

  “As usual, you’ve managed to misinterpret a perfectly normal set of events.”

  He ran his tongue over his teeth, not quite hiding a smile. “Such as?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “Who did you stand in for?”

  He toyed with a strand of hair at her neck. “A few people.”

  She swatted away his hand. “Names, McCall.”

  He named a star who’d banked ten million in a thriller that had packed theaters with crazed fans for weeks.

  “Him?” He could almost feel the shock snap through her. “You’re kidding.”

  “Actually, no.”

  “How can you be so calm about a thing like that?”

  “It was a job, Tess. Just a carefully orchestrated illusion. The glamour comes in the cutting room, when the gunfire and special effects and music are layered in.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Okay, I’m not impressed. Not a bit.” She sank back, then plunged her hands into her hair. “You really did? But your hair’s darker than his.”

  “Dye.”

  “And longer.”

  “I cut it.”

  She drew a breath. “Okay, I admit it. I’m so impressed I can barely breathe. What was it like?”

  “Sometimes boring. Sometimes maddening. On a few occasions downright dangerous. But the show always goes on. They’re people like everyone else, Tess. Highly paid, highly creative, and highly stressed people. It just so happens they have the ability to light up whenever the camera rolls, so that they make you forget it’s all a huge illusion.”

  “I bet you were good.” She stared at him beneath lowered lashes. “Now, why don’t you tell me about all those half-naked women you had to rescue.”

  He turned swiftly, pinning her beneath him. “Right after you tell me all about that client in Boston who taught you how to pick locks.”

  “Purely business, I assure you.” She didn’t quite manage to sound prim.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Are you always this suspicious, Sheriff?”

  He answered by catching her bottom lip with his teeth, then skimming her tongue with his. Suddenly the teasing snapped into something desperately serious. He gripped her wrists. “How do you do this to me, dammit? All I can think of is having you again.” He moved so that she felt the heat of his erection at the junction of her thighs.

  “No complaints here,” she whispered, drawing his mouth down to hers.

  But he took a slow, hot detour. Taut nipples, trembling stomach, and dewy curls met his tongue as he tasted, goaded, enjoying the sounds of pleasure she made.

  Her hands fisted in his hair. “Now. God, make it now or I’ll—”

  “Now,” he grated.

  He clutched her hips, held her fiercely. His eyes burned as he pinned her beneath him and slammed home inside her, while her moan of pleasure joined with his own guttural cry of release.

  “Tess, I’ve got to go.”

  The pillows stirred. The sheets rustled.

  “Work?” She peered out, sleepy and disoriented, her hands rising to his shoulders. “You’re already dressed.”

  “You’d make a sharp detective, Ms. O’Mara.” As he slanted a kiss at her forehead, she made a soft sound and dragged him down for something far more substantial.

  Heat flared through her, stirring memories of the amazing hours they had just shared. Then Tess’s hand struck something cold, something metal.

  His gun.

  She froze. “Has something happened?”

  “There are some reports I have to take a look at. It’s the normal flotsam and jetsam—a few hell-raisers in from Tucson and a stolen vehicle sighted.” He slid his hands through her hair and took his time in a searching kiss.

  Then he bit off an oath and rose, his eyes hot as he looked down at her. “Grady’s outside. He’ll keep an eye on things here until I get back.” His lips curved. “Put the poor man out of his misery, will you? Make some of that cappuccino for him. He won’t ask, but he’s dying for a cup.”

  Tess sat up and stretched slowly. She made no effort to grab the sheet as it drifted slowly down her naked body.

  His eyes narrowed. “If I were a paranoid man, I’d think you were trying to cause me real pain.”

  Her smile was slow. “Excellent detective work, Sheriff.”

  He raised his eyes skyward. But the fact was, he simply couldn’t stay. Work had piled up since he’d left, and several important reports were waiting on his desk. “I’ll be back in three hours.”

  The sheet drifted lower. Her smile grew. “Make that two hours, and I’ll put a huge smile on your face, cowboy.”

  T.J. cleared his throat. “I’ve always like smiles. You’ve got yourself a deal, Ma’am.”

  19

  The fax machine across the room grumbled and T.J. stared down at the tall stacks of papers on his desk. An hour had passed and he had barely finished one-quarter of the paperwork that was pending. At least he had been more fortunate in his employee interview and had found a good candidate to replace their dispatcher.

  He stared at a dozen pink sheets containing names of radio and television stations, several of them national. Somehow word of his participation in the Brinkley hostage crisis had been leaked. Ever alert to a story involving blood, violence, and death, the media were now tracking him for interviews.

  Muttering, T.J. crumpled the papers into a ball. He’d talk to the press when hell froze over.

  Meanwhile, he had enough work to do, and to his disgust, progress was slowed by his sudden tendency to watch the clock.

  Meat loaf and potatoes.

  What could be hard about a simple little meal like that?

  Tess stared at the kitchen with absolutely no idea where to start. Oh, she knew about potatoes—as a botanical specimen at least. She knew they’d been grown in the Andes and brought to the Virginia colonies, from there to England. She knew they were good mashed, fried, or baked.

  But she didn’t have a clue how to do any of that.

  She turned to Grady, who was smiling his way through his third mocha latte. “Does T.J. have any cookbooks here?”

  “I reckon he’s got a few packed in boxes. His sister always liked to cook. He’s not half bad himself when Maria lets him near a pan, which isn’t often.”

  “I guess I should be glad that Maria has two days off,” Tess said. “She’d probably have my skin if she found me in her kitchen.”

  “Oh, she’s more bark than bite, though she’s pretty protective of the sheriff after the way he fished her son out of that scrape in Mexico.”

  “Protective,” Tess muttered. “She could give a mother lion lessons.”

  Grady rubbed his jaw. “She’s real particular where T.J. is concerned, that’s a fact. Now, let me see, I think he put some cookbooks in his spare room in a box.”

  Tess followed Grady to the other side of the house. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, outlining fragile pieces of white pottery carefully wrapped in acid-free paper. “It looks like the sheriff is starting his own art gallery,” Tess said.

  “He wanted to get these checked out by an expert in Santa Fe,” Grady explained. “He took them from a smuggler who was trying to truck them over the border to Mexico. T.J. figures they’re probably authentic Mimbres pottery from over in New Mexico. If so, they’ll go to a museum.”

  Tess knew that these pieces could be worth a fortune if they were authentic. A man with less honor might be tempted to claim them for his own and pocket the proceeds.

  But not T.J.

  “The man researched adobe styles for months before he designed this place. He’s got more pottery and rugs than he can display at one time. Even Doc Felton’s impressed, and that’s saying something.” Grady pulled another box across the floor and opened it. “Maybe he put those cookbooks in here. I could have sworn he—” Suddenly the deputy bent forward, trying to close the cardboard flaps.

  “What was in there?” Tess demanded.
“It looked like photographs.”

  “It’s nothing important. I reckon I’ll just close it up and put it back,” Grady muttered.

  But Tess reached past him, digging away wrapping paper to reveal a dozen framed photographs. She blinked as she recognized the smiling faces of two senators, a dozen movie stars, and one presidential hopeful. T.J. was in every photo, dressed in a dark suit with his Stetson nowhere in sight.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Hell, McCall’s going to have my hide now,” Grady muttered. “He never wants to show those to anyone. That was all a long time ago.”

  “Only six or seven years, I’d say. What was he doing?”

  “Secret Service. He was working up to the presidential protection unit when he left.”

  Tess stared at the photos, seeing a younger Jackson McCall, who hid his tension well, in spite of the lines of strain at his forehead. “I should have guessed. He always has an air of watchfulness, as if he’s ready for something to happen. Now I know why.”

  Tess turned at a sound from the doorway. Maria stood glaring at them, hands on her ample hips.

  “Why do you come here? This room is private for the señor.”

  “We were looking for cookbooks,” Grady said quickly.

  “I come back because I hear about the señorita’s accident and I find you where you should not be.” Maria rolled her eyes, then fixed Tess with a suspicious stare. “You wish to cook for Señor McCall?”

  Tess barely heard, still studying the pictures of a confident, assertive man who could have gone to the top of his profession. What had made him give it all up?

  “Señorita?”

  “Yes?” Tess swiped at the tears blurring her eyes. Now she realized why Andrew had sent her to Almost—not because of a laid-back, slow-talking sheriff but because of a man who’d been good enough to guard the country’s most important people.

  “Señorita Tess.” Maria was touching her arm, Tess realized, and the housekeeper’s eyes were also blurred with tears. “You care about him very much, I think.”