Ever since he’d been back in town, Donovan had been cooking one thing or the other. Tonight it was Chicken Marsala, rice, broccoli, and those cinnamon rolls baking away in the oven apparently torturing Faith.
“How much longer?” she asked, her fork digging forlornly into her rice.
“Eat your broccoli,” Donovan teased.
Connor laughed.
Faith glared at him. “You leave me alone.”
“Forget it. I’m all over you until we find your intruder.”
“Sounds kinky.” Donovan took a sip of his beer.
“Yeah, what’d you two do last night?” Sofie asked, narrowing one eyelid.
Unable to resist, he blurted, “Tantric sex. Faith is really flexible.”
That earned him a swift kick to the shin. “We slept in separate rooms.”
“After.” He slid his foot away before she could nail him again.
Despite the fact it wasn’t true, her cheeks reddened.
“I don’t want details.” Donovan cleared his plate and swiped Connor’s. “More?”
“Three plates is my limit.” He pulled his palms over his stomach.
“Nothing happened,” Faith continued arguing.
“It’s fine if it did,” Sofie said through a giggle.
Happy to watch her flail, Connor chimed in, “Come on, Cupcake, secret’s out.”
“There is no—” Then she shut up and rolled her eyes, realizing everyone was smiling at her. “Okay. Fine. Everyone tease the ditzy blonde.”
“Shut up and eat your cinnamon rolls.” Donny rested the pan on the top of the stove. “Anyway”—he tossed aside the oven mitt—“we don’t think you’re ditzy.”
“The opposite.” This from Sofie. “We know you’re too smart to get involved with Connor.”
Faith quirked her lips. “Hmm. Good point.”
He saw her try not to smile. He liked her teasing him. Dishing it out. That was good for her.
“Two please,” Faith ordered as Donny came to the table with a plate of piping-hot cinnamon rolls. “And that’s not nearly enough frosting.”
* * *
“I’m going to die.”
Connor chuckled as Faith collapsed on her couch. He’d been busy reinforcing the latches on the windows and installing a second deadbolt on the door while she showered and slipped into yoga pants and a tee. Frankly, pants with an elastic waistband were the only pants likely to fit her after the amount she’d eaten for dinner.
Now, with her elbow-length hair piled at the back of her head in a messy bun, and without shoes or a stitch of makeup, she was too miserable to care that she looked like death warmed over.
“I ate too much,” she groaned. She had. Donovan’s cinnamon rolls were legendary. And not normal legendary, more like legen—wait for it—DARY. And after too much Chicken Marsala, rice, and veggies—that Sofie made her eat, she might add—Faith pounded down two and a half cinnamon rolls. “Shouldn’t have eaten that last half.”
Laughter from the other side of the couch shook the cushions.
She held her stomach. “Hold still.”
“Yeah, because that half a cinnamon roll really put you over. I’m impressed, though; you don’t look like you can hold it, but girl, you can eat.”
“I’m blessed with high metabolism.” She raised her head and leaned on one hand. “What’s your excuse? You inhaled three thousand calories, at least.”
“I do a lot of physical labor.”
His comment made her peruse the length of his henley-covered arms, this one maroon, but still tight enough to show off those drool-worthy biceps and pecs and—
“Faith.”
She redirected her gaze and feigned sick again. She wasn’t as full as she was letting on, but it was helping quell some of the lust that’d settled into her apartment the moment they returned home together.
When she met his gaze, his lips twitched, his eyes snapped to her mouth, and just as quickly, he turned his body away from her and faced the television. “What’s your pleasure?”
So many answers.
“Food Network.”
“Thought you were stuffed.”
“I am, but I figured it was something we could agree on.”
“Your funeral,” he said, flicking the channel.
After a Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives marathon, Connor had gone to the kitchen for more food. More food. Although, she had followed. Here she thought she’d been too full to eat ever again. But her stuffed tummy was no match for the various dishes full of epic awesomeness Guy Fieri dished up. So far she’d had potato chips, cheese and crackers, and was now attempting to steal a bite of Connor’s ice cream.
Clasping her hands together, she begged, “One bite?”
“Hot fudge.” He moaned in pleasure and gestured with his spoon to the bowl of melting ice cream.
“I know what it is. It’s my hot fudge.”
Another bite. “Mmm.” He swallowed, licked his lips. “You should have gotten yourself a bowl. It’s amazing.”
“I don’t want a whole bowl! I want a bite. One bite.”
His eyes narrowed. Lips quirked.
Ruh-roh.
“Trade ya.”
“Oh no, you don’t.”
He lifted a spoonful and held it over the bowl. Fudge dripped from the edge of the spoon, and she swore her nether regions tingled. If she couldn’t have sex, she damn well would have sugar.
“A kiss,” he said.
“Kiss!” The idea of it bounced around in her brain and grabbed on to parts of her she didn’t want to acknowledge.
He shoveled the bite into his mouth, leaving a pitiable amount in the bowl. One bite to be exact. Her bite. He licked his lips and she stifled a whimper.
“Just let me have it.” She tried giving him her best Puss in Boots expression. “I’m the one fearing for my life, here.”
He remained unfazed.
“Sorry, Cupcake. Kiss for the rest.” He tipped the bowl slightly. “That’s the deal.”
“I could get my own bowl.”
He dipped his chin in agreement. “You could.”
Damn. Nothing was working. He really didn’t budge. On anything. And she didn’t want her own bowl. She’d have to get the ice cream out, and a bowl, and scoop it, and then microwave the hot fudge…
She bit her lip and thought about it for another second. Time was precious. Her ice cream was melting. “No tongue.”
Shrugging, he said, “Your playground.”
One quick peck was a small price to pay for the deliciousness at the bottom of the bowl. But when she crawled onto her knees and brought her mouth closer to his face, she was ultra-aware of his smell, that earthy, spicy smell she’d grown to associate with him. Aware of the barely there stubble pressing through his normally clean-shaven jaw. Aware of his eyes darkening…
Well. What the hell. She closed in and pressed her lips to his.
His mouth was cool and he tasted of fudge and sweet, cold cream. She meant to pull away, honest to God she did, but he not only tasted of sugar, he also tasted of Connor, and the taste had her leaning in for more. So did he. Before she knew what’d happened, he hooked her jaw with one rough palm and her hand was resting on his denim-clad thigh. They were almost making out. Almost.
No tongue. As promised.
Dammit.
Her and her big mouth.
She pulled away abruptly and was pleased to find his expression dazed. The smile wasn’t far behind, and neither was her reward.
“You earned it,” he said, his lips tipping.
Oh, right. So hard won.
“Thank you,” she said primly, taking the bowl and spoon and eating the rest in one bite. She even scraped down the sides. Anything to keep from meeting his unwavering gaze. It was locked on to her like a heat-seeking missile. She could feel it.
She also ignored it. “Mmm. That was good.”
“Good enough to make you want more,” he murmured, his low, low voice rumbling between them.
Breaking her rule, she looked up and saw the dark intent in those seemingly harmless hazel eyes. In the daytime he was easygoing, sandy-haired, I-should-be-on-a-sexy-fireman-calendar Connor. But in her apartment, lazed onto the arm of her couch, sideways smirk cocked just so, he was…dangerous.
In the most delicious way possible.
“I’d better get this into the kitchen.” She unfolded her legs and stood, scuttling out of there and thinking she should stick her head under the faucet while she was at it. At the sink, she rinsed the bowl but watched him. He sat there, arms splayed as per his usual, a safe and comforting presence.
He’d gone out of his way for the last several days to make sure she went nowhere alone, make sure she was safe, and she’d done nothing but snipe at him. Playfully, sure, but still.
Drying her hands on a dishtowel, she walked over to the side of the couch where he was leaning. “Thank you, Connor.”
He looked surprised, eyebrows raised, as he turned his head and looked up at her. “For the ice cream?” Heat infused his eyes. “Or the kiss?”
She smiled. Twisted the dishtowel she’d carried in with her. “For watching over me. I appreciate it. And I don’t mind kissing you, even though I should.” She really should. But now that she watched his mouth, she couldn’t remember why. Something about independence…but the excuse sounded lame now.
“I don’t mind kissing you, either, Cupcake. But I have to tell you, you think it’s something we shouldn’t do, I respect that.” He slapped the cushion on the couch. “I promise not to make you get within six inches of this mouth for the rest of the night.”
Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. She was a head case. But he didn’t need to know that. “Deal.”
She sat down next to him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He felt so good, she snuggled into him.
“And you don’t have to thank me,” he said at the next commercial break. The low timbre of his voice reverberated along his ribs. “I’d watch over you no matter what.”
“Thank you,” she repeated anyway. Then she rested her face on his chest and watched Guy enter another restaurant and tease the chef.
* * *
A shadow moved outside the patio door and Connor’s shoulders went tight. The movement jostled the woman snoozing against him and she made a soft grunting noise. His arm tightened protectively around her.
He’d turned off the television an hour or so ago when she had gone to sleep, but he kept watch for lights or movement outside in case the intruder came back. Turned out he was going to get his wish. Jonas was right. The bastard had come back.
The figure outside of the window was dressed in dark clothing and scaling the old, half-dead tree outside the patio window. The largest branch was hollowed from decay, and that was the same branch the idiot crawled onto right now.
So that was how he’d been accessing Faith’s balcony. Connor didn’t figure anyone would be stupid enough to climb the crumbling tree. He was wrong.
He couldn’t see the other man clearly, but could tell it was a him, if height and stature could be counted on. The guy’s face was covered with a ski mask, and since his hands were busy clasping onto the wide branch as he crawled toward the balcony railing, he didn’t have any visible weapon.
“What’s going on?” came a sleepy question from his right shoulder.
He lowered his lips and put them to Faith’s forehead. “Shhhhh. Be still.”
She turned her head and started to gasp, but swallowed it a second later. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
“Still, Cupcake.”
She complied but he could feel her body go stiff and the slightest shiver overtake her slender body. His protectiveness mixed with a fierceness he’d honed in the army. No way would he allow an intruder to cause Faith fear in her own home.
Slipping out from beneath her, he kept his eyes on the dipshit who might fall to his death before Connor could get to him. This would not be good. Not because he cared about the criminal’s well-being, but because if he succumbed to a broken bone, Connor would be the one to break it.
Just as he started to step away from the couch—hopefully the intruder wasn’t wearing night vision goggles—Faith clutched his shirt in her fist. “What are you doing?”
He turned away from the balcony briefly, but only to put his finger to his lips in a shushing motion, disentangle her hand, and kiss her fist. “Gonna break that guy’s legs.”
She didn’t smile. “Do you want me to call the police?”
“Not yet.” First he wanted the guy to know that Faith had someone looking out for her. Someone who might not heed the governing laws of Evergreen Cove.
She curled in on herself and huddled into a corner of her sofa, wide eyes latched onto the figure outside. Even more reason to snap the jerk in two, he thought as he crept to the door.
He’d have to move fast. Not like the patio door was silent when it slid open. The wooden pole usually lying across the gap wasn’t there, so once he disengaged the lock, nothing would keep him from throwing the door wide. He unlocked the door now, pressing his back to the living room wall and hoping to stay out of the guy’s field of vision.
He looked to Faith to get a read on whether or not the intruder noticed. She nodded her head in a silent “okay.” He nodded back. Sweat prickled his temples and under his arms. In an instant he was back in Afghanistan under the cover of night, staking out a suspicious vehicle in the hundred-degree, stifling nighttime air.
But this wasn’t Afghanistan. There was no bomb waiting to blow him to kingdom come, no small cell of terrorists anxious to behead him. This was one man on a very shaky tree limb. Arguably, not a very smart man.
Figuring he had another second, Connor used it to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and then, he moved into action.
With one hand, he slid the patio door aside and exited onto the balcony. He got lucky. The guy was scrambling over the railing as Connor reached him. He looked up, discovering his bout of bad luck a second later. Then his bad luck got worse. Startled to find a man barreling at him from the doorway, the guy’s arms pinwheeled as he pitched backward over the railing.
Reflexes lightning fast, Connor snatched him by the front of the shirt, hauled him over the railing, and slammed his back to the concrete. He anchored the guy with a knee to the chest, hearing a pained “Ahh!” as the dipshit’s arms came up to swat him away. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, the guy’s hands bounced off his arms like gnats.
Connor wrenched the mask off and revealed light brown hair, a fairly large nose, and thin lips that peeled back and shouted, “Get the fuck off me!”
He didn’t miss the fear lining the guy’s voice. He’d heard a lot of men scream in fear. This dickhead was no exception. A bit melodramatic for the situation, but still. He knew fear when he heard it. Hauling the guy to his feet, Connor backed him to the railing and leaned him over the edge.
“Who are you and what the fuck do you want?” he demanded, twisting the other guy’s shirt in his fists.
Ignoring him, the man wailed, “Get off me! Help!”
Then Faith’s voice rang in the air. Disbelief outlined two softly spoken syllables.
“Michael?”
CHAPTER 8
She was not seeing this. She was not seeing the man she was once going to marry dressed in a head-to-toe black outfit standing on her balcony because he’d climbed a tree and tried to break into her apartment.
But she was seeing it, because there he was. Michael continued pawing futilely at Connor’s ironclad grip. Yeah, like he had a chance of overpowering the soldier. Her ex wasn’t going anywhere.
“Faith! Help! Get this gorilla off me!”
“Don’t talk to her,” Connor demanded.
“Yeah, don’t talk to me!” She strode out onto the patio and Michael stopped flailing.
“Inside, Cupcake.”
“Cupcake?” But Michael’s laugh sounded like it may be coated in terror. “Faith, wait, I
can explain.”
“I said don’t talk to her,” Connor repeated, this time shaking Michael to get his attention. He still had her ex bent awkwardly over her balcony. She didn’t think he’d throw Michael over, but Michael did. And to be honest, a tiny, evil part of her found it kind of fun to watch.
“Now should I call the cops?” she asked Connor.
“Do it.”
“Please! The ring,” Michael said as she backed into her apartment.
“Talk to me, not her, dickweed.” Connor twisted his fists into the hoodie with renewed vigor.
Michael obeyed, holding his hands up in front of him in surrender. “I just came for the ring.” Desperation replaced the terror in his voice.
Ring?
“It was my great-grandmother’s and m-my mom was asking about it. Told her I was having it cleaned. She wants it back.”
“The engagement ring?” she heard herself say.
“Y-yes!” Michael turned his attention to her, a nervous smile splitting his sweating face.
“Did I say you could talk to her?” Connor gave him another brief shake.
“And you think I have it?” she asked, perplexed.
“Dammit, call the cops, Faith.” This from Connor who took his eyes off Michael for a fraction of a second to spear her with an irritated glare.
“Wait. I do have it.”
“See?” Her ex-fiancé smiled. “She has it. That’s all I want. I wanted to get it and get out.”
“You could have called.” Her frustration reaching a peak, she considered suggesting Connor toss him over the balcony and save them the trouble of this conversation.
“You changed your phone number.” Michael sounded hopeful now. “I knew you’d refuse to talk to me if I came by.”
Valid point.
She narrowed her eyes. “How did you know where I live?”
“Your mom.”
Of course. Linda Shelby strikes again.
“Let him go,” she told Connor.
“Forget it.”
“Police!” came a voice followed by a knock from her front door.
“Someone beat you to it,” Connor said, then keeping his eyes on Michael, instructed, “Get the door.”
A Bad Boy for Christmas Page 8
