Night Thunder

by Jill Gregory

  “More stereotypes, Sheriff?”

  His eyes lit with amusement. “Don’t be so suspicious. I happened to notice that’s what you were drinking at the Tumbleweed that night. I’m a cop, remember? I notice things.”

  Another reason I have no business being here, Josy thought.

  “A beer will be fine.” She eyed the leftover pizza on the counter, wishing she knew just why she was here. “A slice of that pizza along with it would be heavenly,” she murmured, trying not to sound too desperate.

  His brows lifted. “All out of food?”

  “Just about. I had cheese and crackers for breakfast and the last of it for dinner.”

  “I can do better than that.”

  He set the pizza on a black stoneware plate and zapped it, then brought the plate and a bottle of beer to the coffee table. He sipped his own beer, watching as she curled up on the sofa and devoured the food.

  “I have another pizza in the freezer if you’re still hungry.”

  “Give me a break. Do I look that starved?”

  “Uh-huh. And my mother raised her kids to never let a guest go hungry. I’m just making sure.”

  She licked the last drop of tomato sauce from her fingers. “You’re fond of her, aren’t you?” she asked. “You’re fond of all of them—your mother, your sister, and your brother. What about your father? You haven’t said much about him.”

  “We get along.” Ty’s voice was calm, equable. “He’s into business and politics a lot more than I ever will be. He’d have preferred it if I’d gone into either law or the FBI, instead of becoming a cop, but he let me make my own decision. Other than giving us unasked-for pieces of advice now and then, he’s a fairly hands-off guy. Whatever makes my mother happy, makes him happy.”

  Despite his casual words, she saw the affection in his eyes as he spoke about his father and for a moment she wondered what it would have been like to grow up in that kind of big, active, happy family.

  “What about you?” Ty asked. He sat down at the end of the green sofa and leaned his shoulders against the cushions, watching her. “Are you close with your family?”

  “I think I would have been, but . . . I’m an only child and my parents died right before I turned twelve.”

  She waited for him to flinch, to offer some kind of awkward sympathy, but instead he just nodded and gazed at her, steadily, calmly.

  “That must have been tough.”

  “Yes. They were in a car accident. It was . . . so sudden. One morning we all had breakfast together before I left for school, and the next morning . . . they were gone.”

  She picked up a napkin, twisted it in her fingers. “I couldn’t even speak for a while after they died,” she went on quietly. “For several months I was mute. The doctors said it was shock. It . . . it wore off eventually.”

  She swallowed, suddenly self-conscious. She’d told him far more than she’d told most people. Even Jane and Reese didn’t know about her inability to speak.

  “Were you taken in by relatives?”

  She shook her head, shifting on the sofa, not willing to tell him more, about her life in foster care. Don’t turn this into a pity party, she thought. Aloud, she spoke coolly. “Look, do we have to talk about this?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t.”

  Ty nodded, came to his feet. “There’s something I want to do.”

  He smiled as her head flew up and she regarded him with sudden wariness. For a coolly sophisticated, beautiful woman she had a way of turning skittish on a dime that intrigued him. And why not? A woman of contradictions . . . and secrets . . .

  Pure magnetism for a cop.

  He took a CD from a pile on the bookshelf and put it in his CD player.

  Rod Stewart’s jagged, raspy voice poured out. If I listened long enough to you . . .

  “No Johnny Cash, Garth, or Dolly Parton?” she asked, surprised and a little nervous as he walked toward her and stopped beside the sofa. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, past that broad chest and those wide shoulders, past the five-o’clock shadow fringing his lean jaw.

  “Country’s fine, but I like to mix things up now and then. Ms. Warner, would you care to dance?”

  Her laugh was soft, a little breathless. Ty felt his muscles tighten with a surge of one hundred proof lust.

  “If you’re sure nobody’s forcing you into this.”

  “I’m sure.” He took her hand and drew her up off the sofa. His gaze held hers as Rod Stewart’s sensuous voice filled the room.

  A whisper of heat shimmered through her as Ty drew her away from the coffee table, into the middle of the living room. When his arm slid around her waist and drew her close against him, Josy caught her breath.

  Why in the world was her heart hammering like this? She’d danced with dozens of handsome men before— Doug Fifer had been plenty handsome—yet she’d never felt like she was going to have a heart attack when she danced with him, or any of them.

  But none of them was like Ty Barclay, none of them had ever triggered an electric jolt to her heart when they touched her, or made her pulse race and burn, as if she were running naked beneath the sun on a golden July day.

  They danced slowly, intimately, as Rod sang “Reason to Believe.” Neither of them made any attempt to talk. She could only wonder if he was as intensely aware as she was of the silence floating above the music, of the sweet languorous night, of the wind rustling in the darkness beyond the balcony doors.

  The song ended too soon. Josy took a breath and searched for something clever and light to say, something that would help her recover from the heat flooding her body. But before she could say anything, Ty caught her face between his hands.

  She stopped breathing, her gaze locked on his.

  Five seconds passed. Ten.

  His gaze searched hers. Then he swore under his breath, leaned down, and kissed her.

  It was a deep, slow kiss. More gentle than she ever would expect from such a strong man. His mouth moved smoothly, deliberately, savoring hers. And she melted, melted into a puddle of sensations. All of them converged, flowed, swirled through her body at once.

  Pleasure and need ached through her, even as a voice inside warned that this was crazy.

  Crazy or not, she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to. She lost herself in him, clinging to his mouth as he deepened the kisses, his hands roughly encircling her waist.

  “Mmmm,” she gasped at last, coming up for air. Dizzy and breathless, she stared into his eyes, reading the dark hunger in them. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

  “Don’t . . . stop,” she whispered raggedly.

  And then Ty’s mouth was on hers again.

  He was incredibly aroused. A part of him warned him to slow down, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. She tasted too sweet. She felt too good.

  And she kissed him like a woman who knew what she wanted.

  When he pressed his mouth to the pulse at her throat, her head fell back, and she moaned.

  “Oh, baby,” Ty muttered as his lips returned to her hot lush mouth, surprising her by sliding his tongue inside. Hers rose up eagerly to meet it.

  Their kisses became hotter, faster, taking over what remained of reason.

  This is insanity, Josy thought dimly, even as her tongue stroked against his, as her hands fisted in his hair. Total insanity .

  And then she couldn’t think of anything but him and this and she fought for breath against his wild, crushing mouth. Sensation built upon sensation and Josy gave herself up to them all.

  Rod was singing “Downtown Train,” but neither of them heard. Ty heard only her quick breathing and tiny mew of pleasure as he slipped a hand inside her pink tank top and bra, his fingers skimming over her nipple. He caressed her with soft, circular strokes, kissing her all the while. But when he started to lift the tank top over her head, she suddenly drew in a long, jagged breath and stopped his hands.

  “Wait,” she
gasped. “No.”

  Ty’s hands stilled. He let the tank go, a sense of loss enveloping him.

  He fought for control of his body and emotions as she stepped back, straightening her bra, her tank top, taking deep breaths of air.

  “You . . . pack quite a punch, Sheriff Barclay.” She tried to sound flippant, but her voice was breathless. She couldn’t let him see how shaken she was, how vulnerable she felt. Her knees were trembling, for heaven’s sake, and her mouth felt bruised, tender, and scorched by his kisses.

  “You pack a pretty big punch yourself, Ms. Warner.” He reached a hand to her pale cloud of hair. A few strands of that French twisty thing had come loose and the soft tendrils framed her face. Gently, he brushed them from her eyes.

  “I like you like this, Josy. Loose, relaxed, warm. Do you know you’re sexy as hell?” He smiled, his body still tight with tension, still wanting her with a throbbing physical pain. She’d been letting her guard down, just as she had at the barn yesterday. It was making him crazy, for some reason he couldn’t quite figure out.

  “It must be the music,” she murmured, trying to resurrect her defenses. “Rod Stewart’s voice . . . just loosens me up.”

  “Rod’s voice. Uh-huh. That’s all it takes?”

  She smiled at him, and his blood pounded. Her eyes were soft and dreamy as she reached up, tentatively touching his cheek.

  “I should go,” she whispered, not because she wanted to, but because she knew if she stayed five more minutes, if she let him kiss her again, she’d do something stupid.

  When the day had started this morning she’d never dreamed she’d end up in Ty Barclay’s apartment—dancing with him, kissing him. Never in a million years.

  And all things considered it was a very bad idea.

  “Sure you don’t want to stay for one more dance?”

  She shook her head, praying he couldn’t see the truth in her eyes. A part of her wanted to stay there all night, in his arms.

  But she couldn’t afford to get lost in that hot blue gaze. Or in that slow, sexy smile. She couldn’t afford to end up in his bed.

  “Let me walk you home then.”

  Her lips curved. “I think I can manage to get there without getting mugged.”

  “You never know.” His hand smoothed her hair, slid down her cheek, resting there, very gently. “As a police officer, I’d advise you not to take those kinds of chances.”

  Oh, God, she was falling. For a cop. A sheriff. She couldn’t do this to Ricky, to herself. It was too much of a risk, in so many ways. What was wrong with her?

  She stepped back suddenly, too suddenly, and saw his brows shoot up.

  “Okay, well . . . this was fun,” she said lightly. “Thanks . . . for the pizza. And the beer.” And the kisses.

  “Not all that exciting for a first date,” he said quietly. “I can do better. What about tomorrow night?”

  “I can’t.”

  A frown furrowed between his eyes. “Why not? Do you have another date?” And is it with Chance Roper? Ty wondered grimly.

  There were a number of reasons why he disliked this idea. He didn’t want to explore the most pressing one. “Break it,” he suggested, his jaw clenched.

  “I can’t do that. It’s Corinne. She asked me to meet her and give her some decorating tips. She wants to change around a few things in Roy’s place to make it feel more like theirs, not his. She’s cooking dinner for me and Roberta’s coming too. We’ll probably end up talking about wedding stuff.”

  “I can make you a much better offer.” His thumb brushed her cheek again, then trailed down her throat, lingered at her collarbone. He felt the shiver go through her and his need for her heightened.

  He had a wild fantasy of making love to her out on the balcony, then here on the sofa—and a third time in his bed, all night long . . . His chest was tight with the urge to pull her into his arms and undo that whole French twist thing so he could comb his hands through that gorgeous hair.

  But his fantasy disintegrated when she shook her head again, offered him a forced smile, and edged back a step.

  “Some other time.” When she moved toward the door, he had no choice but to follow her.

  But when he began to walk her down the hall, she pulled up short. “Don’t be silly. I live thirty feet away. You don’t have to do this.”

  He stopped, shoved his hands into his pockets. And nodded.

  She was telling him to back off. Fine, he got the message. None of this was a good idea anyway. He wasn’t even sure what he saw in her, other than that she was beautiful. And sexy. Then there was the fact that her mouth was incredibly lush and soft, like rose petals.

  And she had guts.

  Old-fashioned, saucy, ballsy guts. He enjoyed being with her, even when she was cold and snotty and feisty. But much more so when she was lounging in his apartment, eating his pizza and drinking his beer.

  She’s secretive, closed, and she’s going back to Chicago in a few weeks. Forget it.

  He waited while she pulled her key from the pocket of her sweatpants and turned it in the lock.

  He heard her murmur good night and he grunted something in reply. It sounded like “See ya.”

  Ty dumped what was left of the pizza in the trash, opened another beer, then left it sitting on the counter as he paced back and forth, finally ending up on the balcony.

  Cool air blew on his hot face and neck. She isn’t interested, he told himself. Or she’s scared. Or she can’t make up her mind.

  That’s fine by me, he thought. I don’t have time for games or women who don’t know what they want. I don’t have the inclination to do that much thinking, or that much work.

  There were women in Thunder Creek who’d be easy on the eyes and a lot easier on the nerves. Women who wouldn’t run hot and cold, women who weren’t closed and secretive, who’d never been mute in their lives.

  So why was he still thinking about Josy Warner?

  Josy Warner was done. Toast.

  “Over,” he muttered aloud.

  But something deep inside him knew that if he had to take a lie detector test right now, he’d sure as hell fail.

  Chapter 12

  SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, KIDDO, BUT I RAN INTO some trouble. Call me at this number as soon as you get this.

  Josy stared at the computer screen, her stomach lurching. Finally—Ricky had written back. She was so excited she gasped aloud, then threw a quick, wary glance toward the checkout desk. Maggie Cartright was busy on the phone.

  Quickly, she read the rest of the e-mail.

  Be sure you’re using a new cell phone, without an account, or any info that can be traced to you, like I told you. We’ll set up a meet and I’ll come pick up my stuff. Call now.

  Tears pricked her eyes. Ricky was safe. He’d made it— and so had she. With any luck this whole nightmare would be over soon.

  Please, she prayed. Let it all be over soon.

  She scribbled the phone number on a scrap of paper and shoved it into her purse, then deleted the e-mail and signed off. She hurried from the library and got into her Blazer.

  She didn’t even want to delay calling Ricky until she reached her apartment. Sitting in the parking lot, she locked all her doors, even though the area was deserted, and pulled the cell phone from her purse.

  “Yeah.” Ricky’s voice gave nothing away. It sounded hard, cool. And slightly suspicious.

  “It’s me.” She heard the quiver in her own voice and tried to steady it. “Ricky, I didn’t know what happened to you. You didn’t answer me for all this time—”

  “Sorry about that, Jo-Jo. I ran into some trouble, but brother, was I glad to hear from you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “You first, sweetheart. Talk fast, I never know when I’m going to have to run.”

  “They’re still after you? Now?” Shock ran through her.

  “Just tell me where you are, Josy.”

  “I’m in Thunder Creek.”

  “
Where?”

  “A little town in Wyoming. Thunder Creek.”

  “Man, when I said you should go far away, you took me seriously.” She heard the chuckle of approval at the other end of the line. “Good going. Now I have to get to you.”

  “From where, Ricky? What’s going on?”

  “I’m in Boston, just blending in with the crowd. Looks like I’m headed west though. You still have that package, don’t you?”

  “Last time I looked, which was about an hour ago.” She reminded herself that she wasn’t a child anymore, dependent on big tough Ricky to get her through the hood and the Hammond house in one piece. “Look, Ricky, don’t you think it’s time to tell me what’s inside it?”

  “Better you don’t know. Trust me. Now give me your number, in case I have to call you.”

  She did as he asked and waited while he repeated it back to her.

  “You haven’t had any trouble, have you, Jo-Jo?”

  “You mean the kind of trouble Archie had?”

  “Along those lines.”

  “No . . . or I probably wouldn’t be talking to you right now,” she said with more acid in her voice than she’d ever used with Ricky. She lowered her pitch, evened her tone. “I think I’ve covered my tracks pretty well. I haven’t used any credit cards or my old phone. I haven’t called anyone—even anyone from work.”

  “Good. And don’t start now. Hopefully your luck will hold out until I get there. Once I take the package off your hands, they’ll only be after me.”

  “Ricky, are you going to be able to get out of this mess? What’s going to happen?”

  “Don’t know, babe, but I gotta go—”

  “Wait—one more question.”

  “What?” She heard the sudden tension in his voice now, and sensed that he was walking fast, very fast. She could almost see him looking around and it dawned on her that he was probably about to run, to take off, probably down some alley or something. Maybe someone was closing in . . .

  “Is Archie dead?” she nearly shouted, as his tension communicated itself to her. “Do you know?”

  “Yeah, he’s dead. And I will be too if I don’t get moving. Stay safe, don’t tell anyone else where you are, see you soon.”