by Mari Manning
She nodded. “Okay. Just for a few minutes.”
He led the way into the kitchen, grabbing a T-shirt hanging from a chair. As he slipped it over his head, his back muscles flexed and hardened, and she wanted to run her fingers down his spine, feel his warm, male skin beneath her palm. The hem of the T-shirt dropped to his waist. She took a gulp of air to still her heart.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Slipping onto the stool in the kitchen, she shook her head. “I just came here to tell you something.”
His forehead creased, and his eyes clouded. “What is it? Did something happen?”
She shook her head. Her throat was dry. How did one start a romance? Very carefully. She studied her hands as they twisted on her lap. “Tonight I told Brooke about the, uh, thing that happened to me. You were right. She was okay with it, and—”
Jamey’s hands breached the narrow space between their knees and covered hers. His palms were rough, and his hands squeezed hers and twined themselves between her fingers. She swallowed hard and kept going.
“—and we talked about what to say if anyone ever said…”
He lifted her hands to his lips. His mouth pressed against the back of each hand, then he turned them over and kissed her palms. She gasped. Every nerve in her body tingled, and the damp skin where his lips touched her hands burned.
She tried to retrieve her hands, but it was impossible. She couldn’t look at his face so she concentrated on his hands, big and masculine with a feathering of black hair at the wrists. Lifting them, she touched her lips to his knuckles and breathed in his spicy scent until her lungs froze.
The bulge between his legs grew. He pulled his hands from hers. “Esme.” He whispered her name, and it flowed over her like velvet. “Look at me.”
She raised her eyes to him. A frown marred his forehead, and his gaze was serious. She’d expected love, or at least desire.
Her face grew hot. She’d thrown herself at him. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”
“A mistake?”
“You kissed me like you were happy with me, with m-my news, but when I look in your eyes, they aren’t happy.”
“I kissed you because when you told me about Brooke, I knew you’d decided to give me a chance. So I had to touch you. And I am happy, painfully so.”
Her eyes drifted to his lap, to the hardness pressing against his sweatpants. She swallowed hard and raised her face to his.
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Occupational hazard.”
She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Her uncertainty must have shown in her face because Jamey pressed his hands to the side of her head and kissed her forehead.
“If I look unhappy, it’s because I’m nervous. You are everything to me, Esme. I have to get this right.”
She relaxed. “Me, too.”
He gripped her shoulders, his palms hot against her bare arms. He pulled her to her feet and guided her between his knees. His sober blue eyes ignited, glittering with love and desire. “Is this better?”
She couldn’t speak, so she nodded.
He tilted his head and kissed her.
“Next step,” he whispered into her mouth, “I take over.”
She pulled back. “Take over?”
“Yeah. Expect to receive frequent phone calls from me and invitations to go out or come over. Expect me to pick you up and take you home, and expect me to tell everyone in El Royo that you are my girl.”
She shivered with anticipation.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The evidence bag in Rafe’s hip pocket felt like a burning ember. Nevertheless, as he dragged himself up the steps to Dinah’s house, he shivered.
Hollyn answered the door. If hate was a palpable thing, then this girl was mixing it up in ten-gallon drums. “Yeah?” she sneered.
He pushed inside, forcing her to stand back or risk brushing against him. The living room was dark, but the upstairs hall light was on. “Dinah?” He shouted her name up the staircase.
“She’s in bed.”
“It’s nine o’clock.”
“She said she was wore out.”
“Thought I saw a light on in her room.” A lie, but he didn’t care what the girl thought of him. He started up the steps, taking them two at a time.
“Hope that mean old dog doesn’t get you.”
Like hell she did.
He pushed open Dinah’s bedroom door. Muted light from the street illuminated the curled up body on the bed and the ribbon of pale hair against the pillow. The first flicker of need flashed through him, and he wished he could stretch out beside her like he belonged there.
Dinah raised her head. “Rafe?”
“Did I wake you?”
“I got tired of sitting and standing so I thought I’d lie down for awhile.” She sat up and switched on the lamp. Her luscious pink nipples called to him from beneath that dang tank top again. His eyes rolled to the left. The strip of condoms—minus one—stretched across the bedside table. All the blood in his body rushed straight down to his loins.
He cleared his throat. “Would you mind covering yourself, Miss Dinah, so we can talk?”
She glanced down at her breasts, then up at him. An eyebrow arched, but all she said was, “Sure thing, Mr. Rafe.”
Even that turned him on. He pulled up a chair beside her bed and vigorously petted the dog while Dinah slipped her arms into a shirt, which she didn’t bother to button.
“I’m decent. You can stop carrying on with the dog.”
He shooed Daisy away and leaned in close to Dinah. “I’m sorry, querida.”
“Oh, God.” The light in her eyes dimmed, and she pulled the shirt tightly around her. “You found my momma, didn’t you?”
“She was under an old catclaw tree near the house.”
“When can I have her?” Without flinching, her eyes bore straight into him. Playing the hard ass. That was his Dinah. But he knew better.
He lifted his hips from the chair and settled beside her. Then he pulled her into his arms and held her as tightly as he could without crushing her. She relaxed against him, her thin arms sliding around his waist, and he fought to stay in this sweet moment even though his body was roaring at him to press her against the pillows and take her.
He couldn’t think of anything to say, but “I’m sorry,” and he was tired of saying those words to her. “There was a ring.”
She pulled back. “Where is it?”
“Here.” He dug it out of his pocket. “The investigation team was finished with it.” He shook the ring into her open hand. It gleamed dully in the lamplight—he’d tried to shine it—a wide gold band with tiny diamonds pressed into the center.
She gazed at it with stony eyes. “Sometimes I wish I could cry, but I used up all my tears a long time ago.”
“Don’t mean anything either way. It’s how you feel inside that matters.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said sadly.
Her shirt had fallen open, and even when he looked away he could see the firm mounds of pink-tipped flesh. He took the ring and set it beside the condoms on the table. She gazed up at him, and her eyes turned knowing.
“You want to screw me.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No.” He wanted to make love.
“Right. Not screw. What was the word you used?” She waited.
“Di, don’t.”
“Fuck. I want to fuck, and you—” Her eyes flicked down to his jeans, then back to his face. Her mouth was a tight line of stubbornness. “—and you want to fuck, so what’s stopping us?”
The tight belt of pain that had squeezed his chest all day, exploded into anger. Why couldn’t she see how good they could be together? He wanted to hurt her, to brand her with his fury, to force her surrender.
“Nothing,” he growled.
He pushed her shirt off her shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides. She went lax as he dragged her to him. He ground his lips against hers. A
puff of breath escaped her mouth, then it opened. His tongue thrust into her mouth, invading her, claiming her tongue and her teeth as his territory.
He pushed on, pressing his mouth against her delicate jaw and suckling her sweet neck. She tried to pull away from him, and he opened his eyes, hoping to see capitulation. But she met his gaze straight on.
“Your wet shirt is giving me a chill.”
Her nipples were hard nubs beneath the thin tank top. “Sure thing, Miss Dinah.” He yanked up his shirt. A soft hand pressed seductively against his chest before his T-shirt cleared his head. His anger hardened.
He flicked her hand away from him, gripped the top of her thin cotton tank, and jerked until it ripped. He yanked harder. It tore from collar to hem, coming away in his fist. Thin, rag-like bits of white cotton that no longer had the power to taunt him.
A tight gasp escaped her lips.
He shot her an evil grin. “I like my women naked.”
Her chin rose. “In that case…” She lifted her hips and pulled down her pajama bottoms.
She faced him, half-sitting, half-kneeling, legs slightly apart. Lifting her arms she fluffed her hair. Her breasts rose. He touched them, squeezing them softly. She stretched her back and arched, and he forgot about everything—his job, Hollyn, his broken heart—everything except the warm body beneath his hands and his need to possess it, possess her so she’d never forget she’d belonged to him, if only for a night.
He pushed her roughly against the pillows and lay on top of her. Her lips were swollen from his assault on her mouth, and her neck marred by a love bite. Her eyes were summer storm clouds, roiling, implacable, uncompromising. He pressed his lips to the soft flesh at the base of her neck so he wouldn’t have to look at her.
“Rafe.” Her knees rose on either side of his hips, and she opened herself to him. He’d never been so hard or wanted a woman more. His mouth descended on her breasts, suckling and biting. Beneath him, her hips were bucking against his penis. Her fingers snaked between their bodies and tugged on his jeans.
“Take off your pants.”
The memory of Dinah, naked in the dawn light rose inside him.
He lifted himself off her, and she opened her eyes. They were glazed with passion. She tried to sit up, but he grabbed her hips and flipped her over on her stomach.
“Rafe?” She spoke into the pillows and his name was muffled. He didn’t bother to answer.
The white globes of her bottom glowed in the light. He bent his head and pressed a kiss on each one. She gasped and writhed. The flesh between her legs was pink and moist, ready for him to plunge into her.
He unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his knees, then seized a condom from the table. His penis was swollen and throbbing. He pulled her hips to him and thrust into her hot, wet body. Rafe pushed her hard against the pillows, keeping her hips up with his hands, pushing into her again and again until she pulsed around him, then with a strangled cry, he came, pouring everything he had into her—love, hate, desire, bitterness, longing.
His spent body collapsed on top of her, covering her pale, dewy skin with his sweat-filmed flesh. Disgust curled at his lips and roiled his stomach. He’d never treated a woman that way in his life.
His mouth found her earlobe. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Her face remained buried in her pillow. She resisted him, but he managed to roll her over on her back. Her eyes glittered up at him. Tears hung on her lashes.
Hijo de puta. He was a son of a bitch. “I hurt you.”
She shook her head. “No. I deserved that.”
“Why are you crying?” He brushed a curl from her cheek.
“Because I hurt you—”
“No.” He’d die before he accepted pity from anyone, but especially her.
“Yes. And you’re just about the only friend I have in the world. You and Esme.”
He didn’t want to be her friend. He lifted himself off her, hitched up his jeans and zipped them. “I’ve got to get ready for my shift. I just came by to bring you the news about your momma because your phone is off. You’re supposed to keep it on.”
She grimaced. “About the phone. It, uh, fell into a bucket of water. Accidentally.”
He’d bet a month’s pay Hollyn had something to do with it. But he still didn’t have a solid case against her on the kidnapping, and until he did, there was no upside to spooking her with accusations. The fingerprint results would be back in a day or two. Maybe that would spark something. In the meantime, he needed to protect Dinah.
“You know how to shoot a gun?”
Her eyes widened. “I’d be tarred and ridden out of Texas on a rail if I didn’t.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Hollyn was standing outside her bedroom door. “You leaving?”
“You go on to bed,” he ordered. “I’m coming back.”
He unlocked his glove box, pulled out the Beretta and slipped it under his shirt. Hollyn had disappeared and her bedroom door was shut tight when he came back upstairs. Dinah had pulled on pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt. She still looked as sexy as hell, and his body stirred.
He gave her the gun.
She handled it like a pro, gauging its weight, sighting it, checking the clip, the safety. “It’s warm.”
“I put it under my shirt. I don’t want Hollyn to know you have it.”
Di set the gun down. “What is going on? She swears up and down you’re out to get her. I don’t believe her, but something’s changed since I was ambushed. You don’t think she was involved, do you? She just got into town, and she’s pregnant. Seems like it would be impossible.”
“Nothing’s going on. Just keep it close by and don’t let Hollyn see it. Okay?”
Her hands went to her hips, and she tilted her head to study him.
“Please, Di.”
Maybe it was something in the way he looked at her or how his voice broke when he said please, but she nodded.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As if Dinah’s life wasn’t already a train wreck, Brandon’s rusty Taurus was parked in front of the house as she returned from a walk with Daisy. Her heart sank.
The police cruiser that had followed her around the block pulled up to the curb. Officer Burns lowered the window. An icy, air-conditioned breeze blew out and dried the perspiration on her face. The day had broken hot as a furnace.
“Seems like you have an uninvited guest.”
“It’s okay. Just an old friend from L.A.”
“I better call this in to Morales.”
“Uh, Officer Burns—”
“Call me Burnsy, Miss Dinah. I feel like we’re almost friends.”
“Burnsy.” She smiled. “I’d sure appreciate it if you could turn your head the other way on my caller.”
He winked at her and tipped his hat. “Sure thing. Have a nice visit, Miss Dinah.” Then he raised the window and pulled up behind the Taurus.
Brandon, hunched over his smartphone in the Taurus’s front seat, thumbs flying, didn’t see her until she rapped sharply on the passenger window. He jumped. That made her feel good. She made a rolling motion with her hand. He lowered the window. No cool air. He must have been sitting there with the engine off for awhile.
“Hey, Di.”
“Spare me the bullshit, Brandon. Where is my money?” A low growl started up in Daisy’s throat. Good girl.
He clambered from the Taurus. Not much taller than Dinah, Brendon had a hulky movie-star chest out of proportion to his thin frame, a big head, streaked blond hair, perfect spray tan, and brilliant white teeth. Prerequisites for an aspiring actor. But his even features and toned body were a dime a dozen in L.A., and so far his most lucrative performance was bilking Dinah out of her savings.
He wiped his brow dramatically. “Where were you? I’ve been baking in the car for an hour.” A deep sigh. “God, is it hot here.”
“Where the hell is my money?”
He slipped his phone in his pocket
. “You’re twanging again. You know how irritating that is.”
The money was gone. She knew that. But there was a dam inside that needed to burst. “Tell me where my money is, or get on out of here.”
Sympathy or irritation twisted his face…it was hard to know which feeling he was going for. “I drove all night to be with you, Di. I know you’ve been through a lot of bad stuff, babe, with your father dying and shit. So when I saw the photo of that gorilla attacking you in front of your own house, I knew I had to be with you to, ah protect you and shit.”
So he’d seen the picture of her with Rafe. Could he be jealous? “Why don’t we go inside and talk?”
“That would be great,” he said. “I need to get into some AC.”
“Don’t have AC, but a little sweet tea will cool you right down, darling.”
Brandon didn’t seem to notice her sarcasm. “I doubt it.”
He followed her into the bungalow and waited in the living room while she put the growling dog out in the backyard and poured the tea. Hollyn had gone to the grocery store with their last ten dollars.
She found him at the tarot table fingering the cards. “You’ve been doing readings here?”
“A few.” She handed him his tea. “Got to make ends meet since someone cleaned out my savings.”
“I’ll pay you back. I have an audition next week. My agent says it’s perfect for me.”
“That’s great.” His agent always said that, but it was never true. Brandon had been cast in just three small parts and a half-dozen commercials since Dinah met him. He spent his days working out or lounging on Dinah’s sofa in the apartment Dinah paid for and ate the food Dinah bought. A real job would get in the way of his auditions and practicing his “craft.”
“You’re planning to come back to L.A., aren’t you?”
Did he miss her? “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He dropped the cards, came to her, and pulled her close. “You have to come back. I need you so much, Di.” His contacts turned his pale eyes the color of emeralds, and they glittered at her like cold stones.
“I said, I don’t know.” Why was she hemming and hawing? She’d always planned to return to L.A. when the house was sold.
