Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  He has chores. Work to be done, and he’s the man—these were the hands that would do the work. Those same hard hands caressed every inch of her body with gentle reverence, drove her up with relentless strokes, skimmed over her skin like a whisper of wind, and played her like a well-tuned instrument. His fingers threaded through hers and held her tight. His wide palm dwarfed hers.

  A breathy kiss tickled her neck. His muscles tensed as he surfaced. One of those wonderful hands slid down to her hip. His hot, moist breath made her shiver.

  “I hate to go.”

  Lynne didn’t dare move a muscle. She didn’t turn to him. She couldn’t. If she did, he’d stay, and as much as she wanted him to, he couldn’t. He had chores.

  “Come back? We can have breakfast together.”

  A heavy sigh lifted his chest. “I’d love that, but if I come back I suspect we’ll end up back here, and I won’t get a damn thing done today.”

  “Except me.”

  He chuckled and planted a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder. “Exactly.” Bram kissed and nipped his way across her shoulder to her ear. “Dinner tonight?”

  “You cooking?”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ll go out. Anywhere you want to go.”

  “I don’t know where to go.”

  He sat up, propping his weight on his hand and she rolled onto her back. The twisted and rumpled sheet pooled at his hips, giving her another tantalizing glimpse at the line that marked milky-white skin never touched by the sun. Whiskers rasped his fingernails when he scratched his cheek.

  “We’d have to drive a bit to get to something decent.”

  “I could cook for you again.”

  He smiled and brushed her hair back from her face. “I’d like to take you out. I don’t want you thinking I’m only lookin’ for a hot meal and a warm bed.”

  “No?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “How about a lukewarm meal and a hot bed?”

  His smile turned sheepish and she pressed her fingers to his cheek. The heat rose under his skin. Her fingers fell away to trail along his bristly jaw. She raised her hands over her head and groaned. Long-neglected muscles ached. Her skin seemed stretched taut, attuned to every wisp of air. The sheet clung to the very tips of her breasts. She gave him a coy smile and clutched the sheet to her bosom when his gaze dropped.

  “I think maybe we should have stretched first.”

  His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, I….”

  “I’m not.” He held her gaze for a beat too long. A slow, sexy smile curved his lips. She shook her head. “You have chores to do.”

  “I know.” Bram leaned in and kissed her sweetly. “And this is no chore, Miss Lynne.”

  “Stop trying to seduce me with that sexy southern drawl and get going,” she answered, planting one hand on his chest and giving him a playful shove.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Without a hint of reticence, he tossed back the sheet and stood, giving her a crystal clear shot of all she’d be missing. He swiped his pants from the floor and extracted his underwear from the tangled cotton.

  “Careful with the zipper.”

  He shot her a dark look. “That’s not funny,” he grumbled and quickly stepped into his briefs.

  “You might find me more amusing if I promise I’d make it all better.”

  He paused, balancing on one foot, the leg of his khakis dangling mid-air. “Spend the day with me?”

  Lynne smiled when she spotted the same surprise written all over his handsome face. “I thought you had work to do.”

  “I do.” He pulled his pants over his hips and quickly zipped them over the telltale bulge at his fly.

  “Never mind. You’d be bored.”

  She studied the play of muscle in his back as he scooped his shirt from the floor. “I might be. Then again, I might be fascinated.”

  He shrugged into the polo. “Like with the monkeys in the zoo?”

  “Like looking at Michelangelo’s David.”

  Bram snorted and leaned down to gather his socks and shoes. On his way back up, he caught her lips in a heated kiss. “I think your eyesight is failing, sugar.”

  “I’m twenty-twenty…except for the reading,” she qualified.

  He ran his hand over her tousled hair and kissed her again. “You’re beautiful, and I have to get outta here.”

  “Go.”

  He stole one more kiss. “I’ll be back.”

  “Aren’t you going to put your shoes on?” she called as he sauntered out the door.

  “Don’t need ’em.”

  A moment later, she heard the kitchen door squeak open then close with a firm thud. Lynne fell back to her pillow and released a long, gusty sigh. The rumble of his truck engine made her groan. The crunch of tires on gravel had her reaching for the pillow he’d used.

  She clutched it to her chest, inhaling the scent of him. Gazing at the ceiling, she exhaled slowly, letting the air seep from her lungs. With the last little slip of oxygen, she whispered, “Holy cow.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The empty cage rattled in the bed of his truck when he pulled to an abrupt stop at the end of her lane. Keeping a wary eye on the rapidly lightening sky, Bram brushed the grass and dirt from the soles of his feet before wrestling his way into his socks and shoes.

  He pushed his heel into the shoe and ignored the dangling laces. Cocking his wrist, he turned to check his watch, only to remember he’d chucked it in the direction of her nightstand when her hair got caught in the band one too many times. Putting the truck in gear, he nosed his way toward the road without benefit of headlights. Bram released the breath he’d been holding once he confirmed that the narrow two-lane was deserted. Headlights sprang to life with a flick of his wrist, and he crept onto the pavement.

  One loose shoelace tickled his ankle when he hit the gas. He glanced at the rearview mirror, and his heart clenched when another set of lights crested a rise in the road. He sped up, but the encroaching vehicle had the advantage of momentum. A mile down the road, Bram tapped his brakes and flicked on his blinker, his heart sinking into his stomach as he made out the stenciled writing on the hood of the dairy truck behind him.

  “Busted,” he muttered, turning into the lane that led to his family’s farm, returning the milkman’s jaunty wave.

  He veered left at the fork and headed toward his father’s property. The side door of the big barn stood open, florescent light spilling onto the concrete apron. After parking his truck on the far side of the chicken house, he took a moment to tie his laces and prayed one of the Wilson boys was in the barn and not his father.

  Bram grabbed the cage from the bed of the truck and skirted his way around the far corner of the coop in hopes of returning it to its spot without detection. He didn’t even make it as far as the door.

  “Your mother thinks there may be a fox about,” Al announced, stepping out of the doorway. His father’s gaze strayed to the empty cage, and Bram had to clench his fist to keep from smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt and pants. “Looks like she was right.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll replace her chickens.”

  “Most fellas take flowers or candy when they go a-courtin’.”

  “I’m not most fellas.”

  He stacked the cage in the corner and busied himself with gathering what he needed to attend to the task at hand, hoping his father would keep the sermon short.

  “I already took care of them,” Al said, trailing behind him.

  His head jerked up. “You did?”

  Tucking his hands into his pockets, the man rocked back on his heels. “Wasn’t sure if you’d be up.”

  “I’ve never—”

  “Now, don’t get your britches in a twist. You can handle the horses.” Holding up one hand, he cut off Bram’s protest. “I know you always take care of business. I’m just saying I wouldn’t have blamed you if you wanted to sleep in today. Looks like you didn’t sleep much last night.”
His smile widened. “Good for you.”

  He dragged one hand through his rumpled hair. “Geez, Dad.”

  “I’m also supposed to tell you that your mama will be expectin’ you both for supper tonight.” Al ambled out into the yard, calling back over one shoulder, “I think we’re having fried chicken.”

  ****

  Bram finished spreading fresh straw for his father’s horses then carefully hung the pitchfork on the thick rusted nail that had served its purpose for over a half-century. He stomped from the barn, wrenched open the door to his pick-up, and twisted the key he’d left in the ignition.

  He rolled the window down, hoping the brisk morning air would wake him up a little. Closing his eyes, he tried to pretend he didn’t catch the appraising glance Donnie Wilson shot him when he strolled into the shed that housed their equipment. Bram opened his eyes again. He wasn’t imagining the smirk that twitched the other man’s lips.

  Dirt and gravel sprayed from his tires as he tore down the rutted lane, half-hoping one of the sharp jolts would jar him back to reality. He reached the fork in the road, and his left hand began to turn the wheel, steering for the rough path his truck had carved over years of cutting the corner.

  What difference does it make? You were busted. Busted by your seventy-eight-year-old father and the milkman. The whole town knows. He stomped on the brake. The back of his head hit the headrest. His gaze cut from the lane that led to his house to the road that led back to Lynne’s. He ground his teeth, the muscle in his jaw ticking off the seconds as the internal debate raged.

  Who cares if they know, though they’ll make it their business. Tongues will wag. They’ll stare and talk and say God-knows-what. They’ll say old Bram’s gettin’ a little from the fancy divorcee down the road.

  His fingers tightened on the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles poke white against the skin.

  Poor Bram. That’s what they’ll say when she’s gone.

  Poor Bram just wasn’t enough to keep her here.

  A truck rumbled past on the county road. The tractor sputtered and rumbled to life in the field behind the barn. He stared down at the wrinkled pants and shirt he’d ironed the night before, hoping to impress her. He wrapped his arms around the wheel and rested his cheek against them. Staring at the packed gravel lane that led home, he licked his lips and tasted the lingering essence of her.

  Crap.

  Decision made, he cranked the wheel to the right and punched the gas. When he crunched to a stop at the county road, he glanced in each direction before peeling out. Poor Bram has got it bad.

  ****

  Lynne rolled over and blinked blearily at the sunlight filtering through the sheers. She tumbled to the edge of the bed and sat up. The wrung-out cotton sheet fell to her waist. She glanced down then cautiously tipped her head back until she caught her reflection in the mirror.

  Her legs trembled as she rose, letting the sheet tumble to the floor. She stared into the mirror. Her fingertips grazed kiss-swollen lips. Her cheeks and chin glowed pink where his beard abraded her tender skin. She pressed one hand to her hip, massaging the aching joint as she stepped closer to the dresser.

  She didn’t pay the rough red patches where his stubble had scraped her neck, shoulder, and chest any mind. The stretch marks lining her rounded belly seemed to disappear. She pushed her hands into her tousled hair. Her breasts rose high. The memory of the gentle rasp of his scarred and gouged fingers made her pulse quicken. Firm, taut skin stretched beneath her arms, and she smiled, glad she’d continued to drag herself to her twice-weekly tennis matches.

  She opened the dresser drawer and hummed softly as she extracted the nightgown she hadn’t bothered to put on the night before. The thin cotton tickled her quivering thighs when she padded toward the kitchen. A cool breeze wafted through the window they’d failed to close. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She ran the water in the sink, filling the carafe to the top. The growl of a motor crept past the house, and her head jerked up.

  Lynne peeked out the window in time to spy the tailgate of Bram’s truck as it disappeared behind the house. She smoothed her hands over her hair when the door slammed. She jerked open the kitchen door, and he appeared in her mudroom wearing the same clothes that littered her floor hours earlier.

  “You came back,” she said breathlessly.

  His face was taut. Deep grooves bracketed the grim line of his mouth. “Spend the day with me. I want some time alone with you.”

  A flirty smile twitched her lips. “Weren’t we alone last night?”

  “Yeah, but we can’t be tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “My parents want you to come for supper.”

  “Oh.”

  He gave her a terse nod. “You don’t have to. I mean, it’s your choice.”

  She cocked her head, studying the tense set of his broad shoulders. Reaching for his hand, she drew him into the house. “What are we having, and what can I bring?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted. A pleased gleam lit his bright blue eyes. “Fried chicken, and I’d recommend a suit of armor.”

  ****

  Abe wrapped the gleaming sapphire gazing ball in craft paper and gently slid the bundle into a sack. “There you go, Ms. Albertson.”

  “Thank you, Abe.” She drummed her nails on the counter but made no move to reach for the bag.

  Instead, she peered about the deserted store. “Is your grandma ailing?”

  “No, ma’am. She’s fine.”

  She forced a friendly smile. “I haven’t seen you manning the counter since your mama ran the store.”

  He withdrew his hand, letting the bag’s handles droop. “I still handle things once in a while.”

  “I guess I just catch your grandma whenever I come in.” Craning her neck, she peered at the back room. “Your daddy isn’t around much anymore.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter behind him, a stance that reminded her so much of Bram she pressed her hand to her chest to still the flutter of her heart. “And from what I hear, business is good.”

  “He’s keepin’ busy.”

  “I read something in one of those magazines. Some Hollywood starlet bought one of Bram’s chairs. She was holdin’ her little baby—named the poor thing Puce or somethin’. I couldn’t believe it.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Who names a baby Puce?”

  “Hollywood people, I guess.”

  “Willie mentioned something about that.”

  “Well, I was as proud as a peacock about Bram’s chair, though.”

  The boy proved to be too much like his daddy. Instead of warming to her friendly conversation, Abe clammed up, pushing away from the counter with his hips and straightening to his full height. “Did you need anything else, Ms. Albertson? I’ve got a load I need to get to.”

  She pasted her faltering smile back on her face and snagged the handles of the bag with two fingers. “Of course you do,” she purred. “I need to get on with my rounds. Time to make the world a more beautiful place.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  “I will, sweetheart,” she chirped, her heels clip-clopping on the plank flooring. “Tell your grandma I hope she feels better soon.”

  The bell chimed merrily as she breezed out the door, but behind her sunny smile, Anna seethed. Something was going on, and if the scuttlebutt she picked up at the market was true, that something was dinner.

  She’d already made a pass through the general store, but Willie and her busybody friend clammed up the moment she walked in. If a woman wanted, she could assume Abe’s silence spoke volumes, but Bram’s boy was annoyingly closed-mouthed, even about the most mundane things. Still, the grapevine said there was a dinner on at the Hatchetts’ that night.

  A fried chicken dinner, no less. Everyone knew Miss Ada only trotted out her famous fried chicken for county fairs and special occasions. Grinding her teeth, Anna made a beeline for her car. She needed to f
all back.

  She needed a green tea and olive oil moisturizing masque, a giant glass of chardonnay, and a plan. A plan that didn’t include stealing Percy Jenkins’ key ring, kidnapping a couple of chirping chickens, or the destruction of any more footwear. A woman has to draw the line somewhere.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lynne adjusted the back of the rickety folding chaise and sneaked another peek over the top of her book. Bram balanced a bowl on his fingertips and held it up to the light before he blew the dust from the tiny flower he’d carved into the wood.

  She lowered the book to her lap. “You really don’t need to work on those now. I’m not in any hurry.”

  He caught his lip between his teeth and bent over the bowl, tapping a stray splinter from the wood with a tiny chisel. “I feel like working on these.”

  She smiled. “Temperamental artist type, huh?”

  “Not in the mood to carve some stranger’s initials into a hunk of wood.”

  “Feeling flowery?”

  He shot her a glare then turned his attention back to the bowl. “Good book?”

  She glanced at the bare-chested hero on the cover and smirked. “It’s trashy, but I like it.”

  “Kinda like me.”

  She swung her legs over the edge of the chair. “You’re not trashy.”

  “Does that mean you don’t like me?”

  “Are you worried about that? After last night?”

  “I was a little worried this morning,” he admitted gruffly.

  The scrape of metal shaving wood scratched the silence hovering in the air. She cocked her head, studying his profile. He lasted exactly thirty seconds before daring a glance in her direction.

  “Because we talked about Susan?” she ventured.

  “Not many women would appreciate a man talking about another woman when they’re, uh….”

  “Naked?”

  “Involved,” he concluded.

  “Should I ignore her? Pretend I’m the first woman you’ve ever been with?”