She sang along and clicked send.
Her resume was now on its way to Jorgensen Bradford, the second largest defense firm in the state.
Part of her still couldn’t believe her uncle had actually fired her. She showed up for work the day after she’d gotten back to Jersey and found her personal items neatly stacked in a box on top of her desk.
That was it. No conversation. No thanks for finding my son’s murderer.
Nothing.
Bastard.
The front door lock tumbled and she turned to see Peter stride in, the key she’d given him still in his hand.
Her heart did that weird slamming around in her chest thing it did whenever he came into a room. Of course, the tight T-shirt and ripped Levi’s didn’t hurt. All topped off with the battered do-rag he’d taken back because it was his favorite.
She loved this man.
Clunky boots on her wood floors and all.
“Hey,” he said, dumping her mail on the table in front of her.
She grabbed him by the shirt, hauled him down and kissed him. “You look too good today, Peter.”
That wicked movie-star smile of his nearly melted her bones.
I love this man.
“You know I like hearing that,” he said.
When he pulled her to her feet she didn’t resist. She snuggled into him, her head bumping his chin as she nestled into his neck. The best place to be. Ever.
“Where’s Courtney?” He slid his hand into the back of her jeans.
Peter wanted some. So did she. But Courtney was in the guest room. Well, her room now because Isabelle had moved her in. She couldn’t stand the thought of Courtney, at this time in her life, trying to find a job and an affordable apartment.
So they made a deal. Courtney would have her baby, finish her GED and get a job. Until then, this would be her home.
It helped that Nicole Pratt’s mother, the congresswoman, set up a trust fund for Courtney as a way to thank her.
Truth be told, Isabelle enjoyed the company. And having a friend. Courtney knew more about her than most and, somehow, it seemed right for her to be here.
“Would Courtney mind a little moaning?” Peter asked.
Isabelle snorted a laugh and glided her hand over his cheek. “She’s going with your mother later. Something about meeting the director of volunteers at the women’s shelter.”
“Excellent. The Lorraine Jessup school of getting your life together.” He tilted his head toward her laptop. “Working on the résumé?”
“Yep. Gotta find a job.”
She had to find a way to pay the rent and stay in the house she loved. Even if she had to beg her mother to take her side and not let her uncle throw her out.
“Mmm,” he said, pulling out of her arms—darn it—and walking to the door leading to the beach.
“I…uh…talked to Wade this morning,” Isabelle said.
“And what did Agent Sampson have to say?” Peter reached up and rubbed the tips of his fingers over the wood trim above the door.
What’s with him?
“If we hadn’t figured it out, I’ve been officially cleared of murder.”
Peter snorted. “Gotta love the feds. I guess the DNA came back a match.”
“Yep. They’ve got Seth from the skin found under Kendrick’s nails.” She picked up a pen from the table and twirled it in her fingers. “Between murdering Kendrick and the black market babies, he’s broken enough laws to keep him locked up for a long time.”
Peter turned to her, leaned against the door and folded his arms. “What about the others involved?”
“The doctor that came to the house, the woman at the counseling center and let’s not forget the prison. That’s probably the most sickening of all.”
“No shit,” he agreed.
A prison official had worked with Tomorrow’s Family Network to place inmates’ newborn babies up for adoption. In reality, Tomorrow’s Family Network sent the babies to Seth and Kendrick. Everyone, the prison official included, took a share of the profits.
Thanks to Courtney, they were all in jail.
“You did good, Iz.”
She grinned. “Thank you, Peter. That means a lot to me.”
But he turned his back to her and looked out the door again. What is wrong with him? “Going surfing?”
“Nah. Low tide. Maybe a run though.”
After three weeks of downtime he was restless. He’d been avoiding talking about it, but she knew by the way he became so easily distracted. A man like Peter couldn’t be tamed for long. The adventurer in him didn’t allow it. And he wasn’t kicking over potted plants anymore.
He’d be leaving her soon and it would obliterate her.
Your own damned fault.
Shut up, Creepy Izzy. Go away.
“You can say it,” Isabelle said, still standing by the table.
He puckered his lips and eyed her. “What?”
“I know you’ve been keeping it from me. Just say it.”
He propped a hip against the counter. “Uh—”
The phone rang and she glanced down at the ID. “It’s my mother.”
He nodded, the relief evident on his face. “You’d better take it. I’m gonna go change.”
“We’re not done here.” She hit the talk button. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi,” her mother said, her voice tinged with excitement.
What could this be?
“What’s up?” Isabelle watched Peter make his way down the hall.
“I called to tell you about your new landlord.”
Sqreeeeeee! Did a freight train just come skidding to a halt in her kitchen? Isabelle’s spine turned to steel. “Excuse me?”
“He’s on his way over there.”
New landlord? What the hell? “Mom, are you telling me you sold my house?”
“You’re going to love him. He’s handsome. In an odd sort of way.”
Her knees wobbled and she locked them to keep from crumpling to the ground. Could her mother seriously be trying to hook her up with some guy who’d just bought her house? The house she dreamed of spending her life in? The house she’d put so much energy into making a home?
Tears filled her eyes. Her mother had betrayed her. Again. “How could you do this to me? Knowing how much I love it here.”
“Isabelle the new owner is—”
She couldn’t have this conversation. Not right now.
She punched the off button, threw the phone across the room and watched it shatter as it hit the floor.
What if the guy wanted this as a summer home? Isabelle would be out in a heartbeat. Plus, she had Courtney and the baby to think about. The baby was due any day now, and she’d promised Courtney she’d have a roof over her head.
“Why?” Isabelle said as the tears spilled over.
No job. No home.
She had to do something.
“Iz?” Peter said from the hallway, his gaze shooting to the destroyed phone.
“She sold my house. My own mother is putting me on the street.” She stalked the room like a caged animal. “It never ends with her. The disappointments. They just keep coming and coming and coming. As soon as I think I’m settling in, she pulls out that big sledge hammer and—bam!—she bashes me on the skull.”
“Iz, it’s not what you think—”
What? Oh no. No. No. No. He could not be taking her mother’s side. She put her hand up as all the blood rushed from her head and the room whirled in front of her. “Don’t, Peter. Please. I can’t take it right now. My mother just told me the new landlord is on his way here. I have to figure out a way to make him let me stay until I can buy my house back. Dammit.” She dug her fingers into her hair and yanked. “I’ll never get a mortgage. I don’t even have the down payment I’d need. Not for oceanfront property.”
She would not ask Peter for money. Absolutely not. They hadn’t even discussed what the future held for them, so how could she possibly ask for a loan?
He stepped toward
her, grabbed her arms and held her in place. “Stop a minute. Please.”
“She sold my house!”
“To me!”
She jerked her head back. Huh?
“I bought the house. For you. Not for me. Your mother wanted to tell you. I knew she’d screw it up, but she insisted.”
“But—”
“You were worried your uncle would toss you out. And, after he fired you, it wasn’t a stretch, so I contacted your mother and told her I wanted to buy the house.”
Isabelle stepped back, out of his arms. A bizarre mixture of relief and fury tore up any chance at rational thought. How could he do this without talking to her?
“I knew you wouldn’t take money from me,” Peter said. “And if I told you what I was planning you would have said no. You’re stubborn that way. You’re so damned independent you don’t let people help you. Now you don’t have to worry about paying the rent.”
The thought of it eased into her brain. “Holy cow.”
He nodded. “If you’re not comfortable with me being the owner you can buy it back. As soon as you get a job, I’ll sell it to you. That’s not what I want, but I’m learning to accept not getting things my way.” He grinned.
She laughed at that because it had to be difficult for the Emperor of Fix-It Land, as his brother called him, to admit it.
“You really are the Emperor of Fix-It Land.”
“No. I’m not. I’m trying to get shit done. I want you happy because Vic cleared me for work and I have to go back soon.”
“That’s what I thought you were hiding from me. I didn’t know you were hiding this other thing too.”
He waved that off. “Yeah, well, the thing with Vic just happened last night. I’ve been working on the house for a couple of weeks.”
He put his hands on top of his head and huffed out a breath. “Everything feels like a mess. I have to go back to work. I want to go back. And yet, I can’t leave you while you have so much going on. No job, Courtney with a baby on the way. I figured if you didn’t have to worry about being thrown out of the house you’d feel more settled.” He laughed. “The only thing I know for sure right now is that I’m a landlord willing to accept sex—lot’s of it—in lieu of rent.”
She scoffed. “That’s a no-brainer.”
“Plus, I have to decide what I’m doing about living in Chicago because I know you won’t move. And I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“Thank you,” she said, because all other words seemed lost in the recesses of her mucky brain.
“So, I guess I just figured it out. If you want, I’ll move back here.”
Yes. Absolutely.
She nodded. “I’d love that.”
He held up his hands. “Don’t freak about me owning the house. I mean, my hope is, eventually, we’ll live here together but I’m not pushing you on that. I know you need time and that’s fine.” His lips curled into a playful grin. “For a little while at least. But you are going to marry me at some point. I’m only good at compromise for limited intervals.”
He wanted to marry her. Could it be that simple? It’ll never work.
Shut up, Creepy Izzy.
She stepped forward as the sun shined into her kitchen—their kitchen—and the dream of a life in her grandmother’s house morphed into a variation of its original shape.
“Yes,” she said without thinking.
Peter welcomed her into his arms. “Yes what?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in the woodsy scent of him that would never leave her. “Yes everything. I don’t care. As long as you’re here. Even when you can’t physically be here, just knowing you’re here for me. Yes. I want it all.”
“It’ll be hard with me being gone, but I’ll try to cut back on the travel. Maybe Vic can get me some local gigs with the New York big shots.”
An old Tom Jones song came from the iPod.
“Oh,” Peter said, moving his hips into the now familiar rumba. “Perfect song.”
And yes, she realized, it was. She pulled him closer, their hips rocking in perfect unison as fire blasted her core.
She loved this man.
“Well, look at you,” he said, twirling her backward, but then pulling her close again.
Side.
Forward.
Replace.
“It’s easier now,” she said.
“That’s because you’re not thinking so much. You’ve let go. Finally.”
She pressed her hand into his shoulder and pulled closer. “I trust you. I know how your body moves with mine now.”
“Lucky me.”
Box step.
Their eyes connected and something changed. Their hips moved in perfect time, their bodies pressed together so tightly that her mind could only go one place. And it involved him naked and on top of her.
But he dipped her back, dragged his free hand down her chest, across her breasts and drew her back up.
“I love this dance,” she said. “You can never do it with anyone else. I mean that, Peter.”
He cleared his throat and when she glanced up he’d thrown his head back—concentrating probably—and closed his eyes.
“You know what they call it, right?”
She laughed. “As long as your hands are on me, I’m not sure I care.”
He stopped, tangled his fingers with hers. “They call it the dance of love.”
“How appropriate.” She glided down the front of him, rocking her hips back and forth as she traveled south and then back.
“Whoa,” he said. “I didn’t teach you that. Very hot.”
“I saw it on the internet. I’ve been practicing. Alone.”
“That’s a damn shame.”
“I wanted to get it right.”
He grunted and yanked her hips closer so she could feel the swell of his erection. “I think you’ve got it.”
“Eh-hem!”
Courtney’s voice crashed into their little love fest and Isabelle jumped back. She would have to get used to having a roommate before she and Peter did a throw down on the kitchen table.
Ooh, that could be fun.
“Will you two ever stop?” Courtney asked.
Peter laughed. “I hope not.” He turned away. Most likely to avoid Courtney seeing his erection.
“My water broke.”
Nothing ruined a mood like that announcement, but a sudden explosion of excitement crackled in the air, and Isabelle stared at Courtney’s saturated maternity shorts. “Really?”
She nodded.
“Okay then,” Isabelle said. “Let’s call your doctor and see what’s what.” She turned to Peter who wore the million-dollar smile that made her think of happiness and having a man, this man, to come home to.
She loved him. How he managed it she didn’t know. Creepy Izzy was no pushover, but the light and warmth Peter brought to her otherwise barren life came in huge waves that left her paralyzed by fear, yet wanting only more of whatever he offered.
“We’re having a baby,” she said.
“I should be so lucky,” he said.
***
For more in the Private Protectors series, don’t miss Man
Law, available now from Carina Press!
About the Author
Adrienne Giordano writes romantic suspense and women's fiction. She is a Jersey girl at heart, but now lives in the Midwest with her work-a-holic husband, sports obsessed son and Buddy the Wheaton Terrorist (Terrier). She is a co-founder of Romance University blog. For more information on Adrienne's previous books, Man Law and A Just Deception please visit www.AdrienneGiordano.com. Adrienne can also be found on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/AdrienneGiordanoAuthor and Twitter at http://twitter.com/AdriennGiordano.
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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9216-5
Copyright © 2011 by Adrienne Giordano-Maynard
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