Steve, being Steve, had lost his head over her for about three weeks, and then started suffering the tortures of the damned.
He couldn’t deal with the guilt of having cheated on his wife, to say nothing of cuckolding his best friend.
He’d always been such a Boy Scout.
Which was one reason she was so fond of him, Deedee supposed. She wasn’t in love with him, hadn’t ever been, but she loved him. Like a brother, or something.
As the song—countless songs—said, she’d done him wrong. Real bad wrong.
That, she thought with a sudden flash of insight, was why she was still earthbound.
She couldn’t go to Heaven until she had righted that wrong.
27
Steve lay facedown in kudzu, breathing in the scent of mold, feeling the damp chill of the ground beneath the vines seeping into his bones.
He was almost afraid to look up. The last time he’d checked, before he had completely lost his head, Deedee had been swinging from the branches of the huge elm just to the left of his outflung hand, hanging upside down by her knees as she gave him a thumbs-up sign.
Remembering, it was all Steve could do to repress a groan.
He was losing his mind. He had to be.
Or maybe his subconscious was trying to tell him something. Maybe these recurring visions of Deedee were its way of reminding him to stay focused. His mission was twofold: First, he had to stay alive long enough to figure out exactly why everybody and his brother wanted to kill him and what to do about it; and second, he had to discover how Deedee had gotten into his office that fateful night.
Getting sidetracked by a woman was the last thing he needed.
What man had ever been able to think straight when his brain was intoxicated with thoughts of pussy?
So they had had sex. Good. Maybe he’d gotten it—and her—out of his system for a while.
A soft, wet mouth nuzzled his ear. God, was she hot for him again already? Steve wondered, and felt his member begin to stiffen in response.
All right, so maybe he hadn’t gotten it—and her—completely out of his system. Maybe he was already hankering after another go-round.
He’d get over it. He had to.
Cool it, he cautioned himself sternly. At this moment, going all mushy-brained—and brick-dicked—over the woman could be the death of both of them.
He was not going to allow himself to think of sex again until they were safe.
He glanced up, scowling, to warn the temptress in no uncertain terms about the inadvisability of doing any more nibbling on his ear.
The eyes he encountered were not a warm golden hazel, but chocolate brown and bulging. As he stared into them, the mutt to whom they belonged tilted its head inquiringly, panting with execrable doggy breath right in his face. With a shudder of revulsion, Steve realized just exactly who had been licking his ear: He’d been given a hard-on by a dog!
“Shit!” He sat upright, dug his palms into his eyes to try to clear his brain, and snuck a wary peek at the thick canopy of branches overhead.
No Deedee. Thank God.
Steve drew a relieved breath, then glanced over at the woman who was stretched out in all her naked splendor against the deep glossy green of their kudzu bed.
The least she could do was lie on her stomach, he thought resentfully as his member, under no illusions this time, rose to instant attention.
Given a taste of what it craved, the damned thing was proving insatiable.
But she did look good. Summer. The name suited her a lot better than Rosencrans, which was why he’d better stick to calling her Rosencrans. Her eyes were closed. Her lashes lay in beautiful semicircular sweeps against her cheeks. Dozing, she looked flushed and satiated and content, just exactly like a woman was supposed to look in the aftermath of passion. Clearly she had forgotten, temporarily, that they were on the run for their lives. For all the anxiety she exhibited, she could have been lying on the smoothest sheets, the thickest mattress, at the best hotel in the country.
Sex was a great stress reliever. He had discovered that for himself long ago.
It was also an excellent stress inducer, at least in this particular case. The longer he looked at the object of his desire, the more stress he felt.
The obvious answer, of course, was simply not to look at her. But he couldn’t quite do that.
Naked, she was beautiful. One arm curved up and around to pillow her head. Her armpit was exposed, white and vulnerable. The urge to crawl over to her and press his mouth to that enticing area was almost irresistible, but from somewhere he found the strength to resist.
Her dark brown hair fanned out over her bent arm to form a kind of a halo around her face. Her nose was straight, the nostrils slightly dilated as she breathed. Her lips—wide, tender lips that knew how to kiss—were parted. He wanted to press his mouth there, too, but again he managed to keep himself under control.
Her creamy skin sported numerous bruises—he felt guilty as he acknowledged them. Each one, directly or indirectly, could be attributed to him.
The discolorations emphasized rather than detracted from the sheer allure of her milky skin. Milky skin that had felt like warm silk under his hands.
With the best will in the world not to do so, Steve mentally stroked that skin with his gaze. Now that his vision was back to normal, he could appreciate properly her full womanly shape. Voluptuous was the only word that did justice to the jutting fullness of her breasts and the roundness of her hips, to the curve of her belly and waist and the long, delectable length of her legs.
She had small feet. He was a sucker for small feet.
Just looking at her made him so hard that he had to grit his teeth to keep from doing anything about it. What made it worse was the knowledge that she was his for the taking. He could do anything he liked with her.
She had told him so.
With a muttered curse Steve shot to his feet and snatched up his briefs.
“Steve?” His nemesis sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes, still as naked as a babe but a hell of a lot more enticing to look at. She made not the slightest attempt to cover herself as she watched him yank his briefs up his legs, followed by his shorts. Even though he determinedly refused to look in her direction, just the memory of her rosy nipples and mink-brown bush and all the hills and valleys between drove him mad.
“Get dressed,” he said harshly. He should never have brought a woman along. But what choice had he had? None. The knowledge didn’t help. Gathering up her clothes in a quick grab, he tossed them at her.
“Is something wrong?” She sounded hesitant, confused. Her voice was a throaty, sexy contralto—why hadn’t he ever before noticed just how sexy it was?—and it immediately conjured up memories of the cries she had made during sex.
Could dicks break? Because his felt as if it were going to, crammed inside the too tight shorts as it was. Keeping his back to her, he pulled at his fly in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure, and reached for his shirt.
“We’ve got to get moving.” He knew he sounded hostile, but he couldn’t help it. He felt hostile. The whole damned situation was impossible. Here he was, facing the distinct possibility of a woefully shortened life span, saddled with a chatterbox woman and her sissy mutt, with what felt like the whole damned population of the bad-guy hall of fame after him and a ghostly vision tormenting him at every turn, and all he wanted to do was get his rocks off—again. And again. And again.
With her. With Summer.
Damn it to hell. What a hell of a situation.
“So you’re one of those,” that sexy voice said with cold disdain.
“One of whats?” He still had his back to her, pulling on his shoes.
“One of those wham, bam, I-won’t-bother-to-thank-you-ma’am types.”
“What?” That did it. He had to glance around at her. She had one knee raised, the other curled beside her, and looked about as sexy as any woman he had ever seen as she sat naked among the dark gre
en leaves and purple flowers and gray-barked trees of their bower, looking down her nose at him.
“I should have guessed,” she said witheringly, and stood up, walking past him with regal dignity.
His breathing suspended as desire grabbed him by the balls. His eyes were riveted on her backside as she walked, naked, through the forest, her lush ass swaying, her spine straight, her hair flowing around her shoulders.
God, what an ass!
Shades of Lady Godiva!
“Where are you going?” he asked, feeling as if he might strangle on the very act of speaking.
“I’d rather wear shorts. It’s getting hot, or haven’t you noticed?”
He had definitely noticed. He had to reach inside his own shorts for a quick adjustment before he was bent double with pain.
Gathering up her shoes, socks, clothes, and dog, he followed. By the time he reached her side, she had extracted her bra and panties from the gym bag he had dropped, and donned them. The garments were plain white, sturdy and sensible rather than seductive. The bra had a knot in one strap.
So why did they turn him on?
Hell, everything about her turned him on. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to catch himself getting excited over her damned sissified dog.
The animal licked his wrist. Alarmed, he put her down.
“Now that we’ve got that out of our systems, maybe we can put our heads together and figure some way out of this.” Her gaze, meeting his as he straightened, was a cool challenge. She stepped into the nylon shorts as if he weren’t even there, pulled them up her legs, adjusted them around her waist, and then, to Steve’s mingled relief and regret, pulled the black T-shirt over her head.
She filled out that T-shirt so well that even the bull terrier adorning it seemed to be panting with lust.
She might have that out of her system, but he didn’t. In fact, he had the distinct feeling that the poison was spreading.
“Yeah. Right.” His reply was lame. He recognized that himself, but he couldn’t help it. He could hardly think, much less talk. With a curl of her lip, she reached over and took her shoes and socks from his hand and dropped them to the ground. Then, picking up the gym bag, she heaved it at his midsection.
“Catch!”
“Whoa!” Steve caught the bag with a grunt. She had thrown it hard. Eyeing her narrowly as she sank to the ground to pull on her shoes and socks, he supposed he should consider himself fortunate that she had not thrown the tire iron at him instead.
Milady was clearly p.o.’d.
“You have thought beyond what happens once we get to your fishing camp, haven’t you?” she asked scathingly, wrapping long shoelaces around her ankles and tying them. “Going up there to think isn’t much of a plan. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
Wait a minute. Unless she could come up with something better, he did mind her saying so.
Steve was just about to tell her that when she stood up, scooped up her ridiculous beribboned mutt, and strode off.
Leaving him to gather up the gear, snatch up his cap and settle it on his head, and follow. He didn’t much like following, he discovered. It wasn’t his style.
Especially when the leader he was following had a mouthwatering tush that gave him a pang with its every come-hither swing.
28
“What did you mean, wham, bam, whatever?” Frankenstein asked out of the blue. He sat on the ground, his back propped against a tree, one leg stretched out before him, the other raised and bent at the knee. The damned symbolic Bulls cap was pulled low over his eyes. They had stopped to eat—peanut butter crackers and water, and a raw hot dog for Muffy—beside the clear green water of a rippling creek. It must have been late afternoon—Summer had lost all track of time, so she couldn’t be sure, but it felt like late afternoon. Sun slanted down through the trees, dappling the ground and the rock on which she sat. The day had been hot, maybe ninety degrees, but the forest had protected them from the worst of the heat. They got humidity and gnats instead. The combination, in her opinion, was worse.
Sweat beaded Summer’s forehead. Her hair, unwashed now for almost three whole days, felt rank. She didn’t even like to think about whether or not she smelled. Her leg itched, and she scratched the large red insect bite on her calf absentmindedly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Still furious at herself for almost tumbling headlong into another disastrous relationship with another disastrous man, Summer replied coldly. It wasn’t only herself she was furious at, either. Every time she thought about how uninhibited she had been with him, the things she had said and done and felt, she wanted to cringe. Even more humiliatingly, when she remembered the things he had done to her with his hands and mouth and body, she couldn’t help it: She felt a little thrill. That thrill made her mad all over again.
Then, while she had still been basking in the glow of the most fantastic lovemaking session she had ever experienced, he had made it clear that it had meant absolutely nothing to him. She meant absolutely nothing to him.
He’d been horny, and he’d wanted sex. That was the simple truth. Once he’d gotten what he wanted, he had lost all interest in her. He hadn’t even had the good manners—or good sense—to pretend otherwise.
She didn’t know why she had been surprised.
“What you said—back there. You said I was another one of those wham, bam, something-thank-you-ma’am types.” His voice was carefully neutral. Good thing. It wouldn’t have taken much to make her fly at him like an enraged blue jay.
Summer stopped chewing and swallowed. “Oh, God, you’re not one of those men who has to rehash things every time you have sex, are you? What do you want, applause?”
She was pardonably pleased when his eyes narrowed. “I just want to know what you meant.”
“Not a thing.” She drank water from her well-rinsed beer can. Under the circumstances, the taste of beer would have been the last straw. She would have been violently ill. “Forget it.”
“I don’t want to forget it.”
“What are you, part bulldog? Can’t you just let it drop?”
Apparently not put off by the edge in her voice, Frankenstein shook his head. “Nope.”
Summer scowled at him. “All right. If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. My ex-husband was like that. He wanted sex when he wanted it, and he would sulk for days if I didn’t instantly oblige. I learned that it was easier just to do it, you know, rather than put up with his pouting. So we’d have sex—it usually took about five minutes—and as soon as it was over he’d jump out of bed, run for the shower, and get on with his life. Wham, bam, I-won’t-bother-to-thank-you-ma’am, see? And that would be the last I’d get of any kind of love or romance or even simple human kindness out of him until he got horny again. At which time the whole process would be repeated. Know how I could tell when he was getting horny? He’d drink a beer. The only time he ever did.” Summer looked down at the can in her hand, and grimaced. “I hate the taste of beer.”
“I’m not your ex-husband.”
“No, you’re not, are you?” Summer smiled at him, but it wasn’t a nice smile. She wasn’t feeling particularly nice at that precise moment. “So I don’t have to put up with that kind of crap from you, do I? And I won’t.” She took another sip of water, and said what she had been thinking for the last few miles. “I’ve decided to call Sammy.”
“What?” Frankenstein almost choked on his own water.
“You heard me. I’ve decided to call Sammy. I don’t know how you think you’re going to get out of this mess alive, and to tell you the truth I don’t particularly care. But I am going to call my ex-father-in-law, of whom I am still very fond, who also happens to be the Murfreesboro Chief of Police, to come and get me. You may not trust him, but I do.”
Frankenstein stared at her. Summer ate her last cracker with elaborate unconcern. Over the past few hours her thinking had grown crystal clear. Further involvement with Steve Calhoun and his problems was a
recipe for disaster on all fronts. He could break her heart. He could get her killed. It had taken her a while to develop wisdom, but, by golly, she had at last developed it. One thing she had learned over the course of her life was that she had to take care of herself; nobody else would.
Certainly not Frankenstein.
“You can’t do that.”
“Oh yes I can. Try to stop me.”
“It could very well be suicide.”
“So could staying with you. I prefer to take my chances with Sammy.”
Frankenstein gulped some more water. “Too bad. It’s not in the cards.”
“What do you mean, it’s not in the cards? It’s in the cards if I want it to be in the cards. You don’t tell me what to do.”
“Somebody needs to. You’re about as good at taking care of yourself as that ridiculous dog.”
“Oh, yeah? I hate to point this out to you, but both Muffy and I seem to be better at taking care of ourselves than you are at taking care of yourself. We didn’t get ourselves into this mess: you did. The whole world’s chasing us because of you. You’re the problem here, and I’ve decided that in order to fix the problem, Muffy and I need to get away from you.”
“Wait a minute. This is all because you’re mad at me about what happened this morning, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes you do. You’re mad because we had sex.”
“I am not!”
“You are too.”
Summer took a deep breath. “I am not mad at you because we had sex.”
“No, you’re mad because we had sex and you enjoyed it.”
Summer felt her cheeks heat. “Pretty full of yourself, aren’t you, Frankenstein? What makes you so sure I enjoyed it?”
“I know when a woman has a good time during sex.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, you had a good time too.”
“Yes, I did.” He met her fuming gaze full on. “I had a fantastic time. You were great. Is that what you want to hear? Is everything all better now?”
Walking After Midnight Page 20
