by Angel Smits
Now, standing in Tara’s kitchen, he stared at the flour on her cheek, stared into her blue eyes and felt something inside him shift. Her face lit up when he’d said she was right. Her eyes sparkled. He nearly laughed out loud. Heat blossomed in his chest—and he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to.
“You were right to call me on my behavior.” He slowly moved away from the wall. “I should be the one apologizing.”
“But you’re not?” she whispered.
Morgan slowly shook his head. “I’d be lying if I did.”
“So you’re not sorry?”
“No.” He took one step and there was no space left between them. “I’m not. Those men didn’t know you. They wanted you just because you were a woman, alone and apparently at their mercy. There was nothing good about their intent.”
“But—”
“I know you,” he whispered. “I like you. I want—”
Tara put her finger over his lips. “Don’t say it.” He watched her swallow. “Don’t put it out there. I—”
She stepped away, and he felt the cool air where her warm finger had been.
“We can’t and you know why,” she finished.
“We can’t what?” He grinned at her, laughing when the color swept up her flour-dusted face. Teasing her was the safest way to break this spell between them. “I dare you to say it.”
“You are so frustrating.”
She backed away from him, just as he’d hoped, despite his disappointment. But he saw the smile playing on her lips.
“I have to get to work.”
“Me, too.” He headed to the back door. “See you later?”
She didn’t answer, but he didn’t care. The sun was out, glinting off his truck at the edge of the parking lot. She wasn’t leaving and neither was he. And for the first time in months, that didn’t bother him.
He climbed in the truck. His phone was on the console and it flashed to tell him he’d missed a call and had a message. As he grabbed clean clothes, he hit Play and put it on speaker.
“Hey, Morgan.” Dewey’s voice was loud, as if the big man were yelling into the phone. “There’s a match tonight. I know I said I wasn’t gonna beg. But, man, you gotta come. There ain’t a one you can’t beat. Come on, give a guy a break. You owe me. Tate’s setting up at a barn out on County Road Eleven. ’Bout five miles out. Along the tracks. Hope you get this and decide to make us rich men. Call me.”
Morgan stared at the phone. He cursed, recalling the men he’d overheard on his run. Dewey was confirming their plans. Glancing through the windshield toward the diner, he knew what choice he’d make. He had to find his daughter, and Dewey and Tate’s illegal fights were the only lead he had.
He closed his eyes. He cursed and focused on getting ready for tonight. Hoping and praying he hadn’t lost any of his former skills for beating the crap out of another human being. He couldn’t afford to lose. He had to be able to walk away. He couldn’t get caught in that world again.
Brooke’s life—his future, so much—depended on it.
* * *
HOW DID THE man have any hearing left? Tara wondered as she approached the truck. The metal frame vibrated with the pulsing beat. Three customers had commented on the volume of the music and she’d told them she’d have a chat with him. If she knocked, he wasn’t even going to hear her. But she wasn’t standing out here waiting for him to notice.
He’d said later. Did that mean he’d come to the diner for dinner? Her place? What? It had driven her so crazy, she’d messed up two orders already. Robbie had banned her from the kitchen.
So she was out here cleaning up after that stupid raccoon again. The new Dumpsters helped, if she could get her staff to put everything in them.
Before she could change her mind, she put her foot on the running board and reached for the door handle. The door easily swung open. Letting out a blast of sound.
Tara had never really been inside one of these big semitrucks before. Climbing into the passenger seat in the dark the other night barely counted. She’d driven a delivery truck a couple times for the restaurant supply she’d worked for in Dallas during college. Yeah. It didn’t compare.
She’d expected the extended cab to look like the back seat of something. She hadn’t expected a miniature RV. She could only stare. Granted, the small space was dominated by a bed—she swallowed—but there was so much more.
A mini-fridge nestled behind the back of the driver’s seat. Up on the wall, above the small window in one side of the cab, was a TV screen. A large TV screen.
Glancing at the wide mattress again, she pictured him there, remote in one hand, staring up at the screen, stretching out...
She tore her mind off her overly active imagination’s wayward path. She swallowed and took a step between the two large seats. “Morgan?” There wasn’t anyplace for him to be hidden. Where was he?
Cupboards lined the wall over her head, and she wished she had the nerve to open them. Curiosity teased her to look inside and learn more about the man.
A bright green, plastic folder on a small drop table over the bunk’s edge caught her eye. Bold lettering on the tab of the folder said Sylvie Thane. Staring at the proof that Sylvie really was his wife twisted something—her heart?—in her chest. She shouldn’t be here. Tara turned to leave, or at least that’s what her brain thought she was doing. Her body didn’t budge.
The corner of a thin booklet stuck out of the file’s edge. Curious, she peered at it, only able to see it was some sort of government publication.
Divorce rules for Texas. Divorce papers. She leaned closer. Dated nearly six months ago. Why were they here? She nudged the pamphlet out, reading that in the state of Texas, a divorce could be handled in sixty days. So why had he told her he was still married?
The pamphlet fell open to a well-worn page. Notification. The word and its explanation was highlighted in bright yellow. As she read, it all came clear. For the divorce to proceed, Sylvie had to be notified. And Morgan had to prove it. Either by her answering the documents that were still here in the folder or by written proof she’d been served.
Otherwise, no finalization.
The driver’s door swung open, cool damp air washing in. Morgan climbed up, frowning at her. “Making yourself comfortable?” he yelled over the music. The sound of his voice made her jump. She nearly stumbled, grabbing the edge of the small fridge to catch herself.
She dropped the folder, and the form and pamphlet scattered across the bed. In the normal world, it would have hit the floor, but these close quarters didn’t allow for much floor space.
He stepped closer and she shrank back. There was not enough room in this vehicle for the two of them. No way. But she was held captive between the fridge and the wide expanse of the bed.
He reached past her and flipped a switch, muting the stereo.
“Yeah.” She swallowed the sudden dryness in her mouth. “I, uh, need to get back to work.”
“You just got here.”
“Yeah. Well.” Dear heaven, she nearly swung her arms like a little kid trying to distract a teacher from catching her in a lie, but feared if she moved that she’d bump into him...touch him. Touching him... Gulp.
That would be such a mistake.
But that didn’t stop her eyes from looking, from drinking in the view. He’d changed clothes. A sleeveless T-shirt did nothing to hide the defined muscles of his chest. The camo jeans that were supposed to be loose, baggy by design—weren’t.
He carefully moved closer, his gaze landing on the documents scattered on the bed. He looked at her.
“That’s why you’re looking for her.” Not because he wanted her back. Tara swallowed. “To divorce her.”
“Yeah. Except I can’t find her.” He tapped the page Tara had been reading. “Last option
is to put an ad in the paper.” His words were soft and came out slow. “Post a big ol’ sign up that my marriage failed, and for what?” He picked up the pages and shoved them back into the file. “I’m not even sure Sylvie knows what a newspaper is. She sure as hell isn’t going to go looking for one to see if I’m divorcing her. It’s humiliating.”
She saw the shame wash over his face. He looked down, as if trying to hide what she’d already seen. He focused on putting the papers away in a drawer beside the bed.
“Divorce isn’t that unusual nowadays.”
“She’s been gone over a year. When I find her, I’m serving her those papers.” He looked up then, his gaze burning through hers.
“Morgan, I—” What was she going to say? She froze, staring at him. No words came out. None even formed in her mind.
CHAPTER TEN
MORGAN MOVED CLOSER, leaning an arm against the wall beside her head. He pulled open the door to the fridge. “You, uh, want a soda—or something?” Who was he trying to distract? Cool air from inside washed over her, but it did little good with the heat of his arm, so close, so big, so...
She turned to move away, intending to slip past him, to put some space, any space, between them. Best-laid plans had her tripping over her own feet and landing exactly where she did not want to be—really, she didn’t—up against that wide, muscular chest. Two strong arms wrapped around her, halting her flight.
“Where you goin’?” he whispered against her ear, his breath stirring her hair and sending a few stray strands to feather across her brow.
“I—uh, came out here to, uh—” She took a deep breath, mentally repeating her newly acquired mantra. Focus. He smiled. She saw him glance up and followed his gaze to the clock on the wall.
“The music. It’s, uh, loud. Customers...” What was wrong with her? she asked herself, feeling like a fool. Who was she kidding? She’d just wanted to see him and hadn’t been smart enough to resist. There wasn’t enough room in here to kick herself, which is what she should do.
His knowing grin told her he knew what she was up to and liked it.
Whatever words she’d intended to say next melted away as she turned her head and met his stare.
“Tara,” he said, soft and...pleading?
He reached for her and she couldn’t—she didn’t even want to—move away. His palm was rough against her cheek, but the slide of his thumb over her lips was oh-so-soft. Her eyes drifted closed as he caressed and smoothed her lips.
“Morgan,” she said with a sigh, leaning into him. Her hands settled on the defined curve of his chest, feeling the even rise and fall of each breath he took. So alive. So warm and solid.
His hand moved, sliding around to palm the back of her head, his fingers burrowing into her hair. When had it fallen loose, scattering around her shoulders and sliding against her neck?
Tara waited impatiently, nearly begging him to kiss her. Needing to feel and taste him. Those papers had destroyed her resistance. He wasn’t taken, at least not his heart.
Morgan took his sweet time, moving in close and settling his lips, not on hers, but on the curve of her neck. She shivered at the first touch, trembling as his arms enfolded her, aligning the full length of her with the full length of him.
Heat rolled off him, melding her to him. Her legs turned to jelly and she leaned into his strength, knowing he would catch her, probably not even noticing her weight against him.
He blazed a hot, damp trail with his tongue up the length of her neck, sighing when his mouth found her earlobe. Tugging on it with his teeth, he teased her with the implied pain and promised sweetness as he soothed the mock injury.
Along the curve of her chin, he traced her skin with a whisper touch, then, as if finally reaching home, his lips skimmed hers. Paused. Then swooped in like a hungry man who’d found the feast.
His lips took possession of hers, forcing them to part so his tongue could slip inside and taste, filling her with the promise of the pleasure he would give her.
Tara heard a sigh and belatedly knew it was hers. It shook them both. She splayed her hands on his broad back, feeling the flex of those muscles as he moved.
Morgan pulled away, and she whimpered at the distance between them. His laugh, deep, rough, scraped across her nerves in a warm, tantalizing way.
Slowly, he bent, easily scooping his hands behind her knees and lifting her against that chest. She felt small and cherished as the blood raced through her veins. Her arms barely reached all the way around his big shoulders.
Turning ever so slightly, Morgan settled her on the mattress.
She expected him to join her, but he paused. Reaching behind his neck, he fisted the collar of his shirt and ripped the thing over his head. Taut, tanned skin stretched over muscle definition she’d never seen so up close and personal before.
The softness of the bunk closed around her as she sank into it—only to sink even deeper as his body covered hers and his lips found hers again. This time, urgent, harsh and hungry.
* * *
WHEN WAS THE last time anyone had touched him with any kind of passion or desire...or caring? Morgan’s mind came up blank, empty except for the warmth and heat of Tara. God, she tasted good.
Tara bracketed his face with her slim hands. For a long minute, she looked at him, as if drinking in every detail of his face. He wanted to flinch away from her intensity, but he forced himself to hold still, bracing for her to have second thoughts.
She frowned.
Here it comes. “What?” he ventured.
She shook her head. Instead of pulling away, she put pressure on his neck, urging him closer, drawing him in. Her lips brushed his. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What do you mean?” He kissed her briefly, teasing them both.
“I don’t know.” She smiled. “You muddle my brain.”
He chuckled, relief sliding over him. “Okay. Let me know when you figure it out.”
“Okay.” She laughed. Impatient, she captured his mouth with hers, this time not moving away, not pulling back, but deepening the kiss herself. Her sweet tongue prodded him, then dove in to match his earlier moves. She slid an arm around his neck, holding tight.
He was lost in her. No one was ever going to find him again.
She felt so small in his hands, and he liked that, liked the power rushing inside him. Not to hurt or control her but to protect her. Support her. Cherish her.
Pulling back, Morgan stared at her. She was wearing her chef garb, the jacket with a row of big clear buttons running down one side. Fascinated, he curled his fingers over the top one and pushed it through the hole. The stand-up collar parted, giving him a view of pink skin.
He had to taste it. Couldn’t wait for even one more inch to be revealed with another button. He leaned in, startled by the heat of her skin.
He couldn’t get enough.
Tara put her hand, tiny and hot, in the center of his chest and gently pushed. He jerked back, afraid he’d missed a signal, a word that told him she’d changed her mind. She laughed, a deep, hot, throaty sound.
Instead of sliding off the bunk, she rose on her knees, kneeling in front of him. Slowly, she reached for the next button, making it look large compared to her small fingers. She pushed it through the fabric. First one. Then another. And another.
The thick, white fabric parted, and Morgan stared hungrily as inches of warm flesh appeared. The gentle curve of her generous breast. The irritating lacy cup of a bra he briefly fantasized about pulling away...until he was distracted by the flat tanned skin of her belly.
She tossed the jacket over the edge of the bunk, not even watching where it landed. Her fingers trembled, however, as they slid lower to the catch of her pants.
“Let me.” He leaned up on an elbow, unable to resist touching her. He
swallowed as her soft skin reacted to just his finger trailing down the length of her—from her chin, down to the swell of her breast, where he dipped inside the lace for just a tease.
Her nipple pebbled against his fingertip, and they both groaned. Anticipation of how she’d taste made his mouth water and he caught himself licking his lips.
“Morgan,” she moaned.
He pulled his finger back, rising to kneel in front of her. She was so tiny here, on her knees. He reached for the hook at her waist. The zipper slid down easily, slowly, not silently. As if announcing his arrival.
Rather than pushing the pants down, getting rid of the barrier, he instead slid his hand inside. Dear heaven, her skin was so hot. He slid lower, over the soft curls, and touched what he wanted to possess.
She was wet. So very wet. For him.
Carefully, he stroked her, watching as her eyelids drifted closed, and she leaned against his arm crossing her back, her covered breasts begging for him.
“Take it off,” he croaked. “I have to taste you.”
Without him moving either hand, Tara managed to reach around and unhook the dainty bra. Gravity helped pull it away, showing him the sweet curves, and the pale pink nipples, ready and waiting for him.
He quickened his finger’s stroke and her breath came faster, harsher. “Please—” she cried out, nearly cresting the wave.
“Please what, babe?” he whispered, finally dipping his head to take one distended nipple deep into his mouth. At the same instant, he inched his finger deeper. Then deeper still until her cry of release dissolved into quick hot spasms. He let her fly, drinking in every sweet drop.
* * *
SHE’D JUST COME apart in his hands. She should be embarrassed. She wasn’t. Not even close. Slowly lifting her eyelids, Tara looked into Morgan’s smile. And smiled back.
She reached up, pulling his lips to hers, and pushed herself closer. All those glorious male muscles felt like heaven against her bare breasts.
