They’d had enough sex in the last twelve hours to fill her five-year drought, and then some.
She could hardly walk.
And she needed to get to work.
“I need the bath,” she told him sternly. A shower would have been faster, but they couldn’t use the one upstairs because the cement on the bathroom floor was still curing.
“Fine.” Still endearingly pouty, he stood and water sluiced lovingly down his body, the level inside the bathtub dropping several inches.
She reminded herself that her body ached in places that it hadn’t ached in ages. A delicious ache.
“Did you have to do a lot of swimming to qualify for combat control?”
He grabbed a thin, faded blue towel from the rack. “Enough,” he said warily. “Combat diving. Parachuting. We did a lot of stuff. Why?”
“I read an article the other day about the men’s Olympic swimmers. You’ve got the same kind of body. Perfect for swimming.” Long arms. Roping muscles. Wide, flaring shoulders and a narrow waist, and those ripped abs.
She swallowed before she started drooling and shucked the robe. Carefully keeping a safe foot between them, she stepped over the side of the tub and sat down gingerly.
She didn’t know whether to gasp or groan when the hot water hit her tender regions.
She glanced up at Grant. He was watching her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. “What?”
He kneeled on the plain towel that Ali had spread on the floor in place of a bath mat. “You’re sore.”
She blamed the sudden heat in her cheeks on the temperature of the water.
“Hand me the washcloth,” he said.
She warily handed him the cloth, which matched the towel he’d wrapped around his hips both in faded color and thinness. When he thrust it down into the water beside her hip, she jumped a little. “What—”
“Don’t be so suspicious. Relax.” He pulled the cloth back out and soaped it up, then slowly ran it over her shoulders and down her back.
Her resistance dissolved as her bones melted. She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them while he repeated the process. “Nobody’s ever washed my back.” She smiled faintly. “Except my mother.”
“I’m not your mother.”
She turned her cheek until she could see him. “I’m well aware.”
His aqua eyes darkened. “Lean back.”
How—how could she be so easily aroused by him? When every muscle inside her had already been wrung with so much pleasure that she could have wept from it?
She stretched out her legs. Unlike Grant, she fit in the tub comfortably. She pressed her toes against the foot of the tub and lay back. The white enamel was chilly behind her neck and despite the water lapping at them, her nipples tightened.
Or maybe that was from the way Grant’s gaze ran over her in the moment before he glided the soapy cloth over her shoulders and down the valley between her breasts. Then back up and over them, lightly dragging the vaguely scratchy terry cloth, making her skin feel even more deliciously sensitized.
Her mouth went dry as he tugged the cloth back into the water, then along her hip. Her thigh. Knee. He soaped her feet. Her toes. Smiled slightly when she curled her toes against the tickle of the rough cloth.
“You’re frighteningly good at this,” she murmured when he’d reached across her to bestow the same attention on the left side of her body.
He sat back a little and touched the cloth to the base of her throat. The water had become cloudy from soap. It was more lukewarm than hot. “Is that a problem?”
She pressed her tongue against the inside of her teeth for a moment. “I don’t know. Is it from practice?”
“Using soap and water? Been doing it all my life.”
His hand had guided the cloth downward again. She caught his wrist before he reached her belly. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Have I ever washed a woman’s back?” His eyes met hers. “Yes.”
She couldn’t blame him for answering the question that she had asked.
“Have I ever washed a woman’s front? Yes.”
She swallowed.
“I’m thirty-seven, Ali. I was married. And when I wasn’t, there were others.” His intense gaze was disturbingly steady. “Not going to pretend I was a saint and not going to brag that I wasn’t. I’m not your first, either.” He released the cloth and it sank in the water. He turned his hand and pressed his wet palm against hers. “But there hasn’t been anyone in a long while. I haven’t wanted anyone. Until now. Until you.”
She shivered. And it wasn’t because of the cooling water. It was because of him. His words. “Grant—” She broke off, not sure what exactly she wanted to say. She wasn’t a verbal expert like Greer. Nor a relationship expert like Maddie. She just knew that there were things about Grant that drew her in. Physically. Emotionally.
And he was still waiting for her to finish.
She exhaled shakily and drew his hand into the water. Toward her. Physical was easier than emotional. Always had been. “I’m going to be late for work.”
He didn’t smile. “Then we’d better make it worth it, right?”
And they did.
* * *
“Templeton!”
Gowler was yelling her name the very second she showed her nose at work.
She rolled her eyes at Timmy and hurried to the door of the sergeant’s office. “Yessir?”
He was holding a file folder in the air. “What the hell’re you doing messing with Draper’s investigation about that abandoned baby your sister’s fostering?”
She hesitated. “I, uh—”
“You’re lucky I’m feeling magnanimous today.” He tossed the file across his desk at her. “Next time you’re late reporting, don’t bother showing up at all.”
She quickly retrieved the file folder. “I won’t, sir.”
He grunted. “Close the door on your way out.”
She scurried out and closed the door.
Then she quickly flipped open the file folder.
Inside were her notes about births in Montana within the estimated time frame of Layla’s birthday and she realized she must have gotten it mixed in with the reports she’d typed up for Gowler.
It seemed a lot longer ago than just the previous afternoon.
“What’s wrong with you?” Timmy asked when she headed back to her desk.
She stopped short. “What do you mean?”
“You’re walking all stiff-like. You hurt yourself working out again?”
Her cheeks went hot. “Um, yeah. Working out.” She slipped into her chair and jabbed her computer keyboard, bringing the blank screen to life. She went through her emails, which were all fairly routine. Then she checked the missing persons on Grant’s sister. It had only been a week since she’d broadened the search to include Daisy’s real name. She didn’t really expect any results, and in that regard, she wasn’t disappointed.
Her cell phone pinged, and she glanced at it, making a face when she read the brief note from Greer.
She swiveled around to look at Timmy. “Prosecutor’s filed against Trevor Oakes.”
“Yeah.” Her coworker didn’t look up from the book he was reading. “So?”
She threw an eraser at him and it bounced off his head.
“What?” He leaned over and grabbed the pink eraser and tossed it back at her.
She caught it. “Did you know about it?”
“Yeah. When Jerry was with him, Trevor hauled off and decked him.”
All she did was stare at Timmy in shock. “That’s what he’s charged with? Assaulting a peace officer? Not petty theft?”
“Yep.” Jerry walked into the squad room. He’d obviously overheard. “I tried to talk Gowler out of it, but half a dozen people saw
it.”
She sighed. He was already sporting a shiner. “I should have taken him home to his mother instead of bringing him here.”
“It’s not your fault, Ali.” Jerry shrugged. “Kid just hasn’t hit bottom yet. But he will.”
“Hopefully sooner rather than later,” she muttered. There were degrees of bottom, and for everyone’s sake, she hoped Trevor’s wouldn’t be much deeper. He was still a minor, but an assault charge wasn’t one they could just sweep under the rug.
“My sister didn’t say when he was supposed to appear.” Time was rarely slow in juvenile court cases. At least not in Braden, which was her only field of experience.
“Tomorrow morning at nine,” Jerry said. He sat down at his desk, two over from Ali’s, and tossed her a pink notepad. “Got a call yesterday after you left from some lady in Montana. Number’s there.”
Excitement warred with her concern over Trevor as she looked at the handwritten phone message. Jerry was old-school. He never texted and he used email only as a very last resort. He even refused to carry his cell phone with him, because he was adamant that they caused brain cancer. Instead, the thing sat—usually with a dead battery—on his desk. “Thanks.” She swiveled around to face her own desk again and quickly picked up the phone, returning Honey Holmes’s call.
“Mrs. Holmes!” Ali sat up straighter when the woman answered on the third ring. “This is Ali Templeton from the Braden Police Department in Wyoming. You phoned me yesterday?”
Honey sounded breathless. “Sorry, Detective. I’ve been changing sheets.”
Ali didn’t bother correcting the title. “What, uh, what can I do for you?”
“Come here and change the sheets for me?” Honey laughed ruefully. “You said I should call if I remembered anything else about that poor sad Daisy.”
“Poor and sad” was an upgrade from “tramp.” “Yes, I did.” Ali automatically grabbed a sharp pencil from the cup of them she kept on her desk. “What do you have for me?”
“Well, one morning, she came down to breakfast. I serve breakfast every morning, you see. Nothing fancy, mind you. My people here are mostly hard workers who appreciate good, wholesome fare. You know. Oatmeal. And scrambled eggs. Good thick slices of toast. I make two loaves of country bread every day and—”
“That sounds really delicious, ma’am.” Ali tapped the eraser end of her yellow pencil against her desk. “If I’m ever in Montana, I’ll have to look you up. But about Dai—”
“Oh, my, yes. Well, as I said, she came down to breakfast late one morning and I was already starting to clean up.”
Ali tapped her pencil a few more times, reining in her impatience.
“She must’ve been in a mood to talk,” Honey went on, “because she started helping me clear the serving dishes. She mentioned that she used to waitress someplace in Wyoming. Magic Mike. Oh—” the woman tittered “—that’s that racy movie about those dancing men. My daughter took me to it some time ago when it was playing in the movie house, and oh, my stars and body. What a show that is! Did you happen to see it?”
“Mrs. Holmes, please. Was the place she mentioned called Magic Jax?”
“Well, yes. Yes, I believe it was!”
Ali’s shoulders sank. No new information at all. Which certainly wasn’t Honey Holmes’s fault. “Daisy was a cocktail waitress at Magic Jax over a year ago. It’s a business here in Braden.”
“Oh. You already knew that.”
“That’s okay. Remember, I said anything that you recall would be important to me. And maybe you’ll think of something else she happened to mention when she was staying there. Maybe about the baby. Or even the baby’s father.”
“Well, she just said that Grant would really hate her if he ever found out what she’d done.”
Ali stiffened. “Grant?”
“I assumed he was her baby daddy. Isn’t that the term they use nowadays? Young people having babies out of wedlock left and right. Not that it’s anything new...” Ali closed her eyes, letting the woman rattle on, figuring that sooner or later, Honey would peter out.
And when she finally did, Ali’s ear felt hot from the plastic receiver pressed against it for so long. “I really do appreciate your time, ma’am,” she assured her. “Don’t hesitate to call again.”
“Well, I sure won’t,” Honey answered. “If you ever find that rapscallion Grant person, you tell him he needs to pay the week’s rent that she still owes. You take care now, Detective.”
Ali pinched the bridge of her nose. “You, too, Mrs. Holmes.” Grateful that was over, she dropped the receiver onto the cradle and proceeded to drop her head onto her desk.
“What the devil’s wrong with you?” Gowler stopped next to her desk, and she lifted her head in time to see him dump another pile of handwritten reports into her in-basket.
She sighed faintly and reached for the top one.
“Traffic first,” he barked.
Her fingers curled.
In a contest between the dreaded typewriter and reading parking meters, she wasn’t sure which was worse.
She waited until he returned to his office and slammed the door behind him.
Maybe Sgt. Gowler needed a woman in his life even more than his son did.
She swiveled around to look at Timmy again. As usual, he was still nose-deep into his book. “Timmy, honest to God, you read more than anyone I know.” Except maybe Grant. He had boxes of books getting delivered right to his front door. Although she hadn’t seen any evidence that he was actually reading in between installing kitchen cabinets, painting walls and loving her into a near coma.
Timmy’s face was its usual shade of scarlet. But he held up the book so she could see the dark red cover. “Cal Reid,” he said. “He’s a great character. Right up there with Marlowe and Bosch and Rapp and—”
She lifted her hand. “The last book I read was a do-it-yourself on drywalling. I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” She got up, knowing that she was moving stiffly but not able to do a darn thing about it. Lifting weights and doing chin-ups in her basement was one thing.
Nonstop hotter-than-Hades sex with Grant was on a different scale altogether.
She grabbed her coat and gloves, made sure her radio had fresh batteries and headed out to do traffic.
She supposed it could be worse.
It could be snowing.
She was still consoling herself with that fact two hours later as she trudged along the slushy streets, willfully ignoring most of the expired meters. When she spotted an ostentatious car parked crookedly at the curb in front of Sally’s Treasures, though, she groaned. One of the wheels had jumped the curb and the corner bumper was kissing the meter post.
“Oh, Vivian,” she muttered. Because, unless someone else in the area had taken to driving around a Rolls-Royce Phantom—which she highly doubted—the terrible parking job was owed to none other than her indomitable grandmother.
She checked out the meter post and decided it had survived the impact better than the bumper, which wasn’t quite crumpled, but definitely bore a new scratch, and then headed toward the antique shop.
To this day, Ali wasn’t sure how Sally stayed in business. As far as she’d ever been able to tell, the antiques that were crowded nose-to-toe inside the overly warm shop never seemed to change. But year-in and year-out, the shop remained, with Sally Enders sitting at the ancient cash register, usually hunched over while she carefully cleaned some ugly piece of jewelry she’d triumphantly found at an estate sale.
“Hi, Sally,” she greeted when she went inside, quickly unfastening her coat. “My grandmother here?”
Sally barely looked up. She had a loupe clipped to her eyeglasses. “In the back.”
“Thanks.” She went straight to the rear of the store and pushed through the door that sported a Keep Out sign square in the middle of it.
And there was Vivian, poking her way around a jumble of chairs that were only fit for a bonfire. “Looking for more furniture for the palace?”
Vivian jumped a little. She pressed her lined hand against the front of her pink Chanel suit. “Lord, Ali. If this thing squatting in my head doesn’t kill me, a heart attack will.”
“Sorry.” Ali kissed her cheek. “What are you doing?”
Evidently mollified, her grandmother quickly went back to her poking. “I need chairs,” she said. “Lots and lots of chairs.”
“For—”
“The Valentine’s ball.”
“The gym has chairs. Well,” she amended, “benches, I guess.”
Vivian gave a derisive snort and kept poking.
“It didn’t look like you put any change in the parking meter outside.”
“Parking shmarking.”
Ali had to bite her lip. “You also came pretty close to the meter when you parked.” There’d been a time shortly after Vivian moved to Wyoming when she’d paid a teenager to drive for her. Not a single member of her family didn’t still wish that someone else was behind the wheel of the Rolls whenever Vivian wanted to go for a spin.
Her grandmother shrugged. “It’s still standing, isn’t it?” She’d managed to free one of the chairs from the tangle. “What do you think?”
At a loss, Ali looked at the chair. “I think whatever rear end sits on it is going to be touching the ground.”
Vivian laughed. “You need to look beyond the obvious, darling.”
“Vivian, you’re talking over my head. The chair has two arms, four legs and part of a back. No spot to sit in. So to me, it’s not much of a chair.”
“It will be.” Looking eminently satisfied, she gestured at the rest of the jumble. “When I’m finished, they all will be. And it will be simply grand.”
“What will be grand?”
“The Valentine’s ball, of course. Do try and keep up, dear.” Vivian picked up her handbag from where she’d left it on a dusty bureau and tucked it in the crook of her elbow. She led the way back out to the shop, giving Ali a look. “Are you saddle sore or something?”
Show Me a Hero Page 13
