[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set

by Jenna Bennett

  “Parked a coupla houses down, most likely. He had time to get there after he fired. If he moved fast. Someone mighta seen him. Or the car.”

  “We’ll check it out,” Spicer said again. “And I’ll give the detective a call, too.” ‘The detective’ is what he calls Tamara Grimaldi. As if she were the only detective at the Metro Nashville PD. “Anything else?”

  Rafe and I looked at one another again. “I can’t think of anything,” I said. He shook his head. I turned back to Spicer. “Thanks for coming out.”

  Spicer nodded. “Always a pleasure seein’ you, Miz Martin. Mr. Collier.” He winked at me. “Nice dress.”

  “I had dinner with D.A. Satterfield earlier tonight.”

  “Right.” Spicer glanced up at Rafe on his way past, perhaps wondering what I was doing here, after having dinner with Todd Satterfield. Or maybe not wondering. Then he looked at the broken window. “You better put something over that. And clean up the glass.”

  “Soon as you’re gone.”

  Spicer grinned. “We’ll be back in the morning to dig out the bullet.” He gestured to Truman. “C’mon, kid. Time to go. These folks wanna be alone.”

  Truman grinned too, but moved through the door without comment, other than a polite nod. “Ma’am.”

  “Nice to see you,” I managed.

  I stood at the window and watched them drive away while Rafe went into the kitchen. He came back with a piece of cardboard and a roll of duct tape. And then he proceeded to tape the cardboard to the window, ripping off pieces of tape with his teeth. The window had broken in a sunburst pattern, with a tiny hole in the middle and a bunch of cracks radiating out from it. Some of the shards had broken off, but all in all, the hole was actually quite small, considering how big a bang there had been. I wondered where the bullet had ended up.

  “Wall over there,” Rafe said when I asked. He nodded toward the back of the hall, past the place where we’d been standing earlier. “By the kitchen door. Didn’t miss by much.”

  When I moved away from him to take a look, he raised his voice. “Leave it. They’ll get it tomorrow.”

  I nodded.

  “There’s a broom and dustpan in the pantry in the kitchen, if you wanna make yourself useful. Get some of this glass up.”

  “Of course.” I moved down the hall toward the kitchen, glancing at the neat bullet hole on my way past, and marveling at the incongruity of my life. Here I was, wearing the satin dress and silver sandals I’d bought for Todd Satterfield, on my way to fetch a broom and dustpan to sweep up broken glass in Rafe Collier’s hallway, after almost getting shot and almost having sex. Talk about situations I hadn’t expected to be in when I woke up this morning.

  After the window was taped and the glass removed to the trash can in the kitchen, Rafe looked at me. Up and down. Rumpled dress, tangled hair, smeared make-up. He seemed amused. “When I said there’d be fireworks, this wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Me either.” I smiled weakly.

  “Guess the moment’s pretty well shot to hell.”

  He was watching me. Trying to gauge whether I still wanted him, I suppose, or whether I was off the whole idea now.

  “I guess so.”

  Maybe he was the one who was off the idea. I wouldn’t blame him, if so. Someone had just tried to kill him, and that had to be upsetting. No matter how used to it he was.

  He folded his arms. “It’s a long drive back to Sweetwater.”

  I nodded. “That policewoman is still in my apartment. At least I think so; I haven’t heard that she isn’t.”

  “You’re welcome to spend the night here. There’s plenty of room. Marquita won’t be back, and my grandma’s gone for a while, too.”

  Obviously he remembered what I’d told him yesterday morning, that I was in his bed only because Mrs. Jenkins had been sleeping in her own bed, and I hadn’t wanted to spend the night in Marquita’s because there was a chance she might come back. But now there were two empty beds to choose from, and no need for me to share his. I managed to suppress a grimace. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  He nodded. “Got a preference?”

  “Oh. Um...” He was looking at me. Pretty intently, really. “I guess... I would kind of prefer... yours?”

  Right answer.

  He smiled. “Plenty of room in my bed too.”

  “Great.” I smiled back, relieved.

  “Need anything from down here?” He looked around.

  I shook my head. Everything I needed would be upstairs with me.

  “C’mon, then.” He put a hand at the small of my back, warm and hard through the satin. I started up the stairs.

  His room looked just as it had when I left it almost two days ago. The blinds were still down over the windows, and the bed was still rumpled. It still smelled like him. I drew in a deep breath before I turned. “We don’t have to do this. Someone just tried to shoot you, and if you’re not in the mood—”

  He didn’t answer, just grabbed me, yanked me up against him, and proceeded to pick up where we’d been earlier. Before the fireworks.

  Less than a minute later, my back hit the bed. Rafe did not follow me down, though. Instead he stood in front of me, grabbed the bottom of the blue T-shirt and pulled it up and over his head.

  I’ve never been into male strippers. Frankly, that much nudity is embarrassing. Bradley preferred the lights off when we had sex, and I didn’t mind, since I don’t precisely look like a swimsuit model. And it wasn’t like Rafe was stripping in the entertainment sense of the word. He was just getting undressed. But I won’t say that the sight of him peeling that tight T-shirt over his head, of muscles flexing and tightening, didn’t have my stomach tightening, as well.

  Then he pushed jeans and whatever underwear he had on down together, and I choked.

  He looked at me. Looked down, and interpreted—correctly—the reason for my sudden panic. “It’ll fit.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?” I scooted backwards, closer to the headboard. “It’s been a while, and...”

  The corners of his mouth turned up. “I’ll make it fit.”

  I swallowed another hitch of breath. “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “This was your idea, darlin’. If you’re not ready, I can wait.”

  “It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m just… nervous. It’s been a while. I guess I’m out of practice.” I smiled weakly.

  He smiled back, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, and that’s another thing. You’ve had all this experience, while I…”

  “Haven’t?”

  I shrugged. Bradley. That was it. But I didn’t want to tell him that. If he knew, he might change his mind.

  “You afraid I’m gonna be disappointed, darlin’?”

  I avoided his eyes. “I guess.”

  “No need. You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried.”

  “That’s not what Bradley said.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I ain’t Bradley.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said.

  How could I not? Bradley had been pale-skinned and fair-haired, businesslike, competent, and perfectly proper. Sex with him had been by the book: proficient and thorough, but hardly earth-shattering. Whereas Rafe was heat and passion, all warm golden skin and hot dark eyes and bone-melting kisses.

  My eyes glazed, and he chuckled. “You’re gonna enjoy this, darlin’. I promise. And by the time we’re finished, it’ll be like Bradley never existed.”

  “Must be nice to be that confident.”

  He grinned. “Think I can’t do it?”

  “I’m sure you can do anything you put your mind to,” I said demurely. And added, “Unless we get interrupted again. The phone could ring, or someone else could take a shot at you.”

  He shook his head. “Not this time. The only fireworks are the ones we’re gonna make ourselves. And the dress comes off. Now.”

  He reached out. Slipped both hands around m
y neck and unfastened the straps. And pulled the dress down to my waist.

  It was mostly just sensations and impressions after that. His hands, his mouth, his body moving against mine. Hot skin and hard muscles, soft touches turning impatient and then urgent.

  It was different than it had been with Bradley. He was different. He knew just what to do, where to touch, the right words to whisper in my ear; hot, dark words that made my insides melt and my skin tingle and my mind go blank, words that made me forget everything but the longing, the desire, the absolute need to have him inside me.

  And then he was there, and he did fit, if just barely, and that was all it took for the explosions, and the fireworks, and the colored confetti to rain down... and I clutched at him while I shuddered and laughed and tried to catch my breath.

  I would have forgiven him for thinking I had lost my mind, but he didn’t seem to find anything strange in my reaction. He smiled, pleasure mixing with the desire in his eyes. “Darlin’, you’re easy.”

  I stretched against him, enjoying the feel of his hard muscles sliding against my body, and the heavy bulk of him, still inside me. “Bradley didn’t think so.” In fact, this had rarely happened with Bradley.

  “Fuck Bradley,” Rafe said.

  “No thanks.” I sucked my breath in when he moved. “I’d rather...”

  I couldn’t get my tongue to wrap around the words, but he knew. His lips curved. “I’m good for a few more times tonight.”

  “Really?”

  Another thrust, another gasp from me. “And a few in the morning.”

  “Really?”

  He smiled. “I told you I’d make you forget Bradley.”

  “Bradley who?” I managed, and made him laugh.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I woke up with a sense of déjà vu. Same warm bed, same sun slanting through the blinds, same smell, same warm presence behind me. Same muscular arm, this time wrapped around me possessively. And for a second, I thought I’d dreamed it all.

  As soon as I tried to move, I knew I hadn’t. I was sore in places I didn’t know existed. And the places that weren’t sore were so lax I had a hard time turning over.

  Rafe, who had worked even harder than me last night, still had his eyes closed, and his breathing was slow and even. I settled back down, in the curve of his arm, and looked at him.

  The dark hair falling over his forehead made him look younger, and there was a softness to his face in sleep that I hadn’t seen since we were both in high school, before life and prison took its toll on him. He had a scar on his temple that I hadn’t noticed before; it was old and faded, but from up close, I could see that it was jagged, not clean. From a broken bottle, maybe, rather than a slice from a knife. Maybe from that bar fight when he was eighteen, the one that had sent him to prison for two years. Although I had heard a list of his injuries from that fight, and this cut hadn’t been among them, so maybe it had come later.

  There were other scars in other places. One I’d recognized, many I hadn’t. The one I did know about, the most recent, had come from a bullet from Perry Fortunato’s gun, which had grazed his side just under two months ago. The scar was still pink, not yet faded to white. I’d kissed it at some point during the night, sometime in the middle of one of the three—or was it four?—times we’d made love.

  And that wasn’t all I’d kissed.

  Lord, what had I done?

  Last night, all I’d been able to think about was getting here. Getting away from Todd and Sweetwater, getting to Nashville, to Rafe. Finishing what we’d started two days ago, because I hadn’t been able to think about anything else since. Hoping that if we just finished it, if I experienced being with him, I’d be able to move on, put it aside. Get past it. Past him.

  So much for that idea. After making love four times last night, all I wanted was to do it again. I choked back a sound that was just as much a sob as a laugh. “I am so screwed!”

  Rafe didn’t open his eyes, but his lips curved appreciatively. I punched him in the shoulder. If he was awake, I might as well. I wanted to hit someone, and he was available. And it wasn’t like I could hurt him, was it? Punching his shoulder was like punching the wall. “Not like that, you idiot. What’s my mother going to say when she finds out about this?”

  He opened his eyes. They were still sleepy, with heavy lids. “You planning to tell her, darlin’?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Then how’s she gonna know?” He let go of me to flop back on the bed, one arm thrown across his face in protection against the sharp morning sun, and that viper tattoo staring at me through slitted eyes and sticking out its little forked tongue.

  “I figured anyone who looked at me would know.” And not just because of the marks his hands and mouth had made on me, but because I probably glowed. Or something.

  Rafe opened his eyes again, and inspected me with interest. “You do have the look of someone who’s been...” he paused, “well-loved.”

  I felt myself blushing. “Gee. Such a way with words.”

  “I thought you’d prefer it to ‘fucked blind.’” He lifted both arms over his head and stretched.

  “I do. Thanks.” It was getting increasingly difficult to keep my mind on the conversation as muscles rippled and the sheet fell away from more and more of his body.

  “My pleasure.” He grinned, trailing a teasing fingertip down my cheek, then down my throat, and then further down. Curling around the top of the blanket. “So, seeing as you’re a fallen woman anyway...”

  “Mmm?”

  “I’m all rested up. I promised you I’d be ready to go again this morning.” He tugged on the blanket. As it fell away and he moved closer, all I could think was, Thank God!

  * * *

  Eventually, though, we had to get out of bed and face reality.

  I put it off as long as I could, long enough to have sex—all right, make love—twice more. But eventually, it was necessary to get up. Specifically, when a knock on the door downstairs heralded the arrival of Spicer and Truman, come to dig that bullet out of the wall.

  Rafe shrugged on his jeans and a fresh T-shirt from the drawer. I waited until he’d left the room to scurry out of bed and into the bathroom for a three minute shower. If I didn’t leave bed now, I’d be there all day, and that’d be bad. Good, but bad. After wrapping a towel around myself, I ran back into the bedroom and contemplated my options. I could put the dress from yesterday back on, with yesterday’s strappy sandals, but it was rather worse for wear. That kind of dress isn’t supposed to be bunched in someone’s hands and tugged and tossed on the floor in a heap. It was wrinkled and looked horrible, and as I thought about walking past Spicer and Truman in it—Spicer and Truman, who had seen me in it last night—I couldn’t do it. All right, so they had to know I was still here—my car was still parked out front—but I didn’t want to go downstairs wearing the same thing I’d worn last night.

  Mrs. Jenkins was barely five feet tall, and she wore nothing but ugly house-dresses, which would hit me at mid-thigh. And Marquita was twice my weight, aside from the fact that borrowing her clothes gave me a bad taste in my mouth. That left Rafe’s clothes. I had pulled my panties back on—wincing while I did it, because putting on dirty underwear is just nasty—along with a plain, white T-shirt from his bureau, by the time he came back into the room.

  He grinned when he saw me. “Looks good on you.”

  “Surely not.” The T-shirt was several sizes too big, and hung like a sack. Down past my derriere, but not so far past that I could wear it as a dress. I needed something else. And a pair of Rafe’s jeans would not only be too big around, but eight inches too long.

  “You wearing anything under that?” He reached out. I stepped back. If I let him, he’d talk me right back into bed, and then where would I be?

  “Underwear. But I need a pair of pants. Or a skirt or something.”

  “I’ll see what Marquita’s got.” He turned, but not before I’d seen the shutte
rs slam down in his eyes, leaving them opaque. I bit my lip as I watched him walk out of the room, wanting nothing more than to call him back and let him tumble me onto the bed, but if I did, I knew I’d never get out of here again.

  He was back in a minute, carrying a pair of drawstring pants—pink with little hearts on them, the bottom half of a pair of scrubs—that looked like they’d fit an elephant. By the time I’d tucked in the T-shirt and cinched the waist, they worked, though. Well enough to get me home and into more appropriate clothes of my own.

  I looked up and met his eyes. He’d been watching me the whole time I fiddled with the pants, perhaps waiting for me to speak. To say something. Anything. About last night, about what would happen now. But I didn’t know what to say. So I plastered a bright, polite, social smile on my face, just like Mother taught me. (Although I don’t think she ever considered I would need it in a situation like this.)

  “I really need to go.”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “Thank you for...” ...the clothes, for giving me a place to stay, for not kicking me out, for last night... “—everything.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He had his hands in his pockets. I would have liked to think it was because he wanted to keep himself from grabbing me and throwing me down on the bed, but it probably wasn’t. He must be used to this, this awkward morning after, of women saying goodbye. Most of them probably wanted to stay. Most of the women he slept with, at least the ones I’d met, seemed only too eager to have at him again. And God—I cringed inside when I realized that I was now in the same category as Elspeth Caulfield and Yvonne McCoy; running after him, practically begging for more of his attention.

  I wouldn’t do that. Not in a million years. And this morning, it felt like it would take at least that long for me to get over what had happened between us. Suddenly Elspeth’s carrying a torch for him for twelve years didn’t seem absurd at all.

  And because thinking about it, about what he’d done to me, what he’d made me feel, made my heart speed up and my breath stutter, I gestured to the door. “I should...”