by Maggie Wells
The conversation was flowing by the time they wandered into the kitchen. As if he hadn’t snatched her family home out from under her. Never mind the bit about saving her from certain financial ruin. If she tried hard enough, she might be able to put their abortive attempts at sex behind her, but given the infamous delicacy of the male ego, could he?
She stood back and watched as he jammed overpriced pods into the single-serve coffee maker and shoved a crimson-and-white Cade Construction coffee mug under the spigot. Then a horrifying thought struck her.
“You’re not a ’Bama fan, are you?”
“I’m gonne take the fifth.”
“You are.” Eyes wide, she clutched at an imaginary strand of pearls at her throat. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus in the manger, I slept with a Gump?”
“We have fake sugar and fake milk,” he said, gesturing to the powdered creamer and sweetener containers on the counter.
She didn’t bother concealing her shudder. “Black is fine.”
Harley smirked as he removed the mug, handed warmed ceramic to her, and started the process all over again. “It’s not like I went to school there or anything.”
“First Brooke, then me.” She took a cautious sip of the hazelnut coffee. “This is not what’s supposed to happen to Auburn girls who’ve been brought up right. You boys are practically Yankees.”
He chuckled as he watched the coffee stream into a second mug. “Well, at least I’m not a probably-Jewish ar-tee-san. Think that'll be enough to keep the ancestors snug in their graves?”
A heavy silence descended on them the moment he said the word ‘graves.’ He opened his mouth then snapped his jaw shut again. His gaze remained glued to the gurgling machine.
She saw her chance to bridge one of the many gaps between them and offered up a little something about the kitchen itself to get the tour back on track.
“My mama didn’t cook, you know.”
To her relief, the man recognized an olive branch when one was waved in front of his face. He glanced over at her as he claimed his own mug. “No? Not at all?”
“Not really. We always had Miss Anita.”
He blew across the brew to chase the steam away. “Seems odd for a Creole girl.”
“A Creole lady,” she corrected. “Her family had money.”
“So I assume you don’t cook, either.” He raised his eyebrows, making the statement a question.
Pleased he’d leaped to the wrong conclusion, as expected, she smiled sweetly at him, then trailed her fingers over the worn countertop. “If you assumed so, you’d be making an ass of yourself, Harley Cade.”
“You do cook?”
“I cook very well. Southern and Creole. I even added a little Latin flavor to the repertoire when I lived up north. One of my roommates was from El Salvador.”
He stared at her as if she’d threatened to drop an anvil on his head. “How come you never offer to cook for me?” he asked at last.
She grinned. “Why should I when you keep bringing food to me?” She turned in a slow circle. “Tell me what you plan to do in here.”
To her delight, she seemed to have stunned the man into silence. He simply stared at her for a few heart-hammering seconds, then narrowed his eyes to a squint. “How did you learn to cook?”
Shrugging, she opened one of the cabinet doors. Instead of being full to the brim with spices and seasonings, the shelves were empty. “I was an only child who was permanently banned from riding her bike in the foyer. I had to find something to do on rainy days, so I mainly followed Miss Anita around in here.”
“I guess you won’t be surprised to hear my mom cooked every night,” he said with a deceptively bland smile.
“Lucky you. Your mom is an awesome cook. I don’t think I realized until I went off to college and learned what other cafeteria food tasted like.”
“I didn’t know what a McDonald’s hamburger tasted like until I was nine. Some kid in my class had a birthday party there. I thought it was the coolest place on earth.”
“Didn’t get out much?”
“At all. I don’t think my mom and I ever ate out at a restaurant until I started mowing lawns for extra money.” He frowned then turned to look out the window over the sink. “I used to resent her. Thought she was being cheap. I didn’t realize she spent every dime she made keeping a decent roof over our heads, food on the table, and me in clothes.” He sighed and gazed out at the lawn. “Mr. Downey paid me twenty bucks to mow his.” He nodded in the general direction of the estate two houses down. “With a rotary mower, because he didn’t like the way push or riding mowers butchered the blades of grass.”
Laney’s mind raced as she envisioned young Harley busting his ass to keep the Downey place up to the old man’s standard of snuff. She cringed as she did the comparison to Tarrington House and realized the Downey’s had to have nearly three acres of meticulously landscaped land.
“Oh, Harley.”
He forged ahead, either oblivious to her sympathy or rejecting it outright. “I took her to The Pit because I always heard people talking about going there.” His lips twisted into a wry approximation of a smile. “I was quite the big shot, ordering us both the rib combo basket because I had money burning a hole in my pocket. If I had half a brain, I would have bought myself a pair of jeans, or saved up enough to get her a new jacket for winter. I don’t remember her ever getting a new jacket.” He murmured the last into his coffee mug as he took a contemplative sip.
Needing to be closer to him, to touch him, she set her coffee aside and rubbed a hand down his arm. “I bet she loved the combo. Loved you for wanting to take her out for a treat.”
He spared her a sidelong glance. “I didn't do it for her. I did it for me.”
“I bet she didn’t see things that way.” Pressing her cheek to his bicep, she sighed. “Your mama seems to think the sun rises when you do, and sets when you tell it to.”
Harley turned back to the window, but he didn’t move away. “I keep saying I bought this place for you,” he began in a low, gruff voice. “For us... But mainly it was for me. I’ve always dreamed of living in a house like this. Not some sparkling new McMansion, but a place with a history.” He drew a ragged breath but didn’t look at her. “I’d do anything to help you, Delaney. You have to know by now.”
“I do.”
He nodded. “But I have to admit I bought the house for me, too. This is what I have always wanted. A home for a family. One with roots. When I saw Tarrington House was for sale, I jumped.”
At last, he plunked his coffee down on the counter and spun toward her. His hands landed heavy on her arms. His fingers dug into the muscle, demanding she meet his gaze. But she was already right there with him.
“I was thinking if I had you and the house, I’d have it all. The home, our family, your roots.” He shrugged as if his life’s dream was nothing important. “And we could. I think we can have something good here. Together.”
He added the last bit as if he’d left some sliver of doubt about where he was heading. Amused and amazed by his boldness, she said nothing at first. Only gave his arm a gentle squeeze as they stared out at the dew-drenched yard.
Finally, the gravity of his confession and her silence closed in around them. Laney drew a deep breath, wishing some of his boldness had somehow rubbed off on her in all those times they’d rubbed against each other. But it hadn’t. So she’d do what she’d been doing her whole life—plunge ahead without a clue about what she’d do next if she failed. After all, not knowing what was around the corner hadn’t killed her thus far.
Sliding her hand down his arm, she laced her fingers through his and held on tight. “Come on, big guy.”
He glanced down at their joined hands as she tugged him away from the counter. “Where are we going?”
“Next stop on the nickel tour,” she answered.
He gave her a wary stare. “Where are you taking me? The cellar?”
; “We save that for the last stop. Wouldn’t want to scare the tourists away, would we?” When he continued to hesitate, she tugged again. “Come on. Don’t be a scaredy-cat. It’s not the cellar, and I promise you’ll get your money’s worth out of this one.”
Chapter 13
Laney was holding tight to Harley’s hand when they reached the top of the staircase. She should have figured out she didn’t have to. He’d follow her anywhere, anytime, but Harley chose not to clue her in. He liked the way their hands fit. Hers were softer, of course, more delicate. But her fingers were long and tapered. Sometimes when they were making love, he’d look down, see them spread across his chest, and it was all he could do to keep from super-gluing them in place. Lame, yeah, but it beat the hell out of opting to use cement, staples, or ten-penny nails. For both of them.
The upstairs gallery was broad and long. If they could come up with oil paintings of fifteen generations of Tarringtons, they might be able to rent the place out as a set for one of those British mini-series his mama was always watching on public television. They’d have to throw some of those fancy Persian rugs over the scarred oak floors until he could take a belt sander to them, but if the camera guy was good enough.... Harley gave his head a brisk shake to dislodge the crazy thoughts. Apparently six months in Hollyweird were enough to warp a guy for life. He’d have to ask Dalton if there was some kind of rehab available.
“I used to roller skate up here,” Laney announced, an impish smile lighting her eyes. “Drove my mama crazy.”
“I bet it did.” He blinked, then scowled at the floors. Surely a few laps made by one girl wouldn’t account for this much wear and tear.
Nodding, she set off down the hall. “I found this ancient pair of skates in the attic. They were all metal and you strapped them on right over your shoes.” She turned to walk backwards, grinning up at him. “The wheels were metal too, so, of course, they were strictly forbidden.”
She spoke the last two words with the kind of stern deliberation that reminded him of Brett Tarrington. Snobby stiff that he was, the man did indeed have something to do with creating the wonderful creature clinging to his hand.
“So I waited until they went out for the night and I skated and skated.”
Laney practically crooned the words as she gave their hands a playful swing. “Wasn’t there someone staying with you?”
“Oh, Miss Anita lived in the carriage house.”
As if her airy dismissal explained everything. His displeasure deepened. “How old were you?”
She shrugged and pulled him past the double doors of the master suite. “I don’t know. Nine? Ten? Maybe a little older.”
“Did they know you were alone in the house at night?”
He finally got her attention. Whether it was the question or his brusque tone, he didn’t know, nor did he care. At the moment the only thing he wanted to do was drive out to that stupid cabin, yank her daddy out of his stupor, and beat the living daylights out of him for leaving a little girl alone with the hired help while he and his wife were out partying with their equally useless society buddies.
She wanted to say something sharp. He could tell by the glint in her eye and the tilt of her chin, but for some reason he wasn’t privy to, she held back. Pressing her lips together, she forced a tight smile. “I was fine, Harley.”
“You were lucky. They were lucky.” He tugged her closer, then curled their clasped hands into his chest, pressing the back of hers to his strumming heart. “When I think of the stuff you see on the news—”
“Stuff like that didn’t happen around here,” she argued.
“Bullshit. Stuff happens everywhere.” He cupped her face with his free hand, his thumb stroking the high sweep of her cheekbone. “How careless we’ve been with you,” he murmured to himself. “All of us. Your parents. Me.” His breath came rough and ragged. “We could have lost you.”
She leaned into his palm and closed her eyes. “You didn’t.”
“I’ve come damn close,” he said with a pointed stare.
“Yeah, well, you never were the most cautious guy.”
Her tone was teasing, but her words were a harsh reminder of how close he’d come. He remembered the blunt reprimands Brooke and Brian doled out the night of the crawfish boil and the tips of his ears started to burn. They were right, of course. And yet, he’d manipulated her. Kept secrets from her. Out and out lied to her.
The truth was, he was no better now than he’d ever been, and he sure as shit didn’t deserve her. But if the look in her eyes was anything to go by, he had her. He swore off the game they’d played there and then. He had too much riding on this, on them, to play fast and loose with her feelings ever again.
“Come on.” In a flash, she’d set off again, pulling him along in her wake.
He knew exactly where she was headed but kept his mouth shut. This was her tour, and he was along for the ride. And he was getting a hell of a lot more out of walking this house with Laney than some inside information on the ruined hardwoods in the upstairs gallery. Her step determined, she led him down to the bedroom at the very end of the hall. The minute he’d first laid eyes on the room, he’d known it was hers. The pink walls and deeper, pinker carpeting were admittedly obvious hints, but the eight inch raised platform centered against the wall and carpeted in the same pink proclaimed this to be a room fit for a princess.
Delaney faced him as she lured him into what was once her teenage sanctuary. At last, she released his hand and backed up a step, shooting him a coy smile as she fluttered her lashes. “I’ve never had a boy in my room.”
Oh, she was tempting, and the good Lord knew he wanted to play this game more than he wanted anything. Almost anything. Recalling the vow he’d made moments ago, he closed the distance she’d created between them in one stride. “I’m no boy.” Cupping her chin, he tipped her face up until she met his eyes. “Do you love me, Delaney?”
All fluttering stopped and the woman went completely still. “Do I... What?”
“Real simple question, with a real simple answer. Yes or no. Do you love me?”
She bit her lip and he widened his stance ever so slightly, bracing himself for the blow he was sure was about to come. She opened her mouth and shut it again. Three endless seconds ticked past. Finally, she closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and said, “Yes, but I—”
He stopped her with a hard, fast, fairly exuberant kiss. He’d gotten a yes out of her, and one yes was all he needed. For now. Keeping the victory in mind, he kissed her again, taking the time to savor the sensation of being loved by Delaney Tarrington.
“The yes is all I need,” he rasped when they parted. “We’ll figure the rest out.”
Her smile was shaky, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a little shy, but she looked him in the eye as she nodded her assent. “We’ll figure the rest out.”
Burying his hand in her hair, he held the back of her head and kissed her again. This time deeper, slower, and maybe a bit sloppier, but she didn’t seem to be inclined to mark points off for technique. As a matter of fact, she seemed to be inclined to make him get even sloppier. He sucked in a breath as she bunched his shirt under his arms and tugged at the buckle on his belt half-open.
“Laney...sugar,” he panted between increasingly decadent kisses.
She pushed off him as if he was packing some pretty powerful gravity. Their lips hung on for one precious second longer, then she managed enough of a break to whisk his shirt up over his head. She was back. Her braless breasts smashed against his chest, only the fabric of her shirt separating them. He’d stripped her out of the same shirt and her missing bra hours earlier, but with less-than-stellar results. As bad as he wanted her, and he wanted her pretty damn bad, he didn’t want to fuck up, uh, fucking her again. But those talented fingers had not only worked his belt free, but also opened the button and fly. She swept her hot, sweet tongue into his mouth as she plunged her hand into his briefs.
Three little strokes and he was so close to coming he might be able to pass for fifteen again. Grabbing her wrist to still her hand, he broke the kiss and gasped for air. “Oh, Christ, Delaney.” He tried to extricate himself from her grasp, but they both knew the attempt barely registered as half-hearted. “The crew’s gonna start showing up any time now.”
“Then we’d better hurry, cher.”
Relinquishing her hold on his dick, she fisted the waistband of his boxer briefs and began pulling him toward the platform carpeted in pink plush pile where her bed once stood. The second her heels touched the edge, she collapsed onto the dais with a grace bred in her Southern belle bones. How the hell was he supposed to resist following her down? Particularly when she pulled her shirt over her head with a flourish.
Dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, the curling ends skimming the tips of her nipples. She looked like a painting in a museum. Except those women weren’t usually wearing skin-tight blue jeans or lounging on wall-to-wall so virulent he swore off ever painting their little girl’s room pink. But thoughts of portraits and imaginary children were lost when she shook her hair back, leaving herself completely exposed.
Displayed for his pleasure.
The thought drifted in and out of his mind, leaving a niggling sensation he was forgetting something. But it was hard to think straight when Laney was looking up at him, challenge and invitation shining bright in her eyes. Her skin was creamy white in the light of the breaking dawn, but if he looked close enough he could see smatterings of freckles across her chest and shoulders. They were the mark of a woman who’d had plenty of fun in the sun, but had long since learned her lesson. He wanted to kiss every one of them. And he would, but not right then.
By the time he was so resolved, Laney had peeled her jeans down to her calves. She looked up at him from behind a veil of tousled hair and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You expecting those jeans to shuck themselves?”
