by Susan Crosby
James wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He and Caryn would have the house to themselves. He didn’t offer even token resistance to the plan. He did note, however, that Caryn got awfully busy with clearing the table, never once making eye contact.
Twenty minutes later they were alone in the house.
“They hadn’t planned to stay with Sam and Dana,” Caryn said, as they stood in the foyer after saying goodbye. “Lyndsey saw us kissing, and decided after Kevin wasn’t coming back to give us time alone.”
“You think?” He figured as much, too. If he were the one in charge of pay raises, he would be lining Lyndsey up for one right now.
Caryn just stared at him.
He set his hands on her shoulders. “It doesn’t mean anything has to happen, Mysterious. When you think about it, we hardly know each other.” Yet he felt as though he’d known her for years. Go figure. Now that he stopped to consider it, it probably wasn’t such a good idea, after all. “And tonight, of all nights,” he added. “Maybe the timing’s all wrong.”
“We’ll see how the evening goes,” she said.
“Right.”
The evening dragged. They finally had everything sorted. There wasn’t a place to step that didn’t have a piece of paper on it. It was time to start dumping. Box upon box was filled with never-to-be-needed-again bills and receipts. Warranties for long-ago-tossed appliances and tools were also dumped. A maybe box was started. A couple of keep boxes, too. At almost midnight Caryn pushed her hands against her lower back and straightened.
“No more,” she said.
He nodded. “This is good. There’s enough done that Kevin won’t wonder how we spent the evening, and enough left for him to help finish up tomorrow.”
“We’re good.”
He grinned.
“James, if Lyndsey is right, and Paul didn’t owe that much money, what’s the next step?”
“Find out who bilked you.”
“You can do that?”
“Hope so.”
“Do you think it’s the same people who were watching you—or me—or whoever it was they were really watching?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re full of certainty, aren’t you?”
“My job is to be right. Being right entails being cautious, so that the wrong people don’t get tagged while the right ones get off.”
She rubbed her temples. “You’re right, of course. I just want it over and done.”
He moved close to her and put his arms around her, drawing her near. He pushed the heels of his hands into her lower back. She groaned.
“This is harder than waitressing,” she said.
“You’re just used to your job. You’ve used different muscles today.” He felt her relax against him, and he widened the area he rubbed, from her shoulders down to her tailbone. “I’ve got a spa tub.”
“You do?”
“You’re welcome to use it.”
She said nothing.
“Alone,” he added, in case that was worrying her. He figured she’d been direct about everything else. She’d be direct about this, too.
“What about after that?”
Her words were muffled by his chest, but he heard them. “Up to you, Caryn.”
“You’re not going to just take charge and let me off the hook?”
He wanted to. He’d rather they just be swept away, unable to stop themselves. But they were mature, responsible adults, capable of making rational decisions about sex. Ten years ago, hell, five years ago, he might have done as she said. But there was too much riding on this relationship not to think it through. They had a lifetime of contact ahead. As she said once, they would even be grandparents together.
Which was also why they needed to sleep together and get it over with now, before they made too much of it, before they made it too important. Do it now. End the curiosity. Become friends instead of lovers. Easy.
“I think I’ll take you up on your offer,” she said.
Which one?
“Any tricks to using the tub?” she asked.
“Fill the tub to a couple inches above the jets, then push the big chrome button. It’ll stay on for ten minutes at a time.”
She stepped away from him. “Where will you be?”
“Down here until I hear you head to your room.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She patted his cheek and left.
Bemused, he watched her go. Everyone had set them up for a night of unbridled, uninhibited, uninterrupted sex.
And she was going to sleep.
The phone rang. It was the police, and, for once, it was good news.
Fourteen
Caryn couldn’t understand how she could come out of a long, relaxing soak amid a profusion of soothing, bubbling jets and be more tense than when she stepped in. She should have been as loose as overcooked spaghetti, and sleepwalking to her guest room by now. Instead she was wound up, fired up and heated up—for James.
If she’d brought a beautiful nightgown with her, it would be an easier decision. She wanted to look incredible for him. She wanted her armor—her perfume and lotions that sat on her dresser at home. She wanted the pink lightbulb she had in her little lamp on her bedside table. She was forty-one years old. She’d slept with one man her entire life, and he’d been dead a year. And she was lonely and…horny. She smiled at the word, which seemed better suited for a man, but she couldn’t think of another word that fit her situation better.
Instead she sat on the edge of his tub with a fluffy blue towel wrapped around her, staring at her flannel pajamas jumbled on the vanity counter. They hadn’t been a turnoff to James last night. He’d kissed her while she wore them. Unbuttoned the top. Put his mouth on her breasts. Slid his hand…
She stood, looked at herself in the mirror. Her face had a glow she hadn’t seen in a very long time—probably from the hot water, but who cared? It made her look young and lively. Her hair was damp at the ends. She fluffed it then let it fall where it may. Definitely a tousled, sexy look. Lipstick? Yes. Only because it was the kind that couldn’t be kissed off.
A bit of mascara and she was done. She was ready—if her answer was yes.
She stared at the floor for at least a minute then looked toward the ceiling. “I think you would want me to be happy,” she whispered. “I think this would make me happy. For now. I know the future isn’t in our cards. But for tonight? What’s the harm?”
She nodded her head, then padded across his thick carpet to the bedroom door. She pulled it open, closed it with one sonic-boom short of a slam, making sure he could hear it. Then she walked to his bed, pulled back the bedding, climbed on top and knelt in the middle of it, holding tight to her towel with both hands.
She waited. And waited. And waited. Her legs started to tingle and ache. She fidgeted, wiggled her toes, straightened her legs, rotated her ankles. Still no James.
Her instep cramped just as she was about to climb off the bed and go in search of him. The door opened, catching her with one leg on the bed and one on the floor, the towel slipping from above and spreading open from below. The cramp tightened, curling her toes. Great. Just great. She’d gone from sexy lady to pained contortionist in two seconds flat.
“Ow,” she said, unable to stop herself. She started walking and the cramp tightened even more.
“What’s wrong?”
“I have a cramp in my foot,” she muttered, embarrassed.
He came forward. “I heard the door…I thought you’d gone to your room,” he said, looking confused.
Good. If she was going to look ridiculous, the least he could do was look confused.
“I didn’t leave,” she said.
“I used all my investigative skills to conclude that myself.” He moved her back to sit on the bed, picked up her foot and pushed his thumb into her instep.
She almost screamed, then it eased. He worked at it for at least a minute in silence.
“Is this a yes, Caryn?” he asked quietly.
>
“Yes.” The word jammed in her throat, but her lips shaped the letters. She tried again. “What took you so long?”
“I was trying to get over my disappointment before I came to bed. If I’d known you were waiting…” He kept her feet in his lap, his hands resting on her shins. “We’ve wasted ten minutes.”
“Fifteen. But who’s counting?”
His hair was damp. He must have taken a shower somewhere else in the house.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You know what I mean…about tonight being the night?”
“It’s past midnight. That day is over.” And a new life begins.
“You are beautiful.”
The reverence in his voice flipped a switch inside her. Whatever doubts, whatever concerns she had, disappeared in that instant.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, moving her legs aside. He went to his fireplace and lit it. A moment later, he turned a dial next to the door, and music filled the room, soft and bluesy. He turned off the lights, letting the flames of the gaslit fire provide the ambience.
Then he walked back to the bed.
She opened her arms to him. The towel almost fell, but didn’t. She watched him take off his shoes, socks and T-shirt then he moved into her embrace and held her, just held her. She inhaled the scent of him, soapy and clean. Her cheek rested against his chest until he tipped her head back and kissed her.
She thought she knew how he kissed, but she’d only had a sample, an appetizer. This was the main course—possession. Beneath a surface taste of toothpaste was heat and desire and need, flavors so rare and coveted that she felt privileged just to be offered a morsel. He didn’t scrimp on the quantities, either, but offered heaping servings of everything, letting her know how hungry he was for her, too. She savored every glide of his tongue, every nibble of his teeth, every brush of his lips. His hands dived into her hair, his large palms and long fingers cupping her head, making her feel safe and protected and…wanted. Were those sounds coming from her? She didn’t care. She just wanted to feel…him, every part of him.
He moved off the bed and stripped off his jeans, and there he was, in all his beautiful glory. For me, she thought. All for me. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on him. She reached for him.
His expression fierce, he hooked a hand in her towel and tugged. The cloth fell to the bed. He balled it up and heaved it aside. She felt twenty again, and virginal, except this time she knew what the possibilities could be.
“I need to touch you,” she said.
“I need you to touch me.”
She grabbed his hands and guided him to lie down. She felt his eyes roving over her, and she was aware of how hard her nipples were, how her breasts moved as she did, how wet she was. But, oh, she didn’t want to rush. He would be a lifetime memory, she knew that with all her heart, which was beating harder every minute and feeling more vulnerable by the second. She didn’t need the complication of falling in love, but it seemed to be happening, beyond her control.
Stopping the internal debate, she placed her hands on his head, combed his hair with her fingers, enjoying the soft fullness. She dragged her hands down his face, stroking his forehead, brushing her fingertips over his eyebrows then his eyelids, then his cheeks, his nose, his lips, his chin. He’d shaved. His cheeks and jaw felt smooth. She bent to run her tongue along his jaw, lightly over his lips, then down his neck. She let a hand drift down him, then sat up again so she could watch, aware of his eyes, open and watching her in return.
She found a distinct scar on his left shoulder, slid her fingertips over it. “Is this where you were shot?”
“Yeah.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Like hell.”
She traced another scar on the other side, and one lower, closer to his stomach. “What about these?”
“Knives.”
She cringed. “Maybe you should find a different occupation?”
“I did. And I’m not planning to get any more scars.”
“Are there more than these?”
“A couple. Big one on my back from a piece of metal when I was shoved once. One on the front…lower.”
She let herself look all down him and saw a jagged scar.
“I was lucky,” he said. “An inch to the right…”
She kissed the spot, followed the uneven line with her tongue as he sucked in a breath and arched off the bed. His hand came down hard on her wrist, and he pulled her up and away, bringing her down beside him, her face close to his.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped.
Flattered and thrilled she smiled leisurely. “I’m not done.”
“Yeah, you are. For now, you are.”
“I don’t think so.” She reached down to wrap him in her hand, felt his body go rigid with resistance, fighting off what her efforts were doing to him. Curious, she stroked him, swirled a fingertip over the very top of him, catching a drop of fluid, and spreading it—
He sat up, flattened her on her back and tortured her, getting even in the best possible way. She gave up control and let herself just feel. Sensation bombarded her, building and ebbing, building again, higher. His hands were everywhere, then his mouth followed. She shook, then at some point she begged.
He moved over her, nudging her legs open, finding his place. Home. “Open your eyes,” he said, an order, but a quiet one.
She saw the need in his eyes, too, that he’d reached the point of no return along with her. She raised her knees. He laid his fingers where everything throbbed, stroked her, separated her, then he angled his body so that he could slip inside her, going slowly, letting her feel herself open up to him. She couldn’t stop the orgasm that slammed into her before he was embedded, nor the next one that happened the moment he was all the way inside, nor the third one that came fast on the heels of the others when he moved rhythmically inside her. He didn’t hold back, either, and his pleasure seemed to last a long time before he finally draped himself over her, both of them dragging in air. She was a little in shock at the intensity of what had happened. In shock, in awe, in utter glory and gratitude.
After a minute, he rolled to his side, taking her with him, wrapping her close and tight.
“Damn,” he said.
“My thought exactly.” She smiled against his chest.
“I need to get up for a second.”
She pulled back to let him out. He’d put on protection before the critical moment, and she was grateful. She hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t ever had to worry about birth control. Wouldn’t that have been a mess if she’d gotten pregnant?
He slipped back into bed and she went right back into his arms. It felt so good to be held, to feel his body next to hers, to smell him and touch him and—
“A twenty-percent tip for your thoughts, Mysterious.”
“I’m just happy.” She snuggled a little closer. “I feel like I’ve been given the best present ever.”
“Me, too.”
She wasn’t sure how true that could be. He must have had more than his share of relationships through the years. How could this one be any better than any other? But she wasn’t about to question him, not while they were naked and warm and satisfied.
The fire burned, the music played, but time didn’t stop. It was after 2:00 a.m. Morning would be here soon enough. Kevin would be back. Lyndsey and Nate. How was she going to get through the day without touching James? Without smiling at him? Without being reminded every second that they’d made love. What kind of acting skill was that going to take?
“You’re worried about tomorrow,” he said.
She tipped her back to look at him. “How’d you know that?”
“You stiffened up. Don’t worry about it, okay? Unless Kevin is specifically looking for something between us, he won’t notice. He won’t know that Nate and Lyndsey didn’t spend the night. They’ll be here before him.”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s a teenager. He’ll
sleep in, then he’ll want breakfast. I don’t expect him before ten at the earliest. The thing is, we can’t go out of our way to avoid each other, either. That’s when he would catch on.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She settled against him again.
“Want some good news? The police got a print on Baldy. He’s a known low-level crook. Never carries a gun. He’s in jail.”
Whatever little amount of steam she’d had left in her, dissipated. “We’re safe?”
“From him, certainly. But the fact he wasn’t carrying also tells us something. He was probably not here to do anything other than watch and report.”
He stroked her hair. She closed her eyes, enjoying being pampered and cherished.
“Sleep,” he said, softly, tenderly.
She had expected it would be strange to sleep with him, with a man she’d known less than two weeks. But she relaxed against him, felt him kiss her forehead and let herself drift off, leaving every worry, every fear behind.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
Fifteen
“I would say that these—” the man held up a handful of IOUs, signed by Paul and countersigned by someone named Johnson “—are signed by Paul Brenley. The rest are forged.”
James’s mantel clock had just struck noon. Everyone stood huddled around the handwriting expert that Sam Remington, one of the ARC owners, had called in on Lyndsey’s advice and his own speculation. The man set all the papers on the coffee table and sat back. James looked at Caryn first, then Kevin. Their expressions were bleak.
Sam, Nate and Lyndsey said nothing.
“How much was the actual amount he owed?” Caryn asked.
“Three hundred and fifty thousand—or so,” Lyndsey said.
“So they bilked me out of four hundred and fifty—or so.” She transformed, fury mixed with embarrassment replaced shock and despair. “I want my money back.”
