Hot Mail

by Maynard, Janice

  She decided then and there that this new physical awareness between them would not be allowed to make her stupid. She was not going to permit herself to be blinded by sex, no matter how incredible.

  She stood and gathered the dishes, suddenly realizing what she had to do. Spending another night under Ethan’s roof would be foolhardy in the extreme. Until she could believe in his sincerity . . . until she could know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t interested in the woman sending him mysterious valentines . . . then and only then would she trust him.

  Was it entrapment to continue the string of erotic notes? No. Not really. All he had to do was show them to her. And ask her opinion about the identity of the sender. It was that simple.

  She wanted to stay so badly, it was tearing her apart. She wanted another night in his bed, in his arms. But this was too important. She had to be strong.

  When Ethan finished loading the dishwasher and turned it on, she faced him with a smile that was hopefully natural. “I appreciate you letting me stay here last night. But I think I’m going to drive to Knoxville now and be with my parents until tomorrow. They’ve really been worried about me with the break-ins and all. I’m sure they would feel much better if they can see me in the flesh . . . be positive that I really am okay.”

  Ethan’s expression went from shock to disappointment to stoic calm, with maybe a fillip of anger thrown in along the way for good measure. He shrugged. “If that’s what you need to do. I have a pile of paperwork to go over before Monday anyway.”

  His easy acceptance nicked her pride. Her bags were ready. All she had to do was retrieve them from the bedroom. She swallowed her own disappointment. “Would you mind running me back to my apartment? I won’t go in, but I need my car.”

  The brief trip was silent and strained. Ethan was brooding, all dark-eyed displeasure. She did her best to ignore him.

  Standing in front of Paper Pleasures, she bade him goodbye. She even managed to press a quick kiss to his firm lips. “Thanks for everything, Ethan. You’re a good friend. I’ll talk to you later in the week.”

  And then she walked around to the rear parking lot with his gaze boring a hole in her back.

  Sherry wrinkled her brow and wondered what sadistic person was responsible for the ice pick that had been jabbed into her skull. Little snatches of memory teased her consciousness . . . nothing concrete . . . just bits and pieces of tantalizing images.

  She tried to move and groaned. Her body was one big mass of pain. Holy cow. She’d recognized the unmistakable signs of the flu coming on, but after that, she had a giant hole in her memory.

  She turned her head slowly and gazed at the clock on the bedside table. It was eight a.m., but what day? She remembered feeling wretched on Friday night . . . so maybe this was Saturday.

  Several items near the clock caught her eye and made her frown. The thermometer and medicine made sense. But the other thing did not. It was one of her great-grandmother’s crystal goblets. Sherry used them only on special occasions. No way would she have filled the glass with water to take a pill.

  Maybe Ethan had stopped by. But that didn’t make sense either. Ethan knew she cherished that glass. He would have been more likely to give her a paper cup from the cabinet. Oh, heck, too much thinking was making her poor head ache even worse.

  She closed her eyes again and floated in and out. The sunshine streaming through the open drapes was cheerful, but not enough to ease her misery. And why were the drapes open, anyway? It was her habit to close them at night. Maybe she had been too sick to do even that.

  She needed to go to the bathroom, but the thought of trying to get upright was daunting. Perhaps she would sleep a little more.

  The next time she looked at the clock, thirty minutes had passed. She could barely focus long enough to make out the numbers on the clock.

  Suddenly, tears of self-pity filled her eyes and squeezed out beneath her closed eyelids. She hurt all over, and there was no one to care. Ethan was horribly busy. Debra was hundreds of miles away in Florida, and the only other person who might be concerned was . . .

  Randy.

  She tried to ignore her poor, restless body by remembering the beautiful date last Monday night. Everything about it had been perfect. Right up until the moment she freaked out.

  But, God help her, the blinding river of joy that had crashed through her long-held defenses had scared her to death. She was just as likely to drown in it as she was to swim. And the temptation . . . Dear Lord. She had been inches away from ripping Randy’s clothes from his body.

  If she had ever felt such sharp, shining sexual desire, she couldn’t remember it. And the tenderness in the way he had held her had made her want to weep.

  But she had ruined it all. She must have seemed like an immature lunatic to him. Not only was it utterly embarrassing to know she had overreacted—it was not fair to Randy. He had done everything right.

  She, as usual, had not.

  She tried to swallow and winced when her dry throat protested. Was there any liquid left in that glass?

  She opened her eyes, even though the light seemed unforgiving and harsh. She put out her arm and braced herself in an effort to sit up.

  But her hand didn’t land on the mattress. Her fingers ran into smooth, warm male flesh.

  Twelve

  It was a miracle she didn’t scream. But honestly . . . it would have taken more energy than she could muster. And besides, some innate sense of self-preservation warned her that screaming would likely make her head explode.

  She took a deep breath and brought her hand back to her side. It was Randy. He was lying facedown on his stomach, his head turned toward the wall. The pillow was half under him, clenched in one arm. The only thing he was wearing as far as she could tell was his uniform pants.

  Which left huge expanses of his smooth, golden-skinned, muscular back completely bare. Her fingers itched to explore all that gorgeous masculine real estate.

  She couldn’t resist the impulse to touch the arm closest to her. It looked very uncomfortable, bent as it was at his side. She skated her palm over his lightly hair-dusted forearm.

  He jerked upright so suddenly, she squeaked in surprise. As he twisted his body into a seated position, she studied him. Dark smudges under his bloodshot eyes did nothing to detract from his appeal. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “What time is it?”

  She tried to clear her throat. “A little after eight.” She paused. “Is it Saturday?”

  He shook his head, his brown eyes solemn. “It’s Sunday morning, Sherry. You’ve been out of it for quite a while. I’ve been here since Saturday afternoon.”

  She lay still and quiet as she tried to process the bizarre information. How did a woman lose track of an entire day?

  He took pity on her confusion. “Ethan sent me to check on you. He was worried when you didn’t answer either of your phones. When I got here your temperature was over a hundred and five. I called the doctor. He said to get your fever down with a cold bath. That and alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen every two hours finally did the trick. You’ve been sleeping naturally for the last little bit.”

  He rattled off the information with a cop’s impassivity. Just the facts, ma’am. Just the facts.

  But his no-frills recitation left a heck of a lot to the imagination . . . such as how the aforementioned bath took place, and why she was not wearing her usual nightgown. In fact, she wasn’t wearing anything at all.

  Holy crap. One of her arms was still under the covers. She scooted her hand over her chest. Yep. Buck naked. If she hadn’t felt so lousy, she was pretty sure she would have been blushing from her toes all the way up to her forehead. Sherry McCamish did not sleep in the nude, not even when she had been a newly married teenager.

  She managed to look at Randy without moving her head. The drums beating inside her skull were starting to make her nauseated. “I’m sorry,” she said dully. “Ethan shouldn’t have called you.”

 
; He shrugged. “I’m glad he did. You needed help.”

  Her chin trembled as her stomach rolled, and her head throbbed. “I was so mean to you,” she muttered. And then she burst into tears.

  Randy sighed and pulled her into his arms, settling his back against the headboard. “Don’t be silly, Sherry. One rejection wasn’t going to get rid of me.” He reached for the medicine and the half-full glass of water. “Here . . . take this and try to relax.”

  She lifted her head long enough to swallow the tablets. Then she slumped back onto his chest.

  He stroked her silky hair, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. The sheet was protecting her modesty, but now that her fever was down near one hundred, she might be getting cold. He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Would you like me to get some pajamas out of your drawer . . . to keep you warm?”

  She burrowed deeper. “I’m warm,” she said, her voice slurred. “This is nice.” Seconds later, he realized she was asleep again.

  It touched him that she had accepted his presence so easily. And she hadn’t turned him out on his ass. Of course, that was probably because she was too weak and sick to do anything else.

  Nevertheless, he would enjoy this time while it lasted. He loved taking care of her . . . would be honored and pleased to do it more. But her compliance no doubt had an end. About the time her body shook off the flu and her stubborn spirit was once again in charge.

  He was pretty sure that Sherry was the one for him. The feeling had struck hard and fast. They’d barely known each other two weeks. But he was old enough to recognize that she appealed to him in ways no other woman ever had. He felt a connection that couldn’t be denied.

  The knowledge was scary. Although he didn’t see the difference in their ages as any big deal, Sherry would. He already knew her that well. She was a woman who lived by rigid rules, perhaps because she had broken a big one at an early age. Or so it seemed to her. It was a good bet that if he tried to take things in a more serious direction, she might bolt.

  Her reaction when he kissed her Monday night had hurt, but he wasn’t really surprised. Sherry was an extremely private person, her emotions held in check at all times. So the passion that had blown up out of nowhere had shocked her. Hell, it had shocked him.

  But now that he knew how it could be between them, he was damned if he’d let her walk away.

  When he was sure she was sound asleep, he eased her out of his arms and laid her down. The sheet fell away as he got her settled. The sight of her soft, round breasts struck hard at his heart and his self-control. With shaking hands, he pulled the covers to her chin.

  He wanted her. He needed her. He had no more than seventy-two hours to insert himself into her life and her heart. He prayed it would be enough time.

  Ethan was pissed. It was Wednesday, and Jane had been avoiding him ever since her abrupt departure from his house on Saturday. After sharing a night and an evening of wild, deeply satisfying sex, she was suddenly too busy to see him. Hell, she wouldn’t even answer his phone calls.

  And he was pretty sure she was trying to drive him out of his mind. She’d deliberately returned one or two of his messages by calling at times when she knew good and well that he was tied up and unavailable.

  His personal life was the pits, but thankfully, the police department was beginning to return to normal. Sherry had still been too weak to bring lunch on Monday, but she swore she was feeling well enough to fix today’s meal. And judging by the fact that Temple was hovering by the door to the parking lot, she must be on her way.

  Ethan would check up on his sister in a bit, but for the moment, he escaped to his office and shut the door. He reached in his desk drawer and extracted the three valentines. One by one he spread them out and examined the verses. Try as he might, he couldn’t see any evil intent behind the unusual mail he’d received. The words were loving—highly sexual, yes, but almost tender in places.

  As much as it galled him to admit it, he was intrigued by the handwriting, the erotic wordplay, and the ultrafeminine paper. Because he was a man, the bold effort to seduce him was flattering and even amusing.

  More than once, he had debated showing the notes to Jane to get a woman’s point of view. But two things stopped him. First was the slim possibility that the mystery poet was some kind of psychopath. If the woman behind these notes knew he was in a relationship with someone else, Jane’s life might be in danger. So it was better to keep the two females separate. And the second thing that had kept him from asking Jane’s opinion was the possibility that she would be hurt. She might even think the sender was someone with whom Ethan had been involved in the past and who now wanted him back.

  He had already been careless with Jane’s feelings once in the past by getting engaged without telling her. She might interpret his interest in the erotic valentines the wrong way. Jane was the only woman he wanted, the only woman on his radar. So until he nailed down the identity of the mysterious admirer, he’d keep his own counsel.

  But tomorrow, come hell or high water, Ethan was going to stake out the post office to learn once and for all who was behind the string of anonymous mail. And when he knew the woman’s identity, he’d clean up the situation with Jane none the wiser.

  Jane stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed her progress. Returning home Monday morning had been a pleasant surprise. The cleaning crew hired by Mr. Benson had done an amazing job. The hardwood floors shone, her display cases were spotless, and unless she tried really, really hard, she couldn’t smell a whiff of smoke.

  Her apartment upstairs was even better. So she was a happy camper.

  On Tuesday, the first of the replacement stock she’d ordered had begun arriving. It was almost as exciting as when she had first opened her shop. With the sales floor literally wiped clean, it was a good chance to rearrange her displays and reroute the traffic flow in the shop.

  It was hard work, but at the end of the day, the results were rewarding. She was actually starting to believe that things would get back to normal. The deductible on her insurance was a hefty chunk, but with spring and summer ahead, her business would pick up.

  She decided to take a chance and beef up her bridal supplies in hopes that extra revenue in that sector would help her recoup some of her losses. And not for the first time, she debated adding a small case of baked goods. Mrs. Fitzhugh had a friend who used to own a catering business, and the other woman had indicated an interest in supplying Jane with homemade cakes, tarts, and cookies if Jane decided the time was right.

  Mrs. Fitzhugh was itching to get back to work, and even though Jane continued paying her, she hadn’t wanted the elderly woman to be exposed to the smoke smell because of her asthma. Even now that the air was clean again, the physical nature of the restocking job was not suitable for her older employee. But Jane called her each afternoon to report on the shop’s progress.

  Ethan was not so easily appeased. He’d bombarded her cell phone and home phone with messages, all of which she had ignored for the most part. Tomorrow, she was going to send one more valentine, the fourth one, and then evaluate Ethan’s response. She would give him every opportunity to talk to her about it. And if he didn’t . . . well . . . she’d confront him if she had the guts, and they would have a serious heart-to-heart.

  Wednesday evening she took a bath right after dinner and put on her comfiest pair of soft knit pajamas. They were covered with little pink and yellow and green hearts that said things like Kiss Me, I’m Yours, Will U Be Mine?

  She’d bought them for half price last year after Valentine’s Day on a whim. They weren’t the sexiest pajamas in the world, but they were bright and cheerful, and right now Jane needed some serious perking up.

  Outside, tiny, icy snowflakes swirled in the wind. They weren’t the big, fat, wet flakes that promised to pile up in a picturesque blanket of white. These were the painful, needlelike, wind-driven shards that made a person want to hunker down and never go back outside.

  She adjusted the th
ermostat up a notch and pulled a pair of fuzzy white socks on her feet. Then she curled up in her big armchair and began composing the most important note yet.

  Ethan, My Love,

  Ha. That was even better than the Dearest Ethan she had used before. She was pulling out all the stops.

  Ethan, My Love,

  I’ve waited in vain,

  My heart full of pain.

  I thought that by now

  You’d have figured out how

  To find my true name

  And to finish my game.

  A girl shouldn’t be,

  As you might foresee,

  A sly, lustful tease.

  But you won’t believe

  What’s right under your nose

  And my frustration grows.

  Just give me a chance

  In passion’s sweet dance.

  I’ll be all you desire.

  Our passion a fire

  That blazes so bright

  We’ll cling to the night.

  I won’t wait endless days.

  There’s a price you must pay.

  Once the treasure is lost

  My heart turns to frost.

  Jane nibbled the end of her pencil. Was that last stanza too forbidding? She didn’t want him to think she was a stalker.

  She sat through two Friends episodes on TBS and brooded about her latest verse. The poetess was beginning to sound desperate, about like Jane herself. How and when was she supposed to reveal her identity? And if Ethan didn’t share this wicked valentine with her, what then?

  Would she send the last two? Would she tell him she was jealous of the mystery lady sending him mail? Would she snoop through his drawers and confront him with the evidence of his infidelity?