Hot Mail

by Maynard, Janice

  He snorted. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Jane? Who gives a damn about practical? I have dreams about screwing you with your hair all wet and your tits—” He broke off suddenly, his face turning bright red.

  His obvious mortification was too funny. She laughed out loud. “Don’t stop on my account. It was just getting interesting.” She handed him a towel, enjoying the view of his muscular body all squeaky clean and sporting an impressive erection. When she brushed him casually, acknowledging his readiness, he groaned and trapped her hands, urging her fingers to cup his balls. They stood in her tiny bathroom, locked in a quivering moment of anticipation. The air was charged with electricity.

  He found her mouth, brushed his lips over hers, covered her eyelids with a kiss, her nose, the side of her cheek. “I want you,” he said softly, his eyes unguarded, his sincerity unquestioned.

  She took his face in her hands and kissed him back. “Then take me, Ethan. I’m yours.”

  The noise woke her somewhere around three a.m. The muffled tinkle of glass, the muted thump of a heavy foot in the inky darkness.

  Her heart beating like she had run a marathon, she shook her lover urgently. Damn, she hated it when he was right. “Ethan, wake up. We have company downstairs.”

  He awoke instantly. It amazed her that he could go from a dead sleep to robo-cop in less than thirty seconds. He was already in his pants and shoes, reaching for his gun, before she could blink.

  He kissed her hard. “Call nine-one-one. Tell them I need backup. No sirens. I think Temple is on duty.” And then he was gone.

  She did as he commanded, then hung up the phone and dressed with shaking hands, suddenly terrified that Ethan was going alone to face the intruder. Her heart in her throat, she tiptoed soundlessly down the stairs.

  She could see the dim outline of Ethan’s body crouched near the base of the stairs. He was perfectly still, listening, locating his target. Without looking in her direction, he waved her back.

  She froze, huddling on a stair midway up, praying with all her might. She’d never actually seen Ethan in the midst of a dangerous situation, and she realized in sudden alarm that he must put his life on the line far more often than she realized.

  A strange sound toward the front of the shop caught her attention. It was a hissing noise, muted but familiar . . . like hair-spray. Oh, hell. It was paint. The vandal was destroying her newly stocked merchandise with spray paint.

  She wanted to get up and yell at him and demand an explanation. But she bit down on her bottom lip and stayed where she was. Any stupid move on her part might put Ethan in danger.

  The seconds ticked by, each one longer than the last. Ethan appeared to be tracking the suspect’s movements. It was clear that the kid, if indeed he was a juvenile, had no idea they were on to him.

  Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark, Jane caught a glimpse of their intruder as he rounded a corner. Still the quiet hiss of the spray can. To their right, visible only to Ethan and Jane, a man appeared in the broken window. Temple was being hoisted, with his partner’s help, high enough to slip over the ledge.

  He and Ethan made silent hand gestures. The kid moved closer, intent on his graffiti.

  Suddenly Ethan lunged to his feet. “Freeze. Police. Hands in the air.”

  The young man cursed violently and hurled the can of paint in Ethan’s direction. It didn’t hit its mark, but the boy had already darted around the end of an aisle and was heading in a panic for the broken window.

  Randy Temple pulled his weapon, ready to fire, but the boy jumped sideways and shoved a display case with all his might. Temple never had a chance. The heavy piece of furniture smashed down on top of him, glass breaking and shattering in a sickening cacophony.

  Jane heard Ethan curse, and she jumped to her feet. Ethan tackled the kid in a flying leap, rolling around on the floor with him, using his strength to subdue the wildly flailing adolescent. Jane hit the light switch, flooding the room with harsh illumination.

  The place looked like a war zone, but she didn’t stop to mourn the third destructive visit. Ethan shot her a stone-faced glance over his shoulder. “Open the front door. And help me with that damn case.”

  She flew to do his bidding, her stomach in knots, her hands shaky with adrenaline. In mere seconds Ethan had the boy hand-cuffed and facedown on the floor. As soon as the kid was no longer a threat, Ethan was across the room. The other officer had climbed through the window already, and now the three of them surrounded the bulky piece of furniture and lifted with all their might.

  Jane felt pitifully useless. Without the two men, she couldn’t have moved it an inch. Carefully, with painfully slow movements, they raised it off the floor. They dared not risk losing their grip and dropping it on top of the injured officer.

  A split second after the cabinet was upright and secure, Ethan and his fellow officer were kneeling by Randy Temple’s side. The man was still as death, a nasty purplish gash near his temple already swelling into a knot.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. When the glass had shattered, it had embedded itself in Temple’s flesh. His uniform had protected him in part. And he had clearly thrown up his arms to cover some of his face. But protruding from the side of his neck was a four-inch shard of glass. Blood oozed around the edges.

  Jane’s vision grayed and nausea billowed in her stomach. Taking several shallow breaths, she knelt beside the three men. “What can I do?”

  Ethan’s face was shadowed with fear. And that scared her more than anything that had happened so far. “We can’t remove the piece in his neck. He might bleed out. The EMT’s will be here any moment.” Already in the distance, the scream of sirens drifted on the night air.

  Jane hadn’t even realized she was shivering until the other officer handed her his jacket. She accepted it with murmured thanks, her eyes never leaving Randy’s still white face. They were six feet from the broken window, and cold air funneled in. Not as cold as the first night this had happened, but still . . .

  Without thinking about it, she draped the jacket over Randy’s chest. And then she ran upstairs for blankets. She had to step past the cursing, screaming male on the floor. He hurled epithets at her feet. She never paused.

  In less than two minutes, she was back. Ethan and his officer were working on their comrade, checking his vitals, making sure he was breathing. As she watched, they gently removed the smaller pieces of glass.

  To see two such big, powerful alpha men touching their fallen brother so tenderly brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away and offered the blankets. Ethan accepted them with murmured gratitude and tucked them around Randy’s bleeding body.

  Thankfully, the paramedics burst through the front door at that moment. Things moved quickly after that—a methodical, restrained chaos ending with Randy’s body being lifted onto a narrow gurney and carried to a waiting ambulance.

  Jane glanced around the shop, dazed, weary, and jumpy with nerves and stress. Ethan had followed the medical personnel outside, but he returned now and hugged her tightly. “You okay?”

  She nodded jerkily, biting down hard to keep her lips from trembling. “Will he be okay?” She was terrified, not only for Randy but for what might have happened to Ethan. Life was so terribly fragile and precious.

  Ethan’s face was grim and exhausted. There were tiny cuts on his big hands where he had been plucking glass fragments from Randy’s body. “He’s stable. Removing the glass from his neck will be tricky . . . and the head wound is serious. But I think he’ll make it.”

  She wanted to burrow into the comfort of his embrace, have him take her back upstairs and comfort her, but she knew his job was not over. Now that Randy was in good hands, Ethan and the other officer approached their suspect.

  Ethan rolled him to his back none too gently, his jaw rigid with disgust and restrained anger. “Playtime’s over, punk. Let’s head down to the station and get you booked. It’s gonna be a long list.”

  Jane inched closer
to the trio of men, intrigued and repulsed at the same time. Who was this destructive intruder who meant her harm?

  Ethan’s body was shielding the guy’s face, but Jane could see skinny legs clad in ripped denims, and a paid of gangly, too-large-for-his-body feet wearing fancy athletic shoes. She stepped to the side and gasped in startled recognition. “Oh, my God.” She had seen this teenager twice, once in a photograph and once when he was on a ladder painting.

  Ethan’s head shot around, incredulity carved on his face. “You know him?”

  She nodded slowly. Sorrow filled her chest, and she felt a giant tug of sympathy for what this would do to her dear old friend. “I’ve seen him at Mr. Benson’s house . . . doing odd jobs. I’m pretty sure that’s his great-nephew Dougie.”

  Seventeen

  Temple’s partner took Dougie out to the waiting cruiser. Ethan lingered, wanting one last moment with the woman he loved before the rest of his night went to hell and back. It would be hours before he’d be done wrapping up this mess, not to mention keeping tabs on Temple.

  He brushed the tumbled hair from Jane’s face. She was pale, with dark smudges beneath her blue eyes. “You were a trooper,” he said, feeling so very proud of her. Never once had she panicked or shown even a smidgen of hysteria. And she would have been justified.

  For a civilian who was unaccustomed to any kind of real violence, tonight’s dustup had been pretty damn traumatic. It had been no walk in the park for Ethan himself. He was more concerned than he cared to admit about Randy Temple’s condition.

  Her expression was troubled. “Mr. Benson will have to be told, but I don’t want to wake him up in the middle of the night. Tomorrow morning is soon enough, don’t you think? It won’t hurt Dougie to spend some time in a jail cell.” She paused, and her eyes flashed. “I’m so angry with him. That sweet old man has gone out of his way to do nice things for Dougie, and now this.”

  Ethan rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks. “Can you think of any reason for the vandalism?”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. “That’s just it. I can’t. Dougie barely knows me. And if he wanted to get back at his uncle for some imagined offense, it seems like Mr. Benson’s house would have been a more logical target. None of this makes sense.”

  Ethan glanced toward the front door and stifled a curse. He had to go. He hugged her close, feeling her warmth, her softness. His hands stroked her back. “Go back to bed, honey. I’ll call you in the morning and let you know what’s happening.”

  She leaned into him, her slim arms clinging to his neck as he kissed her gently. He wanted to give her beauty in the face of ugliness, but sadly, his job would always be filled with more darkness than light.

  As her lips clung to his, he felt her shiver. Belatedly, he remembered the shattered window, and he scowled. How could he leave her like this?

  She stepped back, her posture fatigued, but her gaze steady. “Go, Ethan. I’ll be fine. I’ll lock myself in upstairs. The window is not a problem. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Her smiled was crooked. “Don’t worry about me. You have more important things on your plate.”

  He felt brutally torn in two directions. But Jane was right. She was a strong, confident, self-reliant woman. Though he might want to coddle her, she didn’t need his protection.

  With his jaw clenched, he turned his back on her and walked away. She followed him only long enough to lock the front door. As he slid into the cruiser, he could see her silhouette against the opaque glass.

  He spoke to his officer, pointedly ignoring Dougie cursing in the backseat. “Let’s roll.”

  Jane wandered through her ruined shop, shaking her head at the mean, pointless, destruction. The new stock was worthless now, and she had serious doubts about whether or not insurance would pony up again to replace it.

  She was exhausted, discouraged, and heartsick. So many people hurt by one spoiled, petulant teenager. Though Mr. Benton would be distraught, she was more worried about Randy Temple. His injuries were very serious, potentially fatal. And she prayed that he would be all right.

  She flipped off the lights and climbed the stairs. It was fruitless to think about work right now. Time enough tomorrow to deal with such things.

  But in view of what had happened tonight, she came to a decision. She opened her desk and stared at the two remaining pieces of note paper she had planned to use for Ethan’s valentines: one a pale celery green; the other an elegant, stark white.

  She had promised Ethan two more missives, but things had changed. No longer was she willing to muddy the waters with anonymous notes. From now on, she would deal directly with Ethan and his feelings for her. When things settled down after this latest incident, she would tell him she loved him. And his response would chart her path.

  If his feelings weren’t as involved as hers, she would gently extract herself from the relationship and move on. It would hurt. She wasn’t kidding herself. Her heart might never be the same. But you couldn’t make somebody love you. No matter how hard you tried.

  Either Ethan wanted her or he didn’t.

  She took the sheet of green paper and sat down at the table with a pen. Stifling a yawn, she nibbled the inside of her cheek and tried to focus. It was almost five in the morning, and she wanted to get this over to Ethan’s house while he was still occupied.

  Dear Ethan,

  I think ’twas not wise

  to deceive you with lies.

  I’m done with this ruse,

  and my bent to confuse.

  I feel in my bones,

  that your heart’s not your own.

  You’re in love I believe,

  with a girl who’s not me.

  I bid you adieu,

  ’cause there’s naught else to do.

  True love can’t be forced.

  It’s a matter of course.

  The heart casts its spell,

  be it heaven or hell.

  Be happy, my dear.

  ’tis the last you will hear . . .

  From me,

  Your devoted but secret admirer

  She studied the verse, the slightly shaky handwriting, the delicate paper. Her fingers were not quite steady as she folded the sheet and tucked it in the matching envelope. The game was over. All that lay ahead was plain speaking and either joy or despair.

  Before she could change her mind, she dressed rapidly and bundled up in her warmest outerwear. She would not drive her car. She needed the brisk predawn air to clear her head and shore up her waning confidence.

  It took her twenty-five minutes to walk to Ethan’s house. His neighbors’ windows were dark, the street deserted. She went straight up to his front door, not worried about anyone seeing her at this hour.

  In keeping with the historic ambience of the town, Ethan had an old-fashioned mail slot. The postman used the official box out at the street, but for Jane’s purposes, this more direct route was perfect.

  She kissed the envelope and, with her fingers crossed, shoved it through the cold brass opening.

  It was done.

  Sherry hated middle-of-the-night phone calls. They were always bad news. Her heart pounding in her chest, she snatched up the receiver on the second ring. As she shoved her hair from her face and tried to focus on the voice at the other end, she saw by the clock that it was technically morning . . . six thirty to be exact.

  She cleared her throat. “Hello.”

  Her brother answered, his voice strained. “I didn’t know whether to call you or not, but it’s Randy, sis. He was injured in an incident tonight. He’s in pretty bad shape, and I thought you would want to know.”

  She held the phone, her fingers numb, as Ethan detailed what had happened and then described the surgical procedure now under way to remove a large piece of glass and repair a damaged artery.

  Beneath her outward calm, her carefully constructed world was imploding. Dear God.

  She bit down hard on her bottom lip, steadying her voice. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll be at
the hospital in half an hour.”

  Later, she would never remember how she dressed or even how she made it into the car and across town without running off the road. She’d shut out everything but the urge to see Randy, to reassure herself that he was okay.

  When she stepped into his quiet private room, her heart stopped. Clearly, he had just come out of the recovery ward, and the nurses were getting him settled into bed.

  No one was there to greet him. She remembered that his family was far away, and poor Ethan had his hands full down at the station.

  Which left Sherry, the one person Randy would probably just as soon not see. But she couldn’t leave, not with him hurting and alone.

  After the trio of professionals exited the room, Sherry moved closer to the bed, her heart slugging away in her chest with nauseating thuds. In that split second, with the smell of antiseptic in the air and the muted beeping of monitors recording the life force of the man in the bed, she realized two things. She loved him. Love was all that mattered. Randy Temple. Dear, sexy, too-good-to-be-true, way-too-young-for-her Randy Temple. And she had been a fool.

  No matter that it didn’t make sense and would almost surely end in heartbreak, she loved him. And if he had died, her world would have fallen apart.

  She had grieved Debra’s absence in the way a mother loves a child. But if she lost Randy so soon after she had found him, it would cripple her. Life so seldom gave second chances, and Sherry had come very close to squandering hers out of a mistaken sense of propriety or misplaced pride. She loved him.

  She pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. The knot at his hairline was alarming, but no more so than the bandage covering the side of his neck.

  Even with his skin coloring, he was pale, his lips bloodless, their contours etched in pain.