by Meg Tilly
“Oh, look,” she said, delight in her voice. Her pink tongue darted out to capture a droplet of moisture that had formed.
His hips jolted upward. “Jesus, Maggie,” he groaned.
“Hold still,” she said, pushing his hips back down to the sofa. “When you move around like that, it makes it hard to see everything up close and personal.” She knelt between his legs, the look on her face a mix of innocence and hunger.
Then she wrapped her fingers around him, and the sight of his engorged, ruddy dick in her beautiful hand was so damn sexy it nearly blew the roof off his head.
And then—dear holy mother of God—her hand started to move. “Show me,” she said. “Show me what to do, what feels nice.” And unprincipled bastard that he was, he placed his hand over hers, tightening her grip, moving their hands in tandem up and down. It felt so damned good that he took the torture a step further and slid her hand up over the swollen head, with a little rotating movement. He nearly died from the pleasure that created, her hand gliding easily, wet from his juice.
“Okay,” she said, her voice husky. “I think I’ve got it. Put your hand back on the sofa and don’t move.” With a moan, he removed his hand and watched her stroking him, a slight smile curving the corners of her lips upward.
* * *
• • •
MAGGIE FELT SO powerful. Liberated and humbled all at once. He was letting her be in charge, do what she liked, observe and caress his most intimate parts. The masculine scent of his arousal surrounded her. The salty taste of him on her lips, on her tongue, flooded her senses.
He was trying not to move, as instructed. Whenever his hips lurched forward, she stopped moving her hands and raised her mouth from his cock, where she was indulging in the occasional lick, kiss, or suck until he was forced to sink back into the sofa. His body shook, his breath coming hard and fast, his groans guttural.
“You’re killing me, Maggie,” he gasped.
And she felt proud, like a quick study, like she was getting really good at this.
Her panties were soaking wet. She was slippery, aching between her legs. She wanted to yank off her clothes, climb onto him, straddle and ride him to completion. Wouldn’t he be surprised if she did that!
But she wanted to see the cum shoot out of his swollen cock more.
And then it happened.
She’d thought he might be close. He’d been clenching and unclenching his hands, head thrown back, strain evident on his face and in the cords of his neck. He was so hard and hot in her hand.
A choked roar erupted from his mouth, his hips jutted forward, his cock swelling even more. Then it spurted, then again, and again, and again. Creamy cum shot out from the tip, arcing into the air, then splattering his charcoal-gray T-shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting.
And it was so beautiful, so intimate, that it made her feel like weeping.
Twenty-eight
THE CABIN OF the truck was quiet, neither of them talking, just the thrum of the engine and crunch of the tires spitting gravel off the road. Maggie’s gaze was glued to the side window as if the scenery streaming past was beyond fascinating. But even though she was turned away, every molecule of her body was inhaling Luke’s presence.
He swung the vehicle into her driveway. Luckily, she was holding on to the grab handle, so she didn’t end up on his lap. No seat belts. The truck had been built before seat belts were required. One long, smooth seat. She had ridden in his truck only a couple of times, but already she loved it, the simplicity of the dashboard. Not a lot of whistles and bells.
The driveway to Rosemary & Time had a lot of potholes, and Luke didn’t take them at the snail’s pace she usually did. The sturdy wheels of his truck charged right over them, the vibrations massaging her nether regions.
Luke stopped the truck, shifted into park, and turned to Maggie. “We need to talk about what happened.”
She flushed and fiddled with the straps of her purse.
“About the near-accident,” he said dryly. He must have read her mind. “Outside Becca’s.”
Oh, jeez. “Yes. Absolutely.
“Do you know,” he asked, his face serious, focused, “anyone who drives a black four-wheel-drive Cadillac Escalade? Privacy glass, painted wheels, chrome inserts?”
Her mouth went dry. “You think someone was trying to hurt me?”
“Maybe,” he said, “maybe not,” but it was like a shutter had come down over his eyes, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Could be I was the one who was targeted; of course, there’s always the possibility it was a random freak accident. Maybe the driver was having a stroke or was high on drugs. But it’s wise to explore all possible scenarios—cover all the bases.”
“I see,” she said, thinking about his question. “I know a couple people who have black cars. Black SUVs? It’s possible. What brand their cars are? I wouldn’t have a clue. I’m sorry. I just don’t notice such things.”
“No worries,” he said, reaching over and patting her hand; his brow furrowed, he stared out the windshield, deep in thought.
She could tell he wasn’t seeing the meadow or the woods beyond it.
“Is there anyone in your life you’re afraid of?” he asked. “Or who wishes you harm?”
She flashed to Brett momentarily, screaming at her over the phone. Yeah, she had been shaken, but Brett was a self-absorbed narcissist—he wasn’t violent. “No,” she answered. “I can’t think of anyone who wishes me harm.”
“What’s this Brett guy like? Is he hot-tempered? A poor loser? Has he ever hurt you in any way, Maggie?”
“He has a bad temper, yes. Always has, but he’s more verbally abusive. Never hit me or anything like that.”
“Good,” he replied under his breath. So quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
They sat like that for a moment. Still. Just the soft sound of their breathing.
“Well, then,” Maggie said, reaching for the door handle, “thanks for the ice cream and the ride.”
He turned to her, his face clearing. “You’re welcome,” he said, quirking an eyebrow, a slight smile on his face. “Anytime.”
Maggie could feel her face growing hot, because they both knew what he was referencing. Anytime? She thought. Like now? I could just reach and grab ahold of it? She hopped out of the truck, heard Luke get out as well. Her face was flaming. She didn’t glance over, just headed for the cottage with Luke following close behind.
* * *
• • •
“HELLO,” MAGGIE CALLED, swinging the cottage door open, pleased with how normal and natural her voice sounded. As if it were a standard, ordinary afternoon and she hadn’t just had her hands wrapped around . . . Maggie yanked sharply back on the reins of her thoughts. None of that! Thank you very much.
“Eve, I’m back.” Maggie listened for a response.
Nothing.
The teasing expression vanished from Luke’s face. “Would you mind if I took a quick spin around the cottage? Make sure everything’s okay?”
“Sure,” she said. “Good idea. Thank you.”
He was back a few minutes later, a note in his hand. “Apparently, Eve’s painting in the lower field. I’ll swing by there and make sure she’s fine.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, relief rushing over her. So kind, how he’s looking out for us. “I really appreciate you doing that.”
He turned to go.
“But,” she said, her hand alighting on his forearm, causing a surge of heat to momentarily befuddle her brain. She’d never experienced such an intense attraction. Does he feel it, too? Maggie wondered as she dropped her hand to her side, but even with the connection broken, her skin still tingled. “If you could do it surreptitiously, because Eve gets really pissed if she’s interrupted while painting.”
“She won’t even know I’ve checked on
her,” Luke said, handing Maggie the note as he headed for the door. “Everything looks fine. I’ve secured the doors and windows; it’s just a precaution until we know what we’re dealing with. Keep your cell phone with you at all times, and if you hear anything out of the ordinary, don’t check it out. Leave the house immediately. Go to Ethelwyn and Lavina’s, and then call me and 911.”
“Okay. Thanks, Luke.”
“Lock the door behind me,” he said, and then he was gone.
Maggie slid the dead bolt into place and glanced down at the note in her hand.
Out painting. Don’t hold dinner for me. Love you. Hope you had fun!
—Eve xo
She was grateful to have a chance to get her thoughts in order before her sister arrived home. There wasn’t a lot of time, as dusk was fast approaching and Eve would be unable to paint outdoors much longer.
What to do? Maggie thought. Something soothing and indulgent to counterbalance the very unusual afternoon.
She headed to the kitchen. She’d bake a cake and then start dinner. She lifted the apron off its brass hook, slipped it over her head, and was tying the strings when the phone in the living room rang.
The loud, shrill jangle made her jump.
She went back into the living room and picked up the receiver as the surge of adrenaline started to recede. “Hello?”
No one answered.
“Hello?”
Still no answer, but someone was there. She was sure of it.
“I can hear you breathing,” Maggie said, torn between irritation and unease.
There was a clunk on the other end, and the phone went dead.
She froze for a second, her mind spinning. Was that important or just a prank call? She exhaled slowly, released her grip on the receiver, and placed it back on its base. She made a mental note to tell Luke about the call when they next spoke.
She returned to the kitchen and turned on the old radio. Fiddled with the dial until she found some nice, mellow music. She poured herself a glass of chardonnay and settled in to cook.
By the time Eve returned home, Maggie was taking the chocolate cake with caramelized pecan topping out of the oven. She had chicken fricassee simmering on the stove, green beans amandine prepped, and buttery mashed potatoes keeping warm in a pot.
“Something smells amazing,” Eve said, pouring herself a glass of wine, then collapsing with a satisfied sigh into a kitchen chair. “I knew you were cooking. The delicious aromas were calling to me as I tromped across the field. I thought to myself, ‘How lucky am I?’” She took a healthy sip of wine. “I paint all afternoon, then come home to this.” She stretched her arms out exuberantly. “My sister, a cozy, warm home, delicious food cooking, beautiful nature surrounding us—a feast for the eyes, for the soul, for the belly. Life truly doesn’t get any better than this.”
“I take it,” Maggie said, tasting the sauce, adding a bit more salt, “painting went well.”
“How did you guess?” Eve said with a grin. “I was on a rampage. Couldn’t stop. Finally it got too dark, and I had to stop. Didn’t want to, though. I can tell you that. If I had a way to keep that sun up in the sky, I would have done it. But hopefully, the muse will return tomorrow, and I can finish the painting. You don’t mind, do you? I promise after that we can start sorting out housing and whatnot.”
“It’s totally fine. Don’t give it another thought.” Maggie tasted the mashed potatoes. Hmm . . . They were almost where she wanted them. She added a glug of buttermilk and a handful of freshly grated Parmesan.
“How was your afternoon?” Eve asked, ambling over to the counter. “Hey, you’ve got a few texts. Must have your sound off. Want me to read them?”
“Sure.” She dropped another pat of butter into the potatoes.
Eve picked up Maggie’s cell. “First one’s from Brett. ‘What the fuck? Call me.’”
“Guess Gerry Pondstone’s gotten in touch,” Maggie said, stirring the melting butter in, trying to ignore a sudden nauseated feeling. She would be glad when everything was sorted out and they could both move on.
“Next one’s from—ha!—Gerry Pondstone. So, yes, your supposition was correct. ‘Things are moving along nicely. Should have something for you to look over in the next day or two.’ Wow! That’s fast.” Eve took another sip of her wine and scrolled down. “There’s one from someone named Carol. ‘Sure you want to do this? Just saying, people here are getting pretty pissed off.’ Who’s Carol?”
“You met her. She was at my bachelorette party. Blond, frizzy hair, kinda dumpy—”
“The one who got shitfaced?”
“Yeah, that’s her. Works at the office. Think she’s lonely. Her husband dumped her, so she’s”—Maggie grimaced—“glommed onto me. Keeps texting.”
“Do you like her?”
“No. Not really, but I don’t dislike her. Feel sorry for her—”
“Then don’t reply. You’re too soft, Maggie.” Another sip and scroll. “Aaand then we have one from Luke. Ho, ho, ho! ‘Eve’s fine. Will talk later. Keep your doors locked.’” She looked at Maggie. “What the hell?”
“There was an incident . . .” So weird. Just saying the words out loud caused her body to start trembling. “Outside the gelato store.”
“Oh, sweetie. Are you all right?” Her sister rounded the counter and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “What kind of incident?”
“A car almost ran us over.”
“Jesus.”
“It could have been random, but just in case . . .” She exhaled, trying to dissipate the nerves that were jangling through her.
“We need to be aware and lock the doors.” Eve nodded.
“Yeah,” Maggie said.
* * *
• • •
LUKE LEANED BACK from his desk, phone against his ear. “There’s none?”
“That’s correct,” Jake said. “I ran our programs, cross-checked. There are zero Escalades with those pimped upgrades, black or any other color, registered in Solace.”
Luke drummed his fingers on the polished wood surface of his desk. “What about part-timers?”
“I checked that as well. I found two black extended models owned by part-time residents. One lives on Morningside Road and the other on Sunset. I’ve e-mailed you their addresses, copies of vehicle registrations, and driving records. Although, FYI, both owners are senior citizens, so fancy maneuvering like you described is probably not in their wheelhouse, and neither vehicle has the upgrades you mentioned.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
“No prob. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Will do,” Luke said, and hung up.
He sat for a moment longer. Then he picked up the phone and hit redial.
“Yep?” Jake said.
“Can you spare a couple guys?”
“You’re that concerned?” his brother asked.
“I don’t know.” Luke shook his head. “It’s a feeling. It could be nothing, but . . .”
“Ah, yes. The old feelings. I’ll send them out tonight.”
“Thanks, Jake. I appreciate it.”
“Who do you want?”
“Gunner and Colt available?”
“If you want them to be,” Jake replied.
“Yeah,” Luke said. “I want the best for Maggie and Eve, just in case.”
Twenty-nine
LUKE SET UP camp in the woods, directly behind the cottage. That way he had a clear view of the driveway, the front entrance and the back kitchen door, as well as the field, in case someone decided on a more stealthy approach. He and Samson were tucked down, nice and discreet, when Samson’s nose started twitching.
“What’s that, ol’ boy?” Luke asked.
Samson let out a soft, mournful woof.
“You seeing something?” Luke fli
pped his night-vision goggles down over his eyes and scanned the area. All was quiet. Then he realized what Samson was moaning about—the delicious aroma of comfort cooking drifting out of the cottage windows.
Samson nudged him with his snout as if to say, Come on, let’s go get some.
“No,” Luke replied. “We’ve got a job to do.”
Samson sighed heavily, looking at Luke from under his shaggy brows, his head cocked to one side.
“I know. I’m hungry, too,” Luke said, his stomach growling. “Odds are the driver of the tricked-out Escalade has a contract to take me out, not her. However, on the off chance . . .” Luke trailed off, shook his head. “A career low. Now I’m explaining my actions to a dog.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a handful of nuts, gave a couple to Samson and ate the rest.
There had been heavy rain the night before, which had blown out to sea by the morning. They had enjoyed a glorious day of sunshine, but now the moisture from the night’s downpour was seeping from the ground into the seat of Luke’s jeans. The damp cold and the drop in temperature weren’t doing his injury any favors.
He slowed his breathing, focused inward, and opened his senses. He leaned back against the thick bark of a Douglas fir, drawing strength from it and from the earth as he hunkered down to wait out the long night.
It was 2:18 a.m. He heard the low rumble of an engine, the sound of tires crunching as the vehicle slowly made its way down the gravel driveway. Luke sat up, every sense on high alert. The engine went quiet. But Luke could tell the car was still moving. Must have killed it and shifted to neutral, using the downward grade of the driveway to propel the SUV forward. Now he could see the dark shape of it gliding closer through the trees, the headlights off.
Damn, he thought, standing and shaking his leg to alleviate some of the stiffness that had set in. They are after Maggie. I’d hoped it was me.
