“Admirable.” She linked her fingers with his. “I guess I keep forgetting that your mama was from Sweetwater.”
“Born and raised. She made a place for herself in the city, but she never really pulled out those roots.”
“Sometimes they’re entrenched.”
“And sometimes they get bound, and need to be transplanted so they can breathe again.”
She studied his face. “Are you breathing again, Tucker?”
“Starting to.” He kissed their linked fingers. And when that surprise flickered again, went with instinct. “Tell me about your family.”
“My… why?”
“Because I haven’t bothered to ask. Because I was determined to think that the other branches on a person’s family tree didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the direction their own grows. But when you share the same root system, it matters. Even when you don’t want it to.”
“I guess you’re right.” She sat her wine aside. “You met my brother. What you see with Noah is what you get. He’s hardworking, forthright, nobody’s fool. And he has a streak of loyalty as wide as the river. My father…” she drew a deep breath. “I mentioned he was the town alcoholic. And for a while that was true. We lived thin after my mama died, and occasionally just a little rough. But he fought his way back. He’s one of the strongest men I know. My mother was… bright, I guess is the best word. Bright hair, bright smile, bright outlook. We lost her to ovarian cancer when I was ten. And it was like a light went out.”
“You take after her.”
“So they say. Although that outlook part is debatable.”
He thought of her setting up shop in a town that seemed to hold as many bad memories for her as good ones. And busting her tail to make it thrive. “Seems to me you find a way to make things work for you.”
“That’s… nice, Tucker.”
“I’m a nice guy.”
She laughed. “No, you’re not. But you’re honest, which is better.”
“Glad you think so. Because I’m going to be honest, and tell you that I have plans that involve you and this very ugly table.”
“You mean this table that your ex built?”
“Designed. And you don’t have to worry that we already christened it. Her creativity didn’t extend to that area.”
She frowned at the table. “Maybe you should be grateful.”
When he grinned, leaned forward, she slapped a hand against his chest. “You have shrimp that need to be boiled.”
“They’ll wait.”
He plunked her onto the table.
“You were serious.”
“Of course I was.” He started yanking at the row of tiny buttons on her long-sleeved shirt. “Don’t think I don’t know why you wore this.”
“Modesty?”
“Perversity. I told you to wear something easy. Screw it.” He took the fabric into his hands, and ripped.
“Hey!” She protested as buttons rained down onto the table, scattered across the wood floor. But then his mouth was on her, warm and wet and skilled.
“I’ll buy you another shirt,” he murmured against her breast.
Her hands remained trapped in her sleeves when he tumbled her back, pushed at her skirt. And when he set that clever mouth to the juncture of her thighs, added a layer of helplessness to the arousal.
“God. Wait.” She fought with the shirt, fought desperation. She needed her hands on him.
“No.” He licked and sucked at her through the silky fabric. The gentle scrape of his teeth was an almost unbearable thrill. By the time she got her hands free, pressed her fingers into the thick muscle of his shoulders, the orgasm slammed through her in one long, erotic gush.
When she finally blinked her eyes open, it was to find his face tipped close to hers.
“You’re beautiful.” He ran a hand through her hair, watched it drip like rain through his fingers. “Have I told you that yet?”
He hadn’t. Probably because she wasn’t beautiful. She was clever and smart and maybe even sexy when she made an effort. But he tucked her hair behind her shoulder, slipped one fingertip over the curve of her breast.
And Sarah felt beautiful.
He pulled her to him, mouths barely touching so that his breath feathered her face, soft and warm and… sweet. This was sweet and romantic, and so not what she expected from him.
He wasn’t what she expected.
Sarah’s chest tightened, and she went a little dizzy. His palms were big and rough where they skimmed her shoulders, brushed her thighs. When he slid her underwear down her hips, it caused a thousand little aches of need. The kiss spun out, deeper, longer, undoing her knot by knot. Just when she was in danger of unraveling, he pulled away, and watching her, shed his clothes.
His eyes were smoke, hot and dark. He wrapped her hair around his fist, held her captive as he thrust into her. It was primal and shocking and… right.
When he let his forehead drop to hers, she drew in his breath with her gasp.
“Again,” he murmured, and kissed her. “Again.”
He moved easily, almost languidly now, and she found it effortless to match his rhythm. To touch and taste as he had. To sigh. He rolled with her, carefully, until she rose over him on the hard table. But it was softness she saw in his expression, softness she felt as she drifted down to him again and again.
The dying rays of daylight streaked through the window, set the air around them to flame.
She savored it. Savored him.
Until he murmured “You’re killing me,” digging his fingers into her hips. Not to urge her faster. But to maintain his own slippery control.
He trembled, and the pleasure of it, of driving a strong man to the brink, pushed her to ride him to peak.
Tucker whispered her name as he spilled himself into her, and Sarah felt herself give.
Far more than she’d ever intended.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ALLIE tried to work up some enthusiasm for the band, who were doing a pretty decent rendition of Carolina Girls. But her head seemed to pound in time with the drums. Will had finally rousted Harlan from some dive on one of the outlying islands. It was always worse than when he allowed him to wander home on his own. Harlan was belligerent and defensive. Will was disgusted and pissed off. The past couple of days had been like being trapped with two snarling Rottweilers in a gilded cage.
She’d needed air. Needed to pretend everything was normal and fine. Needed to forget that her father was fading away before her eyes, that Harlan was drinking himself to death. That Will was overworked. That Bran was bored and restless.
And she needed to prove to herself, she thought, as she watched Wesley take a turn around the grassy lawn, swaying his body in time with a redhead Allie recognized as the assistant librarian, that she had moved on. That she was satisfied with her new life just the way she’d made it.
She had work that she enjoyed, good friends. If she hadn’t had a date in the past six months, that was okay. She didn’t need a man – particularly a man who, at the core of it, had been using her – to be happy.
Allie pressed a hand to her jumpy stomach, and considered going home. It was ridiculous for a woman who’d been raised to graciously entertain the local movers and shakers to be nervous about a casual gathering in the park.
She’d nearly balked when she realized she’d be coming alone, because Sarah would be occupied with Tucker. But she wasn’t twelve, for God’s sake, and this wasn’t a middle school dance. The idea that she’d come to rely so heavily on her friend had her girding her loins, and donning a flirty red polka-dotted dress.
Now she just felt like an over-dressed wall flower.
The dancers twirled past her, laughing, and Allie felt a hot spurt of anger. Not at the librarian. She had nothing against DeeDee MacKenna, and certainly no longer had a claim on the man who held her so close in his arms. She wasn’t even angry with Wesley.
No, she was angry with herself.
“Hello
.”
The pounding moved from her head straight to her heart. Which was foolish, she told herself as she turned, met Mason’s brilliant smile. Just foolish.
“Hi.” So much for clever repartee.
It was just that he was so handsome. The setting sun turned his hair a fiery gold, made his eyes glow bronze as aged whiskey. The slightly shaggy hair, the unshaven cheeks only served to highlight that perfect male beauty.
And more, so much more, was what lay behind it. Most men, if given his looks, would be bowling women over like ten pins. Or they’d be cool and aloof, maybe cynical.
They certainly wouldn’t be wasting their time taking a casual acquaintance’s car into the shop, holding her hand as he walked her home in the rain.
Or smiling at her on the fringes of a small-town concert, when all they had to do was snap their fingers, and leave with nearly any woman they chose.
When his brow lifted, she realized that she was staring. “I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”
“Sort of a last minute decision. I figured the lovebirds needed room to smooth their ruffled feathers. I quite like your dress.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
He stroked a finger over one wide strap, let it linger just above the sweetheart neckline. “Very retro nineteen-fifties.”
“Ah.” She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. “Um, are you enjoying the music?” she asked inanely.
“Indeed.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he considered the stage which had been erected beneath the twisted boughs of an ancient oak. “It’s better than I expected, actually.”
“This band is good.” They’d been on the short list for playing at her reception. The lead singer was a client of Wesley’s. “They’ve certainly inspired lots of people to get out there and dance.”
Those intoxicating eyes lit with humor. “You mean shag. Which, by the way, has a far different meaning where I come from.”
“Oh. Right.” She felt heat creep up her neck.
He turned his attention to the crowd, where a little cheer had gone up when the band launched into “Summertime’s Calling Me.”
“Sounds like a popular number.” He slid her a sideways glance. “Shall we shag now or later baby?”
It took her a moment, but then the laugh simply bubbled out of her throat. Several people turned to look their way, but Allie was too busy smiling at Mason to pay attention. All he needed was a bad wig and fake teeth, and he could give Mike Meyers a run for his money. “You do that really well. The accent.”
“I am British, darling.”
“No. I mean yes, of course you are, but the… intonation or something is different. You hit it dead on.”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I’m clever with that sort of thing. Do you? Shag, that is?”
She had to remind herself he was referring to the dance. “I know how to, certainly.” Was that flirtatious tone coming from her? “In fact, I guess you could say it’s the sort of thing with which I’m clever.”
When he chuckled, obviously delighted, Allie considered it a small, personal triumph.
Mason held out a hand. “Care to teach me?”
She glanced at where Wesley stood, flirting with the redhead. “You know what? I’d love to.”
DEEDEE MacKenna swung her arms as she walked home from the concert. Although walking wasn’t quite the appropriate term for her manner of locomotion. She was floating.
The warm night air seemed a cushion beneath her feet, carrying her on its languid current.
Wesley Beaumont.
She’d danced most of the night away with Wesley Beaumont. And better – so much better – he’d kissed her beneath the sprawling limbs of one of the oak trees at the edge of the park. She knew, knew, that if she’d accepted his offer to walk her home, he’d not only be walking with her right now, but almost certainly would be spending the night.
DeeDee closed her eyes and sighed.
She’d admired – okay, lusted after – Wesley the entire time he’d been engaged to Allison Hawbaker. And couldn’t deny she’d been overjoyed when that relationship went south.
Not that she had anything against Allie.
But Wesley was just so… mmmm. There was something about a man in horn-rimmed glasses and a high quality pinstriped suit.
DeeDee was confident she’d be getting him out of that pinstriped suit soon enough. She could have had him out of it – or rather out of the casual slacks and loose shirt he’d been wearing tonight – if she were simply after a quick tumble.
But DeeDee’s thirtieth birthday had come and gone last month, and the fact was she was looking for a relationship with a little more longevity. Of the permanent variety.
Sweetwater wasn’t a particularly large town, though it had its share of eligible bachelors. Some of them being more eligible than most.
With that in mind, she’d considered making a play for Tucker Pettigrew after she’d seen him in the library. But it seemed that he was already hooked up. DeeDee furrowed her brow as she took a shortcut across the shadowy corner of the playground, skirting the empty swings, her high heeled sandals sinking into the soft sand beneath her feet. Probably for the best, anyway. Despite his pedigree, the man seemed a bit… rough around the edges. Which might be exciting if she were interested in that quick tumble, but as far as long-term prospects went, she preferred her men to be a little more… manageable.
Like Wesley. Wesley’s edges were smooth indeed. So, she was spending the night alone because she figured the first step to managing Wesley was to draw the chase out a little. Men liked a good challenge, after all. Maybe tomorrow she could –
The arm came out of nowhere, pulled her roughly back against a big body. A hard hand clamped over her mouth before she could even draw the breath to scream. Panic exploded in her chest, her heart beating so hard against her ribs that she swore she heard them cracking,
“Well, well,” said a low voice, the words hot against her ear as the scent of him – sweat, stale smoke and the pungent stench of alcohol – seemed to clog her nose. “What’s that word I’m thinking of? Come on, help me out here. You’re the one with the fancy vocabulary. Oh yeah.” The arm around her middle tightened to the point of pain. “Déjà vu.”
DeeDee couldn’t make sense of the words, couldn’t think clearly enough to really try. Instinct ruled, and she struggled against the man’s hold, throwing her head back so that it smashed into his nose.
“Ouch. Bitch.”
She was suddenly flying forward, pitched to the ground. Her head struck the metal pole which held the swings, the pain so bright and hot it was like a lightning bolt through her brain.
Then the man was on her, his heavy weight pushing her into the ground, knocking the breath from her lungs.
She couldn’t breathe. Terror clawed at her, a living thing, even as her vision wavered and doubled. Then the hand clamped over her mouth again, wrenched her head to the side.
Struggling to pull air into her deflated lungs, she blurrily watched the man’s eyes narrow through the slits of the black stocking mask he wore.
“Who the hell are you?”
Through the panic, the pain, a tendril of hope began to wrap around her brain, pull together her scattered thoughts. This was a mistake, somehow. Just a mistake.
“DeeDee,” she said, her voice no more than a faint croak. “I’m DeeDee.”
The weight lifted, and DeeDee found herself being studied as she was rolled over onto her back.
“DeeDee,” the voice said, his tone almost companionable. He gathered up her hair, seeming transfixed by it as he wrapped it around his gloved fist.
When he used that fist to slam her head against the metal pole again, hope fell away as the pain roared back, tenfold. “Well, DeeDee. You’re not who I was expecting, but I guess you’ll just have to do.”
WILL pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard.
He would have liked to say that the gesture helped, but it did nothing t
o alleviate the throbbing ache behind his eyes.
And it certainly didn’t do anything to help DeeDee MacKenna. Having left the hospital, where he’d been unable to talk to the woman, as she’d been whisked into surgery to relieve swelling on her brain, Will pulled his cruiser to the curb alongside the playground. In the harsh glare from the lights which had been set up around the perimeter of the crime scene, he saw Bascomb and Miller collecting evidence. Being a small town, the department budget didn’t run to a separate forensic team, but one of the first things he’d done as acting chief was to beef up training and continuing education. Given the constant changes in technology, the rising tensions these days between law enforcement and the communities they served, Will considered that a wiser investment than the armored vehicles and militaristic toys of which other police departments seemed so fond.
Will climbed out of the vehicle, made his way carefully toward the swings so as not to disturb the scene. Well, to disturb it as little as possible, he amended, frowning at the sand that shifted beneath his feet. Talk about your frustrating crime scenes. Public parks weren’t exactly known for having a shortage of fingerprints, random fibers, hairs and other debris to confuse the evidence collection as much as possible.
“Chief,” Bascomb said by way of greeting when she saw Will headed in her direction. Her caramel-colored skin seemed to have tightened over her cheekbones, and her dark eyes held questions.
“She’s in surgery,” Will said. “Might be some time before we can speak with her. The doctors won’t know the extent of the brain injury until they get the swelling down.”
“Bastard,” Bascomb breathed, and Will knew she meant the man who’d inflicted such grievous injuries rather than himself.
“Indeed. What do we have?”
“Blood.” She gestured toward the base of the swings, where the metal pole and the ground beneath it were both liberally stained. “Plenty of it, but that’s not surprising given the way head wounds tend to bleed. I’d like to think that some of it is the perp’s, that she got in a few good punches or at least scratched the hell out of him, but given that the only thing under her nails was sand, I don’t think it’s likely. But that’s for the lab to determine. Hair,” she held up one if the plastic evidence bags she’d already labeled. “Matches the victim’s length and color. A button, again appears to match the ones on the blouse worn by the victim. But I’m just getting started, really. If he left anything of himself behind, I’ll find it.”
Mr. Write (Sweetwater) Page 23
