Tempting the Deputy
Page 7
The only problem was, Charlie was the opposite of domestic goddess material.
After growing up in a succession of boarding schools, she’d hit the road with her trusty Leica at eighteen, not long after her parents’ funeral—leaving Emily behind to rattle around their parents’ six-million pound Georgian town house in West Kensington on her own.
Emily rented the London house out now, and from her share of the proceeds, Charlie had been able to buy a chic little Brownstone apartment in Tribeca when she’d decided to establish a base in New York. But she had stayed there less than a month in total since her career had taken off—after her first major exhibition nabbed her a top-flight agent and a ton of commissions. She was always on the lookout for the next great shot, the next great adventure. Her nomadic lifestyle had not lent itself to learning much about cooking nutritious and delicious meals.
Truth was, she’d already used up her one serviceable supper recipe two nights ago with the Irish stew she’d learnt how to toss together while working in a pub one winter in Connemara.
Luckily, though, she knew how to read a recipe book, and she’d found her second secret weapon for Operation Chest Wax in a box of old books nesting in the bottom of her bedroom wardrobe. She hauled out the vintage cookbook from the drawer she’d stuffed it in that morning and propped it up against the kitchen window. Then leafed to the dog-eared page for Crispy Fried Chicken and Mashed Potatoes with Okra—the oil and flour stains on the yellowing pages marked the recipe out as a one-time family favorite.
She dug out the ingredients she’d bought in town. And read through the simple, straightforward instructions. Nothing too taxing, even for a novice domestic goddess. By the time Logan finally put in an appearance, she planned to have a plateful of comfort food at the ready to schmooze him into her home-waxing parlor.
As she measured out the flour and seasoning, she stared out of the kitchen window—the back porch light made the night look even darker. Locating a plastic bag to coat the chicken pieces, she switched off all the lights but the one in the pantry. Turning on the digital radio by the stove, Charlie twiddled the dial until Patsy Cline’s soulful, seductive voice cried about being Crazy from the speaker.
The stars appeared above the shadowy outline of the pine trees and the rocky edifice of Copper Mountain as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. As she cooked, she couldn’t seem to shake the fanciful image of Logan and Lyle’s mother standing here once upon a time, making Fried Chicken for her boys, and being as enchanted as Charlie by the Montana night.
*
Logan was beat and hungry enough to eat a whole cow. Dumping his hat and coat on the stand by the front door, he tugged his fingers through his hair.
Even so he’d debated helping out Tad and Ryan with the stock check tonight.
It was only a little after eight. And he’d run into Lyle in town heading to his guitar spot at FlintWorks. So he and Charlie would be alone here tonight.
He’d made this mess, by agreeing to let her stay here. But waking up before dawn and heading out onto the range without breakfast each morning, then taking every damn shift he could get from the Sheriff’s Office so he could stay out late into the evening wasn’t working. He still couldn’t stop thinking about her every damn minute of every damn day. All it was actually doing was making him tired and cranky and even more horny.
So tonight was the night to face the problem head on and deal with it—or he was going to end up falling off his horse.
But as he headed down the darkened hallway, the sound of Hank Williams crooning about his lonesome heart wrapped around him, accompanied by a scent he hadn’t smelled since he was a little kid.
His mom’s fried chicken.
He opened the door to the kitchen.
Charlie stood over the stove, the room lit by a couple of storm candles on the windowsill, plucking chicken pieces out of a hot skillet as she sung along with Hank in an off-key voice.
A long-forgotten memory sucker-punched him in the gut. Of his mom standing over the stove singing, her golden hair lit by the sunshine of a summer day, and his father tiptoeing into the room and winking at Logan, before wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist from behind and making her squeal.
For goodness’ sake, Randall, behave yourself. Go wash up.
The sound of his own childish giggles and Lyle’s echoed in his head, making his heart squeeze in his chest.
He reached over and snapped on the light switch.
“Jesus!” Charlie shouted as the tongs flew out of her hand and she spun round.
“Why are you cooking with the light off?” he asked, trying not to get fixated on the smudge of flour on her tank right over her left nipple. “You’ll burn yourself.”
“Bloody hell.” She pressed a palm to her breast as if trying to stop her heart jumping right out of her chest. “Forget burning myself. You nearly gave me a flipping heart attack.”
“Sorry.” His smile felt rusty but cut through his exhaustion—and the echo of old grief. Why did he get such a kick out of riling her?
Maybe it was the flash of heat it brought into those piercing green eyes. Or the way her staggered breathing molded the soft cotton of her top to her breasts.
Look away from the rack. Right now.
He forced his gaze up, to find her watching him.
“No you’re not,” she said. “I can see that sadistic smile from here, Deputy Hard-Ass.”
The nickname should have annoyed him, but the way she said it, with the lilt of wry amusement, made it seem like she was laughing with him not at him.
He stepped around her to get to the sink.
Act normal.
He blew out her candles as he washed up. And noticed the cookbook perched on the windowsill. “Where did you get that?”
“I found it in a box in my closet.” She picked the last of the chicken pieces out of the oil and his stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard over Johnny Cash going down, down, down into a ring of fire. “I decided to vary my repertoire,” she added. “There’s only so much stew a person can eat.”
“Smells good,” he said, and meant it. She seemed to have lost that prickly edge tonight. Her short curly hair tied back in a bandana, her eyes eager and excited.
“Wanna try out the result?” The shot of heat was inevitable when she picked up one of the golden crispy drumsticks and wrapped a piece of kitchen paper around the leg.
“Sure,” he croaked, the heat swelling uncomfortably in his crotch as she lifted the chicken to his lips. Without second-guessing himself, forgetting all his careful plans not to get too close, he wrapped his hand round her fingers and bit into the drumstick.
Peppery spices burst on his tongue, as he tore off the succulent meat. Her fingers trembled beneath his and she tugged her hand away.
He carried on chewing on the chicken leg as she watched him, her eyes dark and intense—the lust sparked between them like a living, breathing thing.
He didn’t look away, because he couldn’t. He wanted her. Had wanted her since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her through the lens of his Government-issued binoculars on I-89 if he were honest. And exhaustion, common sense, even the fact that she annoyed the hell out of him most of the time and confused him the rest of it, didn’t seem to matter. They weren’t pals, not like she appeared to be with Lyle. But then he didn’t want to be pals with her.
“What do you think?” she asked, when he’d finished chewing the last morsel of meat off the bone.
He swallowed, his throat thick with the desire to taste her as well as her fried chicken.
“Delicious,” he said, never taking his eyes off her. Letting her know he wasn’t just talking about the chicken. And not caring that if she looked down she’d see the totem pole in his pants.
“Good,” she said. “Because it’s supposed to be a bribe.”
“A bribe to do what?” Erotic images of tearing down that tank top and feasting on the nipples now poking against soft cotton made his voice so h
usky it sounded as if his larynx had been sandpapered.
Her pupils dilated to black, and he knew she wanted him too.
“A bribe to let me wax off your chest hair.”
He jolted and jerked back, the sexual spell broken as if she’d just drop-kicked him into the river flowing past the back porch.
“No way,” he said, his voice maybe louder than it needed to be when she blinked. “I agreed to have my picture taken for the calendar. Not to get sheared like a sheep.”
*
Charlie concentrated on switching off the gas under the skillet, and getting her rioting hormones under control.
Well, that hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.
Logan Tate looked livid now, as well as turned on—which hadn’t been her intention. Exactly.
In some small part of her brain, the part that could still function properly after watching him devour her fried chicken as if he wanted to devour her, she had been sure his objection to the waxing was because he did not want to be seen in a beauty parlor. She’d thought it was dumb, but some guys had hang-ups like that and she’d been willing to accommodate it. But from the way his whole body had stiffened as if she’d struck him, she knew his hostility to the idea went much, much deeper than misplaced machismo.
“Can I ask why it’s such a problem for you?” she said.
“Why does it matter if I’ve got hair on my chest? What the hell is the big deal? Because if this is payback for me picking you up on I-89 and escorting you into town so you didn’t freeze to damn death you already got payback for that. Posing for this calendar is way outside my comfort zone already, in case you hadn’t guessed.”
She hadn’t expected the admission from him. And it gave her pause. Truth was there had been an element of payback when she’d suggested the calendar in Grey’s that evening. But since working on it and hearing more about Harry Monroe—and having his mother Jodie stop her in the supermarket two days ago to thank her—she felt a bit ashamed about that. Maybe now would be a good time to tell Logan that. And explain the waxing wasn’t just so she could torment him—even if tormenting him had been kind of fun.
“You’re right,” she admitted. “There was an element of payback in Grey’s. I wanted to annoy you, but it’s not like that now. I’m not doing this to get your goat. My reasons for suggesting waxing aren’t personal.”
“You still haven’t told me what those reasons are,” he said, the edge not having dulled in the least.
She sighed, and tucked her hands into the back pocket of her jeans. She could tease him and flirt with him until the early hours, because sex, the desire for sex, was a basic natural instinct that she had never denied. But talking about her work always made her feel exposed, because it was like talking about an essential part of herself. And she never usually let anyone get close enough to know any part of the real her. But from the scowl on his face, she could see she was going to have to get through her usual discomfort and give him something more.
“Okay, why do I want bare skin? The reasons are twofold. Firstly, it’s a convention—not necessarily one I agree with, because I think chest hair is very hot.” She stumbled over the words. “But much more important for me, bare skin feels more intimate. It’s more naked, with nothing to hide behind. And without the hair I can control the play of light in the shot better. It gives defined lines and contours in the composition. I sincerely believe that human anatomy is beautiful—however hairy, wrinkled, scarred, or tattooed it is. But for the purposes of this project, I want to show strong healthy men in their prime. I want to show that beauty in its purest, most idealized form. That’s the vision I have for these images. I want them to be real but also romantic.”
He absorbed what she was saying. She felt a little light-headed at the intense concentration on his face, until she remembered to breathe.
He looked away from her, to stare out of the kitchen window. He lifted a hand to his chest, to rub a knuckle into his pec while he considered his answer. It was an automatic gesture, one she was sure he was unaware of. She’d noticed him do it once before in Grey’s.
Eventually he turned back. “I’m still not going to do it.”
The rejection felt like a blow, and she wasn’t sure why. This wasn’t personal after all.
“Why not? Listen if you’re worried about me doing it, I got detailed instructions from Kelsey at Main Street Style. Plus I’ve read the instructions in the home-waxing kit. And if we do it here, you have the added benefit that no one will hear you scream.”
“Except you,” he said and she couldn’t tell if he was joking.
“I promise not to tell,” she said, hoping to lift the mood. Because it suddenly felt way too intense. “Please, Logan, this is important to me… And to the project. I wouldn’t ask you otherwise.”
“I know, but I can’t do it.”
“Why not?” she demanded. He still hadn’t given her a coherent answer.
“Because no one’s going to want to look at my chest without the hair on it.”
“Of course they will. Why wouldn’t they?” she said, her gaze drifting over the contours of sinew and muscle under his T-shirt. Was he mad? His chest was going to be as gorgeous as the rest of him. Did the guy have body dysmorphia? “All the other guys have agreed to do it. Why won’t you?”
“Yeah, well all the other guys don’t have a scar on their chest that would scare the damn horses.” He spat out the words, then let his hand drop, as if he’d just realized what he was doing.
She stared at him. Seriously, they’d had this whole argument because of his vanity? “That’s why you don’t want to lose the hair? Because you’ve got a scar on your chest?” A scar that was probably as insanely hot as the rest of him.
“That’s what I said isn’t it.”
“How big is it? Can I see it?”
*
Damn it, she is not going to let this drop.
“To hell with it.” Gripping the hem of his T-shirt, Logan ripped it out of his jeans and tugged it up his torso. He stood, waiting for her to recoil.
She drew close—then took forever to inspect the mark.
Humiliation washed through him. Even with the smattering of hair disguising the scar it looked ugly. He knew exactly how ugly, because it greeted him every time he stepped out of the shower in the morning and wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror to shave.
Gentle fingertips touched the burned flesh, smoothing the hair away and his pec jumped. The surge of heat into his crotch at her exploration only made his humiliation increase.
Finally the torture stopped and she withdrew her hand. “How old is it?” she asked.
He dropped his shirt, tucked the tail back beneath his belt so he wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. “I’ve had it a while,” he murmured, not about to tell her he’d had the thing since he was ten years old.
“I don’t think it’s ugly at all,” she said.
That got his attention.
He’d always had to wear a T-shirt when he went swimming in the creek as a kid. Had made endless excuses about this mark and others, so no one would ever know about what went on after his mother had died. And now she was telling him it wasn’t that bad. Was she blind?
“I know it’s gross; you don’t have to patronize me.”
“I’m not patronizing you, Logan. It’s not that big. I think maybe you’re oversensitive about it. Believe me, no one is going to be put off by that scar. If anything it makes you even more intriguing.”
She thought the scar was intriguing? How intriguing would she find it, if she discovered how he’d gotten it?
“I don’t care. I’m still not waxing my chest. I don’t want everyone looking at it.” Because the scar represented his silent shame.
The silent shame he had kept secret from everyone throughout so much of his childhood and adolescence. Not just his teachers, but also all the folks in Marietta, all his friends in elementary school and middle school and Marietta High. Even his own kid brother.
“I don’t want to be intriguing,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to see it.” Maybe it was irrational. But he’d spent so much of his life hiding the truth from everyone—lying and pretending that everything was great when it wasn’t. Covering his father’s tracks—his moods and his meanness—until the drinking had gotten so bad Logan had spent most nights as a teenager dragging his father out of the Wolf Den and pretending to the other deadbeat clientele there he found his old man’s endless tirades and pity parties amusing.
He’d once admired his father so much. He’d hero-worshipped the guy as a young boy. The way he’d adored his mother. But Ellie Tate’s sudden death had broken her husband and, at eight years old, Logan had been left to pick up the pieces. To hold things together for his kid brother Lyle, who at four had no idea why his daddy shouted so much, and never smiled anymore.
He didn’t want people to see the scar—because it would mean all that work and effort, all those lies and half-truths, all those lonely, terrifying nights when he lay in bed, his body weeping from the latest beating—would have been for nothing. If anyone saw the mark they would know his father had once held him down and branded him like a piece of cattle.
The biggest shame of all was that he’d been glad when his father had finally died. Glad that he could bury Randall Tate in the town cemetery alongside the woman he had loved, and never again have to take another cuff, or slap or kick or cussword from the cruel, heartless, broken man he had become.
“If you don’t want anyone to see it, we can always photoshop it.” Charlie’s soft words interrupted the dark thoughts.