“Carnage?” Angel echoed, still holding on to her fry. “Exactly what kind of carnage?”
“Flock of gulls,” Mr. Michaelson replied. He reached for one of the hand-rolled cigarettes tucked behind his ear. “I’m an explosives expert, you know, came to the Sur as a young man to work on the highway.”
Well, then. Angel bit into her fry—nirvana—and made some fast calculations. Highway 1 had been built with prison labor and completed in 1937. If Mr. Michaelson was speaking the truth, he was well into his eighties and a former convict to boot.
“What exactly does it take to be an explosives expert?” she asked, reaching for another fry.
In blatant disregard for California’s no-smoking laws, Mr. Michaelson pulled out some matches and lit up. “Can’t be afraid of fire, young lady,” he said around his cigarette, then drew deeply on it.
Angel glanced over, then stared as bits of flaming tobacco and cigarette paper fell, catching on his beard. The grizzled hair started to smolder.
“Uh…” She gestured toward the smoke.
He cackled and casually batted at the tiny blaze. “See what I mean? You can’t be afraid of fire.”
Someone slid onto the empty stool on Angel’s other side. “Are you trying to impress the women again, Dale?”
Cooper. At the sound of his voice, Angel’s breath caught. Determined to hide her reaction, she gave him a mere glance. But that’s all it took for something—okay, lust—to hit her bloodstream like a jolt of adrenaline. The rush made her light-headed, but she couldn’t look away.
She was accustomed to seeing him in the usual Sur-wear—jeans or baggy shorts, T-shirt, heavy boots. But this evening he was dressed city-slick, in a pair of black slacks and a form-fitting pullover that was summer-blue and just had to be out of a silk Italian knit. Post-heart-attack clothes, was her first thought, because they fit him to a T.
Her second thought was that he had a date.
Dale Michaelson leaned around Angel to talk to Cooper. “Is this your woman, then, Cooper? You scared of a little competition?”
Angel frowned, turning away from Cooper to draw her plate of fries closer. “I’m my own woman, Mr. Michaelson.”
The old man cackled again. “There. She told you, Coop. But me, I was telling her about that flock of seagulls we accidentally bar-bee-cued in ’52. They started one of our big wildfires too—not as big as that one just twenty years back, but almost. But boy-howdy, did those birds smell good when we cooked ’em.”
He broke off and pointed with his cigarette at the bartender, who once more pushed through the door from the kitchen, Angel’s burger in her hand. “Better than Maggie’s Fourth of July chicken special,” he said.
Eww. Angel allowed herself a small shudder, but then drummed up her reporter’s objectivity and forced the image out of her mind as the fat, juicy burger was set in front of her. Stacked with lettuce, tomato, pickles, and onions, then cut in half, the burger’s meat steamed with fragrant, flagrant temptation. Angel lifted the top bun to add a helping of ketchup and mustard.
“That’ll kill you, you know,” Cooper said, leaning close to her ear.
The skin on the side of her neck goosebumped. “But whatta way to go,” she retorted, without lifting her gaze from her food. No sense in giving herself another chance to stare at him, or Cooper another chance to see how he could so easily capture her.
“Now, I heard that, Cooper,” Maggie-the-bartender scolded. She leaned one ample hip against the counter behind her and gave him a mock frown. “There’s no call for you to discourage business.”
He grinned. “Maybe I just want a partner in my new misery, Mag. Who was always your best customer?”
“You,” she said. “When we could pry you away from the city.”
“And that’s exactly where I found Coop,” Mr. Michaelson put in, ash drifting from his cigarette to the bartop this time. “Just like I told you, young lady. The first person I called after the sheriff was Cooper’s big-city law office.”
“What?” Cooper folded his arms on the top of the bar and squinted through the cigarette smoke at the old man. “What is it you told Angel?”
Maggie answered for Mr. Michaelson, thankfully keeping it short but sweet. “About Stephen.”
Ignoring a little clutch in her stomach, Angel clapped the top of the bun on one half of the burger, then went to work on the other.
“Told her how the truck blew him right out of his shoes,” Mr. Michaelson said. “Pair a size-eleven Nikes.”
Her stomach clutched again and she fell back on her little mantra.
subject of a story subject of a story subject of a story
Breathing deeply, steadily, Angel picked up her hamburger.
“Recognized all that blond hair of his, course,” the old man continued. “But not much else.”
Her fingers tightened on the burger, squirting ketchup out the side.
subject of a story subject of a story subject of a story
“Jesus, Dale,” Cooper muttered. He leaned closer to Angel. “You all right, honey?”
subject of a story subject of a story subject of a story
“You all right?” he asked again.
“Of course.” She jerked a shoulder, hunching it to create a barrier between them. “I’m a journalist. Details are my job.”
“Angel—”
“Don’t you dare think I can’t handle it.”
In third grade, the other boys at her new school had tortured her for months by scaring her at every opportunity. They’d said she screamed like a girl, so she’d toughened up, learned not to make a sound, not to blink, even when she found crickets in her lunch-box and snails squished between the pages of her binder.
Angel put her elbows on the bar and brought her sandwich to her mouth.
“I told her I think he must have flown forty feet.”
She closed her eyes, not sure whether the old man had actually said the words again or if she was just recalling them. It was her father who had been hit by the truck. He’d flown forty feet through the air, flown right out of his shoes. Blond hair. Her father. Blood.
Tired of the penny-ante stuff, one day the third-grade bullies had cornered her on the walk home from school. They’d grabbed her backpack, stuffed what they claimed was a dead, bloodied cat inside, then shoved it back into her arms.
Now, like then, she’d heard herself screaming, high and girlish. Now, like then, the sound was only in her head. On the outside she was calm, cool, collected, just as she’d been that day. Tough. Strong. She’d rescued herself.
“Angel?”
“What?” She knew she still held the half-hamburger a few inches from her mouth, but she couldn’t take a bite quite yet.
“Honey,” Cooper said. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“Ghost,” she echoed. Suddenly the word made her want to giggle, but Angel Buchanan was too tough to giggle. That’s right. She was as tough as she needed to be.
The “cat” had turned out to be a bundle of dirty red rags dipped in molasses, but it was one of her ghosts, a part of her past that wouldn’t quit haunting her. That “cat” and the man, the father, who had died a few miles from here. She couldn’t forget him either.
But had he ever remembered her?
Her fingers loosened and her hamburger dropped to her plate.
“Maggie.” Cooper’s hand clamped on Angel’s upper arm and he spun her toward him. “Bring tea. Hot tea with lots of sugar.”
Then he shook her arm. “Are you sick?”
“Of course not.” She stared at the middle of his chest. Right there, under that pretty-colored Italian knit, he had a scar, because Cooper was tough too, too tough to die, despite two heart attacks. “I don’t want tea. Sick of tea.”
“We’re getting out of here, then.” He hauled her to her feet, his touch not the least bit gentle. She stared down at his shiny loafers.
Nikes. Flew right out of his size-eleven Nikes, she thought.
And swaye
d.
“Christ,” Cooper said under his breath. He shifted to slide his arm around her. But he was tall and she was short and so his hand brushed against the side of her breast. “Christ.”
More prickles, hot, skittered toward her nipple, snapping Angel out of her strange reverie. She pulled free of Cooper’s hold and shoved her shoulders back. “I’m fine. I—” Turning to find her purse, her gaze landed on the abandoned, ketchup-drenched hamburger instead.
Her stomach rolled. Then, though he hadn’t said a word, she forced her gaze toward Cooper. “Don’t you dare think I can’t handle it.”
“Of course you can handle it.” His voice was soothing and he slipped his hand beneath her elbow as if he could tell her knees felt mushy.
Which they didn’t.
“Just let me help you—”
“I don’t need any help! I never need any help.” She put her hand on her forehead. “I have a headache, that’s all. Too many vegetables give me a headache.”
He had her purse. She snatched it from him, the abrupt movement nearly overbalancing her. He caught her again, pulled her toward him. “Let’s dance. Someone just put a quarter in the jukebox. It’s my favorite song.”
Angel listened for a moment. “‘Hakuna Matata’ is your favorite song?” she asked, incredulous. “‘Hakuna Matata’ from The Lion King?”
“Shh.” He pushed her head against his shoulder. “It’s our song now.”
“Our song is a duet by a rodent and a pig,” she muttered. “That’s perfect, just perfect.”
But she leaned into him because, after all, she had that headache. Not to mention that “Hakuna Matata” had an engaging beat and she didn’t remember the last time she’d been dancing, or the last time she’d smelled a delicious man’s cologne on real male skin instead of on a peel-and-sniff sample in GQ.
Holding her close, his chin against her cheek, Cooper began to hum. He was a hummer! The slight vibration of it buzzed against her temple.
It made Angel snuggle closer. She was a whistler in the dark herself, so she felt a certain kinship to hummers. Though she bolstered her bravado with a Seven Dwarves–type tune in times of trouble, hummers did their thing to express their contentment.
Angel closed her eyes. It was kind of nice to think Cooper was contented with her in his arms.
Shutting off everything else, she floated on that thought, nearly slumping in his arms, as he did all the moving for them both. In that warm haze, a sudden slap of cool, fresh air came as quite a shock. Her eyes popped open and she realized he’d hustled her outside and was now unlocking the passenger door of his SUV.
She blinked. “What are you doing? I—I have my own car.”
He took her purse from her and threw it inside. “We’ll get it tomorrow.”
“No—What the heck are you doing?” Instead of listening to her, he’d picked her up and placed her on the seat. “I have my own—” The door slammed in her face.
She was more puzzled than angry when he slid into the driver’s seat. “What’s going on?”
“When was the last time you ate?” he demanded.
“The last time I ate?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. What does that—”
“I have a wet sock that weighs more than you do,” he said, his voice tight, almost angry. “I didn’t see you in the dining room for breakfast or lunch today, and then you almost fainted back there. You were nearly comatose on the dance floor, for God’s sake. I’m taking you back to Tranquility and getting you something to eat before you fall on your face.”
She pointed back toward the tavern. “I have a meal—”
“No.”
She tried again. “My hamburger—”
His impatient gesture cut her off. “Don’t play games with me. You don’t want to eat that.”
“But—”
“For God’s sake, give a little here, Angel. Let me take care of you. If just this once.”
If just this once. Angel eyed his determined expression. If she looked at the situation objectively, she was hungry, and tired, and tired of fighting. Him. Herself. “All right.”
Letting someone else take the reins for a short while didn’t mean she would lose complete control.
Together, they raided the Tranquility kitchen. Well, Cooper raided and Angel was waited upon. It was nice, she decided, and even nicer when he was sitting across the narrow table from her, sharing eggplant lasagne leftovers. When she pushed her plate away, he did too.
Lulled by a full stomach, she smiled at him.
“We forgot something,” he said, his voice soft.
She gave him a lazy smile. “What’s that?”
He reached out with both hands, fisting them into her hair to draw her forward. Her reflexes had been lulled too, because they didn’t even protest.
“Dessert,” he said against her mouth.
Chapter 9
Yes, dessert, Cooper thought, as Angel’s mouth softened beneath his. She tasted hot and sweet and like something he didn’t want to skip. Not tonight.
He lifted his head to catch his breath. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her lips already reddened by his. She’d been driving him nuts during the last week, coming and going from the retreat in her city dresses and city skirts, looking purposeful—God, how he envied her purposefulness. And looking pretty. Looking so damn pretty.
He’d stayed away from her, telling himself to accept his monklike existence and refusing to indulge in fantasies of laying slabs of beef jerky at her high-heeled feet. But hell, he’d given up nicotine, caffeine, and the adrenaline of his work. Surely that proved he had enough control over his appetites to safely allow himself a longer taste of her.
“Come here,” he said, drawing his fingers through her hair. “Come over here to me.”
“To you,” she echoed, blinking slowly.
“Here, to me.” He wouldn’t risk anywhere more comfortable, because he was giving himself permission for just a taste, after all. Her hand lay limply on the tabletop, so he took it and tugged. “To me, honey.”
Even as she rose, a wrinkle appeared between her golden, feathery eyebrows. “I don’t know if this is a good idea….”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said, knowing he would only go so far and no further. “Remember, just this once you’re letting me take care of you.”
With a little sigh, she allowed him to draw her down onto his lap. Even after he’d fed her, she weighed nothing, and her fragrant hair was just more weight-lessness that tickled his chin. For a moment he was still, merely enjoying the warmth of her in his arms. He breathed in and out steadily, keenly aware of the moment. Of living in this warm, woman-in-his-arms moment.
It was almost enough.
But then she shifted and the slinky skirt she was wearing edged up on her knees. His pulse jumped and he ran his hand down her thigh to find her bare skin.
Her breath caught and she looked up, and then he had to kiss her. He intended to take it slow, to give himself plenty of time to enjoy her before drawing the interlude to a close. But Angel was the very devil of a temptation. Her mouth opened beneath his, and he had to steel himself not to give in and plunge inside. Instead, he kissed the corners, the bow of her upper lip, the tender center of the bottom one.
She moaned, but he shut his ears to the demand in the sound and repeated the baby kisses, lingering on that bottom lip, then drawing it between his to suck. His hand was cupping one of her bare knees, and as he sucked more strongly, her other knee clamped tight, trapping his fingers between her legs. Oh, she liked that.
But she wanted more, he knew it, because her fingers speared through his hair, her nails scraping erotically against his scalp. She drew his head closer and he surrendered, releasing her lower lip to slide his tongue into her mouth.
Now they both moaned.
Reminding himself he was supposed to go slow, that he was supposed to savor the little he was going to have of her, he rubbed his tongue against hers, then lifted his head.
> “No.” Her fingernails bit into his scalp.
He smiled. “I’ll do it again, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worrying.” Apparently even tough girls could sulk.
He laughed, then fisted his hand in her hair and drew back her head. “You have the prettiest neck,” he said, nuzzling along the line of her jaw, then licking toward her pulsepoint. “I’ve been wanting to taste it since the day we met.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes closed.
He smiled against her skin, taking his time to reacquaint himself with female flesh, how smooth it was, how his attention warmed it, how that warmth deepened the scent of enticing, feminine perfume. He explored Angel’s throat until his chin brushed the little ruffle around the top edge of the lacy sleeveless top she wore. Lifting his head, he tried not to notice the line of buttons that ran toward her waist.
That way led to disaster.
He’d learned a lot about settling for less in the past year. Though he was still working on total acceptance, he was accustomed to paring down his expectations. So he knew this would have to do. Little touches, little tastes, just enough to keep the hunger at bay and not enough to make him greedy for more.
He kissed her bare shoulder, her chin, then allowed himself her lips again. Angel instantly widened her mouth, but instead of taking all that was offered, he just dipped inside.
Little touches, little tastes. Satisfied he was under control, he ventured a bit farther.
Then Angel sucked on his tongue.
He groaned. Oh God. God. Good good good.
As her mouth was taking its pleasure, her hand slid down his chest. He didn’t have the will to stop her from finding her way beneath his shirt. His stomach muscles jumped as her warm hand slid along his ribs. He tried to ignore the way his heart jumped too.
But the unsettling sensation made him desperate to distract her, so he covered one of her breasts with his palm. She froze, then her mouth released his. Gazes locked, they stared at each other. Both of them were breathing hard, and each of her quick inhales pushed her soft flesh into his hand.
Do Not Disturb Page 12
