Falling for the Enemy

by Samanthe Beck

  For some inexplicable reason, he found himself circling back to her question. “I have a friend in Cincinnati who also used to be with the SEALs. He’s the technical guy. I went to see him today, explained what I needed, and he hooked me up with the cameras.”

  “Ah. Well, I really appreciate you doing this. Can I reimburse you for the equipment? I have no idea how much stuff like this runs, but—”

  “Don’t worry about it. He owed me a favor.”

  She hesitated. He looked up from the phone screen and held her gaze, so she could see he meant what he said, but ended up lost in her clear green eyes. Finally her eyelids dropped down and her mouth tipped up at one corner. “All right. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I also noticed someone painted over the graffiti, and I really appreciate it.”

  “Somebody has a lot of flexibility in his schedule right now.”

  “Did you…?” She trailed off and he sensed the war going on in her head again.

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you talk to your father about last night, by any chance?”

  The question surprised him. He wasn’t sure why she asked, but he didn’t need a map to know he was walking into a minefield. Still, in he went, because that’s where she wanted to go.

  “No. I drove to the house last night to talk to him, or Justin, or both, but Brandi was the only one home. I asked her to tell Tom to call me, but that’s about as effective as asking a housecat to relay a message. I was in Cincinnati all day today, so I’ve been out-of-pocket.”

  “Oh.” Her single-word response didn’t give away much, but she rolled her shoulders and tipped her head to one side.

  “Why do you ask?”

  She tipped her head to the other side, working out some invisible kink, and he imagined his hand there, at the base of her neck, slowly massaging the stiffness from her muscles. Then she sighed and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. What goes on between you and your father is none of my business, and I don’t intend to make what goes on between me and him any of your business.”

  “Of course not. What went on between you and Tom?”

  That earned him a quick laugh. “I just told you, it’s none of your business.”

  “I’m a highly trained combat specialist. I have ways of making you talk.”

  “Ha. I’ll bet you do. But your ways are not going to work on me. I made a pact with myself to be more circumspect, especially after last night. I shouldn’t have told Crocker Justin spray-painted my wall when I had no proof.”

  He agreed, but simply shrugged rather than second the conclusion. “You think he did it.”

  “I know he did it, but making an accusation against Justin, under the circumstances, amounts to making an accusation against Tom, and stuff like that could come back and bite me if I can’t prove it. I’m also sorry for putting you in an awkward position last night. Justin’s your brother—”

  “You didn’t put me in any kind of position.” He interrupted her to make the point because this was the second “sorry” to come out of her mouth for something she had no reason to feel sorry about. “If I’d been able to identify the guy, I would have done so, regardless of whether it was Justin or Moses or God himself. I don’t know who it was, but if he does an encore, we’re going to nail his ass.” He held up her phone. “You ready to see how?”

  She nodded and took it from him.

  He walked her through the app. When he finished, he stepped outside and tested the camera, which served as a half-decent test of the night-vision capabilities thanks to the premature darkness from the incoming storm. Everything worked. They both received the alert. She accessed the video on her phone and whistled at the resolution.

  “This is light years ahead of the grainy convenience store videos you see on the news every once in a while. Why doesn’t everybody have these?”

  His silence brought her head up. She searched his face. “Exactly how big was this favor your friend owed you?”

  “Bigger than a convenience store security camera.”

  She drew in a deep breath. He watched the sleeve of her pink shirt slide down her arm again. His hand twitched with an impulse to reach out and brush the thin strap of the white top off her shoulder as well.

  “I noticed two cameras in your bag of tricks.”

  He forced his gaze back to her face, and kept his expression deliberately neutral, because he didn’t want her realizing the calling card her unknown artist had left last night bothered him more than cruder messages might have. It struck him as targeted, and personal, and not necessarily the work of a spoiled teen with a chip on his shoulder and a warped sense of family loyalty. “I thought you might want one for your house. Invite me over and I’ll install it for you.”

  Her eyes evaded his while she worried her lower lip with her teeth. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t accept. If my neighbors saw your Jeep in front of my house, tongues would wag. I can’t risk the speculation right now…especially with you…”

  He couldn’t risk the chance of her surprising her graffiti artist on her doorstep instead of at the salon. “I’ll park down the street and walk up.” The words tasted only slightly bitter in his mouth. “Nobody will know I’m there.”

  Thunder cracked overhead like a warning shot.

  …

  Rain battered Ginny’s windshield as she steered her Ford Escape down Main Street past the fire station and made a left at the first intersection after the square. In her rearview mirror she watched the headlights behind her make the turn as well. She’d bought the Escape because it was roomy and maneuverable, but now, as she led Shaun to her house, she wondered if she ought to hit the gas and do as the car’s name suggested.

  Hello, sane Ginny to crazy Ginny. Come in crazy Ginny. Did you not just swear this guy off at breakfast today?

  Yes she had. But then he’d showed up at her salon and seduced her with fancy surveillance equipment. Not to mention the way he handled his tools. He was one of those guys who sank a screw with quick, efficient twists of his wrist. No fuss, no fumbling.

  Plus, he hadn’t told Tom what she’d said about Justin.

  Which meant her first instinct…well…second instinct, had been right. Somebody at the sheriff’s department fed Tom information. Predictable. He supported the department wholeheartedly, and Crocker was probably one of his cronies. She wasn’t the first citizen to suggest Bluelick might fare better with its own police department, but Tom always argued against it. Sheriff Butler appeared more than willing to return Tom’s loyalty.

  A few blocks down Union, the historic brick townhomes separated into Colonials and Victorians with gracefully down-sloping front yards. The road angled up a hill, and the bigger homes transitioned to smaller houses from the 1930s and 1940s dotting the steeper hillside. A tidy, well-tended working class neighborhood rather than a fancy one, but it suited her fine.

  She slowed as her broad, white garage came into view, and hit the clicker to raise the door. As she pulled in, she saw the Wrangler drive past. Her hero, once again coming to her rescue.

  What are you going to do with this man?

  All kinds of interesting ideas formed in her mind, but then a fit of paranoia gripped her. Would neighbors see him coming up to her house and draw conclusions? Ms. Van Hendler lived a few doors down, and despite the impression the octogenarian liked to give people, she didn’t miss much. Then again, the hard rain made it unlikely anyone would be taking an evening walk. And it wasn’t like he’d be there all night. Right?

  She reached around and grabbed the large umbrella from her backseat, and then squeezed out her driver’s side door. A few side-steps took her around her car, and then she watched in dry-mouthed wonder as Shaun walked up her driveway, wet hair shoved back from his face, rain-drenched gray U.S. Navy T-shirt clinging to every hard line of his shoulders and chest. His eyes locked on her like a predator mesmerizing its prey.

  A shiver ran down her spine, and she bla
med the involuntary reaction on the drop in temperature brought on by the storm. He stopped just inside the garage, blinked the raindrops off his eyelashes, and focused on her. “Lead the way.”

  “Yes, um…okay.” She kicked her butt into gear and walked to the side door of her garage. She felt more than heard him behind her, and touched the button on the wall that lowered the automatic door. They stepped out of the garage, and she did her best to cover them both with her umbrella as they navigated the steep, carved-stone steps leading to her front door. Silly, considering he was already soaked to the skin, and their height difference made it far more likely she’d poke out his eye than shield him from the rain, but some deep-seated part of her felt compelled to offer him shelter, even if he didn’t seem to want it.

  When they reached her covered porch, she propped the umbrella against the rail and searched through her purse for her keys. From the corner of her eye she saw him put his toolbox down and set the bag beside it.

  “I can put the camera up here.” He pointed to the light hanging from the porch ceiling above them. “That will get film of anyone who comes near your door.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” She unlocked her door and pushed it open, flipped on the outside light then looked back at him, surprised to see him heading down the steps.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To my car, to get the ladder.”

  “No need. I have a step-stool. Come on in. I’ll grab it.”

  He climbed the three steps back onto her porch and ran his hand through his hair, pushing wet strands off his forehead. Then he inspected the mud caked in the tread of his thick soled work boots. “I’ll wait out here.”

  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t bother wasting her breath to argue her interior could stand up to a little mud. Instead she slipped out of her pink ballet flats and left them on her welcome mat to dry. Her bare feet slapped against the old pine floors as she hurried down the hall to the linen closet and grabbed a towel. She swung through her kitchen on the way back to get the fold-up stool she kept tucked in the gap between the fridge and the wall.

  By the time she returned to the porch, he had a flashlight and his tools set out in a neat line on the rail and the camera unpackaged. Efficient. He reached out to take the step-stool from her, but she handed him the towel instead. “Here. Dry off first.”

  He stared at the towel like it was a foreign object for a moment, during which time she realized she’d just offered him the Ariel beach towel her crazy aunt Jackie had sent her after taking a trip to Orlando, because…well…redhead. When she looked up at him, she caught the telltale twitch of his lip.

  “It was a gift. My aunt thinks I look like The Little Mermaid.”

  His eyes shifted from her to the cartoon on the towel, and then back at her. “Your aunt has a point. Thanks, Ariel.”

  She meant to set up the step-stool while he dried off, but the sight of him roughing the towel over his hair, his face, and then dragging it down his chest and abs derailed her intentions. She imagined standing with him under the soft glow of the porch light, helping him pull the wet shirt over his head, and then running the towel all over his bare, damp skin. Her attention drifted to his rain-splattered jeans. In her mind’s eye she knelt before him and slowly undid the buttons at his fly, pushed his jeans down his long, powerful legs, and then…

  A towel appeared in her line of vision, blocking out her fantasy. She blinked, took the towel, and raised her eyes to his.

  “Thank you, sweet Virginia,” he said, but his not-so-innocent smile suggested he wasn’t thanking her for the towel so much as the impure thoughts. Heat seeped into her face and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  “No problem,” she muttered, and strode into the house, but after a few restless minutes puttering around in the kitchen, she gave up trying to distract herself and wandered back out to the porch. This time she made herself useful, running to the breaker box in the little utility room just inside her back door, and turning off the power to the porch light at his signal. Then she was back, sharing the step-stool with him, trying to ignore the heat coming off his body as she held the flashlight so he could see what he was doing.

  He smelled like soap, and rain, and testosterone. His jaw flexed as he screwed the base of the camera to the wooden slats of her porch ceiling. A stray drop of water ran down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his shirt. Her tongue itched to follow the wet trail.

  “Okay,” he said softly, and for a moment she thought he was giving her permission to run her tongue over his skin, but then he lowered his arms and added, “want to go flip the switch?”

  Oh yeah. That. “Absolutely. Sure.” She handed him the flashlight and practically jumped off the stool. “Be right back.”

  She hustled to the breaker box and threw the switch, then inched down the hall far enough to confirm the light flickered on. From the porch she heard him utter something that sounded like, “Lightning knows his shit,” which she took to mean the camera worked. She stopped in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, briefly considered throwing it over her head to cool herself down, but settled for a deep drink before she returned to the porch.

  He stood there bathed in porch light, with his head tipped down and his eyes closed, absently rubbing the back of his neck. God, he looked…weary. Just like the night she’d dragged him into her salon and watched his eyelids grow heavy as she chatted his ear off and trimmed his hair. A bunch of stupid and highly misplaced protective instincts rose up and took control of her mouth.

  She ran a hand down his back, feeling his body heat through the drenched T-shirt. “Have you had dinner?”

  He straightened and looked at her. “I planned to pick up something from Boone’s on the way home.”

  “Change your plan. I’ll make dinner.”

  Now he started gathering up his tools. “I don’t want to track up your house. I’m all dirty and wet.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “Me, too,” but she swallowed the wayward retort. “Not a problem. Leave your shoes by the door and you won’t track up my house. You can shower while I get dinner ready, and I’ll toss your clothes in the dryer.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll save the coq au vin for another night, but I have this funny habit of eating every evening, and I can just as easily boil up a whole box of pasta as half.”

  The sarcasm earned her a smile. He closed the lid on his toolbox. “Well, when you put it like that…”

  “I put it exactly like that.” She waited while he unlaced his boots, slipped them off and left them neatly paired up by her door. Her shoes looked ridiculously small and delicate—and strangely intimate—resting beside his.

  But it wasn’t until he stepped into her entryway that she fully appreciated the meaning of the word intimate. He took up all room in the narrow space. The soft, sage green paint she’d painstakingly layered onto thick plaster walls seemed to nudge them together and the original etched glass fixture gracing the entryway dappled them in soft light. The steady pitter-patter of rain on the roof insulated her ears from mundane noises like the tick of her grandma’s mantle clock in the living room, or the hum of the refrigerator kicking on in the kitchen.

  Dirty, wet, and tired, she reminded herself, and led him down the hall to the one and only bathroom, stopping at the built-in linen closet to dig out another towel. She chose a blue striped one this time.

  “No mermaid?”

  “I’m sorry. Did you want a mermaid towel?”

  He shrugged. “Might be the closest I get to showering with a redhead tonight.”

  Chapter Nine

  Shaun braced his hands on the blue-tiled shower wall, tipped his head down and let the hot water beat down on his scalp. He attempted a turn in the tiny compartment and smacked his elbow into the frosted glass door. The flimsy latch gave, the door flew open and water doused the white bathmat. He pulled the door shut so he could finish rin
sing off without flooding the small room. Damn it, pre-war bathrooms weren’t built for guys his size. This was like showering in a doll house.

  The space seemed even smaller thanks to all the girl stuff closing in on him from every available surface. His showers up until now had been blissfully devoid of salts, muds, butters, brushes, and other junk populating Ginny’s bathroom. He slid the soap from the stingy, yet overflowing, built-in shelf and was about to scrub it across his chest when something made him stop and sniff the plain, white bar. The sweet, sunny scent of Virginia snuck into his nostrils, infiltrated his nervous system, and tugged hard on his dick. As much as he appreciated the effect, the idea of walking around smelling like a honey-dipped lemon blossom gave him pause. But he figured she’d appreciate it more than him walking around smelling like sweat and rain. He lathered up and imagined her in there with him, her wet hair streaming like liquid fire over her pale skin. He practically felt her soap-slicked hands sliding along his neck, down his back, and then sneaking around front to cup his balls. His eyelids drooped while his cock sprang to life. Finally, those slim fingers would curl around his—

  The soap slipped out of his hand and landed with a thud on the tile floor. When he bent over to get it, his ass hit the shower door. The latch gave out again and this time the door flew open so hard it slammed into the bathroom wall. Water from the shower sprayed everywhere.

  “Shit!”

  He grabbed the door and pulled it closed. It clattered into the latch at the same time Ginny knocked on the door and called, “Is everything all right in there?”

  “Fine,” he called over the cascade of the shower. Just standing here with a hard-on that won’t back off, systematically demolishing your bathroom.

  “Okay. Take your time. Your jeans are dry. I’m just going to pop in and leave them for you.”

  He stared through the frosted glass as her blurry outline moved into his line of sight. She put his folded jeans on the counter, puttered around with something or other by the sink, and then turned. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he got the impression she was staring at the shower.