by Jianne Carlo
“Do you call all the women you sleep with baby doll?” She cut him a furious scowl and thrust out her jaw.
Destiny had the equivalent of buyer's remorse, Linc deduced, having seen the same response from every one of his sisters during that first phase of a romance, both wanting to trust and terrified of doing so.
“The first time I set eyes on you, I thought I'd entered the Christian parallel to a Muslim's fatwa reward—you know, the seventy virgins in paradise. I figured I'd ascended to heaven and St. Pete gave me my very own Barbie doll.”
He closed her dropped jaw by cradling her chin and fanned his thumb across her bottom lip. “I had a strong notion you'd object to being called Barbie doll, and you're all soft and cuddly like a kitten. And no, I've never called any woman other than you baby doll. Why? You object?”
Luminous dark orbs misted and fringed by dense lashes stared into his. No longer feeling the teasing draft of her breath, Linc coaxed, “Breathe, Destiny. Take a nice long inhale and lift your arms.”
She complied, shaking her head every couple of seconds.
He tugged the fabric down to her neck.
Chewing on her lip, and darting him the sweetest side-peeps, she shoved her arms through the tee's sleeves.
“About that breakfast you promised me?” He smoothed the soft cotton where the hem curled at the tops of her thighs and took a step back, giving her more personal space.
She rested one palm on the fridge, rubbed curled toes on one taut calf, and squeezed her eyes shut once, twice, and on the third planted both soles on the floor. “Right. Breakfast.”
“I'll grab some potatoes. How many do you want?”
“How hungry are you?” She countered his question, shuffling in the direction of the table. Destiny glanced to the window, stared at the blinding white snow for a couple of seconds, and gathered the dishes into a pile. “What time is it, do you think?”
“Near three, I reckon. We didn't get out of bed until almost noon.” Linc raised his voice as he rounded into the freezer alcove. The radio beckoned, rearing temptation; he had to contact Satan, had to ensure Nadine's, aka Angel's, silence and cooperation. Talk about oxymorons—an angelic Nadine, and silence and cooperation from a woman renowned for her vindictive gossip.
I'm fucked.
Linc banged his skull on the doorframe.
Cross that path later.
He shot his limp dick a wry glance and straightened. Thinking of Nadine had at least one positive side effect, his cock and stones no longer ached.
What the hell—he had Destiny to himself for at least another twenty-four hours. Life couldn't get any better. All at once ravenous, he grabbed three giant potatoes from the open burlap bag, snatched a couple of apples, and hustled out.
The curve of Destiny’s ass played hide-and-seek with the T-shirt's hem as she did a little bump and grind, one arm waving the spatula in a figure-eight pattern while she sang, “Five golden rings.”
Linc winced. Off-key couldn't begin to describe the high-pitched squawks coming out of her wonderful mouth. Maybe if he set the right key, she'd catch on.
“Four calling studs, three French lovers, two vibrators,” Linc boomed, drawing out the last word. “And her own paratrooper in a pear tree.”
She jumped and half pirouetted, broke into a beam that put equatorial sun to shame, then cracked up, chortling and slapping a palm on a hip.
“More,” she commanded when he lapsed into silence.
“Here, catch.” His dick jumped and throbbed, doing its own happy dance. Linc lobbed each potato, noted the gracefulness of her movements as she tiptoed and snatched the first one, squatted low for the next, and leaned over at the waist to catch the last.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he had a fucking secret weapon for the annual family Thanksgiving football game.
“You play flag football, Destiny Driven?”
“You bet. St. Paul's started a league a couple of years ago. You have no idea how much fun it is to take some of those editors down. Writers too. And if you happen to be a mite”—she separated her thumb and forefinger a quarter inch—“clumsy, and they land hard”—rolling both shoulders, she continued—“it's all in good fun. Right?”
“Come here.” He crooked a finger.
“Give me a good reason.” She flipped the hand holding the spatula and inadvertently slapped her own cheek. “Ow.”
Linc couldn't stifle his guffaw. “Destiny, you are priceless.”
“Oh nooo.” She whirled to face the stove. “The ham's burning.”
Biting into an apple, he ambled up behind her, rested his chin on her head, and peered at the frying pan. “'S not burnt; it's crisp. That's exactly how I like my ham. Bite.” He nudged her lips with the apple.
She tilted her head back and rolled her eyes at him, but took a good chunk below the portion he'd eaten. A trickle of juice dribbled diagonally to her jaw. Irresistible temptation and he didn't even try to stay his reflexive response, lapping at the juice, licking the corner of her wicked, sinful mouth.
She batted him away.
“I'm cooking. None of that.” She jerked her ass against his groin. “Go do the tree.”
“Aye, aye, ma'am.” Linc flicked her a salute. “Anything you say, ma'am.” He clicked his heels together.
Afraid she'd start shredding “The Twelve Days of Christmas” again, Linc swatted her backside and hummed “O Tannenbaum,” and did an about-face. The music swarmed his soul, and he broke into song, letting the lyrics form and rise, letting happiness and joy settle the ache battering his rib cage.
Adorable. No other word for his Destiny. Fucking adorable.
Before maudlin clichés claimed his every thought, Lincoln set about getting the tree vertical. He needed a stand of some sort. The spruce had been the smallest he could find, but it topped him, making it nearly seven feet tall.
Destiny's gaze kept straying to his cock and his sex responded to each cute peek. He strolled into the bedroom and pulled on the sweats he'd discarded earlier. The blinking light on her laptop drew his attention. She'd turned it on when he'd been outside working off his jealous rage.
Why?
She kept everything in distinctly named folders. The first few entries in the Diary folder made him feel like a peeping Tom, and he exited midway through the second entry.
The Book folder intrigued him, and he had to force himself not to read Chapter two. Her book? Was that why she'd reacted the way she had earlier?
Her Outlook was as neatly organized and compartmentalized as her Documents area. He read a couple of emails from the Juanita she'd mentioned in her tirade. A cat with claws, this Juanita, she mingled venom and chatter effortlessly.
An email from the Kenny, of “the sex tape Kenny,” had his hands balling into fists. He couldn't get beyond the paragraph beginning with, You're funny and smart, but you really need to lose twenty pounds and firm up.
Shithead. Ten to one you're a lazy loser who expects a woman to do all the work. Couldn't even bring her off. Fucking asshole.
Rage could only be leashed so far before a man needed to split wood or pound a fist into some twit’s belly. Not a single one of Linc’s sisters had the starved frame so favored by women's magazines. Soft and cuddly, strong enough to tackle him to the ground, he liked his women full, ready to burst. Destiny didn't need to lose an ounce. She was perfect, and those fucking breasts— Had he found his four-leaf clover or what? Pure Irish luck.
But if asshole Kenny's emails were anything to go by, Destiny'd only had the tamest missionary sex and not much of that either.
How the hell did he initiate her into sex his way?
Dick leaking precum, stones once again tight and aching, Linc stalked to the bathroom. He grabbed a toothbrush, armed the bristles with Colgate Total paste, and brushed his teeth while staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Focus, Sinner. Focus.
Satan.
Satan had dared to touch his woman. So he didn't know she was h
is. Tough. Bastard.
He stabbed the brush into the peach holder and sent a few curses Demon's way. Peach? What paratrooper chose peach to decorate a bathroom? His lips curled and he jabbed a big toe into the plush peach carpet fronting the sink. Peach, for fuck’s sake.
Why had Demon loaned Destiny his cabin?
Had he touched her too?
“Linc, are you okay?”
Jerked out of his self-righteous musings, Linc didn't bother to suppress a grin—he had Destiny all to himself for at least another twenty-four hours.
“Coming, Destiny. Freshening up a bit,” he answered.
Jesus, he hadn't taken care of her.
He snatched two dry towels and the bar of soap, wet one peach terry with hot water, squeezed the material damp, winked at his reflection, and then jogged through the bedroom.
So damned adorable, the sight that met his eyes—Destiny bending over to snatch something, a potato peel, from the floor. What an ass. Firm and rounded with twin dimples framing cheeks so bitable, his mouth watered.
Midrise, she caught him ogling, and her face stained a rosy pink.
A-dor-a-ble, plain and simple.
“Why are you carrying soap?” Her eyes dropped to her crotch. “Oh no. No and no.” She backed into the counter space before the fridge, holding a half-peeled potato as a shield. “Don't you even think it.”
He got her perched in the right position by hefting her knees with his shoulders and couldn't resist snuffling her folds before sitting her on the counter and spreading her legs so he could stand between them. Neck arched, head resting on a cedar cabinet door, she glared at him when he rested the warm towel on her mound. “Feel good, Destiny?”
Even her ears blushed; she bit her lip and fixed her gaze on his hand.
“And before you ask, no, I don't ordinarily do this. You're my woman, Destiny Driven, and I will take care of you.” He hadn't meant to claim her, hadn't intended more than making sure she wasn't uncomfortable and sticky. But now the words had come out, he liked them.
His woman.
All his.
“Your hash browns will burn.” She jutted her chin and met his stare head-on. “I wouldn't want you to deplete your energy.”
He toweled her folds dry, patted the moisture from her springy pubic curls, and tweaked her nose. “I have reserves you haven't begun to dream of.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Jim-dandy. I'm hardly the one to question your bronco stamina, but if you don't mind, I have some eggs to attend to.”
“I'll let you go without a penalty, since the evidence of my bronco stamina is very much at large.” Just to make sure she understood his meaning, he rubbed his dick through her moistening folds.
Temptation danced rationalizations through his brain. They didn't have to fuck; he could play, bring her off again.
Selfish bastard, put her down.
For once his hands obeyed the mental command.
When he set her on the floor, she picked up a checkered dish towel and flicked his shoulder. “You—tree. Me—cook.”
Not wanting her out of sight, he situated the spruce opposite the tiny kitchen table and leaned the tree against the side of the cedar cabinet. A quick glance showed Destiny smiling and flipping potato slices in the frying pan. Saliva flooded his mouth when he inhaled the delicious aromas circulating the cabin, onions sautéing, ham sizzling, eggs frying.
His stomach growled in anticipation. Figuring an eating ETA of ten minutes, he made a quick trip to the freezer alcove, found three logs, and chopped each in half, lengthwise.
Armed with the makings of his tree stand and tools, Linc had the spruce standing firm ten seconds before Destiny called, “Come and get it.”
After washing up at the sink, he sat on the sturdy pine chair they'd both occupied earlier. Lips crooking down when she settled into the chair opposite, he asked, “Why're you over there?”
“Because you need to eat, and you're not going to if I'm on your lap.” She swung both legs to one side and curled one under her on the seat's polished surface.
Linc grinned when he spotted the pink flamingo slippers she'd tossed earlier lying on the floor.
Her sooty lashes framed the cute little glance she cut him. “How long have you been in the army?”
What's she up to?
“Navy not army. I joined a couple of years after graduating high school.” He forked a heap of hash browns into his mouth, chewed once, and let out a moan of delight.
“Did you always want to serve?”
He savored the last few bites before swallowing. “That was incredible. Crisp, real potato flavor with a hint of garlic and those thick slices of onions.”
Piling another forkful but topping the carbohydrate with chunks of ham and egg, he answered, “Because I'm the hump kid, I knew the only way I'd ever get a college degree would be through the armed forces. I wanted some cash under my belt before I enlisted, so I worked for a couple of years after high school.”
She rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin on the heel of her hand. “Were you deployed right away?”
“Yeah, pretty much. I've been out of the country for the last few years, mostly in Afghanistan and Iraq. A couple of stints in the Far East and Russia.”
“I've never even been to the West Coast. This is the farthest I've ever been from where I was raised unless you count college.”
He couldn't keep the surprise off his face. “Really? Kinda rare in this day and age. Folks not the vacationing kind?”
“Ha! Understatement of the year. We never went anywhere. I never even went on a school field trip.”
“You're kidding. Why not?” What kind of parents didn't let a kid go on a field trip?
“Parents wouldn't let me.” She traced an oval path on the tabletop, her forefinger lingering on a charcoal knot in the wood. “My dad wouldn't let me. He was a strict parent. No sleepovers, no summer camp. No after-school programs. No field trips. When I got into Vassar and announced I was going, he hit the roof. I found out why in my second year.”
Linc caught the change in her tone at once. His senses went into overdrive, nerves prickling and fraying. He kept his voice even, hoping she wouldn’t notice his new alertness. “Tell me why.”
“I took an elective, a class about twenty-first-century crime. One session was devoted to identity theft, and our professor showed us how easy it was to get information about anyone on the Net. So I researched me. Turns out my birth certificate doesn't match the records for the county I was supposed to be born in.”
Dread gouged a hollow in his stomach. He pushed the plate aside. “And?”
“My dad's not the kind of man who takes kindly to questions, and my mother—let's just say on a good day I irritate the dickens out of her.” She picked up a blue-and-cream patterned saltshaker. “I knew Dad kept all the important documents in the bottom drawer of his desk. That Thanksgiving, when he fell asleep during the football game and my mom was busy in the kitchen, I went through the drawer. I found a copy of my birth certificate, but I also found another one, one that gave my birthplace as Madera, Texas, one that listed my name as Destiny Driven, one that recorded my father as my real dad, but my mother was registered as Charlene Driven not Mona Parker as I'd always thought.”
Shit. His fingers scraped the underside of the wooden table. He ground his teeth. “What did you do, Destiny?”
“I went to Madera and checked the county's records.” She sent him a smile belied by her trembling lips. “Turns out my name is Destiny Driven. Mona Parker, the woman I believed to be my mother, is actually my stepmother. I was born out of wedlock. My real mom married my dad about six months after I was born. They divorced when I was four. I vanished on one of the weekends he had custody.”
Fury singed his skin; calloused fingertips long immune to sensation smoldered. A heavy lump flared and burst into flame in his chest, the pain searing. “How long ago was this?”
“Seven years ago.” She cleared her throat.
“It explained a lot. I realized I'd had a make-believe life.”
“Did you confront your father?” Shithead. Bastard. Asshole. He'd have to get Lucifer to run a background check on the scumbag.
“I thought about it.” She gave a brittle laugh. “It consumed me. I dredged up memories, understood finally why the woman I thought was my mother treated me like an unwanted guest. In the end I decided to pretend nothing had happened. I go home only for Thanksgiving and Christmas and I never stay overnight. This year I'm not even going to bother.”
“Did you find your real mom?”
“She died in a car accident when I was fifteen.” Destiny quirked both brows. “Ironic, huh?”
“Ah, Baby Doll, that's just rotten.” Lincoln's appetite had evaporated as she spoke. The urge to protect, to battle, scorched, flaming hotter than the entrance to hell.
Flipping his napkin to the side, he stood, took a step, slid into a crouch, and kissed the pulse quickening in the hollow of her throat. He drew back and studied the tight set of her mouth. “Who knows, Destiny? Who knows this terrible secret you keep?”
She visibly flinched, her head doing a little double take. Scooted back against the wall as if a physical retreat could swallow her words. “I don't know why I told you. I don't suppose you could forget I ever said anything. Cripes. Nadine can't know about this.”
He captured her gesticulating hands in both of his and chafed her icy skin. “Look at me, Destiny. No, Destiny, look at me.”
Linc suppressed the anger boiling and bubbling in his veins. Tipping her chin with a finger, the pressure slight but firm, he promised, “I'd never betray your confidence, Destiny. I'm honored you trusted me. And when you decide to confront your father, I'll be right by your side. Got that?”
Mist shimmered in her eyes; her lower lip quivered. The muscles in her throat worked and she ducked her head.
“What?” He jiggled her hands, her flesh now toast warm. “Talk to me, Destiny Driven.”
“I, um. You'll be by my side when I decide to confront my father?” Her eyes darted to his face, and then she focused on a spot near the fridge.
“Yeah,” he rasped, and the effort to not say any more nearly killed him. “You'll have to give me a couple days' warning. I'll need to work off some energy. No one. No one hurts my woman. Got that?”
