Goes down easy: Roped into romance

by Alison Kent

  “What happened six years ago?” he found himself asking, when it shouldn’t matter and it wasn’t any of his business.

  “I came to work for Della full-time and stopped playing at getting a degree.”

  “Who was it? A fellow student or a professor?”

  She stuck out her tongue. “A TA, if you must know. He was in it for the fun and games. And I wanted something more. See? The two just don’t mix.”

  “I can’t imagine you writing off relationships based on one bad deal,” he said, almost choking at the “r” word he let slip. Was that where they were headed?

  “And what do you mean, you can’t imagine me doing that? We had a one-night stand. I don’t see how that qualifies you as a Perry expert.”

  He shook his head as he pushed away from the table.

  She sat back—arms crossed, chin lifted—and he knew the battle was on. “Fine. Then explain to me why you think you know what you know.”

  The woman was driving him mad. “You, Ms. Brazille, are an open book.”

  Her lips pruned up. “You don’t say.”

  “I do say. Anyone who spends any length of time with you can tell what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, really?” she said, tapping one foot. “And what am I thinking now, Jack, huh? What am I thinking now?”

  She was thinking he’d hit too close to a truth she didn’t want to admit, and she didn’t like it at all. She didn’t like being as easy to read as she was. She didn’t like that she’d allowed herself to be hurt—or that he was the one who’d done it.

  She believed in astrological animals and ghosts that sang in stairwells and whatever the hell rune stones were, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe that he’d figured her out in only a matter of days. Neither did she seem to be buying that he’d never intended her harm.

  And he’d about had it with that. He reached for the leg of her chair and hauled hers up against his. Then he planted his hands on either side of her hips, holding on to the seat as he held on to her gaze.

  Once he knew he had her attention, once he saw the flutter of her pulse in her throat, he leaned closer, bringing his mouth inches from hers before saying, “I don’t know about you, but this is the only thing I’m thinking.”

  And then he moved in for the kiss. She was warm and willing. She smelled like the spices he knew, tasted like salt and ketchup and the same dinner they’d both eaten. The thought made him chuckle.

  His laughter made her groan. “I know. Onions.”

  “They’ve never tasted better,” he assured her, and went back for more. She brought her arms around his neck, and somehow ended up in his lap in his chair.

  It was exactly where he wanted her, exactly where he needed her to be. She caught at his lower lip, pulling him into her mouth, bathing him with her tongue, nipping him with her teeth.

  He liked the way she nipped, that she wasn’t afraid she might hurt him, that she let him nip her back and laughed when he did.

  It was the perfect battle of wills, the perfect parry and thrust. Their tongues mating, teasing, playing. He didn’t think he would ever get enough.

  He slipped his hand to her back, eased his fingers beneath the hem of her sweater, kneaded circles up her spine until he found the clasp of her bra. He freed it, and she gasped into his mouth. A gasp followed quickly by a giggle.

  He didn’t think he’d ever met another woman who laughed at such inopportune times, and he loved every single sound that spilled from her throat. He also loved the way she twisted and turned until his hand covered her breast.

  He thought back to the way she’d looked in the shower, how pale her skin, how dark her nipples, and he found her areola and stroked the puckered skin.

  She moaned and squirmed, and he pinched her nipple, kneaded her breast, shoved his tongue into her mouth and made sure she knew he was thinking about shoving it into a certain part of her body that tasted salty and warm and marine.

  And then he was the one groaning, the one on the edge of coming apart. And he was the one wanting her mouth sucking on more than his tongue, licking at more than his lips.

  Give him five seconds, ten seconds max, that’s all he needed and he could have her on the edge of the table, her skirt up to her waist, his fly open, her thighs wrapped around his hips…

  A softly cleared throat brought him careening to a mental coitus interruptus. Perry unwound her arms from his neck and pushed back with her hands on his chest.

  He did his best to slip his hand from beneath her sweater without drawing Della’s notice. But when Perry started to push out of his lap, he held her there, hiding the bulging proof of their indiscretion beneath her skirt.

  “Don’t mind me,” Della said, thumping with her walking stick into the room. “I only came for a bottle of water.” She crossed to the fridge for her drink, then returned the way she came. “I’ll be in the reading room when you’re ready, Jack.”

  Once the thump of the walking stick faded, Perry asked, “Are you ready?”

  No, the reminder of what lay ahead had pretty much taken all the ready right out of him. “Shouldn’t you be asking me if I have any last wishes? Or what I want for my final meal?”

  “I thought that’s what I just did,” she teased, climbing from his lap and waiting for him to gather up his balls and get on with it.

  THE ROOM DELLA USED for her readings was small, no larger than the bathroom off the kitchen. He didn’t have a blueprint to go by, but Jack was pretty sure the two shared a communal wall.

  The entrance was marked by a curtain of blue beads, a twin to the one that led from the shop into the kitchen hallway. This one he’d never seen before, tucked as it was into the far corner of Sugar Blues.

  The room was lit by a single-bulb lamp that hung low on a chain from the ceiling. In the center of the room was a table. Beneath the table, two chairs. On top, a dark bowl of water-covered petals.

  The petals were fresh. He could smell the floral aroma as soon as he entered the room. He waited for Della to speak. She said nothing, did no more than indicate he should sit in the closest chair.

  She took the other, facing him and asking him to place his hands, palms down, on either side of the bowl. Her voice, when she made the request, was barely audible. Her eyes, which hadn’t yet made contact with his, appeared hazy and lost. He supposed it was more like a trance than confusion.

  The chair was comfortable enough, the seat and back both covered in a dark blue velvet, and the smell of the flower petals was soothing, like lavender or jasmine.

  He figured the water could have turned them blue since he didn’t think either of them were. But then he quit thinking of anything because Della dipped her fingertips into the water before she placed them over his.

  Her skin was cool, as was the water, her touch calming and light. He wasn’t sure where to look, and so he focused on her face. Her eyes were clear as she stared into the bowl.

  “You’ve been hurt,” she finally said, her voice soft, the words even. “You’ve also hurt others.”

  None of that was news, or specific enough to cause a blip in his pulse. He figured, in fact, that it was a fairly universal complaint.

  “Choosing the military over moving with your family was the best choice. You need to stop wondering and move on.”

  Thinking about Janie, about his parents, about how he’d failed them emotionally by not being there…His chest tightened, the fingers of his left hand twitched and he would have made a fist had Della not been holding him in place. Funny, she didn’t seem that strong.

  And, really. It wouldn’t have been hard to discover the reasons for the choice he’d made. His friends in Austin knew, though he couldn’t quite see Della calling up any of them to ask.

  She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. The tips of her fingers flexed; her touch stroked over his knuckles. “Having met you, I can’t say I’m surprised you drew the attention of your superiors so quickly. You’re not an easy man to overlook.”

  He hadn�
��t thought to ask in advance if he was allowed to talk. And so he said nothing instead of telling her that what got him noticed was the same thing that got him into trouble. Trying to make a difference.

  He didn’t do well with authority. Not when those in such positions wouldn’t give him the one thing, the only thing, he wanted. Logical reasons for the decisions they made. “That’s the way it’s always been done,” just didn’t cut it. That mindset stopped progress in its tracks, kept good men from making a difference.

  “That path isn’t always the easiest one to take.” Della’s fingers slid over his knuckles and the backs of his hands before growing still. “And the price can be so very great.”

  But military men and women paid it on a daily basis, and not just in ongoing wars in places like Afghanistan and Iraq. Also in covert operations infiltrating terrorist cells around the world, to gather information to bring them down, and thwart future attacks being planned.

  “Most leave their tours never experiencing a gunshot. But you carry scars from several.” Her fingers searched out the pressure points between his bones, pressing lightly, sliding to his wrists then back. “You’ve seen more conflict than a man should ever see.”

  He wasn’t about to argue with that.

  “But there is one incident that won’t let you go.”

  He hadn’t even swallowed and still he nearly choked, waiting, waiting…his blood pounding its way through his veins. God, he hoped she wasn’t going to say what he feared. He didn’t want her to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to forget.

  Dark eyes against skin that should not have been so deathly pale. Shackles securing the unwitting prisoners. Chains thicker than the human limbs they bound. Mewling, desperate noises.

  “The men you freed don’t go a day without thanking you. They offer up prayers for your health and longevity.”

  And still he waited, only this time he did so with his gut so painfully knotted he had to fight the urge to double over and crawl beneath the table.

  “They wonder how long you were kept without being allowed to eat. Or to drink. They spill their own blood, hoping your God will replace what you lost with their offering.”

  It had begun with his pride and his dignity, and had swiftly spiraled down until he came close to losing his mind. He’d lost enough that he’d no longer known night from day, minutes from hours from weeks. He’d lost enough that he’d no longer known if the faces he saw were real or monsters in his dreams…

  He’d lost enough that he’d given up on living.

  “They go to their wives at night and sleep close to the soft, precious bodies they never thought they’d see again. They don’t shut their eyes until they picture you at peace and at rest and in love.”

  Those men, those men. He could see every minute of the torture they’d endured. Except he couldn’t see anything at all because his eyes were filled with the tears flowing down his cheeks.

  A sob caught in his chest. He fought to hold it back. It escaped in the same heated, panicked rush as the men he’d released from their cage.

  He heard the splash of water as they dived overboard, swimming for the life raft he’d cut loose hours before. He’d always wondered if they’d made it, if they’d lived, if they’d died.

  He’d never wondered if they thought about him. He’d never thought himself worth it. He’d been a part of the group that had rounded them up and stolen them from their village, from their families. He didn’t deserve their prayers or their thanks.

  If anything, he had deserved to die.

  12

  PERRY HAD spent the last half hour alone, pacing the kitchen, instead of heading upstairs to bed. She had a thousand questions she wanted to ask of both Jack and Della, but she knew that she never would.

  She wanted to go home. She wanted Jack to go with her. Yet she wasn’t comfortable leaving Della alone.

  All her indecisiveness meant was that she did nothing constructive during the wait except put clean sheets on the bed in the utility room, just in case Jack stayed.

  Because, honestly? She had no idea what he was going to do after tonight. He’d run all the leads he’d mentioned, and that was before Book had made it clear that it was now Jack’s job to butt out.

  She didn’t see that happening, but she was clueless as to what he was going to do. If he had any plans, he hadn’t shared them. And being kept in the dark was driving her insane.

  But the real crazy maker of the moment was wanting to know what was going on in the reading room. And that she would never find out unless Jack decided to tell her. That was another thing she didn’t see happening.

  In fact, she couldn’t help wondering if Della was getting any reaction from him at all. If the reading didn’t go well, if Jack came out of the experience still doubting Della’s gift, and had nowhere else to turn…

  At the sound of the beaded curtain stirring, Perry turned and looked up from the refrigerator—into which she’d been blindly staring—in time to see Jack barge into the kitchen, and slam straight out the back door.

  Frowning, she closed the fridge, thinking it was a good thing the new door was sturdier than the old, what with the way it bounced off the wall with a thud loud enough to wake the dead. She crossed the room to close it, but was stopped halfway there by her aunt.

  “Don’t shut him out,” Della said, standing in the kitchen entrance, her face drawn, her eyes damp. “Go to him. He needs you.”

  The words were an echo of what she’d said this morning. Perry started to ask what had happened, but closed her mouth at the shake of Della’s head and the walking stick she lifted to point the way.

  Perry’s nerves shivered like flowers in the rain. She flipped the light switch, plunging the kitchen into darkness, and opened the door.

  The moon was high and bright, the streetlamps on either end of the alley shining down. It was enough light for her to see where she was going, and to see where Jack was pacing a circle around the empty fountain.

  She cut in behind him on his next trip around, and boosted herself up to sit on the concrete ledge. She didn’t want to say anything to set him off or to hurt him, so she grabbed the first innocuous thought that came to mind.

  “This is exactly where Della was sitting when Book first met her. It was as cold then as it is now, but that night the fountain was on, and she was soaked by the time I made it here from Court du Chaud.”

  Jack didn’t say anything, but his steps did slow. Perry wasn’t sure that was such a good thing since the aerobic exercise was the only thing keeping him warm. That, and the fury or rage or whatever was clearly burning him up.

  She had no way of knowing, so she continued to talk. “There had been a break-in next door. It went down pretty badly, someone ended up getting killed. Book and his partner were the ones who responded.”

  Jack had quit circling the fountain and was now pacing back and forth in front of her. He’d stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders for warmth.

  She wanted to go to him, to wrap him in her arms, to take away whatever it was he was feeling. She wanted to know what had happened during the reading, but could only hear her aunt’s words insisting that he needed her here.

  “It’s amazing she didn’t catch pneumonia. She was wearing pajamas, and not very warm ones at that. We finally got her inside, and Book stayed to take her statement.”

  Perry’s teeth began to chatter, and she crossed her arms and huddled in on herself. “I’ve lost track of how many times she’s helped him since. And I keep wondering if they’re going to get together. They make such a great couple, though I’m pretty sure neither one…”

  She let the thought trail because Jack had stopped. He stood on the sidewalk facing her, his hands still in his pockets, his shoulders still stooped.

  But the moon was shining down just so, and she could see lines of pain etched on his face, the tracks of tears she doubted he knew he’d cried streaking his cheeks
.

  “Oh, Jack,” she said, her chest tightening until she thought she wouldn’t be able to breathe. “What happened to you?”

  It was all she got out, and his only answer was to look away, jerk his hands from his pockets and scrub them over his face, shaking his head as he did.

  The sound he made then was a mad howl of anger, a gut-ripping wail that tore her heart. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. She caught back a sob and waited, because that was when he turned.

  He turned, and he came toward her, and before she could do more than blink he was holding her head to keep her from moving while he covered her mouth with his.

  He stepped between her legs when she spread them, cradled her face, slid his tongue between her lips and devoured her. She brought her hands up to his shoulders, clawing at the fabric of his shirt to hold on.

  He was shaking when he moved his hands to her thighs and started rucking up her skirt until her legs were bare and he could get to her panties.

  When he hooked a finger over the fabric of the crotch, she gasped into his mouth. When he found her wet and ready, he growled and pushed a finger inside. She gripped his shoulders to keep from falling back and further widened her legs.

  And then his hands were at his fly and he was lifting himself out of his boxers and jeans. She held on to the ledge at her hips, bracing her weight there and hooking her heels behind him.

  He moved in, tore her panties out of the way and positioned himself at her entrance. And then, his gaze locked furiously with hers, he pushed in.

  It was an agonizingly slow penetration. He took his time stretching her open when what she wanted was to be filled with him now. But she let him take her, possess her, surround himself with her as it seemed he needed to do.

  And then he began to move, and she scooted her hips forward, knowing this wasn’t about any emotion beyond what she’d seen in his face and heard in his voice.

  It was about survival and being alive and being human and being good enough. It was a validation, and that was all she needed to know. She gave him all that she could of her body.