by Abby Gaines
His groan as his mouth closed over hers echoed deep inside Megan. His touch trailed down her spine, as he pressed the small of her back so that she leaned more intimately into him, as he cupped her rear before brushing her skirt against the back of her thighs.
She had never, ever felt this scalding heat in a man’s arms. A heat that provoked her into action. Greedily, she tugged his shirt out of his pants, explored the firm flesh of his torso.
Travis groaned. “Megs…” He lifted her hair, nuzzling her neck. “You’re so beautiful.”
She tipped her head back, inviting his caress. He made her feel beautiful. More beautiful than Sabrina. Stronger than Cynthia. She discarded the comparisons, didn’t need them. Travis saw her, he wanted her.
He undid the top two buttons of her pin-striped blouse and pushed aside the collar. “I recall you saying you want to go to bed.”
She sighed with pleasure at the tickle of his tongue. “I meant alone.”
“So delectably prim,” he murmured.
“Travis, we need to be professional…oh!” He’d nipped her collarbone; she arched against him.
“Consider me professionally turned-on,” he said. “Did it occur to you that going to bed not alone could be so much more fun.”
She wriggled against him, and he groaned. “I don’t do…that for fun,” she said.
“Me neither. At least, not just for fun. With you, this would be…” He trailed off, all his concentration going into kissing her shoulder.
Dangerous, she thought. Beyond all my experience. She wanted it.
She tugged at him until he brought his mouth back up to hers, and she kissed him deeply.
“Megan,” he said. She loved that she’d put that desperate hoarseness in his voice. “Make love with me.”
Very softly, she said, “Okay.”
TRAVIS DREW BACK and stared at her to make sure he’d heard right. No mistaking the mischief in her smile, the promise in her eyes.
Yes!
He kissed her again. He stood, pulling her to her feet. “Upstairs.”
He linked his fingers with hers, trying not to drag her in his impatience. She seemed to be in the same hurry—she bumped into him at the foot of the stairs. A breathy laugh escaped her.
A voice in Travis’s head was trying to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. He shut it out and took the stairs two at a time, pulling Megan along.
But the damned voice persisted. You can’t make love to her without telling her the truth.
Hell. He stopped dead on the landing, and she bumped into him again. How had he come to this? Had he been working at PPA so long that he’d lost his morality?
“I think it’s that way.” Megan pointed down the hall.
He was lost, dammit. Travis cursed himself for not having told her earlier that he wanted to head her dad’s firm. Now, his admission would be a huge betrayal of trust, no matter that neither of them was actually in the running for the job. No matter that they hadn’t actually made love yet.
“Travis?” She tugged his sleeve.
He looked down at her, and wondered how he could ever have thought she wasn’t particularly pretty. The sparkle in her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the tilt of her chin, her beautiful neck…everything about her was perfect. Her sense of humor, her dedication to her work, her modesty, her honesty…
“What’s wrong?” She was so close to him, her breath fanned his lips, turning his ache for her into something nearer agony.
He pulled her against him, burying his nose in her sweet-smelling hair. “Megs, we can’t do this.”
She swayed in his embrace, tempting him all over again, then eased away. “The Hoskinses…I can’t believe I almost forgot about the case. Our professional conflict of interest.”
The Hoskinses? He’d completely forgotten them.
She pulled out of his arms with a shaky laugh. “I guess I should thank you for the reminder.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said roughly.
She buried her face in her hands. “Travis, this was such a bad idea.”
“You’re right.” And she didn’t know the half of it.
“We need—” she took a careful step back and grasped the newel post at the top of the stairs “—to cool it.”
He needed a cold shower, that was for sure. “You’re right,” he repeated.
Her smile was perplexed. “It’s not like you to agree with me.”
He ran a hand around the back of his neck. “This is the first time we’ve covered this subject.”
“First and last time,” she suggested.
“You can’t just shut off the attraction, Megs.”
But maybe he was wrong, because her expression was cooling right in front of him. “I can ignore it. So can you.”
“Fine,” he said, “we’ll ignore it.” For now.
TRAVIS SNEAKED up behind his mom as she stood at the kitchen counter stirring some kind of mixture in one of her old china mixing bowls. He knew exactly which floorboards creaked in the bungalow in Jackson Creek where his parents had lived the last forty-odd years, so he achieved maximum stealth.
That didn’t stop Ellie Jamieson from saying, as he got almost within arm’s reach, “Hello, Travis, honey.”
He hugged his mother from behind. “I thought those eyes in the back of your head might have been closed.” He’d been trying to sneak up on her since he was six years old, and had never once succeeded.
“Not a chance.” She turned to embrace him. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
It was a warmer welcome than he deserved. “You, too. What’s cooking?”
“Can you believe I only just got around to making my Christmas cake?”
“Scandalous,” he said, and wished he hadn’t. That word had been bandied around enough in this town lately. In connection with him. “Is Dad around?”
“He’s helping decorate the hall.” Ellie poured her mixture into a paper-lined cake pan, scraping every last bit from the bowl. She tapped the wooden spoon sharply on the edge of the pan. “He shouldn’t be, with that new hip, but you know what he’s like.”
There was no civic cause too trivial for Hugh to lend his assistance. Unlike Jonah Merritt, a big shot in Atlanta, Hugh had never earned much money. But he’d left his mark on the town in countless ways.
“Clay’s around somewhere.” Clay still lived in Jackson Creek. “And Brent will be here later, but Gina called to say she’s not coming this weekend at all.” Ellie hid her disappointment by turning and sliding the cake into the oven. “I guess she’s seeing that boyfriend of hers.”
“Don’t you like him?” Travis had planned to talk to Gina this weekend, as his father had suggested. Obviously that wasn’t about to happen.
“He’s nice enough, but I worry that he’s rushing her.” Travis lent her a hand stacking her baking utensils in the dishwasher. “I wish she’d bring him here, so we can see what they’re up to.”
Travis suspected that was exactly why Gina didn’t bring Scott to Jackson Creek. He wedged the last of the dirty cutlery into the basket. “I’ll go find Dad.”
“Lunch in half an hour,” Ellie said. “I made oxtail soup.” His favorite.
“Thanks, Ma.” He kissed her cheek and left.
If the Jackson Creek community hall didn’t look much like the Santa’s workshop it was meant to be for the Christmas social each year, it wasn’t due to a lack of enthusiasm. A bevy of workers strung tinsel, blew up balloons and festooned lights around the walls. It was, as Megan had said, quaint.
He missed her. It had been three days since he’d decided to ignore the heat between them, and he hadn’t been able to forget it for one second.
Brian Hill and Stewart Dobson, two of Travis’s dad’s oldest friends, were setting up the bar near the kitchen. Travis stopped to greet them, though he would have preferred to walk on by. But these guys had once been his biggest supporters. Sometimes, Travis wished his career wasn’t seen as public property in Jackson Creek. But then you had to tak
e the bad with the good. He couldn’t ignore the old guys, much as they’d probably like him to.
Their return greetings bordered on curt. After a short silence, Stewart said, “You still with that PPA crowd?” As if a change of job wouldn’t have been broadcast all over town within minutes.
“Yep. Still heading up the property division.” As opposed to the sleaze division. The distinction would cut no ice around here.
Stewart sucked in his cheeks, cueing another silence.
“I’ve come to pick up Dad,” Travis said.
Brian pointed across the hall. “Over there.”
Travis found his father up a ladder, hanging the last of eight plastic reindeer from a beam.
“Don’t tell your mother,” Hugh said when he saw Travis.
“My lips are sealed.” Travis steadied the ladder while his dad secured Dasher’s wire—or was it Dancer’s?—then climbed down.
Hugh dusted his hands off on his pants before he clapped Travis on the shoulder. “You’re early. That brother of yours won’t be here until five.”
“I wanted to talk to you and Mom,” Travis said, “and I know it’ll turn crazy later.” Doubtless his mom would be chief caterer tonight, and Dad would be barkeep.
Back at home, Ellie ladled soup into the seventies geometric-patterned bowls he’d grown up with, while his dad opened a couple of cans of Bud—obviously this week’s special at the liquor store. His parents were careful. Frugal. They didn’t break bowls, and they shopped on a tight budget. Offers of a little cash from their children were firmly rebuffed.
“Dad, Mom, I have some news you won’t like.” Travis had come to the decision on his way here that he couldn’t keep his parents’ hopes up.
Hugh slurped his soup, grimacing apologetically to his wife. “Go ahead.”
“I know how keen you are for me to leave PPA…but it’s not going to happen anytime soon.”
“I see.” Hugh put down his spoon and sat back.
“It was always a long shot,” Travis said. He should have known better than to mention the Merritt, Merritt & Finch opportunity. Thankfully he hadn’t told them about all the other attempts he’d made the past few months to get into one of the top firms, any of the top firms. Working the phones, calling contacts, searching out opportunities. Only to be knocked down every time.
Travis took a long swallow of his beer. “When I joined PPA, I told you it would be three years, max, and then I’d go work for a decent firm. I’ve let you and Mom down. Not to mention everyone else around here.”
“You had your reasons,” his father said. “Your mom and I understand why you went to work for that fellow.” The implication being that others in the close-knit town didn’t. Hugh rubbed his wedding band. “It’s true we’d rather see you in a firm that fits with the kind of man we know you are, but any problems in town here are as much our fault as yours.”
“If we’d had more money,” Ellie chipped in, “we’d have sent you to college ourselves, and it would be no one else’s business where you work.”
“Not that it is anyway.” Hugh scrubbed at a glass mark on his place mat with his cotton napkin. “Your mother’s right, we haven’t been able to give any of you kids much, to our regret.”
“Dad…” Travis dropped his own soupspoon, and it clattered into the bowl, spraying oxtail soup onto the table. “None of that money stuff mattered. You guys gave us the happiest childhood imaginable. You taught us what’s really important. I managed to screw up all by myself.”
“So, you still want the same things out of life?” Ellie asked. “A wife and kids who’ll be your top priority?”
“If I can do half as good a parenting job as you, I’ll be a happy man,” he promised.
Ellie stood and ladled more soup into his bowl from the pot she’d brought to the middle of the table. “Your father told me you were with a girl when he saw you in the city. A lawyer.”
No mistaking the worry in her voice, worry that he would screw up on the personal front, too.
“Nothing’s going on, Mom,” he assured her. And that was official.
“I have to admit I’m relieved,” Ellie said. “Your father said that girl came right out and said she doesn’t want kids.”
“It’s complicated.” The urge to defend Megan was still strong.
“It’s not that complicated, dear. I’m not saying she may not have her reasons, just like you, but that doesn’t change things.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Suddenly, Travis was sick of everyone being right about him and Megan being a bad idea.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BY NINE O’CLOCK the Jackson Creek hall was busting at the seams.
The town’s leading—and only—rock band, the Jackson Jive, had kicked off with a series of eighties hits that got everyone onto the dance floor. Travis had danced with an assortment of women, mostly old classmates. By the time the band segued into “Unchained Melody,” a dreary song women seemed to love, he was ready for a break.
He headed for the bar, only to bump into his parents coming the other way.
“We’re just going to have a dance,” his mom said.
“Your mother’s favorite tune.” Hugh scowled, but didn’t resist.
At the bar, a makeshift arrangement of trestle tables, Travis found his brothers, Brent and Clay. They ordered a round of whiskies, including one for him, with a beer chaser.
Travis led the way to one of the hired pub tables, where he set down his drinks. “How’re the boys?” he asked Clay. The middle Jamieson son was the only one to have taken the plunge into matrimony. Their parents had been devastated for him when his marriage broke up.
As always, Clay’s stern expression lifted at the mention of his kids. “They’re with Laura.”
His brother had to practically beg his ex-wife to take the kids for one measly weekend a year. No wonder he looked so cranky. Travis eyed him critically. Clay was good-looking, and back in high school he’d had more girls after him than he could handle. But he hadn’t dated in a long time. Maybe he needed a woman to drive out his bad memories.
“You seeing anyone?” Travis asked.
Clay shook his head. “Don’t get much time, between work and the boys.”
Travis checked out the local talent over the rim of his glass. “What about Tracey Wells?” Clay’s high school sweetheart was swaying to “Unchained Melody” while she talked with a friend.
“No chemistry.”
“Sue McIntosh?”
“She just got married.”
Travis’s gaze swept the room. searching.
“Leave it, Travis,” Clay said. “I’m happy as I am.”
Brent traded a dubious look with Travis.
“I assume you’re still keeping up your playboy habits,” Travis asked his youngest brother.
“What makes you think that?” Brent raised his beer bottle and winked at a blonde who’d just lurched into one of the bar trestle tables, making it wobble.
“That’s Mrs. Carson’s granddaughter,” Travis warned him. “I hear chronic flatulence is hereditary in women.”
That made Clay chuckle, which was something. “How about you, Travis?” Clay asked. “Dad said you’re ‘seeing’ someone.” He grinned. “I figured he meant boinking.”
“I’m not boinking her,” Travis said sharply, conscious of how nearly he had been.
Both his brothers shifted into a state of alertness. “Sounds serious,” Brent said.
“Only you would think not sleeping with a woman was a sign of a meaningful relationship,” Travis said, unable to shake images of Megan in his arms, in his bed.
“I’m not you. You’re the guy who always wanted to do it right.” Brent gulped down his whisky. “Find yourself an old-fashioned girl, have her tend the kids and the picket fence while you do your lawyer thing.”
“Are you serious about this woman?” Clay asked.
“I’m not even dating her. She’s a colleague.”
“A lawyer?” Clay said,
horrified.
“Yes, a lawyer. She’s a friend.”
Brent hooted. “First she’s a colleague, then she’s a friend. What’s next—lovers?”
Clay wasn’t so amused. “So let’s get this straight. You haven’t done anything with this woman that you wouldn’t do with any other lawyer. Say, with Kyle Prescott.”
On the dance floor, “Unchained Melody” came to a merciful end, the band moving into “Kissing You.” “It’s none of your damn business.” Travis had a sudden inkling why Megan objected so emphatically to his questioning her about her dates.
Clay’s jaw set. “I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.”
Travis tossed back his whisky. Through the burn he said, “It’s nothing like that. Megan’s made it clear she doesn’t want kids.”
His attempt to make her look honest and transparent backfired. Clay’s chin dropped, and even Brent looked worried.
“This woman told you she doesn’t want the same thing you do, and you’re still seeing her?” Brent said. “That would be like me dating a woman who was desperate to get married and settle down. Are you deceiving her, or just plain stupid?”
“I’m not even dating her,” Travis ground out.
“Don’t do it,” Clay said. “If you think you can change her mind down the track, I’m living proof it doesn’t work.”
“Megan isn’t Laura.”
Uh-oh.
Clay set his beer down on the pub table, unconsciously flexing his right bicep. At least, Travis hoped it was unconscious. His brother still did enough physical labor to be in peak condition, where Travis hadn’t found time to get to the gym in months.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clay demanded.
Travis wasn’t about to admit he’d never liked his sister-in-law.
Brent intervened. “So what is Megan like, then?”
Travis started on his beer. “She’s…a little uptight. Ambitious. Keeps to herself. Quiet, mostly.”
Brent scratched his head. “And this is a woman you like?”
“It is serious,” Clay said. “I can’t believe you’re about to wreck your love life, after the mess you made of your career, joining that scumbag firm.”
