Carolina Blues

by Virginia Kantra

“I’m sure that makes you a model of sensitivity,” she said politely.

  His lips twitched.

  Encouraged, she continued. “Maybe Jane thinks she can handle the situation. Maybe she’s afraid of what could happen once the authorities are called in. Once you tell someone, it’s out of your control.”

  An image of black-clad figures burst into her brain. Pounding feet. Pandemonium. Voices shouting, Police! Stay down, stay down.

  She curled her hands around the bottle, holding it tight, the condensation like cold sweat against her palms. Once the authorities are called in . . .

  “If her ex is vandalizing her place, she’s not controlling shit,” Jack said.

  Lauren pulled herself together. They were talking about Jane, she reminded herself. It wasn’t personal. She shoved down the memory of blood sinking into the bank’s blue carpet, the betrayal in Ben’s eyes.

  She took another sip of water. “You know that,” she said. “Jane doesn’t.”

  “She should. Her dad’s a cop.”

  Lauren’s brows drew together in confusion.

  “Hank Clark, retired sheriff’s deputy,” Jack explained. “He’s part-time now with the police department. Jane and her kid live with him.”

  Something clicked in Lauren’s memory. That don’t change my rights . . . You want to have this discussion in front of Aidan and your daddy?

  “Jane has a child.”

  Jack nodded. “Little boy. Aidan.”

  “Do you know if her ex has visitation rights?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “How does Jane’s father feel about all this?”

  Jack shrugged.

  Of course, Lauren thought. Never ask a cop how he feels. Because they were guys. They didn’t sit around discussing their feelings.

  But then Jack surprised her. “He’s worried about her. I get the impression he thought this guy was bad news from the beginning.”

  “So asking for help means admitting to her father that he was right all along.”

  “That’s no reason to protect this asshole.”

  “Maybe she’s protecting her son. Or herself.”

  Another glance from those almost-black eyes. Definite amusement this time. “You sound like a shrink.”

  “I am a shrink. Although ‘counselor’ works. Or ‘therapist,’” she said lightly.

  Jack frowned. “I thought you were a psychology student.”

  It had been in the news coverage. She was surprised he remembered. “Graduate student. I’m getting my doctorate.” If I ever go back. “I see patients in a supervised clinical setting.”

  Jack shook his head, like he couldn’t believe it. “A shrink,” he repeated.

  Her heart sank a little. “Is that a problem?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer right away. So, yes. She suppressed a sigh. And here she’d been thinking they spoke the same language. “A lot of people could benefit from counseling,” she said.

  He raised one dark, sexy eyebrow. “Present company included?”

  “I was talking about Jane. Mediation could help her if there’s a custody issue.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Or I can find this guy and talk to him.”

  He sounded so confident, Lauren thought wistfully. So sure of himself and the situation. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if she borrowed a little of that confidence for a while.

  God, she was pathetic. She barely knew him.

  And maybe that was part of his appeal. She was free to imagine anything she wanted, to invest him with all kinds of magical qualities. He could be the man of her dreams.

  Harmless enough, as long as she kept him a fantasy.

  “Don’t you need some kind of proof first that he’s involved?”

  “I’m not going to drag him in and beat him up,” Jack said stiffly. “But there’s nothing to stop me from approaching the guy on the street and starting a conversation.”

  He looked so hard and dangerous. He made her feel so safe. Jack Rossi to the rescue.

  She fought a shiver of longing.

  He must have caught the movement, because his eyes narrowed. “What?”

  As if she were accusing him of police brutality when in fact she admired his ability to do his job within the constraints of the law. “I’m just wondering where you draw the line between your personal and professional life.”

  His jaw set. “I don’t.”

  He still sounded stiff. Defensive. Her insides squeezed in sympathy.

  She nodded, emboldened by her understanding. “I guess that’s something we have in common. It’s hard sometimes to maintain an appropriate emotional distance. I mean, you have to care to do your job.”

  He was looking at her oddly. “I meant I don’t have a personal life.”

  “Oh.” She was embarrassed. “I find that hard to believe.” He was so attractive.

  “Then you haven’t ever dated a cop.”

  She didn’t date. She hung out. She hooked up. But never with a cop before.

  “Cops can’t have personal lives?”

  “When? Days I’m on, I work split shifts, do the rounds in the morning, another at the end of the day. So I don’t get home ’til seven, eight o’clock. I work weekends. I’m on call nights.”

  “You must get some time off.”

  “Sure. A couple hours in the afternoon to do paperwork, run errands.” A corner of his mouth kicked up. “And I made it a rule that if I get called out in the middle of the night, somebody better be bleeding or somebody’s going to jail.”

  She smiled. “Setting boundaries.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not very good at that.”

  Another sidelong glance. “You got problems with your fans?”

  “My . . . Oh, my readers? No, not really. My readers are wonderful. Aside from the occasional creepy guy at book signings. I was talking about my clients.” And Ben. But she never talked about Ben.

  The peaked roof of the Pirates’ Rest emerged through the trees. They were almost at the inn. Disappointment curled inside her. Her moment-out-of-time with Fantasy Man was almost over.

  “My wife was a cop,” Jack said out of the blue.

  My wife.

  The two words punched into her midsection, robbing her of breath. A doorknob moment, they called it in therapy, when a client dropped a major bombshell admission on his or her way out the door.

  Was. Past tense.

  “She’s not . . .” Lauren trailed off tactfully.

  “Dead?” He pulled the SUV into a parking slot under a blooming crepe myrtle. “No. We’re divorced.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  He gave her an unreadable look.

  Oops. “I mean, not good, just . . .” She pulled her thoughts together, trying to hear what he would not say. “Do you blame your job for the difficulty in your marriage?” Your wife? Yourself?

  “I’m not blaming anybody.” The flowering branches shielded them from the back of the house, filtering an incongruous pink light through the windshield. “I’m just telling you how it is.”

  “Why?” Her heart slammed. Her stomach fluttered. Why are you telling me this? Was he trying to warn her? Or to warn her off?

  Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Other than offering her a ride—purely in his role as public servant?—Jack hadn’t done a thing to signal that he was interested in her personally. Which was really too bad, because he had that whole good cop/bad cop thing going on, all in one tightly wrapped masculine package—the brute muscles and cool control, the brooding intensity of his dark, deep-set eyes, the wry, amused curve of his mouth. When she climbed into the SUV, his scent had wrapped around her, soap and sweat and pheromones, until she wanted to bury her nose in the damp soft cotton of his shirt and sniff him all over.

  He shrugged. “I thought you s
hould know.”

  She sat a moment, absorbing that. “How long?”

  “Since the divorce? Six months.”

  “But you’ve been down here a year.”

  He cut the engine. “Yeah. So?”

  She took a breath. The rush of oxygen made her light-headed. Her chest expanded with possibilities. “And there hasn’t been anybody since.”

  “No. What the hell difference does it make?”

  Adrenaline spiked her blood. Not fear. This anticipation was warm and easy. “If I invite you in for a drink, would that violate your professional or personal boundaries?”

  He went still, his hand on the keys. The inside of the vehicle heated up. The air felt charged.

  Lauren’s face flushed as the silence stretched. She wondered if he could hear the wild beating of her heart. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just think you’re probably ready for a rebound relationship.”

  He met her gaze, his dark eyes intent. Predatory. “Let’s find out.”

  Five

  JACK STRODE UP the flagstone walk, following the movement of Lauren’s smooth, round butt beneath her short, snug skirt. No lines.

  She wasn’t his usual type. Before he met her, he didn’t consider himself the kind of guy who was in the market for a casual hookup.

  But his dick didn’t care.

  The sunlight struck glints in her dark hair like charcoal sparks. She glowed with life and perspiration, warming him in places that had been dead cold a long, long time. She appealed to something dark and animal inside him, a darkness he usually hid, an animal he was doing his damnedest to control.

  At least until they got into the house.

  Anticipation surged through him, heavy and thick. His skin tightened.

  She didn’t use the back door—the family entrance. She led him around to the shaded porch on the side of the house instead, where the inn guests sometimes took breakfast or sat at the end of the day. Inside the French doors was a butler’s pantry with a coffee service and refrigerator for guest use. Through the access on the other end, he could see the Fletchers’ kitchen.

  Lauren stretched to open a glass-fronted cabinet above the counter, her little top riding up to expose a narrow band of pale skin and ink, curling lines following the sexy lower curve of her back. A rush of heat slammed into him, blinding him with lust like a teenage boy. He wanted to press his mouth to the base of her spine, to trace her tattoo with his lips.

  She turned, holding two glasses. “Drink?”

  Hell. He’d figured the drink was just an excuse. A ruse. Like inviting somebody up for coffee after a date. But what did he know? He hadn’t been on a date in years.

  She was dehydrated, he reminded himself. And maybe it was better if he didn’t fall on her like a pit bull. He didn’t know if this was a one-off thing for her or if there was going to be a repeat performance. If he wasn’t going to get a second shot, he wanted to make this last.

  “Sure.”

  She smiled—right answer—and turned away again, reaching into the mini fridge. When she bent over, her skirt and top separated again, revealing the vulnerable bumps of her vertebrae and that lick of ink against her skin. He crossed his arms over his chest and settled back, determined to take this at her pace.

  She straightened, a bottle of wine in her hands. “White okay? Or would you like a beer?”

  “Wine’s fine.”

  He wasn’t planning on drinking anyway. He didn’t drink in the afternoon. Not anymore.

  She turned back to the counter to open the bottle.

  With another woman, he’d figure she’d pulled out the alcohol to relieve her nerves, to ease the awkwardness of sex with a near stranger. But Lauren didn’t look nervous. Maybe the wine put a gloss of civility over the whole thing. Maybe she was making a point to him or to herself that he wasn’t just here for the sex.

  He felt a twinge of . . . something. Conscience? Which was stupid. He’d been honest. They both had.

  I’m just telling you how it is.

  You’re probably ready for a rebound relationship.

  They were both going into this with their eyes open. But her hands on the corkscrew weren’t quite steady. So maybe she was a little nervous after all.

  Tenderness uncurled inside him.

  He came up behind her as she poured the wine and rested his hands at her waist, his thumbs riding that half inch of warm, exposed skin. She jolted, gripping the bottle, and then released it to relax against him, her muscles loosening, yielding. He loved that, that she yielded. To reward her, to indulge himself, he bent his head to her throat. Her hair brushed the side of his face. Her scent was warm and musky like sex. Opening his lips, he pressed his mouth to the soft hollow of her neck. Her shudder rocked them both.

  His fingers tightened on her waist. He had enough control to do that, to keep his hands from sliding to her breasts. His erection lodged against her bottom. She made a soft, assenting sound. Turning in his hold, she twined her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for her kiss.

  And hello, yeah, she could kiss.

  Her mouth was hot and slick and sweet. Her kiss cut into him like a knife into butter, melting him with her response. Well, except for the part of him that definitely wasn’t melting, that jutted, hard and eager, against her stomach.

  “Jack.” The interruption dashed over him like a bucket of cold water. “Luke didn’t tell me you were coming by today.”

  Tess Fletcher. Luke’s mother.

  Reluctantly, Jack raised his head. Lauren stared back up at him, her eyes wide and dark, her lips pink and wet.

  His mind blanked. Stumbled.

  Lauren was a guest of Tess’s inn. Okay, so the Pirates’ Rest wasn’t the no-tell motel next to the trailer park on the other side of the bridge. But the inn had a goddamn honeymoon suite. Guests probably had sex there all the time. Just because Tess Fletcher found him kissing the shit out of a guest in the pantry was no reason he couldn’t . . . They shouldn’t . . .

  Fuck.

  Or not.

  He turned, sliding his hand to the small of Lauren’s back, shifting her in front of him like a shield to hide his obvious erection.

  “Tess.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded husky.

  Luke’s mother, Teresa Saltoni Fletcher, was a slim, attractive woman in her fifties with a smile-lined face and dark Italian eyes. Her gaze met Jack’s. Her eyebrows rose, very slightly. A mother’s look. Ah, hell. This woman knew him, had invited him to Christmas dinner at her house. He felt fifteen again, sneaking Amy Wolacek down to the basement rec room to have sex on the gnarly brown couch.

  Lauren grinned, unabashed. “It was kind of an impulse thing.”

  “I see.” Tess regarded them thoughtfully.

  Jack bet she did. The woman was married forty years with two sons. He was pretty sure she didn’t miss a trick.

  She smiled. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

  Jack’s brain still wasn’t working properly, his dick still focused on getting upstairs and into Lauren. He was determined to keep things compartmentalized, to separate sex and the job, Lauren here, Dare Island there, no problem. But Tess’s arrival had blurred his neat divisions.

  Before he could formulate a response, he heard quick, firm strides cross the kitchen floor and Luke Fletcher walked in.

  “Hey. Hi, Mom.” His sharp blue gaze cut to Jack. “I saw the patrol vehicle outside. Mom acting drunk and disorderly again?”

  Tess rolled her eyes, clearly accustomed to her son’s teasing.

  But Jack heard the concern beneath the gibe. If he’d been thinking with his big head instead of his little one, he would have realized that a police vehicle parked outside the Pirates’ Rest in the middle of the afternoon would be a red flag to Luke.

  But he hadn’t thought at all. And now Tess and Luk
e were both looking at him, speculation in their eyes.

  “Everything’s fine.” Everything but his dick, pressing insistently against his fly. He cleared his throat. “I gave Lauren a ride home.”

  “Lauren Patterson.” She offered her hand to Luke, a smile in her voice, like she was delighted to meet him. Like she wasn’t embarrassed at all to be caught tangling tongues with the town’s chief of police.

  Maybe she did this all the time, brought men back to her room. Jack realized he was clenching his jaw and relaxed it deliberately. He’d been only too happy to follow her upstairs. He was in no position to judge.

  “I’m a client of Meg’s,” she was saying to Luke.

  Luke shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Meg’s brother.”

  Her smile broadened. “I guessed. You’re getting married soon, right?”

  Luke’s pleasure showed in his grin. “Next week.”

  “Congratulations,” she said warmly.

  “Thanks.” Luke threw a wicked look at Jack. “Are you Jack’s date for the wedding?”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. He might have to put up with Tess mucking around in his personal life. He didn’t have to take that shit from his subordinate.

  Lauren came unexpectedly to his rescue. Hostage Girl, taking action in a crisis. “We’re not thinking that far ahead yet.”

  Tess lifted her brows again. “It’s only a week until the wedding.”

  “I just meant . . .” She shifted, throwing Jack a laughing, help-me-out-here look over her shoulder.

  He let her go reluctantly, keeping his expression impassive. What did she mean? Maybe he would have invited her. If he’d thought about it. Which he hadn’t. She wasn’t part of his life here. It wasn’t like they were dating.

  Which was kind of Tess’s point.

  Shit. He was thirty-eight years old. Tess was not his mother. His sex life was his own business.

  “I’m sure it’s too late to add someone to your guest list,” Lauren said when he didn’t say anything.

  “Always room for a plus one,” Tess said blandly.

  “What is this, a party?” Meg Fletcher stood in the doorway, surveying the half-filled glasses of wine on the counter. “Why wasn’t I invited?”