Bringing Up Baxter (Forever Friends, Book 3 of 4)

by Webb, Peggy

“I’ve never been so glad to see anybody in my life.”

  Crash knew she’d have been glad to see anybody coming to rescue her, but he took it personally anyhow. Now he knew. Underneath he was just like his brother, happy to be somebody’s hero, and particularly happy to be Philadelphia’s hero.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. Never had a woman felt so good. She was soft in the right places and firm where it counted, but more than that, she was exactly right for him.

  “Things are out there in the dark.” She pressed her face against his chest, shivering. “I saw their hard yellow eyes. I could hear them breathing.”

  “It’s all right, Philadelphia.” It seemed natural to bury his face in her hair and breathe in her scent. “I’m here. Hang on tight.”

  She curled herself closer, and his body responded like an old warhorse to a battle cry. It was heady stuff, being a hero.

  “I thought nobody would find me.”

  The way she said it, sweet and soft and forlorn, was enough to melt even a cold man’s heart, and Crash had never been a cold man. He had the kind of heart that didn’t take much urging to melt, the kind that could weep over a cardinal with a broken wing. Now his heart was in a warm wet puddle at Philadelphia’s feet.

  “I’ll always find you,” he said, and the words came from deep down where only the truth was spoken.

  He picked her up and set her on the back of his motorcycle, then tucked Baxter under his arm.

  “Wait right here.”

  “I wouldn’t budge if a herd of elephants came toward me.”

  He started toward the fallen log where she’d waited, and she grabbed his arm, panicked.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To put out your fire.”

  o0o

  He put out her campfire, but when he climbed aboard the Harley and instructed her to hold on tight, he only added fuel to the fire he’d started inside her. Talk was impossible above the noise of the Harley, but that was fine with B. J.

  Talk was the last thing on her mind.

  She pressed her face into his broad back, and didn’t even lie to herself that she was only trying to block the wind. He felt wonderful, and she wanted to get as close to him as possible. Not because he was her rescuer, not because he was the hero of the moment, but because of the way he made her feel—soft, feminine, desirable, and extraordinarily hungry.

  So, what was she going to do about it? Six weeks earlier she’d have taken her notebook and listed all the pros and cons. Shoot, she’d have done that a week ago. But there was something about the Smokies, something about Crash, something about being on the back of a Harley that released all her inhibitions. She felt as wild and free as Eve must have felt when she was turned loose in the Garden of Eden.

  The roar of the engine drowned out all sound, and the pleasant warmth of Crash’s body soaked into her. She pressed her lips against his back. His skin felt hot, even through his shirt. She found a wonderful indentation in his chest right over his heart just made for caressing.

  What the heck? Who would ever know?

  She circled her hands over that enticing spot, tentatively at first, then with a boldness she’d never have believed possible. The friction of his chest hair against the material almost drove her wild. She’d seen his bare chest, had lolled against it in her panic over the bear. She knew the exact pattern of hair, the exact color, the exact texture.

  What she didn’t know was the taste. Every fiber in her body longed to know. She longed to bend over him, spread-eagled, and run her tongue around his mouth, down the side of his throat, then into the mat of thick hair on his chest.

  She felt sensitized. She could hear the singing of her blood, count the rushing beats of her heart, feel every inch of skin on her body and how it responded to Crash.

  Such a name. Full of fun and adventure. A make-believe, devil-may-care name.

  B. J. turned her head sideways and looked up at the sky. It was full of stars. She’d never wished on a star, not even when she was young. Always serious and studious, she’d stood in the background while madcap Maxie did the crazy, spontaneous things like wishing on stars.

  Was it too late to wish on a star? She pinpointed the brightest one. Venus? That seemed appropriate for what she had on her mind.

  Then, feeling a little bit foolish, a little bit romantic, and more than a little reckless, she wished on a star.

  Chapter Nine

  There’s only so much temptation a man can resist. With the wind in his face and Philadelphia’s arms circling his waist, Crash broke the sound barrier getting back to camp. Great Caesar in a dinghy, what was she doing with her hands? Those little erotic moves she was making nearly drove him wild.

  Joseph would love the irony of this situation. The woman Crash was determined to resist had become the very kind he found irresistible: soft, feminine, sweet, and sexy.

  What he was going to do was put her down at her camp, see that she was properly calmed down and tucked in, then climb in his own sleeping bag and forget he’d almost been seduced by a female lawyer.

  What he did instead was lift her off the Harley and carry her inside her tent with Baxter close at their heels. The puppy immediately snuggled into his bed and went fast to sleep, which was exactly what Crash intended to do. But not yet. Not while he felt the delicious weight of a delectable woman pressing against his body. Not while he was so wound up, he hardly knew his real name.

  Moonlight streamed through the small window of the tent and crept around the edges of the tent’s flap. In that small and tender light, Philadelphia’s eyes shone.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

  He wasn’t made of stone.

  “I do,” he said, right before he kissed her.

  Great Caesar’s pajamas, such a kiss. The gods were conspiring against him. There was no man living who could walk away from those lips.

  If she’d protested, he might have been able to leave, but as he deepened the kiss her arms stole around him, and she held on as if she’d never let go. It seemed only natural to lower her to the sleeping bag, only natural to fit her hips into his, only natural to run his hands under her blouse and stroke the long, fine length of her back.

  She made small sounds of pleasure. Any minute now Crash would turn back, but not yet, not while her body heat seared him, not while the flames licked at his own skin, setting him on fire.

  He dipped his tongue into her mouth, and she met his thrust with one of her own. The rhythm of tongues and hips drove him almost over the brink. Almost.

  “You are so good,” she murmured. “So good.”

  Praise coming from Philadelphia was heady stuff. He had to have more.

  He cupped her hips and held them tightly against his own, and even through their clothes he could feel the hot, moist heat of her. She was lush and willing and ready. His for the taking.

  And how he would take her, starting slow and sweet, then building to a wild abandon that would leave them tangled and panting. He hurt with the wanting of her.

  Her hand stole between them, and her boldness was as delightful as it was unexpected. He’d always loved boldness in a woman, especially when it was paired with a feminine softness.

  His blood caught fire, and he felt the heat on every inch of his skin, heard the roaring in his ears. He yearned for her as he’d never yearned for a woman.

  But the thing about Philadelphia was that she was a lady. And the thing about Crash was that, in spite of appearances, he was a gentleman. He’d never taken a woman without thinking about the consequences. He’d never believed in one-night stands, in taking without giving something in return, in casual sex, particularly with a woman like Philadelphia, a woman who deserved so much more, a woman still raw from rejection.

  Her breath was hot against his skin, and her heart raced so hard, he could feel its excited rhythm against his own.

  “I want you,” she said.

  “I want you, too, Philadelphia.”
>
  It was the absolute truth. He wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman, wanted her with every ounce of his being, wanted her in all the many ways of a man who loves a woman.

  He sighed deeply and stroked her back, trying to gentle her down, trying to gentle them both down. His touch had the opposite effect on her. Her hips set up a frantic rhythm as she writhed in his arms.

  “You’ll probably never know how much I want you,” he whispered, the sound of his voice lost in the sounds of wanting she made.

  He strained to be free of the constraints of clothes. If she kept up what she was doing, he would soon be out of control. Principles be hanged. There would be no turning back.

  “Philadelphia...”

  Moaning, she buried her face in his neck and raked her hands down his back. Her tongue was warm and wet against his skin.

  He tried once more to get her attention. “Philadelphia...”

  “You taste like sea spray,” she said as she pushed aside his shirt to lick and taste along his collarbone.

  Great Caesar’s stallion. How could a man be noble in a situation like this?

  He found the zipper of her pants, heard the soft snick as it moved downward.

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, Crash.”

  He was so close, so close. He took deep breaths, trying to rein himself back under control. He was not her kind of man, and she was not his kind of woman. And he wasn’t about to make her a one-night stand, or even a two-week fling.

  He closed her zipper and shifted his hips back.

  “You’d hate me in the morning,” he said.

  She stiffened as if she’d been slapped. Then she went perfectly still. Better to make her mad for a few minutes, than to give her something she’d regret the rest of her life.

  “Tarzan on a Harley and a big-city lawyer...” He straightened her clothes, then stood up, chuckling, trying to make a joke of the whole thing. “We’re a match made in hell, Philadelphia.”

  “Get out.” She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t even smiling.

  Too late he realized that she might take his actions as less than noble, that she might even take them as rejection, which was the last thing in the world he wanted her to think.

  “Philadelphia...”

  She picked up a shoe and threw it at him. “Just get out.” The shoe zinged past his head and landed with a plop on the ground.

  “I didn’t mean to stir you up.”

  She stood up, tall and proud, her head at a haughty angle, her chin tilted upward.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t do anything to me. I’m totally unmoved by you, Crash.”

  That stung. How could she stand there and deny the passion that had sparked between them?

  The smart thing to do was leave. But he’d never been known for doing the smart thing. Crash was like a bull, always charging straight ahead. “The most aggravating thing about you, Crash, is that you don’t know when to let well enough alone,” Joseph was always telling him.

  Joe was right about that. Instead of leaving while he was halfway ahead, Crash stood his ground.

  “Look, Philadelphia, let me explain.”

  “Put it in a letter, lick it, stamp it, and mail it to yourself. You’re the only one interested.”

  “Did you know that you’re cute when you’re mad?”

  “Cute? Did you say cute?”

  She picked up a book and threw it at him. As the book whizzed by his head he noticed that it was a volume of LaFave and Scott, Criminal haw. That proved his point: He and Philadelphia were totally unsuitable for each other.

  “Your aim is improving, Philadelphia.”

  “Maybe this will hit your fat head.”

  She heaved another volume in his direction, and he ducked out of the tent laughing.

  But he wasn’t laughing when he got to his own tent; he was thinking that sometimes the price for nobility was too high.

  Chapter Ten

  Philadelphia was gone.

  Crash stood barefoot in the early morning dew, staring at her campsite in disbelief. She’d left, lock, stock, and barrel. There was not a single bit of evidence to show that she’d ever been there. Somehow, she’d stolen away in the middle of the night without his knowledge, probably just before daylight, for that’s when he’d finally dropped off to sleep.

  “Great Caesar in a hearse,” he said softly.

  It was all his fault. He should never have kissed her, never have spread her upon her sleeping bag, never have made the first advance toward her.

  Suddenly he remembered how vulnerable she’d been the night she thought a bear was after her. He didn’t know the circumstances, but he knew that somebody had rejected her.

  She probably thought he’d done the same thing. He could kick himself. Instead he sat on the ground in his shorts and looked into the distance.

  If only he could see her again, he’d apologize.

  She’d left no clues. Her license plate had said Pennsylvania, but what was she doing camping in Tennessee? Somewhere out there was a woman he’d done wrong, and he didn’t even know where to find her to say “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t know where to find her to say anything at all. Suddenly it hit him: He would probably never see Philadelphia again.

  For the first time in his life Crash wondered whether there might be something more to life than traveling wherever whim took him.

  o0o

  “I can’t believe you’re home,” Maxie said.

  They were in B. J.’s office, Maxie with hands on hips, her hair tied in a red bandanna, a streak of yellow paint on her nose, and B. J. with her briefcase.

  “You weren’t supposed to be here until sometime next week.”

  “Well, I’m here now, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.” B. J. shoved swatches of cloth and bundles of wallpaper off her desk, then flipped open her briefcase and pulled out her brass nameplate. When she set it on the front of her desk she felt better.

  “You mean you’re going to work?”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do.” If she didn’t work, she’d go crazy. Probably within the next few minutes.

  “I won’t be finished with your office till the end of the week.”

  “Carry on, Maxie. You won’t be in my way.”

  “Yes, but you’ll be in my way.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “B. J., what’s got into you?”

  “Nothing. I’m working, that’s all.”

  She took a stack of files from her briefcase and spread them across her desk, then she added a couple of legal pads and three pens. Maxie watched her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Why are you doing this, B. J.?”

  “I have to earn a living.”

  Maxie snorted. “You could take five years off and never make a dent in your savings. If I were in your shoes, that’s what I’d do.” She looked her sister up and down. “Good grief.”

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “You’re wearing pumps.”

  “I always wear pumps when I’m working.”

  “This office is a mess, you don’t have a shingle, you don’t even have any clients. What exactly happened up there in the mountains?”

  The thought of Crash’s hands on her actually made B. J. feel faint.

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Yes, it did. I can tell. What was it?”

  “Maxie, give it a rest.”

  “It’s Stephen again, isn’t it? What’d he do this time? Track you down to ask how to turn on the water in his new house?”

  Every room was a stage to Maxie. She swept around making dramatic faces and dramatic gestures. Any other time B. J. would have been amused. Now all she could think about was Crash.

  She’d never see him again. She didn’t know why that thought saddened her so.

  “I ought to find him and kick his aristocratic butt,” Maxie said.

  “It’s not Stephen.”

  “Aha, I knew it. There was s
omebody in the mountains.” Maxie sat on the edge of B. J.’s desk. “Tell me what he did to upset you, and I’ll go beat him up.”

  B.J. surprised herself by laughing. The idea of five-foot-two, hundred-pound Maxie beating up anybody, let alone Crash, was ridiculous.

  “What’s so funny?” Maxie asked.

  “If he knew about that threat, he’d be quivering in his boots.”

  “Who?”

  There was no use continuing to pretend. Maxie wasn’t about to let it drop. Anyhow, B. J. needed to confide in somebody. If Helen and Kathleen were there, they’d pop some corn, open a bottle of wine and have a good, old-fashion cry fest. For now, though, all she had was Maxie. Thank goodness, they were not only sisters but also best friends.

  “He called himself Crash.”

  Maxie grinned. “Sounds like my kind of man.”

  “He was. Wild, unconventional, irreverent. Extremely good-looking and also extremely young.”

  “How old was he?”

  “I don’t know. But younger than me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I could tell.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Maxie. I’m trying to tell you something, and you’re hung up on his age.”

  “I’m not, but I think you are.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Thirty-eight is not old, B. J.”

  “Tell that to Stephen.” Suddenly all the events of the past six months crashed down around B. J., and thirty-eight felt like the beginning of the end.

  “Even if I were pregnant right this very minute, I’d be nearly forty before the baby was born,” she added.

  Maxie pulled a wadded-up tissue from her pocket and handed it to B. J.

  “I’m not crying.”

  “In case you do.”

  B. J. sniffled into the tissue, then blew her nose.

  “It only takes nine months,” Maxie said.

  “Thirty-nine is nearly forty. And look what happened to us.”

  Their mother had married late and was thirty-six when B. J. was born. Eight years later she’d died giving birth to Maxie. Their father had spent the rest of his life mourning her death, and if it hadn’t been for their paternal grandparents, they’d never have known what it was like to grow up in a family. Fortunately the Corbans had been salt of the earth farming people who had imparted their work ethic to B. J. and their sense of fun to Maxie.