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

by Webb, Peggy

  “Forget it, Maxie. Mr. Perfect is not for me.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more. He’s too... perfect.” Maxie sighed.

  B. J. studied her sister. Maxie was not the kind who sighed over men: Men always sighed over her. B. J.’s big-sister instincts took over.

  “Maxie, don’t you dare start getting ideas over a man who is already taken. Especially not tonight. All I want to do is get out of here and get out of this dress.”

  “Relax. You look smashing. Crash thought so, too.”

  “How could you tell?” B. J. was pleased in spite of herself.

  “Look at the eyes. What a man thinks of you is always in his eyes.”

  B. J. glanced at his table, but Crash was deep in conversation with his brother. If he even knew where she was sitting, she couldn’t tell.

  “Not that it matters. All I want to do is go home.”

  Maxie set her glass down with such force, the silver rattled.

  “You can’t quit now, B. J. Just look around you.” Maxie gestured toward the tables that held Tupelo’s elite. “It’s a regular sperm bank out there.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Walk up to somebody and say, ‘I like your genes. Hand over your sperm.’“ She attacked her chicken as if it might fight back. “Maybe it’s a sperm bank out there, but I’m not cut out to be a bank robber.”

  “You’re not giving up? B. J., you can’t quit. You’re not a quitter.”

  “Yes, I am.” B. J. took a long slug of wine. Her second glass. “I quit the altar and I’m quitting the father search.”

  Maxie pulled out a tissue and silently handed it across the table. Equally silent, B. J. took it. She sniffled discreetly, then felt a flood coming on.

  “Excuse me,” she said, then bolted toward the ladies’ room.

  Halfway there she decided that banquet halls were designed by the same people who created mazes. She felt like a rat, doomed to wander endlessly.

  Suddenly there was a hand on her elbow, and she looked up to see Crash.

  “Don’t say anything,” he said. “Just keep walking.”

  For once she didn’t argue.

  He guided her through the tables, around the corner, and out the back door. She leaned against the wall, the tissue wadded in her hand.

  “Where’s the ladies’ room?” she said.

  “You don’t have to hide in a ladies’ room to cry. You can cry on my shoulder.”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “So I see.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at her cheeks.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Sometimes you’re not half bad.”

  The cool night breeze dried the rest of her tears, and just when she thought she had herself under control, she looked at Crash in the moonlight. He was everything she wanted the father of her child to be, strong and handsome, cheerful and witty, intelligent and personable.

  He pulled a pipe from his pocket and lit it, never taking his eyes off hers. His riveting stare caught her high up under the breastbone, and she could hardly breathe. He blew a perfect smoke ring, then a second and a third, his eyes gleaming with an unholy light.

  Her skin caught fire.

  “What?” she finally said.

  He took the pipe from his mouth. “You tried to seduce my brother.”

  She didn’t bother to deny it.

  He reached out and drew his finger along the top of her plunging neckline, leaving a trail of goose bumps on her skin. Slowly, he retraced his path, pausing long enough to delve briefly into her cleavage.

  She stood perfectly still. She’d been through this before with him. Crash loved to take her to the brink, then back off.

  “What I want to know is why?” The soft silkiness of his voice disguised the steel underneath.

  Reeling with wine and conflicting emotions, B. J. closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him. What was the use of torturing herself? He didn’t want her except as something to toy with.

  “B. J.” He caught her face between his hands and tipped her face upward. “Look at me.” She opened her eyes slowly, like somebody waking from a dream. “Why did you try to seduce my brother?”

  She clenched her shaking hands into fists and jerked out of reach.

  “What do you care?”

  She stalked toward the banquet hall. Inside was a sea of white linen tablecloths and white starched shirts gleaming in the candlelight. Somewhere across that vast sea was Maxie. B. J. felt as if she were drowning with not a single lifeboat in sight.

  She had gained the vestibule when Crash scooped her up and strode off into the darkness.

  “Put me down.”

  “Not a chance.”

  She drew back her fist, and he laughed.

  “Fight, Philadelphia. Let’s see your left hook.”

  She folded her hands across her chest and glared at him.

  “I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.”

  Chuckling, he carried her across the parking lot. In the glow of streetlights his Harley looked as menacing as the warrior himself.

  Holding her against his chest, he straddled the seat and revved the engine.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Home.”

  “I don’t have a home.”

  “I do.”

  She had a mental image: a cozy fire and moonlight streaming through the window, a patchwork quilt and legs entwined, soft music and whispered words in the darkness.

  What she meant to say was, “Not on your life.” What she said instead was, “Hmmm.”

  And what she did was snuggle closer to his chest.

  His jaw clenched, and he squeezed her so hard, she almost lost her breath.

  Was it possible she could seduce him? Would it be possible to use him for one night and then never see him again?

  If she’d had all her faculties about her, she’d have taken out a notebook and listed the pros and cons. The cons would surely have outweighed the pros, and she’d have cast off her notion as not only foolish but also dangerous.

  But she was full of wine and recklessness. Circling her arms around his neck she drew him close. His breath made her skin hot, and even if she’d wanted to turn back it was already too late, far too late.

  “Crash...”

  “Hmm?”

  “There’s something I want you to do.”

  The moonlight caught in his hair and his eyes, and he looked like a god descended from Mount Olympus for the express purpose of cavorting with mortals. She’d never felt more mortal... or more vulnerable.

  He quirked an eyebrow upward.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  As he roared out of the parking lot, her internal clock struck the hour. A quarter till midnight. She had to hurry before it was too late.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The madness that drove him was jealousy, pure unadulterated jealousy. And of his own brother. As he zipped along in the night, he mentally kicked himself.

  He was turning into somebody he didn’t know, somebody he didn’t even like. Jealousy, kidnapping. What would he resort to next?

  There was no question about it. What he was doing was tantamount to kidnapping, and kidnapping was no way to conduct a courtship. And it was certainly no way to tell the woman in his arms that she was important to him. More than important. Necessary in ways he’d never dreamed possible.

  He veered left off the highway onto a gravel driveway that meandered through a hundred-year-old pecan grove. At the end of the driveway was his cottage, nestled among the magnolias and camellias and gardenias as if it had sprung up from the rich soil in the flower garden.

  Crash never failed to get a rush of pleasure from the sight of his house. He searched Philadelphia’s face, anxious for her reaction.

  “You live here?” she said.

  It wasn’t what he expected, but he could live with the disappointment. After all, she was a big-city girl. A man couldn’t have everything.

  “Yes. I live here.”

&
nbsp; She stood on the front porch, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath.

  “It smells like a place you would live... an extravagance of wildness and freedom.” She smiled. “I like it.”

  “You always surprise me, Philadelphia.”

  “I’m a big-city girl by choice, but I grew up in the country. On a farm, as a matter of fact, a place very much like this. Do you have animals?”

  “Yes. Listen.”

  In the distance they heard the plaintive whinny of a horse, then an answering snort and the thundering of hooves across the pasture.

  “It’s mating season,” he said.

  She stiffened, and then she transformed before his eyes. Everything about her became liquid, her eyes, her smile, even her bones. She slithered across the porch and wrapped herself around him, then clung there like a morning-glory vine.

  “So it is,” she said.

  She spoke in a voice he’d never heard her use, a soft seductive whisper that sent shivers over him. Then she nuzzled his neck and actually purred. The behavior was so uncharacteristic of her that he was thrown completely off guard.

  Not that he didn’t like it. On the contrary, he found this unexpectedly sensual side of Philadelphia to be extraordinarily appealing. What man could resist?

  He scooped her up and carried her across his threshold, just like a hero in the late-night movie classics he loved to watch. It was an image of himself that he enjoyed.

  His courtship was advancing far faster than he’d imagined.

  “How about some music,” he said.

  “Music?”

  Moonlight laid a path from the window to the doorway, and Philadelphia’s eyes were as luminous as a cat’s. She made that little noise again, half purr, half growl, and then she began to nibble his neck.

  He was so excited, he couldn’t even find the light switch. Great Caesar’s aphrodisiac. Goose bumps the size of golf balls popped up on his skin. He’d never known it was possible to have such a reaction to the touch of a woman.

  He found the sofa in the dark. It was a man’s couch, big and roomy with lots of puffy pillows. He placed her among the pillows, carefully lest he break the spell that bound them. She was lush and inviting, her lips a slash of scarlet, pouty and ripe, her breasts rising above her low-slung neckline, one silken thigh completely exposed, the other a rich curve underneath the silky red dress.

  “Come here,” she whispered, lifting her arms, and he fell into them, a man possessed, so hungry for what she offered that he forgot how he’d meant to court her, forgot about the candlelight and soft music, forgot the fire he’d meant to build in the grate, just enough to take the spring chill out of the air and send a pleasant cozy glow over the room.

  He forgot everything except the rich pleasure of her lips and the ripe promise of her body. She murmured and writhed as he kissed her, spurring him on until he could barely keep control.

  “You are delicious,” he whispered.

  “Don’t talk....” She pulled him closer. “Just don’t talk.”

  But even as his passion mounted, something deep inside him whispered caution; something he’d only lately discovered to be his heart yearned for the tender words, the sweet, slow buildup, the commitment.

  He thrust his tongue into her mouth and engaged hers in a provocative duel. Even though desire wound him as tightly as a bowstring, he could still think about such heady stuff as commitment. Funny how’d he’d always thought the only thing he wanted was freedom. Even after he met Philadelphia he didn’t know how hard he’d fallen; he didn’t understand that freedom meant enjoying all the things life had to offer, including love.

  Joe would laugh his head off if he knew Crash’s dilemma: The man who had always enjoyed the pleasures of a woman’s body without any thought beyond the moment now found himself being used in the same way, being used and wishing for the powerful, magical bonds of love and commitment.

  Cupping her face, he came up for air. In the moonlight she was beautifully disheveled and incredibly desirable.

  “Philadelphia...”

  “Hmmm?”

  She licked one finger and traced his lips.

  “I thought a small fire would be nice, and maybe some slow sexy blues,” he said.

  “What’s the matter, Crash?” She reached for his shirt buttons. “Getting cold feet again?”

  “Again?”

  “Just like in the Smokies. All bluster and no performance.”

  “Is that what this is to you? A performance?”

  She parted his shirt and raked her fingernails down his chest.

  “Spoken just like a lawyer,” she said. “Always analyzing.”

  In a neat role reversal she was skewering him with his own sword. All that aside, she was seducing him as he’d never been seduced. Only a man of iron would be immune to her sexual overtures, and he’d never laid claim to such a dubious fame.

  He pushed aside the top of her dress.

  “Is this what you want, Philadelphia?”

  “Yes. That and more.”

  “That’s an invitation too good to resist.”

  “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “You’re wearing too many clothes, Philadelphia.”

  “Why don’t you take them off?”

  Tangled together on the sofa he struggled to reach her zipper. Impatient, she shoved him aside, then stood in the path of moonlight and shed her dress with the finesse of a high-class call girl. A black lace teddy hugged her curves, and black silk stockings attached to a garter belt encased her long slim legs. She still wore her heels, sling-back pumps with a saucy satin bow, naughty shoes that begged a man to do all manner of erotic things.

  “You’re incredible,” he said, meaning it.

  He left a trail of clothes as he walked toward her and lowered her to the rug. And then, for a very long time, the magic took over.

  Still, though he was often impulsive he was never irresponsible. As he began to pull back, she hung onto his shoulders.

  “Please. Don’t stop. I want...” She bit her lower lip.

  Alarm bells went off. Philadelphia had always been as elusive as the deer of the Smoky Mountains. If he had been thinking with his head instead of his heart, he might have questioned her astonishing reversal.

  “What do you want, Philadelphia?”

  She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, drawing a slow, sensual circle. He almost died.

  “You,” she whispered. “I want you.”

  He studied her, the flushed face, the bruised, pouty looking lips, the shining eyes. She was by far the most complex woman he’d ever known. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she made him see how wrong he was. It would take the rest of his life to unravel the mystery of her, every day, every hour, every minute to decipher the exciting puzzle of her.

  Hunger gnawed at him, but there was something missing, something vital.

  “Why?” he whispered. “Why do you want me?”

  “Oh, God... please...”

  He held very still, and she arched against him, twisting and turning.

  “Please... Crash... please... now.”

  He was so close to letting go, so close.

  “Not yet.”

  Sweat slicked his back and poured down the side of his face. With a control he’d never have dreamed possible he continued their lovemaking as if he could drive the truth from her with the fury.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, yes, yes. Please!”

  Those darned alarm bells went off again. Crash held himself still and studied her.

  He knew that look. It wasn’t the soft look of a woman fulfilled, but the squared-jaw look of a determined woman with a quest. What was she after? Surely not revenge. Surely not paying him back for what she considered a spurning in the mountains.

  Philadelphia was many things, but she was not petty.

  “Please what?”

  She clutched him hard against her chest, her jaw set. “Do I have to beg?”

  �
�Beg for what?”

  “You know.”

  “No. Tell me. You’re a lawyer, you know how to get what you want. What do you want, Philadelphia?”

  “You.”

  “You’ve got that. What else do you want?”

  Their eyes locked; their wills clashed. The moon illuminated them... the rivers of sweat on his face and his back, her glistening skin, the black teddy twisted down around her slender waist.

  She was the first to move.

  She began an urgent rhythm, trying his control.

  He almost lost it.

  “Wait... Philadelphia... wait... let me get some protection.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She moved again and he felt himself tumbling over the cliff, dying the slow, sweet death.

  “Are you protected?” he asked, easing back to gain control.

  She glared at him, panting. “Damn you... Crash. Finish it.”

  Rocked to the very core of his being, he withdrew. On hands and knees he stared down at her.

  “What are you trying to do?” he said.

  She bit her lip, and tears sprang to her eyes.

  “You wanted to get pregnant. Is that it?”

  It was an age-old ploy: bait the trap, set it, and when the baby’s in the oven, slam the door shut. Many women before her had tried it.

  He studied her, the strong jaw, the clear, steady gaze, the determined face. She was a brilliant woman, not at all the kind who would stoop to such a dirty trick.

  “Please get off me,” she said.

  “Not yet.” He held her arms pinned above her head. “Not till I learn the truth.”

  She didn’t fight against him, but merely lay on the rug as expressionless and stiff as a department store mannequin.

  “There’s nothing more to say,” she said.

  It couldn’t be rejection she was feeling, not after the way he’d given in to unbridled passion. There was something else, something he was missing.

  He thought back over all their encounters, tried to remember anything that would give him a clue to her behavior. Though she kept surprising him, she’d been consistent up until tonight: She was basically a hardworking conservative lawyer who tried to hide her soft spot behind a rapier wit.

  But tonight she’d let her hair down and dressed for seduction. Why?