by Leslie Kelly
Who would have imagined an evening like this? A month like this? Caroline, back in his life, sleeping in his bed—okay, not the same one he was sleeping in—but a bed he owned, nonetheless. And that he’d be smiling.
He should have been throwing things. Cursing. Getting into his car and driving away from her, from the memories, from the thought of what an immature jerk he’d once been and what a scared brat she’d been.
“Well, hell, who said twenty-one-year-olds know anything?” he said aloud as he walked into his own bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him.
Especially not him at twenty-one. Christ, he couldn’t figure himself out now, at twenty-nine. So how could he have thought, as a college junior, that he knew what love was? Knew enough to propose to a girl?
“Propose.” He shuddered, the word tasting strange in his mouth. He hadn’t thought about getting married since that one crazy spring break when he and Caroline had taken a road trip up to Canada. He’d asked her to marry him while the two of them had frozen their asses off under a thin blanket and an endless midnight sky.
She’d said yes. Then a week later, she’d said a resounding no. All because Mick had never lost that need to charm, to flirt, to get his way in the same manner he’d always gotten his way: with a grin, a wink, an irresistible laugh, a little flattery.
He’d been using that technique ever since he was old enough to figure out his place in the large Winchester family. The Winchesters were to Derryville what the Kennedys were to Massachusetts. He’d been raised with cousins as siblings, grandparents up the block or in the kitchen, and various great-aunts, uncles and their kids perfectly willing to comment on everything he did from the time he was old enough to talk.
Probably that old-enough-to-talk thing was what had done him in. His first word had been cookie. And, according to family legend, it had been accompanied by such an adorable two-toothed smile that every woman he said it to would present him with exactly the treat he’d asked for.
Many women had lined up to give him their cookies over the years.
That was okay. Randy little flirt seemed as good a position in his family as anything else. His cousin, Jared, had already nailed down the role of smart and serious one, and Jared’s older sister—now living in Florida—claimed the role as oldest and boss-of-the-world. His own sister, Sophie, was the baby doll who hid a will of steel behind her sweet blue eyes.
So Mick was the prankster. The kid with the toothy grin who’d broken windows with baseballs but always gotten invited in for lemonade when he went to fess up. The one who made enough in tip money to buy a new bike just because the ladies on his paper route thought he was the cutest little thing in town.
He was the first one to admit he’d cruised through life. He’d found his place, settled into it and hadn’t bothered challenging himself too much in an effort for more. It hadn’t seemed worth the bother when no one in this town would ever see him as anything more than he’d always been.
Going away to college had been his first hint that he could be more than he’d always been. Being with Caroline had given him a real taste of adulthood, of a different kind of future. He’d had juvenile dreams of the two of them coming back to Derryville and creating the most respectable, responsible, warm and friendly family anyone had ever known.
“Gag me,” he muttered as he yanked his T-shirt off his body and shucked off his jeans.
Warm and friendly? Yeah. That was good. Respectable, responsible? “Gag me twice.”
Caroline had realized before him that he’d wanted what he wanted for all the wrong reasons. She wanted to go west, to L.A., to live a big life, take chances, be young and wild.
He’d wanted to go home. To…to…“To show them,” he murmured as he sat naked on the edge of his bed.
Yeah. He’d wanted to show them. To show the world that Jared wasn’t the only straight-up, all-around-great-guy, destined-for-success Winchester in town.
“How stupid was that?”
Very.
He tried lying down but that just kept him thinking about the stupid mistakes he’d made in his life. Being so rigid with Caroline about what he wanted to do once they got married. Letting his anger with her push him into a risky situation with another girl…who’d been after him for months. No, nothing had happened in that situation, but Caroline hadn’t believed that. Hadn’t trusted him. Had accused him, found him guilty and dumped his ass, all in a five-minute time span.
All because she’d wanted to live, and he’d wanted to prove something.
Finally, sick of calling himself a bunch of names in his head, he got up and pulled his jeans back on over his naked body. Though the evening was slightly chilly, he didn’t bother with a shirt. It had been a while since he’d heard any noises coming from Caroline’s room, which was separated from his by only one thin wall—wasn’t that thrilling.
Going downstairs in the darkness, he made his way to the rec room, still cluttered with overflowing ashtrays and half-filled glasses, and plopped down on the leather recliner. He dug around, came up with the universal remote he’d lied to Caroline about not having, and flipped on his TV.
He’d done about three minutes of serious channel surfing when the air suddenly changed. His body reacted to Caroline’s scent before his mind even registered that she was there. He grew tense, aware. He sat up straighter in his chair, not turning around, not needing to see her to know she stood there.
Caroline had always worn sweet, flowery perfumes when they’d dated. The college girl had been stuck in her Southern roots, with a tiny bit of a twang in her accent and a bit of steel in her spine. But since going west, she’d lost not only the accent, but also the light fragrance. Now her skin was perfumed with something headier. Warmer. A fragrance that had driven him crazy that day a few weeks back when they’d been sequestered in his car, looking for a place for her to live.
It wasn’t just her scent. He could swear he heard her breathing, felt her warm breaths touching the bare skin on his shoulders as she stood behind him.
He knew why she’d come downstairs. Knew it without a doubt. He’d seen the look on her face the day she’d come to Derryville and he’d shown her this place for the first time. She’d been waiting for her chance, for this moment.
Caroline had deep urges and there were a few things that would always arouse her deepest desires. One of them was right here in this room.
Finally, unable to take the silent, heady tension anymore, he murmured, “I knew you couldn’t resist.”
She didn’t deny it. “No, I couldn’t.”
“I saw the lust in your eyes that first day.”
She edged closer. “You know me too well.”
“You want it bad,” he murmured.
“I do,” she admitted with a deep sigh. “So bad.”
He nodded, still not turning around. He just stared at the giant TV screen and fingered the buttons of the remote, taunting her, building her tension.
“I believe you rented one room of my house. You think that entitles you to roam around late at night, dressed…” He cast one quick look over his shoulder, seeing her dressed in a pair of silky short pajamas that hugged those fine hips, emphasized her small waist, and revealed almost every inch of those sweet, long legs of hers. He gulped. “Dressed, like that?”
“Your flyer said house privileges.”
Run of the house. Yeah, that’s what it had said. “You’ve been lying up there waiting for your chance, right? Waiting until I got tired and relaxed so you could make your move.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
She stepped closer, until her hip was about even with the back of his reclining chair. He looked up and saw her staring, not at him, but at the irresistible force that had drawn her from her room. “It’s a high-definition plasma, right?”
He nodded. “With Pure Cinema II 3:2 film correction.”
She moaned softly. “Like being in a theater. You were lying about the remote
, of course.”
“Of course.”
Both of them continued to stare at the TV, the one thing in his house he knew damn well she’d be unable to resist.
Caroline was a TV junkie. And his was top of the line.
“Sound?”
“Bose.”
This time, her moan turned into a whimper. “Loaded?”
“Oh, yeah. DVD, CD, CDR, CD-RW, MP3, Digital 5.1 decoding.”
She grabbed at his chair, swaying on her feet. Almost not seeming to realize she was doing it, she lowered herself to the padded armrest, scooting his arm out of the way to make room for her pretty little behind. “I hate you.”
He merely grinned. “You’d sleep with me for this setup.”
“I have slept with you. Will that get me a Friends rerun at least?”
He swallowed. Hard. Suddenly the playful repartee with sensual undertones had gone more sensual than playful. Memories of the intensely physical relationship they’d once shared filled his brain.
He pushed the thoughts away. “Well, I suppose since you’re leaving tomorrow you should get your shot.”
She didn’t argue the point, though he knew she was disagreeing in her mind.
Somehow—though she’d been torturing him for hours with her mere presence in his house—he couldn’t resist her when her guard was down and she was sleepy and tousled, looking with lust at something of his. Okay, it wasn’t something on his body. But he loved his home theater almost as much as his own limbs.
“The Philadelphia Story is on one of the movie channels.”
“Ooooh,” she moaned. “The original?”
Hearing the hopeful tone in her voice, he gave her one short nod, then scooted over on the chair.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world, Caroline slid down to sit beside him, curling up against his body, never taking her eyes from the screen as he flipped to the movie.
And that’s the way they fell asleep.
SOPHIE COULDN’T quite get used to sharing a bed with someone other than Mugs, her cat, but by now, at the end of her first week as Daniel’s roommate, she’d decided it had its perks. Like at this very moment, when they’d finished making delicious love, and she lay curled in his strong arms, looking at the shadowed corners of the room and plotting murder.
“Stop it.”
“I can’t,” she whispered, smiling to herself in the darkness. “I’m so comfortable and safe with you.”
“Safe enough to figure out how to dismember someone in under five minutes?”
Daniel knew the story she was working on.
“My editor wants the proposal by next week.”
It still amazed her that everything had happened the way it had. She’d met Daniel Fletcher, the new police chief of Derryville, just months ago. Yet he’d become the most important part of her life. The first man she’d ever known who’d seen past the sweet Sophie facade she’d used to hide her true self from the world for so long. And he’d liked the real Sophie. Wanted her, grisly imagination and all.
The two of them had had a marvelous time exploring everything there was to know about one another.
“You know, most guys might not take it the right way if their fiancées got off on thinking about blood and gore right after…well…getting off.”
She snickered. “That was lame.” Pressing back against him even tighter, she said, “Besides, you’re not most guys.” She turned around to meet his dark-eyed stare and gently kissed his lips. “Thank heaven.”
He kissed her in return, once, twice, then lazily scratched her hip and curled his hand over her backside.
“So, you’re sure you’re ready for Derryville—and the world—to find out you’re R. F. Colt?”
She frowned. “Did you really have to bring that up?”
“Sophie, you’re scheduled to do an interview on the Chicago Morning Show in a couple of weeks. Word’ll be spread through the Derryville grapevine before you’ve had your coffee that morning.”
She puffed out her cheeks and blew out a weary breath. “True.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you agreed to do it. And there was certainly nothing stopping you once your job situation was taken care of.”
She nodded. “I know, I’m glad, too. I just wish I’d stopped to think for a minute about this particular book I’m promoting.”
“Why?”
She nibbled the corner of her lip. “Well, Miss Hester does make an appearance. And it’s a particularly gruesome one.”
He barked a laugh, well used to her habit of writing fictional death scenes for people who really bugged her. She’d once written a fictional character based on Mrs. Newman—who always had dozens of items in the ten-item-only lane at the grocery store—and had her die by choking on a Twinkie.
“Do you think anyone will realize it’s her?” she asked, hearing the note of dread in her own voice.
“I’m sure they won’t.”
He was an angel for saying so. But she had the feeling he was wrong.
Which meant Derryville was about to find out Sophie had fantasized about shooting Miss Hester and leaving her fat bloated corpse stuck in a too-small bathtub.
Gee. It looked like her Sweet Sophie days were really about to come to an end.
CHAPTER SIX
SHE STAYED. Mick couldn’t believe it, but Caroline stayed. In his guest suite. In his house. In his thoughts, his brain, his guts, his life.
Damn.
The one thing he’d thought for sure she wouldn’t do was exactly what she’d done. Probably his own fault for letting her curl up with him and watch his pride and joy that first night. He’d set himself up for it by making the prize all the sweeter to a woman as determined and hardheaded as he knew Caroline to be.
So far, the first few days of her residency had been pure hell. Oh, not because they couldn’t get along. Truth be told, they barely saw each other. They hadn’t agreed to stay apart, but that’s what had happened. Waking up together in his lounge chair the morning after her arrival had shocked them both. They’d become uneasy, uncomfortable with one another, each recognizing some unseen boundary they’d accidentally crossed. And they had both apparently decided never to cross it again.
He stayed busy with work, trying to broker a deal with a Chicago development company to bring a large shopping complex to the Derryville area. And Caroline spent fourteen-hour days on the set at the Little Bohemie Inn. She apparently ate her meals there, slipping into the house and straight up into her room at night, so there were days when they never even saw each other.
But he heard her. Oh, yes, indeed, he heard her very well.
Their rooms butted up to one another upstairs, and he could sometimes hear her moving around. He heard her alarm go off in the morning, heard her muttering because she’d apparently never lost her dislike of waking up early. He heard the click of her lamp going on, her hiss when she got out from under the covers in the cool September morning air, her footsteps on the wood floor. Heard her breaths. Heard her thoughts. Heard her heart beating.
Okay, maybe he didn’t really hear all that. But his brain thought he did. He’d had several long, sleepless nights this week while he’d lain, breathless in his bed, listening for her slightest movement, wondering where she was, what she wore, how she looked. Wondering if he’d hear her creep down the stairs for yet another irresistible late-night TV binge.
She never did. If she had, he wouldn’t have gone downstairs, wouldn’t have risked another intimate night like the first one. Mick wasn’t that strong a guy. And revisiting that particular period of his life was a bad idea. A really bad idea.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t fantasize it. Every single night. It was pure sensual torture as only Caroline Lamb had ever been able to dish out.
“This is friggin’ ridiculous.”
“What is?”
He hadn’t even realized his cousin had entered his office until he heard him speak. Looking up, he saw Jared leaning indolently agai
nst his desk, his arms crossed, a look of amusement on his face.
“The way you dress,” Mick replied with a forced smirk. “Still haven’t gotten out of your undertaker phase, I see.”
Jared liked to wear black. Always had. Mick used to think it was because his cousin liked looking spooky and mysterious, since he’d once been an FBI agent and now wrote gory true-crime novels. Now he just knew it was because Jared couldn’t be bothered matching up anything with color. The man was always too intent on his latest project or deadline to think of clothes.
“Everything goes with black,” Jared said with a shrug. The twinkle in his eye and the grin on his mouth were evidence that he was not at all fooled by Mick’s flip response.
“Yeah. Casket. Hearse. Corpse.”
Jared took a seat at the chair across from his desk, moving nearly silently, as always, as smooth as a cat. “I hear you’re living with our intrepid TV producer.”
Mick grew wary. “Our producer?”
Jared nodded. “Ms. Caroline Lamb. And why do I suspect she’s the one who has you looking all tied up in knots?”
“Because you’re a writer and you have a vivid imagination?”
“I write nonfiction.”
“Because you’re a member of my family, which means you’re privy to the ridiculous speculations of my mother and sister?”
Jared nodded. “True. So, are the speculations correct?”
Mick trusted Jared like he trusted no one else in the world. But he wasn’t ready to go there. He’d never told anyone the full story of his relationship with Caroline and he wasn’t about to now that she was back in his life. “No comment.”
Jared didn’t press. “Just for the record, if there is any truth in the rumors, I happen to like her. She’s the only sane one in the asylum.”
“That bad?”
Jared rolled his eyes and drew in a long breath. “How the hell Gwen and I ever let Hildy talk us into allowing this TV show to film at the inn, I’ll never know.”
“She can be pretty persuasive,” Mick said, thinking about Gwen’s elderly relative who had a will of steel and the wardrobe of a twenty-year-old. “She even got Grandpa to start wearing sandals.”
