Nick All Night
Page 1
“So that’s how it’s gonna be.”
Nick took three long strides, opened the freezer door and jimmied several ice cubes from the plastic bag.
Ryanne squealed and ran out the back door before he turned around. He gave chase, the door slamming behind him. This was a game they’d played hundreds of times as kids. She’d been taller, longer-legged and had escaped. But this time his legs were the longer ones and he caught up to her as she tried to yank open the front door.
Flattening a palm against the wood, he trapped her in the prison formed by his body.
Her eyes were wide, revealing her perplexity. A pulse beat at the base of her throat and her feminine scent rose up to envelop him. She lowered her gaze to his lips for a heated second.
“You don’t play fair,” she said to him, the anger missing from her tone.
He lowered his head and kissed her….
Nick All Night
CHERYL ST.JOHN
With appreciation to the hunky men in my life who answer countless questions any time of day or night and give me information and insight on everything from guns and cars to the mysterious way guys think. Jay Ludwigs, Kevin King, Jared Ludwigs, Brad Tietz, Mike Mayfield.
I love you all!
Books by Cheryl St. John
Silhouette Special Edition
Nick All Night #1475
Harlequin Historicals
Rain Shadow #212
Heaven Can Wait #240
Land of Dreams #265
Saint or Sinner #288
Badlands Bride #327
The Mistaken Widow #429
Joe’s Wife #451
The Doctor’s Wife #481
Sweet Annie #548
The Gunslinger’s Bride #577
Silhouette Intimate Moments
A Husband by Any Other Name #756
The Truth About Toby #810
Silhouette Yours Truly
For This Week I Thee Wed
Silhouette Books
Montana Mavericks: Big Sky Brides
“Isabelle”
Montana Mavericks
The Magnificent Seven
CHERYL ST.JOHN
A peacemaker, a romantic, an idealist and a discouraged perfectionist are the words that Cheryl St.John uses to describe herself. Cheryl, an author of both historical and contemporary novels, says she’s been told that she is painfully honest.
Cheryl admits to being an avid collector who collects everything from dolls to Depression glass, brass candlesticks, old photographs and, most especially books. She and her husband love to browse antique and collectible shops.
She says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. Another wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and have time to work around her growing family.
Cheryl loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at: PO Box #12142, Florence Station, Omaha, NE 68112, or at SaintJohn@aol.com.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
Nick Sinclair drew a breath, edged his back along the wall and, without making a sound, spun into the bedroom with his Smith and Wesson double-action automatic steadied in both hands. “Freeze!”
The resulting scream startled him so badly he almost dropped the gun, but he stared determinedly down the barrel at the room’s sole occupant.
A curvaceous blonde in a tiny ribbed undershirt thing that didn’t even cover her belly button, and a pair of silky white bikini panties, had dropped the stack of clothing she’d been moving, and spun around to stare at him.
From the cheap old plastic stereo on the maple dresser, the Rolling Stones sang about not getting any satisfaction—words with which Nick sorely identified.
My God, she had the tiniest waist and the longest, sexiest legs he’d ever seen. Beneath that useless shirt, he could see round little breasts and perky nipples as plain as day. Her hair had been tied up on her head and a riotous jumble of curls fell to one side of her face. She stared at him with terrified, wide blue eyes. Ryanne Whitaker’s eyes.
Ryanne had lived in California for years now, since high school, and her mother, who still owned this home, had a place in Arizona. At the unexpected lights and the music, he’d assumed kids had broken into the house next door to his. He lowered the gun. “Ryanne?”
Her expression changed perceptively, a flicker of concern replacing the fear, but puzzlement evident. “Nick?” she said, finally recognizing him. “What are you doing here?”
“Hell, Ryanne, I thought someone had broken in. Your mom always calls me before she gets here.”
Immediately, her expression and her tone became angry. “‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. How did you get in?”
“I have a key.”
“My mom gave you a key?”
He nodded. “I take care of things for her, check the pipes and turn on the heat or the air-conditioning before she arrives.”
“So you just come on in and nose around whenever you feel like it?”
“No! I thought you were a burglar. There aren’t many burglaries in Elmwood, but lately teens have been breaking into empty houses to party.”
“Thus the whole ‘freeze’ routine,” she commented dryly.
God, she’d always been able to make him feel stupid. Like a freshman caught with his zipper down in the school cafeteria. “If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have been concerned.”
“I wasn’t aware that I needed to report in with my whereabouts. Neither did I think it was illegal to put my own underwear in my own dresser drawers.”
He’d heard the slamming of drawers from downstairs and had imagined someone ransacking the place. He tried unsuccessfully to look at the underwear in her hands, rather than the panties she was wearing.
“Unless,” she added, “Elmwood has passed some new lingerie ordinance since I’ve been gone.”
They should have, he thought with an uncomfortable twinge, because this eyeful had to be illegal. All that satiny-looking skin, the miniscule triangle of silk… Stupid wasn’t the only way she’d made him feel. “Are…um…you alone here?”
He knew from Evelyn that Ryanne was married, but her husband never seemed to accompany her on trips home. Still, the guy could be here somewhere. The lucky guy.
Seeing the direction of his gaze, she grabbed up a silky gown from the bed and held it in front of her knockout body. “No accomplices along this time. Just me.”
“Where’s your husband?”
She stiffened and gave him a frown. “Look, Magnum. Now that you’ve seen I’m not hiding the silver in my pockets, you can be on your way.”
Nick glanced down at his short-sleeved khaki uniform shirt and trousers. He’d thought twice about strapping on his holster before heading over, but the kids always did a double take when they saw his gun, and took him seriously when he wore it. Part of the persona. Part of his duty. He’d figured if he ran into a houseful of teens looking for trouble, they wouldn’t have known he hadn’t loaded it.
He slid the automatic into its sheath and snapped the closure. She hadn’t answered his question. “What are you doing here?”
Ryanne hadn’t been back in Elmwood more than half a dozen times in all the years since she’d left. And those times had been over holidays.
“This is still my mother’s home. I don’t need t
o explain to you why I’m here.”
“No, you don’t have to. I was just…curious.”
She flicked her fingers in a dismissing motion toward the hallway. “You know what they say about curiosity.”
He backed out and she followed, giving him another eyeful as she moved the robe to shrug into it. Ironically, he’d been lamenting his sexual frustration only an hour ago, standing in his room, looking out into the night. A single father in a small town didn’t have many opportunities for a discreet means of correcting that problem. He would never sleep tonight.
She tugged the tie into place at her waist, but the memory of what was beneath that thin layer of shimmery fabric was not forgotten. Would probably never be forgotten as long as he drew breath. He turned away from her and headed down the stairs, this time letting his weight distress the aged wood.
“I’m sure you cops on the night shift have a list of other unsuspecting woman to scare senseless tonight. Don’t let me keep you.”
The house looked as it had for the thirty or so years he could remember—same collection of photographs down the stairway wall, same antique furnishings, same lace curtains. He reached the door. “Actually, I’m off duty.”
“We-ell,” she said, as though impressed. “I’ll bet you’re a real ball of fire during your shift.”
He had opened the door, but he turned back to face her. “Look, Rye.” He used the nickname easily, and her eyes reflected her surprise. “I saw lights on over here. I checked the perimeter of the house, tested the windows and doors. I heard the music and I had a key, so I walked in. It was neighborly. It was cautious. It’s also my job. So, I caught you in your underwear. Get over it.”
“I’m over it.”
“Good.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
She slammed the door, and he heard the chain guard slide into place.
Ungrateful, irritable, irritating woman. There’d been a time when they’d been close, like brother and sister. More brotherly and sisterly than he’d preferred, but comfortable. Friends… But she’d been in an all-fired hurry to make something of herself and get out of Elmwood. She’d earned a business scholarship to Stanford and had never looked back.
That’s why her presence here when her mother wasn’t in town was puzzling. If she’d been visiting, she’d have gone to see her mom in Arizona. The boxes he’d seen in the dining room had been more than suitcases packed for a week’s stay. They’d looked more like someone was moving—in.
Ryanne stood staring at the cartons in the dining room, wondering if she had the stamina to carry one more load up the stairs. Ever since packing them in California and setting out, she’d been thinking that these were pitiful few possessions to represent her entire life to this point. But this was it—all that was left, anyway, after she’d sold nearly everything to pacify the IRS.
If she’d had anywhere else to go, she would have. But this was it. The only place she knew where she could live rent-free while she tried to piece her life back together and find a job. And already it had started.
She’d been prepared for the gossipy, judgmental, holier-than-thou citizens in this town. But Nick, of all people, had already poked his nose into her business!
Nick Sinclair, the sheriff. She guessed she’d known that before, but she’d never seen him in his official capacity, never seen him in more than passing in all these years. Well, he was a man now, she admitted, a nice-looking man. Okay, he was a hunk, with that black hair and those dark brooding eyes, lips that could turn a woman inside out for wondering what they’d feel like against her skin.
Ryanne caught herself with a jolt. What a shocking thought to have about Nick, of all people! She’d been driving too long, cramped in her car, sleeping in what stingy space had not been taken up with her belongings. Isolation and tiny places could make a person crack.
Self-pitying tears smarted her eyelids, and she rubbed her eyes hastily. Who would think that she, Ryanne Davidson, would be reduced to sleeping in a car? To fitting her belongings into a vehicle and driving the whole miserable distance to her mother’s home, the same place Ryanne had worked her whole life to get away from? She’d told her mother that she was coming here for a while, but she hadn’t told her all the gory details. Admitting her failure out loud would take more fortitude than she had right now.
Angrily, she hefted a box and headed for the stairs. Nobody was going to find out about her humiliation; she would make certain of that. If anyone found out that her hotshot, unfaithful ex-husband had stolen funds from the company they’d started together and then disappeared, she’d be the laughingstock of the county.
She set the box beside the bed, turned off the light and stared out the window. She hadn’t learned until after Mason was gone that he’d never paid taxes. Accounting had been his job in their advertising agency. Hers had been clients, new accounts and personnel. If she’d even suspected his deceit, she might have saved herself some of this grief. But she’d had no reason to question that anything was less than perfect.
They’d been making money—a lot of money. Their reputation had spread and she’d lured some top accounts under their prestigious umbrella. She and Mason had always been better at business than at marriage. When she’d learned of his numerous affairs, she hadn’t been devastated, strangely enough. Mad, embarrassed, but not devastated. They’d continued a tense working relationship, but eventually she’d divorced him.
After that, he’d cashed company checks and disappeared. Ryanne had spent money she didn’t have to have him traced, but to no avail. Investigators believed he’d left the country and their hands were tied. The divorce had gone through uncontested. And then the IRS had come searching.
Ryanne stared into the darkness, noting the familiar silhouette of the house next door. There was a porch on the back that hadn’t been there before, and the double garage was new. As a girl, she’d stared out this window a multitude of times, wishing on stars, wondering about the world outside Elmwood and waiting for her chance to stamp her presence upon it.
Well, she’d done it, all right. A big rubber stamp that declared Loser across her forehead. She opened the window wider to allow more air into the warm, humid room. The curtains blew inward, raising the smell of dust. If she was going to be living here for a while, she’d wash them and get the place clean. Who knew how long it would be before she found a job that would pay for the debt she’d been left with?
The government hadn’t been able to find Mason, either. And that left only her. She had three months before the IRS added penalties and interest that would more than double the original tax debt. She’d already liquidated the business, sold her client list, her condo…most of her jewelry. Everything but her car. A person needed transportation to find a new home and a new job.
The ever-present sense of loss, the weight of failure pressed down on her, more oppressive than the temperature. Why had she ended up here in Iowa, of all places? A hundred times during the drive from the coast, she’d come so close to turning off, to finding a place where no one knew her, and starting over. But how? And with what? Under an assumed identity? How did a person get a driver’s license and social security number in a new name? That was undoubtedly a federal offense, and she was in enough trouble. And anything done legally would bring the authorities looking for her no matter where she went.
She wasn’t Mason. She couldn’t turn her back on her obligations. She couldn’t do something criminal to escape her stupidity in trusting him. Nor could she spend her life looking over her shoulder, wondering when the feds were going to catch up with her.
So she’d continued on, seeking somewhere to lick her wounds and regroup. The last place she wanted to be was the only place available. So here she was. But she didn’t have to like it. And she didn’t have to be neighborly. Even if her neighbor was Nick and she’d treated him badly without good cause. As soon as she found a job, she was out of here.
On to somewhere better.
Ryanne pulled off the chenille bedspread and lay on the cotton sheets of her old bed. Somewhere better. How many times had she lain here and thought those same thoughts? Nothing like fate biting you in the butt to bring your life full circle, was there? Had she really been that rude to someone who had only meant well? Exhausted, physically and emotionally, she fell asleep.
“There’s a pretty lady over there, Dad,” seven-year-old Jamie said from his padded seat in the breakfast alcove.
Nick turned with a spatula in his hand and glanced briefly out the window above the café curtains. “That’s Mrs. Whitaker’s daughter,” he said, and went back to cooking their Saturday morning breakfast. “The one I told you about, who grew up with me and your uncle Justin.”
“Ryanne’s home?” Nick’s father, Mel, asked, coming from the room off the kitchen, which they’d converted to his private quarters. Moving to the table and peering out the window, he emitted a long low whistle.
“Dad!” Nick said in surprise. “Little pitchers?”
“Will you look at those curves?” his father continued.
“Wow!” Jamie had joined him in making appreciative noises. “Can I go over there and look up close?”
“No!” Nick said emphatically, and turned off the fire under the skillets. He took plates from the cupboard. “Dad, will you use some decorum here?”
“What are you talking about?” Mel asked, still transfixed with the sight next door.
“I’m talking about you o-g-l-i-n-g the scenery in front of you-know-who.”
Finally, his father turned his attention to Nick. “I’m surprised you’re not the one over here ogling. No, I’m surprised you’re not out the door and across the yard and over there running your hands over the ‘scenery.’”
Shocked for real now, Nick gaped at his dad. What had come over the old man? “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the car. What are you talking about?”