Sleeping With the Enemy
Page 1
Table of Contents
JACKSON FALLS BOOK 2
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 fifteen
chapter sixteen
epilogue
BOOK 3 IN THE JACKSON FALLS SERIES,
Table of Contents
JACKSON FALLS BOOK 2
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 fifteen
chapter sixteen
epilogue
BOOK 3 IN THE JACKSON FALLS SERIES,
SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY
JACKSON FALLS BOOK 2
by Laurie Breton
c. 2012 by Laurie Breton
All rights reserved.
www.lauriebreton.com
lauriebreton@gmail.com
chapter one
Summer, 1990
Jackson Falls, Maine
Damn, but she hated weddings.
Rose MacKenzie Kenneally edged closer to the buffet table and plucked a cocktail shrimp from a heaping platter. Nibbling at it, she leaned against the table and critically surveyed the circus that was her brother’s wedding. The ambiance surrounding this little shing-ding had improved dramatically since Uncle Seamus had spiked the punch, effectively lubricating the starch out of this dour band of Down East Yankees her new sister-in-law called relatives.
Casey and Rob should have known better than to think they were going to have a quiet, tasteful little wedding. Rob had spent thirty-six years as a MacKenzie, long enough to know that, wedding or wake, if the MacKenzies had an excuse to party, they were determined to do it up right.
Not that either of the principals in this little domestic drama had even noticed that their carefully planned wedding had deteriorated into a free-for-all. The bride and groom were in their own little world, oblivious to everything but each other as they danced cheek to cheek on the makeshift dance floor that had been built on the back lawn of Casey’s New England farmhouse.
Somebody nudged her elbow, and Rose looked up to find her older brother Pat standing beside her. At forty, his sandy hair was beginning to recede, but beneath that high forehead sat the twinkling green eyes that were the MacKenzie family trademark. In a lilting Irish brogue, he said, “Such a fine institution, marriage,” raised his bottle of Sam Adams to his mouth, and upended it.
Irritated, Rose folded her arms across her chest. “Fine it may be,” she said, “but who the hell wants to live in an institution?”
He cupped his hand over his mouth to hold back a small belch. “A little jealous, are we, Rose?”
“Dream on. This broad has seen more than enough of marriage for one lifetime, thank you. I burned my bra the day I gave Eddie Kenneally the boot, and it didn’t take me more than five minutes to figure out that the ratio of frogs to princes is radically skewed in favor of the frogs. End of story.”
Pat slung a heavy arm around her shoulder. Watching the bride and groom, he said philosophically, “Don’t use Eddie as a yardstick. Not all guys are determined to test drive every female from here to Baltimore.”
“And what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Spare me. I’ve already heard it.”
“Your bitterness is showing, Rose. Be happy for Rob. He deserves it.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already gone. She was happy for her brother. But truth was truth: some people were cut out for marriage, while others weren’t. And Rose had been taught by a superb teacher that she belonged in the latter category.
Across the lawn, Uncle Seamus was pontificating, no doubt on some obscure point, with his arms gesticulating wildly as he waved his flask of Irish whiskey for emphasis. His victim stood listening politely, his weight thrown on one leg, his hands tucked into his pockets, but even from this distance, Rose could see the glassy glaze in his eyes. Tall and lean, with chiseled cheekbones above dark hollows that rendered his face a study in light and shadow, he was immaculately dressed in a dove-gray suit. Neatly trimmed hair the color of moonbeams touched the starched white collar of his shirt.
She uttered a small snort of derision. Moonbeams, for the love of Mike. Time to have your head examined. But she could think of no other word that fit, no other word to describe hair so blond it was silver.
He looked up and met her gaze, and something went hot inside her. Celibacy, she told herself as she tried to slow the sudden hammering of her pulse. Too damn much celibacy. It made a woman crazy after a while. In a split-second decision, she began marching resolutely across the grass to rescue him from the clutches of her uncle.
He watched her coming, his dark eyes openly following the sway of her body in the green jersey dress. With hair that color, his eyes should have been the blue of his Norse ancestors, but as she drew nearer, she realized with a sudden shock that they were a deep, liquid black. And right now, they were warm with a combination of humor and masculine appreciation.
“Excuse me,” she said to him, and tapped her uncle on the shoulder. “Uncle Seamus, I think maybe you’ve had a little too much joy juice.”
Her uncle wheeled and flung his arms wide in delight. “Rosie, darlin’ of me heart, when d’ye think we’ll be dancing at your wedding?”
The lilt of the emerald isle always grew thicker in his voice when he was in his cups. Rose reached for the flask before he could dump it on her, turned her face away from the breath that could knock a longshoreman on his keister, and flashed a quick grin of apology to the stud muffin. “Better make a run for it while you can.” She capped the flask, tucked it into her uncle’s pocket, and steered the old man in the direction of the coffee urn.
But Seamus had other ideas. “Since we can’t dance at your wedding, me dear, we’ll dance at Robbie’s instead.”
As she tried to keep the heels of her dyed-to-match shoes from sinking into the sod and sending her tumbling, he hauled her toward the dance floor. And with the grace of a man half his age and nowhere near as drunk, he whirled her around in an elegant two-step that had her laughing aloud in delight.
Together they spun around and around, until she was breathless and giddy. The band slowed to a waltz, and the old gentleman wheezed in her ear, “Ah, Rosie, happy it makes me to see the bloom back in your cheeks. Now this old man needs a rest, and you, me girl, need to find a more suitable partner.”
With a steady gait that belied his inebriated condition, he trotted off affably to whisper some naughtiness in the ear of the bride, most likely sage advice regarding the wedding night. Rose watched him go with a smile on her face. She turned to exit the dance floor, and suddenly forgot to breathe as she saw the Viking god striding steadily, determinedly, in her direction.
For an instant, she was accosted by the bewildering sensation that this moment was somehow of utmost significance. But that was absurd. She was thirty-six years old, and hard experience had taught her that if something appeared too good to be true, it probably was. She didn’t even know his name. Didn’t know if he was married or single. He could be an ax murderer, for all she knew.
Breathe, idiot
! she commanded herself. Breathe, or you’ll pass out at his feet and make a complete fool of yourself! But her stubborn lungs refused to function.
Then he was standing in front of her, and even with the three-inch heels, she still had to lean halfway to China to meet those bottomless dark eyes.
“Would you like to dance?” he said.
She must have answered him. She had no memory of speaking, but she must have answered him because a moment later she was in his arms, and the musky scent of his aftershave, released by the heat of their bodies pressed so close together, hit her with almost physical force. Rose slowly, tentatively, rested her cheek against his crisp white shirt. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat strong and steady, and she prayed he couldn’t hear the erratic racing of hers.
He danced divinely, his steps simple and easy to follow. Rose closed her eyes and forgot to tuck in the tummy that wasn’t as flat as it used to be, forgot that the humidity was frizzing her tangled red mane, forgot everything but the feel of this man and the delirious pleasure of following his lead as they swayed together in time to the music.
She would have been content to go on dancing forever, but as usual, the gods declined to smile upon her. When the waltz gave way to a Bob Seger baby boomer classic, she realized she was still standing there in his arms. Reality washed over her, bringing her common sense rushing back. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Here she was, thirty-six years old and hyperventilating over some man she didn’t even know. Uncle Seamus obviously wasn’t the only one who’d overdone the sauce. What she needed was a cup of black coffee. A big one. Or maybe a cold shower. Something, anything, to whip her overheated hormones back into submission.
She stepped out of his arms. Discreetly peeled her dress away from her sticky body. And gave him a quirky grin. With forced lightness, she said, “Thanks for the dance.”
And without another word, she walked away from the best thing she’d seen in thirty-six years.
***
Outside the bedroom window, the party was still in full swing. Inside the bedroom, Rose gnawed on her lower lip and studied her reflection in Casey’s oval cheval mirror. The dress had cost her a fortune, but the end result was worth the cost. So what if they ate macaroni and cheese from a box for the rest of the month? It was the only thing Luke would eat anyway. And the jewelry had been a stroke of genius: a copper sunburst pendant and matching shoulder-length moon and star earrings that she’d picked up for a little nothing at a New Age emporium on Newbury Street. She looked more like a rampaging Amazon goddess than a divorced mother of two teenagers.
Beside her, Casey Bradley Fiore MacKenzie set down her bouquet and frowned at her own mirrored reflection. “We should have eloped,” she said. “All we wanted was a quiet little wedding, and it’s turned into a three-ring circus. And my hair has completely given up the ghost. I should have known better than to have it curled and styled. It always does exactly what it wants, and what it wants is to lie flat as a pancake.”
“It’s not that bad. Here, let me see what I can do to fix it.”
As matron of honor, Rose was duty-bound to play handmaiden to the bride. She pulled a hairbrush from her purse and began brushing her new sister-in-law’s hair with smooth, light strokes. She suspected that Rob would have taken over the job with very little coercion on her part. But she wanted to be sure the newlyweds made it to the airport on time. She wouldn’t want them to miss their plane to Paris because they’d started the honeymoon prematurely.
Rose had never been to Paris. She and Eddie had spent their wedding night at the Holiday Inn in Braintree before setting up housekeeping in that first South Boston apartment. Her mouth thinned as she lifted Casey’s hair and tackled the underside. With elaborate casualness, she asked, “Who’s the Viking god?”
In the mirror, Casey’s eyes met hers. “Viking god?”
Inside Rose’s tummy, something fluttered. “Tall, blond, gorgeous. Gray suit. Dark eyes.” She steeled herself for the bad news. He was an ex-con. A wife-beating, rabid alcoholic. A priest.
“Oh,” Casey said. “That Viking god. He’s my brother-in-law.”
“Damn. Your sister’s husband?”
“Ex-husband. They’ve been divorced for years.” Gazing speculatively at Rose, Casey added, “He’s single and available, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Rose’s heart started to pump like an oil rig on a hot Texas morn, and suddenly all was right with the world again. She set down the hairbrush and fluffed Casey’s hair.
“I thought you’d given up on men,” Casey said.
“Some things in this world,” Rose said dryly, “are still best done with two people.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you that for years. But you stubbornly refused to alter your position on the male of the species.”
“For him, I could make an exception. I don’t suppose he has a name?”
Studying her reflection, Casey smoothed an errant strand of hair. “Jesse,” she said. “Jesse Lindstrom.” She gave herself a final glance in the mirror and turned to Rose. Grinning impishly, she said, “Want an introduction?”
***
Rose lingered on the fringes of the giggling flock of pretty young things, feeling like some geriatric drag queen amid a bevy of nubile maidens. She had tried to talk Casey out of this idiocy, but trying to talk Casey out of anything, once she got an idea in her head, was tantamount to parting the Red Sea. As the group of single young women stood eagerly waiting, the crowd of onlookers, assisted by an apparently endless supply of Jack Daniel’s and Johnny Walker Red, offered suggestions and advice. Casey held her bouquet high, and with unerring accuracy, hurled it directly at Rose.
The woman should have been a pitcher for the Red Sox. If Rose hadn’t taken a quick step backward, it would have smashed her in the face. She fumbled and nearly dropped it, and felt her milky Irish complexion turn the color of a ripe tomato. Amid hoots and applause and a single, drunken, “Go for it, Rose!” she met her daughter’s disapproving eyes. In her white off-the-shoulder party dress, Devon appeared far older than her seventeen years, and at this particular moment, she looked mad as the proverbial wet hen.
Rose offered her a tiny shrug of apology. Devon’s mouth thinned and she turned to whisper something in her cousin Heather’s ear. The two girls sniggered, and Devon cast her mother a final look of censure before disappearing into the crowd with Heather.
Damn. The ride home was going to be long. At seventeen, Devon should have begun to understand the value of individuality, of nonconformity. But at seventeen, such values didn’t apply to your parents, and no matter what Rose did or didn’t do, Devon was invariably mortified by her mother’s behavior.
Although the sun still shone brightly, some of the pleasure had dissipated from the afternoon. Rose raised the bouquet, buried her face in tiny red rosebuds and baby’s breath, and drew in the heady, sweet scent. Somebody had brought over a straight chair to seat the bride. Rose clutched the bouquet to her bosom and watched as her baby brother, with extensive verbal encouragement, fished beneath his wife’s skirt in search of the elusive ruffled garter. The bride dissolved into embarrassed laughter and buried her face in her hands, and when the groom presented the flimsy scrap of lace to his audience, a cheer went up from the crowd.
Then it was Rob’s turn to toss the garter. Rose watched a fortyish woman whose name she couldn’t remember railroad a sizable group of reluctant males into participating in the ritual. It was the same at every wedding she’d ever attended. The significance of catching the bouquet or the garter was known to all, and while unmarried young women generally eagerly embraced the idea of being the next to marry, most of the men were just as eager to preserve their single status.
With the young men herded neatly into place, the bride and groom gazed out over the assemblage. Casey stretched to whisper something in her husband’s ear. And with an aim as true as that of his new wife, Rob fired the garter like a slingshot past the heads of the younger men and directly at Jesse Lindstrom.
It hit him in the shoulder and fell to the ground. For an instant, he looked stunned. He bent and picked it up, and then Casey was beckoning him to come forward. Rose’s stomach began to roil as her brother crooked a finger in her direction and then pointed at the chair his bride had recently vacated. She felt color suffusing her cheeks again as various members of her extended family imparted warm and liquid encouragement.
Rose reluctantly crossed the grass to where her brother stood grinning. She sent him a killer glare, and his grin broadened. With all the grace she could summon, she plunked her posterior onto the hard wooden chair.
Jesse Lindstrom knelt in front of her, a glint of humor in those dark eyes. “Looks like we’ve been set up,” he said.
“If it’s any consolation,” she said, “the minute this little shing-ding is over, I’m calling my friend Guido and taking out a contract on my brother’s life.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. We’ll get through this somehow.” Ignoring the wolf whistles and the catcalls, he gripped her ankle firmly. At his touch, heat pulsed upward from her core, and she knew she was turning five different shades of red. With his free hand, he worked her shoe loose and set it aside. “How far are we going?”
She swallowed hard. “Excuse me?”
Those liquid eyes studied her at length. “The garter. How far are we going with it?”
In that moment of hesitation, something passed between them, something hot and primitive and exciting. It must have been an internal devil who prompted her. In a husky voice she barely recognized as her own, she said, “How far do you want to go?”
His smile took its own sweet time coming, but once it got there, it was worth the wait. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Her heart began hammering in triple time as he slipped the garter over her heel and past her ankle, raised the hem of the green dress and drew the tiny scrap of elastic and lace slowly up over her calf. When he reached her knee, he paused. “This party will probably go on for hours. Let’s run away together.”