by Amy Olle
What Luke Nolan’s mouth was doing to hers could not be described as nice. Or awkward. It was naughty, but tender. Part apology and part promise. A riptide of emotion whipped through her and conspired to drag her down.
She took her first, tentative taste of him with her tongue. A moan slipped from her at the delicious thrill of it.
The kiss changed and his mouth moved over hers with a possessiveness that wrenched her heart.
She didn’t understand what was happening to her, or why Luke Nolan was even kissing her at all. He didn’t like her, and truth be told, she didn’t like him much either. Except she really, really liked what his mouth was doing to her.
She didn’t understand how one simple kiss could make her forget everything that came before it. Or maybe she just didn’t care. As long as he kept kissing her like he’d die without her, she’d be content if he hated her for all eternity.
His large hand on the curve of her hip inched higher and slipped beneath the hem of her blouse. His warm, calloused palm smoothed up her side. She arched toward his touch.
He made a sound at the back of his throat and his hand explored further. He cupped her breast and she nearly cried out—with what, she didn’t know. Surprise and joy and a plea for more. The pad of his thumb skimmed across her nipple. Arousal spiraled through her and she pulled his tongue into her mouth, swallowing his moan.
Up to now, kissing, like sex, had confused her. Sometimes it was nice, but mostly it was awkward, and by the time it was all said and done, she was left wondering what all the hubbub was about.
She didn’t wonder anymore. Hunger seared her and she grasped at him, wanting to crawl inside of him, or on top of him.
On a ragged gasp, he broke the kiss. He cupped her head in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. They didn’t speak, but only breathed together.
It was the most special kiss of her life. The most special, intimate moment with a man that she’d ever experienced.
So naturally, he had to ruin it.
He pulled back. Smug satisfaction chased the heat from his face. “So, how do you like me now?”
She blinked while the haze of arousal burned away. With a hard shove, she pushed away from him, only to stumble over the uneven ground. He caught her elbow.
She resisted the urge to shake off his touch and instead arranged her features into her best imitation of bored disinterest. “You’re a pretty good kisser, I guess.”
“I’m a great kisser.” But his easy smile suffered a crack.
She shrugged one shoulder. “You’re all right.” She took a moment to enjoy his look of outrage. “Next time, try a little less sloppiness.”
She brushed past him.
He turned with her. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”
“I couldn’t speak with your tongue down my throat.”
“That kiss was better than all right, Emily, and you know it.”
She ignored how the way he said her name turned her insides to liquid. “If that’s what you want to believe, I won’t burst your bubble.”
His mouth took a cruel twist and dread stole over her. “No vibrator is going to kiss you like that.”
She bit down hard on the slash of pain. Her jaw clenched tight, she forced out words. Any words. “Your date must be wondering w-where you are.”
Finally, his stupid smile wavered.
She left him staring after her, a fierce scowl on his too-beautiful face.
Chapter Seven
His name was Max Foley.
“M-M-Max Foley.” Emily felt his name on her tongue. “M-Max. M-Max.”
Her first guest, he’d reside in a tiny corner of her heart until the end of her days.
Also, he was the perfect distraction from the memory of Luke’s hot mouth on hers, only three days ago. Or his hungry green gaze devouring her naked body.
As she readied the home’s largest bedroom, which boasted a fireplace with a carved wood mantel and a balcony with a panoramic view of Lake Michigan, she continued to practice enunciating Max’s name, and other phrases she’d likely need to speak to him.
She flung open the balcony doors to let in the summer air and performed a quick sweep of the bedroom to remove dust and provide fresh linens. In the garden off the kitchen, she’d gathered a bouquet of buttery yellow ranunculus and purple phlox, and arranged them in a white pitcher, which she left on the bedside table.
Downstairs, she removed a package of premade cookie dough from the refrigerator and arranged pieces on a cookie sheet while the oven preheated. Cookies baking, she moved to the living room at the front of the house.
“M-Max. Max. Max.”
Sunlight streamed in through the oversized windows running across the front of the house. She fluffed the pillows on the overstuffed cotton sofa and coordinating armchairs, and kneeled before the whitewashed wooden coffee table to arrange the stack of Michigan-themed picture books she’d found in the home’s library.
She’d bent to retrieve her dust rag when, with a thunderous crash, the front window exploded.
She dropped to her stomach on the floor and slung her arms over her head as a spray of glass rained down on her. Huddled on her knees, she peeked out from under her arms as a rock the size of a softball rolled to a stop a mere six inches from her face.
A headache formed between Luke’s eyes.
He’d been fighting for control of his thoughts all day. Now, he was too tired to fight off the images of her pert, pink nipples, and too depressed not to seek comfort in the memory of the taste of her bursting on his tongue.
He told himself it was just a kiss, but holy fuck, what a kiss. It was as if he’d been living with an eternal cold, which had rendered all food tasteless and odorless, and one small dose of Emily Cole had healed him.
He tugged a T-shirt over his head and zipped the fly of his blue jeans. Running late to meet up with Noah and Shea, he shoved his police uniform into his bag and headed for the station’s locker room exit.
At his computer, he logged out, capping off another red-letter day, highlighted by a domestic disturbance call at the Millers’ residence. When Luke had arrived at the couple’s home, the missus was en route to the hospital, having been beaten unconscious by the mister again. He arrested the husband, but hours later when the wife came to, she refused to press charges and he was forced to let the bastard go.
At his desk, Sloane held the phone to his ear. “What’s the address?” He scribbled on a pad of paper.
Luke didn’t like Justin Sloane. Hadn’t liked him from the first moment he’d met him when he hired in to the island department a few months ago. Luke quickly learned Sloane, the son of a judge, wore the uniform more to bolster his fragile ego than to serve the ideals of justice and order. Didn’t help he was hired to replace Anthony.
“We’ll send someone over to take a look.” Sloane banged the receiver into its cradle. “Sh-sh-shit, that was painful.”
Luke stilled. “What’s up?”
Sloane scratched his forehead with the eraser tip. “Just a broken-out window and a freaked-out homeowner.” He reached for the dispatch radio. “I’m gonna put Newberry on it.”
“You know what, I’ll take this one.” Luke kept his tone casual, in contrast to his thundering heart.
Sloane paused with his hand on the radio and regarded Luke with narrowed eyes. “Newberry can handle it.”
“I worked a vandalism case last month.” Luke rolled his shoulders. “Maybe there’s a connection. I should check it out, just to be sure.”
Sloane tore the sheet with Emily’s address from the notepad and handed it over. Luke snagged it and headed for the exit.
“Start with the neighbors,” Sloane called after him. “I bet one of them has a ten-year-old missing his baseball.”
Luke raised a hand. “I’ll do that.”
“H-h-have f-f-f-fun.”
Luke came to an abrupt stop. His hands balled into fists. It’d feel good to hit the prick. Damn good.
Slowl
y, he turned. “You think that’s funny?”
The greasy smile slid from Sloane’s lips. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Luke’s teeth ached with the effort to hold himself back.
What was he doing? He didn’t have time for Sloane.
Emily needed him.
Shards of broken glass sparkled in the sunlight as Emily dragged the broom across the hardwood floor and swept another pile of fragments into a dustpan. The sheer curtains danced in the breeze flowing freely through the fractured hole in the window.
A crunch of gravel carried to her from outside and she straightened to see the white SUV with dark green lettering roll to stop in front of the house. The engine fell quiet and Luke bounded from the vehicle.
Her heart did a backflip.
He rounded the vehicle, wearing ancient blue jeans and a black T-shirt, his attention riveted on the broken window.
She searched his face, wondering which Luke had come to her rescue. The easygoing charmer or the snarly grouch? She was still undecided when through the glass his focus shifted to her. His intense inspection of her face snatched the air from her lungs and she inhaled a slow, shaky breath.
He took the porch stairs two at a time and the sharp rap of the screen door snapping shut reached her ears a moment before he appeared beneath the living room archway.
His glittering green gaze touched over her and then swept through the room to take in the window, the spray of glass, and the rock at her feet.
“What happened here?” His casual tone belied the tension in his shoulders.
She pointed to the rock at her feet. “This came crashing through that window.”
“You were home at the time?”
She nodded and took a half step to her left. “I was right here.”
He crossed the room and inspected the area, his features carefully blanked.
“Did you see anything? A car in the driveway or someone on foot?”
“Nothing. M-my b-b-back was to the window and I ducked.” A telltale quiver crept into her voice and she cleared her throat. “I didn’t see a thing.”
If she didn’t know otherwise, she’d never guess his sea-green eyes had seen her naked or his pouty mouth had ravished hers. It was neither Luke the charmer, nor Luke the irascible grump standing in her living room.
It was Luke the cop.
She wasn’t at all sure she liked this Luke, so impersonal and closed off.
“Are there any kids in the neighborhood?” he asked.
“What neighborhood? The closest house is the Cape Cod at the bottom of the hill.” Nearly a half mile away.
“That’s Ms. Beardsley. She celebrated her seventy-eighth birthday last month.”
“Maybe her grandkids are visiting?”
“She never married or had any kids that I know of.”
When he retraced his steps to the foyer, he didn’t spare even a glance at her. She felt the loss like a lovesick puppy.
“I’ll do a search of the premises and see if anything obvious turns up.”
“Anything obvious? Like what?”
“Footprints, tire tracks. I’m not gonna lie, a photo ID would kick ass.”
At the first hint of his smile, her heart took notice.
“Do ten-year-olds carry ID?”
“I can hope, can’t I?” The gravity in his eyes betrayed him.
Her heart kicked up with her uneasiness. “You don’t think it’s a kid.”
He scratched a spot on the back of his neck. “I don’t know.” His gaze trailed to the window and he appeared to wrestle with his next words. With a sigh, his eyes found hers. “Whoever threw that rock did it in broad daylight, with occupants in the house. And they came within a foot of hitting you. I have to consider someone meant to intimidate. That, or they’re extremely careless. Either way, the situation just got a lot more dangerous.” Then, likely in response to the way the blood drained from her head, he added, “Potentially more dangerous.”
She rubbed at the ache in her temples.
“I’ll ask around town.” His tone gentled. “I’m sure someone knows of some kids visiting the island.”
“That should do wonders for business,” she muttered. If word got out the inn was unsafe, or the target of a rock-throwing serial killer, she’d be a failure before she even began.
Luke lifted his nose in the air and sniffed. “What’s that?”
Just then, a piercing alarm shattered the quiet.
The cookies! Emily dashed from the room, through the foyer, around the oversized table in the dining room, and burst through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Smoke clouded the air and she stumbled toward the oven. The fire alarm’s screeching wail rained down on her head as she stabbed the button to turn off the oven. She snatched a potholder off the counter and pulled open the oven door.
More smoke billowed into the room and mixed with the shrieking noise to forge a cocktail of chaos. Coughing, she yanked the cookie sheet from the oven and tossed the tray onto the stovetop. Several cookies were engulfed in flame. She backed away.
Luke appeared at her side. The epitome of calm, he raised a fire extinguisher, extracted the pin, and blasted the stove with a spray of pressurized air and foam. He discharged a second stream of foam into the oven’s interior before he abandoned the extinguisher to the countertop and dragged a barstool away from the kitchen island. He positioned the stool beneath the smoke alarm, climbed on top, and stretching to his full height, silenced the blasted thing.
In the aftermath, the quiet was deafening. Smoke swirled before her eyes. A dollop of foam gathered at the edge of the stove and plopped onto the floor with a gooey splat.
“M-my first guest arrives today.” She hated the hitch of defeat in her tone.
He slid the barstool back into place at the island and opened the back door. “What time are they expected?”
“Anytime between now and dinner.”
“Why don’t you go see if you can find someone to fix the window? I’ll deal with this mess.”
“You’d help me?” Disbelief snatched the words from her.
His features softened. “It’s obvious you need me.”
Unbelievably, she laughed. “I need a drink.”
“That’ll come later.” He picked up a towel and moved toward the oven.
“You don’t have to do that.” She jumped to take the towel from him. “You have work to—”
“I’m off duty.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her away from the kitchen. “If there’s time, I’ll even make a fresh batch of cookies.”
She twisted around. “You cook?”
His expression turned wry. “You sound shocked.”
“I am.”
“I’m offended.” But his eyes sparked with humor. “I’m a thirty-two-year-old bachelor. Yes, I cook.”
A bachelor? Not for the first time, she wondered about the blonde woman.
One hand on the kitchen door, she paused. “There’s an unopened package of cookie dough in the fridge—”
He made a sound in the back of his throat. “I do not bake, nor do I eat, premade cookies. Fergodssake, woman, show some respect.”
He pushed her the rest of the way through the kitchen door.
She pulled up abruptly, and he bumped into her from behind.
In the foyer, a young man stood beneath the oversize crystal chandelier, a black backpack slung over his shoulder. At their clumsy entrance, he turned.
He was younger than she’d expected. Probably in his early twenties, he was tall and lean with golden-brown hair and deep-set brown eyes.
She forced her feet to move.
Max. Max. Max. Max. “You m-m-must be M-Max.”
At her stammer, his dark eyes grew alert. Then a surprisingly warm smile transformed his youthful face. “That’s me. You must be Emily?”
She relaxed a little. “That’s me,” she repeated.
Chapter Eight
She lit up like a goddamned Chris
tmas tree.
Luke’s face ached with the severity of his scowl.
“This place is freaking awesome,” the kid said. “How old is it?”
Luke recognized Max. Not the particular arrangement of his symmetrical features or the uniqueness of his light hair and dark eyes. But he recognized the lean, hungry look lurking in their dark depths. The desperation that clung to his too-thin, muscled body.
Yeah, Luke knew this kid. In his ten years as a cop, he’d met a hundred just like him.
Hell, Luke was him at that age.
“Over o-one hundred and fifty y-years old.”
Max’s gaze slid to Luke and the softness in his dark eyes shifted and hardened.
Luke folded his arms over his chest. “Hi.”
Max tipped his chin. “Hey.” He studied Luke with old eyes, and Luke allowed his assessment, sensing the kid’s instant and absolute distrust had nothing to do with him personally.
Emily’s hands twisted in front of her. “Uh… this is… uh… Luke. He’s the… uh… he’s the cook!”
“Chef,” Luke corrected. “She pays me a fortune and I’m worth every penny.”
Max’s mouth moved in what Luke supposed was a smile, but with no flash of teeth or so much as a lip quiver.
“Can I show y-y-you to your room?” Emily scurried to one of the twin staircases and started to climb.
Behind her, Max set one foot on the bottom stair and stopped, his gaze snared by the rock and the hundred tiny fragments of broken glass.
“The neighbor kid did it,” Emily burst out, her resemblance to Luke’s four-year-old niece uncanny.
Max’s brow wrinkled. “I didn’t see any other houses around.”
Feverish color painted her cheeks. “He’s visiting.”
Good God, but she was terrible liar. Luke didn’t have to worry about this one deceiving him. A deep chuckle knocked loose from his chest and he followed them up the stairs.
Emily led them down a wide, well-lit hallway to the third door on the right. She motioned Max and Luke ahead of her.
