Guilty as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  She realized she had her head resting against the window glass. Stop being helpless. She sat up. “My car, please. And you don’t have to bring me a sandwich.”

  He said, sounding much too patient, “I know I don’t have to. I was ordering one, so I ordered you one as well. I told you. Your choice.”

  “Right. My car.”

  He didn’t say anything, just drove the couple blocks, pulled in beyond her, and said, “Right behind you with the sandwich.” And she tried to climb down with grace, and failed.

  But at least she’d be in her own car.

  Jace watched her pull out of the parking spot and let out his breath. Slow down, mate. You’re over the top here. It wasn’t as if she were asking for his help. Just the opposite. That was what was so bloody aggravating about it.

  And still, not half an hour later, after a ten-minute stop for an Army-fast shower, a change of clothes, and a quick feed for Tobias, he was knocking at her door again.

  Nothing. The garage attached to the house was closed, as before. Faint light showed behind the drawn curtains, but that light had come on while he’d been taking care of the goats. It was on a timer.

  Shit. He knew he shouldn’t have left her alone. He knocked again, and finally, when he was about to head around the back and find another way in, he heard her voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “Jace.” Take it easy, he told his racing heart. She’s fine.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Tobias.”

  The sound of a deadbolt turning, and her door opened. “I live alone,” she said.

  “No worries. It’s good to be careful. Not the best code word, though. My dog’s with me heaps. Anybody could know his name. Ask for my mum’s name next time.”

  “Which is?”

  “Fiona.”

  “Oh. Nice name.”” Her feet were bare, her hair mussed. She was still in the green dress, but she still hadn’t put on makeup, and he wondered about that. Every time he’d seen her before, even with the goats, she’d been wearing makeup. And she was still holding the door.

  He held up the paper sack. “It’s not much, but it’s dinner. I can leave yours with you if you’d rather.” Easy. No sudden moves. Nice and slow.

  She stepped back at last. “No. Please. Come in. Sorry about that.”

  He stepped inside, onto the postage-stamp-sized stone entryway floor, and said, “Kitchen?”

  “Kitchen’s about it.” She smiled, the lines of strain still showing on her face. “It’s not a big house.”

  “You like it, though.”

  “Oh, you know.” She shrugged. “I’m going to run up and change. Hope there’s nothing to get cold.”

  “No. Literally sandwiches.”

  She came through the kitchen doorway less than ten minutes later with her hair still damp but a bit more tamed, dressed in gray leggings, pink socks, and an oversized pink sweater that fell off one shoulder to reveal a ribbon of pink satin. And she still wasn’t wearing makeup.

  She looked fluffy, and she didn’t. She climbed onto her stool, and he rotated the two plates in front of her. “Ham sandwich, turkey sandwich. Take your pick.”

  “Ham,” she said, and he shoved the plate her way and took the other one. She picked up the mug he’d set at her place, took a sip, and said, “Tea, huh? How Australian of you. At least I’m guessing it is. I don’t actually know any Australians.”

  “Except me. And yeah. Universal remedy. I made myself at home, as you see. I didn’t know whether you’d want milk.”

  “I do.” She made to get down from the stool, and he put a hand out and said, “Stay,” then went to the fridge and grabbed the half-full bottle of goat milk.

  “I’m sure you’d rather have beer,” she said when he’d brought it back to her. “I haven’t had a chance to do much shopping yet.” She was already making inroads on her sandwich, and that was good. She’d feel better when she had something in her stomach, however much she was trying to hide her weakness. A new experience for him. Women who looked like that generally assumed you’d prop them up in their weakness.

  Of course, that could be his misogyny showing again.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t drink much these days.”

  “The PTSD.”

  He shot another look at her. That had been matter-of-fact. “Yeah. It’s not a good idea. Surprised you know.”

  “Self-medication’s a thing,” she said. “To medicate any other way, or to get help, you have to admit you need it. Not always easy.”

  “But then,” he said, “what is? Not being a soldier or a cop. Not being involved with a soldier or a cop.”

  A sidelong glance from under her lashes. “Was that your attempt at subtlety?”

  He grinned, said, “You’re feeling better, I see,” and took another bite of sandwich. It was nearly nine o’clock, and the dark rectangle of window showed her reflection. He wanted to close the shades, but there weren’t any. He didn’t like it. “Have you had any more texts? The kind you had this morning?”

  “What?” A blank look, and then she said, “Oh. I haven’t checked. I should.”

  “Where’s your phone?” It felt urgent, suddenly. It was all that blank black window beside her. The one anybody outside could look straight through.

  “My bag. Uh… on the landing. By the washing machine.”

  “Mind if I get it?”

  She opened her mouth, shut it again, and finally said, “Sure. Thanks.”

  He headed out of the kitchen and up the compact stairway, framed by a turned wooden railing done in the same cottage-charming style as everything else. The landing housed a cleverly designed laundry cupboard, its accordion-style doors standing open, the washing machine churning.

  She’d started her washing instead of putting on makeup. Interesting. Possibly discouraging also. Her priority hadn’t been him, then.

  When did she tell you it was? He picked up the pink bag, which was heavier than he’d imagined, looked inside, then looked more carefully and saw the butt of a micro-compact revolver, tucked into an interior pocket.

  Crikey.

  He brought the bag down, set it on the counter beside her, watched her hunt for the phone, and said, “Do me a favor. Don’t pull your weapon out by accident. We don’t need any more dramas tonight.”

  He saw her barely concealed start, and then the moment she forced her shoulders to relax before she said, her tone surely lighter than what she was feeling, “That’s what I get for letting somebody be chivalrous. Never works out. Pretty nosy of you to look, don’t you think?”

  “I told you,” he said, picking up his sandwich again. “No fair fights.”

  “The one with the most information wins?”

  “That’s the idea. But that wasn’t the weapon you had in the holster today.”

  “No. That’s in my bedside table now. This is my purse gun. Smaller.”

  It was Montana, and the States weren’t Australia. Maybe that explained it. Or maybe not. She had her phone in her hand now, was frowning over it.

  “What?” he asked.

  She turned it around. The screen read, Get out.

  Another bubble below it. You’ll be sorry.

  And a third. Last warning.

  The hair was rising at the back of his neck. He said, “Right. The purse gun’s a good idea, assuming you know how to use it. I’m guessing the answer is yes. You may want to think about window shades.”

  “I know.” It was an explosion of breath. “I hate it. In fact—do you mind sitting on the couch?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t mind, no. Not a bit of it.

  She put her phone back into her purse, but when she’d put the plates in the dishwasher and headed toward the living room, she took the purse with her.

  He sat down with his mug of tea, eyed the purse she’d set on the floor beside the couch, and said, “Didn’t mean to get you jumpy again.”

  “I shouldn’t have relaxed that much,” she said. “You
were right. About the shades, too.”

  “Except,” he said, “that I’ve got this one. We’re covered. So to speak.” He pulled back the edge of the plaid flannel shirt he was wearing loose over a T-shirt and revealed the shoulder holster.

  Once again, he got exactly zero shock. She said, “A well-dressed man has an outfit for every occasion.”

  “Be Prepared. Boy Scout motto, or so I hear. How’s the leg?”

  “Oh, you know.” She shrugged. “It’s there.”

  “Mm. No pain pills? No glass of wine?”

  “I’m more of a beer girl, and anyway, I’m past the painkiller stage. You’re right. Crutches are dangerous.”

  He was turned toward her, looking into those eyes. Not what you’d expect from a fluffy blonde. Almond-shaped, brown, and expressive. But then, she wasn’t nearly as fluffy as he’d thought, even if she was lying back against the couch cushions, her left leg drawn up under her, her pink sweater looking as sweet and soft as the skin of that bare shoulder. A single table lamp with a pink stained-glass shade sat in the center of a pool of warm light that softened the rose velvets and moss greens of the room even more and cast a glow over the dark wicker of a cushioned rocker.

  It was a room where a woman could curl up on the couch in front of a fire, and where a man could hold her.

  “Softness is the enemy?” he asked. He wanted to touch one of those golden curls, to rub it between his fingers, to see if it could possibly be as smooth as it looked.

  “Yes.” It was barely a breath.

  “Is that why, then?” he asked, giving in to temptation and touching that curl. Just a touch. Just one. “The reason you’re single? A woman like you? I told you my story. Tell me yours. Burnt too badly by that cop?”

  “Maybe.” She took a sip of tea, breaking the contact, but she didn’t move away. “But probably nobody’s fault. Being involved with a cop isn’t easy. Watching your partner leave for work every day and not knowing if they’ll come home. Or when they do come home, but it’s been a bad day. That’s not so good either. Maybe they want to tell you and you don’t want to hear it. Or maybe they don’t want to tell you and they just need you to understand. To hold them. It’s a lot to ask. A lot to understand, if you’re not living the life yourself.”

  It wasn’t an excuse. Or it was, but it was… odd. “Takes guts,” he said. “Takes ticker—heart. Takes strength. But then, I’d have said you had strength.”

  “I’d have said so, too,” she said. “Before. But some things test you. Maybe you don’t always meet the test.”

  “Maybe not.”

  She took a breath. Shaking it off again. “So how is it that you aren’t swiping right, like you told that cop? Most guys, after their marriage breaks up, they go right for that other painkiller, the one that’s free. Temporary amnesia.”

  “You seem sure of that.”

  She didn’t answer, just looked at him, and he said, after a moment, “Could be that painkiller isn’t as free as it looks. Could be a man gets old enough to find that out. Or it could even be that it takes the right person to get through the walls.”

  Her voice was soft. Her eyes were honest. “Especially if you don’t have anything to prove. If the bragging rights don’t matter anymore.”

  “Careful,” he said. “You could be giving me too much credit.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I don’t think so.”

  She was so close, and she wasn’t just soft on the outside now. He could feel it, that warmth in her pulling him in. His hand went to one of those curls again, and this time, she didn’t draw back. He rubbed it between his fingers, felt the silk of it, then brushed his fingers down the side of her jaw, and she hauled in a breath.

  A hand at the back of her head. His other arm going around her, because he needed her closer. A parting of her lips, a gentle sigh. Her hand coming out to hold his shoulder, her eyelids fluttering closed.

  Soft lips under his. Her hand holding him, not grabbing, but as if she had to touch him, needed to feel him.

  It was tender, it was heat, and he was falling.

  He took her breath.

  Not because he was rough. The opposite. He held her like she was precious. He kissed her like she was beautiful.

  His lips were moving now. Brushing her dimple again, then taking her mouth in a long, slow, sweet kiss, lingering there a while before they moved down the side of her neck like he had all night, like there was nothing like hurry and nowhere else to be. Hard mouth keeping itself gentle, rough beard offering its sweet friction. She was making some humming sounds, and both her hands were somehow on his shoulders now, stroking down his arms, then up under the flannel shirt, touching the rock-hard planes of his side, his chest.

  And the harder surface of a holstered weapon.

  He felt it, too, because he murmured, “Shit,” laughed softly against her neck, sat up, and stripped off his flannel shirt, then unfastened the black mesh holster and laid it and the weapon on the coffee table. He turned back to her, laughter still showing in those blue eyes. Then the eyes softened. He traced a hand over her bare shoulder, ran his thumb along the edge of her sweater, and said, “Such a pretty girl.”

  His thumb was working its way across the tender spots beneath her collarbone, then diving just a little lower, brushing the top of her breast. She wanted to close her eyes again, but she wanted to look at him, too. That midnight-black hair falling over his cheek, the intensity in his face. The strength of his neck and the breadth of his chest. She put a hand out, looked into his eyes, slipped it under the hem of his T-shirt, and heard the hitch in his breath as her fingers encountered warm skin.

  Her palm flat against his abs, feeling the wonderful ridges there, her other hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down again, pulling him into her, and a buzz in her blood like she’d been sipping on whisky. His lips on hers again, taking the invitation, and she was going back, down on the couch. Giving in to the pleasure and the sweetness and the hunger.

  Lily’s couch.

  You can’t, the voice in her head said.

  I have to, she tried to tell it.

  You can’t.

  “I…” It wasn’t easy to get the words out. Her hand had slid around to his back now so she could feel the muscles shifting as he moved, all the fined-down hardness of him, and he was on an elbow, his own hand stroking up her arm, pushing up her sleeve. He was kissing the soft skin on the inside of her forearm, then moving up her arm. Not getting anywhere fast. Not needing to. But his hands, his mouth were more demanding now. “Uh…” she said. “This is just… this one time. Right?”

  That smile again. She could feel it. How could you feel a man smile against your skin? “No.”

  He smelled like pine soap and clean cotton, he felt like every hard and fierce and tender thing she’d ever wanted, and she needed him to keep kissing her. And to get his hand all the way under her sweater. Oh, did she need that. “Just this once,” she said. “That’s all it has to be.”

  If she could tell Lily, could make a plan for how this could work… but Lily was gone.

  Please. Let me feel this good. Let me have this. Just for tonight.

  It was a losing battle. There was no way this was right. She couldn’t tell him, and that would make the whole thing a lie. And she had to keep Lily safe. That was her job.

  Jace was sitting up. She blinked, struggled to sit herself, and winced at the stupid jolt of pain.

  His face was hard. His arm was gentle. He pulled her up by the waist and said, “What do you mean, just this once?”

  She ran a hand through her hair and tried to get back some control. He was too lean and too tough in that navy-blue T-shirt. She wanted those arms around her again, those hands on her body. She wanted to take off his shirt and touch him. “I meant that I don’t need it to be real. One night. No strings.”

  Oh, no. My scars.

  Two bullet holes. Two ugly purple pits he would see, because there was no missing them. Two holes that Lily didn’
t have in her leg.

  Lily.

  What she’d said hadn’t sounded that great to her. It definitely didn’t sound great to him, because he was standing up and strapping the shoulder holster back on with quick, efficient motions. Nothing jerky about them, but she could feel the anger pulsing in him all the same. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’ve got a thing for dangerous men. You don’t have one anymore, but here I am, and I’ll do for tonight.”

  That isn’t what I want, though, she wanted to tell him. And she couldn’t. “No,” she said. “That’s not it.”

  “I think it is.” He had the flannel shirt on now and was at the door. “Find somebody else. I’m not your novelty fuck.”

  He didn’t slam the door. It only felt like it.

  Paige leaned her forehead and palms against Lily’s pretty, green-painted door and breathed.

  She’d never felt less like Lily.

  Lily was thoughtful. She was gentle. She was tactful. And all of those things, Paige had thought, in her heart of hearts, were weak.

  Lily wouldn’t have done this, though. She wouldn’t have sent a good man out into the night feeling like he’d revealed the best of himself, had offered a woman his help, his strength, his tenderness, and had her throw it back in his face like it was worthless. Like all she wanted was his hardness, the tough mask he showed the world. Lily wouldn’t have made him feel like his best self wasn’t good enough.

  So he wanted sex and didn’t get it, her weasel side tried to argue. So you turned a man down. You’re allowed to do that.

  Not like this. She should never have sat on the couch with him. She should never have invited him in. And she couldn’t explain it to him. Not now. Maybe later, after Lily was back, after all this was over. At least she could tell him that she’d recognized what she’d seen, and that it had mattered to her.

  And he could tell her that he’d put it behind him and moved on, because that was what that kind of man did. He didn’t stick around and ask to get hurt some more.

  She turned at last, picked up her bag with the gun in it, and walked up to the landing, hauling herself by the banister and setting her teeth against the pain the stairs caused. She thought about the laundry and decided to leave it until the morning. It was her day off from the store, and it would be one more chore to add to the list. For tomorrow, when she felt better.