Brax crossed the drive and caught the unmistakable feminine scent. The sweet tang of citrus. A fragrance that had driven him crazy most of last night when he’d tried to fall asleep. Now she wore a tight T-shirt and black leggings that outlined every curve of her body.
Simone.
Chapter Nine
“What the hell are you doing sneaking around in the dark?”
Oops. “Well...umm...” Darn it, she should have had an excuse prepared. With Brax looming over her, she couldn’t think straight. So she told him the truth. “I was looking for Carl.”
“Why?”
“I decided that Carl was the one who needed a talking-to.”
He was probably glaring at her, but beneath the cover of darkness, she couldn’t tell for sure. He widened his stance as if he were hunkering down for battle. “I’ve already talked to him. You think you can do better?”
She shuddered in her white tennies. Maybe that’s how he’d seen her when she’d thought she was sneaky and stealthy. White against black. “I thought he might listen, you know, coming from a woman and everything.”
He glanced at the trailer. “Carl’s not here.”
His answer said he didn’t believe her reason for being here, nor did he think it worth countering her argument. “Oh.”
“In fact, I don’t know where he is. And Maggie hasn’t seen him since this morning. So why did you think he might be here?”
She backed down the driveway a step. Then two. “An unlucky guess. Since he’s not here...I should be going.” Three steps.
He moved in a flash to her other side. Now she was two steps above him instead of below. “Tell me why you really came.”
She pivoted on one foot. “I just did.”
“I asked you before if you were having an affair with Carl. You said no.” His tone indicated he needed to ask the question again.
This was what she’d been afraid of. Brax finding her. She’d told herself the worrisome thing was Maggie seeing her. Not. At least not as much. “I did say no. And the answer is still no.”
“What was in the email you sent him?”
“Nothing important.”
“Was it cybersex?”
She almost laughed, but knew that would be a big fat mistake. “Don’t be silly.”
He crumbled the distance between them as if it were paper in his fist, and suddenly, he was right in her face, all six-foot-something, fire-breathing, two-hundred-twenty-odd finely honed pounds of him. “My sister is in there crying herself silly because she thinks her husband is having an affair with some floozy, and I want to know if that floozy is you.”
His finger stabbed within an inch of her eyeball. Or so it seemed. She should have been pissed; most normal women would be when accused of adultery for the second time—or was it third? But darn, she was a sucker for a guy who didn’t even try to hide his worry over his sister’s problems.
“No. No, it’s not me,” she whispered, as if the smaller her voice, the calmer he might get.
“Then tell me what was in that goddamn email.”
His shout boomed against her eardrums, and she struggled not to put her hands over her ears. Would Maggie hear and come running? Please, God, no. Tense white lips and stark lines etched Brax’s face as if it were made of marble.
“I don’t think he’s having an affair at all.” Though she wasn’t so sure of that anymore. Could it be Carl had her write that story for someone other than Maggie?
His jaw worked, and his hand fell to his side, bunching into a fist. “Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“It’s Carl’s business.”
“Carl is fucking my sister over. I don’t give a goddamn about his privacy or his business.”
* * * * *
Brax turned, stalked three paces, turned again. He scraped a hand down his face. His fingers trembled. His whole body quaked.
This was how Maggie had felt, he knew. Helpless. Angry and impotent. It made a man want to lash out. It made a woman want to Bobbitize.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” At least the level of anger with which he’d shouted at Simone.
He wasn’t normally a bully. Still, he couldn’t come right out and say he believed her. Something was off. Obviously, she wasn’t the floozy with Carl at this very moment. Equally obvious was that she didn’t know where Carl was. But Simone was hiding something, and innocent people had nothing to hide.
What was in that email? He knew. Dammit, he knew there was sex. That’s what she did, write sex. But was it something she’d written for both Carl and Maggie?
This damn trip had been a bad idea all around. He’d have been better off facing his failures back in Cottonmouth. Though the same sense of helplessness had consumed him, he’d had purpose, a killer to subdue, justice to mete out, and a gun to back him up.
With Maggie, he hadn’t a clue how to help. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back to let warm night air skim his face.
Simone’s touch on his cheek brought him back.
She smoothed her thumb across his lips. “As much as we want to fix things for other people, most of the time they have to do it on their own.”
“Seems like a cop-out,” he said softly.
“It’s better than beating your head against a wall you can’t break through.”
Light sparkled in her eyes. With no moon, he couldn’t figure out where it came from. Maybe from within her, like a creature of the light, not one of the dark in which he usually dwelled. In her view of life, there would be no murderers, no drug addicts, no wife beaters, no child abusers.
“Make me feel good,” he whispered, his lips inches from hers.
“But you’re still mad about my email to Carl.”
“Let’s pretend that email doesn’t exist. Let’s pretend Carl and Maggie are inside making love and everything’s perfect and right with the world.” He wanted only the scent of Simone filling his head, the taste of her in his mouth, the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. “Kiss me and screw the rest of it for now.”
Her gaze searched his as her fingers stroked his cheek. Then she touched her lips to his, lightly brushing, before she retreated. He exhaled with a sigh.
“More,” he murmured.
She gave him her lips once more, then her tongue. Warm, wet, delicious. The taste of cherry lip gloss burst in his mouth, filling him up. She rose to her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed against him. His hands on her hips, he gathered her closer still, diving into the moment and forgetting everything but this, everything but her.
She moaned, the sound vibrating through him. He wanted skin. Slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, he savored her soft flesh. He kneaded muscle, stroked high to the edge of her shoulder blades, then angled his head for a deeper, finer taste of her mouth. He took her with his tongue, relishing her as he would her deepest, most intimate parts.
When he couldn’t breathe for want of her, he backed off, nibbled her lips, then trailed kisses along her jaw to her throat. He sucked, nipped, licked, and lifting her off her feet, crushed her against him a moment before letting her slide down his body until her feet were once again firmly planted on the ground.
Her peaked nipples rubbed his ribs. His cock pushed insistently at her belly. He wanted to bury himself inside her, and he wanted to hold her just this way with the promise of nothing more. Anticipation trapped his breath in his throat, and tension tightened every muscle. His pulse drummed at his temple, and his heart pounded against his breastbone. The night breeze across his hair felt like the caress of her fingers, and the chirp of the crickets were like sweet nothings murmured in his ear.
He felt alive and drowning in sensation, drowning in the feel of her body and the roar of his blood through his veins.
“Christ, I needed that.” He slipped his hands down to skim the waistband of her leggings.
She rubbed her nose along his collarbone, her hair tickling his chin.
“About what?” she muttered into his chest, her breath hot against his nipple despite his shirt.
“That definitely qualified as first base. I must have been insane when I said kissing wasn’t important.”
“I told you anticipation was everything.”
He ran his hands up her sides, rested them at her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts.
If they could stay, like this, forever.
He’d promised Maggie he would find Carl. Forever with Simone in his arms wasn’t an option. He’d had a taste, like a drug addict’s fix, and it would have to sustain him. She’d calmed him. She’d thrown his doubts to the wind. Now he had his duty to perform.
“If you see Carl, tell him I’m looking for him,” he said.
She pulled away at his words, though he hadn’t meant them as either criticism or censure. She tugged the bottom of her shirt back into place, then drew both hands through her hair and flipped the ends into order.
She looked at her toes as she spoke. “I’d tell you if I could, Brax. But I can’t betray Carl.”
He knew. The email. They were back to it. This time his blood didn’t threaten to boil over. In an odd way, he commended her stoic support, support Carl most likely didn’t deserve. She’d written a sex fantasy. Of that much he was sure, all doubts erased. She’d probably intended for Carl to read it with Maggie. But Carl hadn’t.
That was the disturbing part. Carl had kept it to himself. Younger woman. Midlife crisis. A man like Carl might let himself believe that something existed between him and Simone. After all, a woman didn’t share her most secret intimate fantasies with a man unless...
He was losing that feeling, that calm, almost mellow memory of her in his arms.
He backed away because he wanted to stay and reignite the glow. Pretty damn badly. “You still gonna talk to Della?”
“I promised I would. We’re meeting at the Flood’s End.”
“And you never break a promise.”
She stared at him, as if she were trying to figure out if that was sarcasm in his voice.
He should have told her it wasn’t. A man who’d spent his career cleaning up after other people’s lies and broken promises, he actually admired her commitment.
Even if it was misguided and added to his sister’s misery.
* * * * *
Simone was ten minutes late for her drink date with Della at Flood’s End.
It was that kiss, that lovely, toe-tapping, bone-melting, butterfly-inducing kiss. It muddled her brain. With her fingers idiotically caressing her lips in a tactile reminder, she’d stood at the top of Maggie and Carl’s driveway long after Brax’s taillights disappeared into the dark. She’d closed her eyes and relived every glorious moment of it. This was bad, very bad. She was headed toward excessive and exuberant emotions.
He’d done an about-face after his outburst and apologized. She might have been able to stay mad at him if he hadn’t done that. Then he’d kissed her. She didn’t know what to think. Except that he was probably as mixed-up as she was.
But gosh, she’d felt bad for him. Agony had ridden the stark lines of his face. He’d set out to solve Maggie and Carl’s problems, but he’d set himself up for failure. Simone knew, since she was intimately familiar with failure.
Maggie and Carl needed more than a shared fantasy, if Maggie’s pale drawn face at the tea party meant anything. Not to mention Brax’s obvious concern. More than concern. He’d worked himself into a tizzy, spouting bad language, his fists bunched. Signs of a worried brother.
She couldn’t find Carl, Maggie had cried herself silly, and despite that devastating kiss, Simone was sure Brax blamed her for the trouble. Della was her last hope when all else had failed.
Seated at the bar next to Whitey, Della was drinking one of Mr. Doodle’s strawberry daiquiris. Doodle was a daiquiri master, perhaps because that had become Mrs. Doodle’s favorite libation since they’d visited Hawaii last year.
“You’re late.” Clad in a Western-style shirt and a pair of jeans that looked as if they were straight off the store shelf, Della appeared freshly pressed and smelled freshly perfumed. Simone felt underdressed in her black outfit.
Della pushed a second fruity concoction across the table. Topped with whipped cream, a souvenir umbrella, and a hot pink swizzle stick, the offering resembled a creation straight from a posh Hawaiian hotel.
“I’m sorry about being late.” Her mother said one should never breeze through an apology lest the receiver finds it insincere. “I mean, I’m really sorry. I don’t even have a decent excuse.” Kissing Brax wasn’t an excuse; it was a revelation, one she didn’t want to share with anyone.
“You’re forgiven.” Della licked away her whipped cream mustache.
Thank goodness. Simone waved at the line of friendly faces along the bar, with a special wink for Whitey. She loved everyone in Goldstone, but Whitey, for some reason, held a special spot in her heart. He claimed he’d name a character after her in his next book. Whitey was always writing a new book. The man had a prolific mind.
“Mr. Doodle, you’ve outdone yourself yet again.” Simone sipped the delicious drink and smacked her lips appreciatively.
Brax’s kiss had tasted better, true, but there was no point in giving the comparison to Doodle.
A smile split the seams of the elderly man’s dear face. “Next I’ll try my hand at a Lava Flow. The wife was especially delightful after that Lava Flow she had in Hawaii.”
She tried not to think about the Doodles’ delight. “I can’t wait.” She turned to Della. “Let’s get a table.”
Mr. Doodle made excellent drinks as well as perfecting the art of eavesdropping. He’d probably manage to overhear every word they said even if they did move, but Simone wanted to present at least some challenge.
Tuesday was as good a drinking night as Friday, and Flood’s End had only two empty bar stools, including the one Della had vacated. Simone followed her friend to a table by the wall.
The TV over the bar blasted some all-sports channel, and a slot machine belled-and-whistled in the back room while coins clanked into its metal tray. Horten had hit another jackpot of one degree or another. In her three years in Goldstone, Simone had yet to see anything but the back of Horten’s head. He was a slot machine addict, and he always seemed to break even. Simone had heard on the grapevine that just as he was about to lose his last quarter, miraculously he’d win a jackpot that would keep him playing—and losing again—the rest of the night.
She’d long suspected Doodle had rigged the machine to keep Horten away from the real casinos where he’d assuredly lose every quarter he had, plus the shirt off his back, the trailer off his lot, and the rusted cars out of his front yard.
Simone let Della settle in, took two more heavenly sips of daiquiri, then went to work. “All right, give me the scoop, poop. What’s going on with Maggie and Carl?”
Della perused her drink, twizzled her swizzle, then took a leisurely sip, holding the stick aside with her forefinger. “Haven’t you ever heard of the subtle approach?”
“My mother says I don’t have a subtle bone in my body. I’d hate to prove her wrong.” Actually, Ariana was wrong. Simone had learned subtlety at a young age. In the Chandler household, subtlety was the only way Simone got what she wanted.
“Your mother is the one without a subtle bone.”
“You don’t even know my mother.”
“You draw such good word pictures, I don’t have to.”
She steered Della back to the most important topic of the evening. “I’m worried about them. Tell me everything.”
“I’m not sure how much I should say. If Maggie hasn’t told you herself.” Della spread her hands for emphasis.
“All right, so you want me to drag it out of you.”
Della raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Another strawberry daiquiri might help.”
Simone fluttered h
er hand. “Oh Mr. Doodle, could we have another round?”
He whisked a pitcher from beneath the counter, filled two glasses, shot them both with whipped cream, and shoved in the umbrellas and swizzle sticks.
“My tab, this time,” Simone said as he set down the new and gathered the almost empties. She always paid her miniscule bar tab at the beginning of the month, when she usually found that Mr. Doodle had undercharged her.
Alone again, she simply stared at Della.
She didn’t know the mayor as well as Maggie did. They were friends, true, but she’d never felt the urge to bare her soul to Della. She liked her, respected her, admired the wonderful job she did, but Della had always seemed a tad removed.
That’s why Della’s vehement flare-up over tea had seemed so odd. There was more to it than Maggie and Carl having a fight. Or two. “Now, spill, Della.”
“I want you to know that I’ve really been trying to convince Maggie that everything’s going to be all right.”
“Could have fooled me at the tea party.”
“That was a culmination.” With her thumbnail, Della picked at a knot on the table. “After seeing Maggie in that terrible state, I couldn’t take it anymore.”
Maggie had been a fright, that was true, but Brax was right. Her friends should be talking her down off the ledge, not climbing up there with her. “I understand how you feel. But we’ll help Maggie more if we remain calm. She needs a shoulder to cry on.”
“I’m really trying not to cast judgment. But Simone, even I don’t hold out much hope.”
“It can’t be that bad.” Carl had asked for a sex fantasy to rekindle Maggie’s fire. That meant something. Simone tried to squash the fear that it wasn’t Maggie’s fire Carl wanted to light.
Della shook her head, pursed her lips, and stared down as the dollop of whipped cream on her daiquiri sank below the surface. “I think Maggie’s right. Carl’s planning on leaving her.”
Della’s words hit her like a blast of icy arctic air. “No. That’s not possible.”
Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) Page 12
