Tails of Love

by Lori Foster

  The loud, rattling clang of a cage banging shut jarred her out of her rant and startled her. Swiping at her eyes again, she looked around at the far corner of the room, near the French doors, where Atticus’s enormous wire cage stood. The monkey hovered just inside, chattering madly, his soft blue security blanket clutched to his chest. Catching her eye, he held onto the bars and peered through them, scolding her and reminding her of a prisoner contemplating a jailbreak.

  Lisa turned back to Keenan and they gaped at each other. “D-did that monkey just lock himself in his cage so he’d be safe from me?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  Without warning, she and Keenan broke into uproarious laughter. Lisa laughed until her eyes streamed anew. There was a fine line between sanity and madness, and she wasn’t sure which side she belonged on. Finally her hoarse throat started hurting and she hiccupped to repress what she hoped was the last sob of the night.

  Keenan sobered, too.

  “I’m sorry, Keenan,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be.”

  “I’d take your place in a minute.”

  “I know you would,” Keenan told her. “But has it ever occurred to you that no one but you thinks that way? I’d never change places with you, even if I could.”

  “Why should I be okay when you’re in a wheelchair?”

  Keenan shrugged impatiently. “Get that figured out, okay? And then I want you to start working on some of the other mysteries in life. Maybe you can tell the world who killed JFK and how the pyramids were built.”

  “You’re such a jackass sometimes,” she said sourly.

  “And I think maybe you’re a coward.”

  “What?”

  Furious now—how many more times tonight was someone going to call her a coward?—Lisa prepared to blast him, but Keenan studied her with those wise dark eyes and held up a hand to stop her before she got going.

  “Don’t even try it. I know you better than anyone else, and I’ve seen the way you and Cruz look at each other.” He paused to shudder and crinkle his nose with disgust. “I pretended not to feel the vibes between my best friend and my sister, but I did. I know the deal—”

  “Keenan—”

  “—and you do not have my permission to use me or the accident to hold Cruz off. If you don’t want him, fine. Tell him. If you do want him, go for it. But don’t hide behind me. Are we clear?”

  “But—”

  “Are we clear?”

  Lisa wasn’t ready to admit her feelings for Cruz just yet, but there was no denying that she felt better. Better than better—she felt as though she’d shed a layer of heavy armored skin and could now feel the sun’s heat on her flesh for the first time in years.

  She felt . . . it took her a minute to identify the strange feeling . . . hope.

  Reaching out, she patted Keenan’s stubbly cheek. “You need a shave.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  They both grinned and then Keenan opened his arms for her. She scooted into his lap and they held each other as they’d done millions of times before. Some of her tension receded, leaving only the thrum of excitement and the thrill of new possibilities.

  “Cruz is a good guy.” Keenan smoothed her hair, but she kept her chin firmly on his shoulder so he wouldn’t see the flush in her cheeks.

  “I’m scared,” she admitted. “I’m not that good at relationships.”

  “You’ve never been in one with Cruz.”

  That made her laugh, but then she thought about what would happen to Keenan if she was involved with someone, wondered who would take care of his many needs.

  “What about you?”

  Keenan kissed her temple. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Atticus. And it’s time for me to find my own place. Maybe some sort of assisted living setup, or maybe I’ll have a nurse or someone come to me once a day. I’ll get it figured out. I’m not going to live with my older sister for the rest of my life. This setup was only temporary. We just let it stretch a little because it’s been you and me since Mama and Pops died.”

  “Keenan,” she began.

  “Don’t argue.”

  With that, the cage squeaked. Lisa let go of her brother’s neck and looked around to see Atticus push open the cage door and peek out. When Lisa didn’t shout again, he apparently decided that the coast was clear. Trailing his blue leash, he crept to the wheelchair, his blanket clutched in one tiny hand, and climbed onto Keenan’s broad shoulders.

  “Hey, Atticus,” Lisa said. “It’s safe now. I’m done yelling.”

  “Ooooh,” Atticus murmured, and then began one of his favorite activities: grooming Lisa. The three of them sat in companionable silence while Atticus systematically ran his fingers through Lisa’s heavy black hair to make sure she didn’t have fleas.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Jesus,” Cruz said a couple hours later, gaping as though he’d discovered Sasquatch making out with a Martian on his porch.

  Lisa figured he’d be surprised to see her, but what she hadn’t factored into the equation was the shock of seeing him in his negligible pajamas.

  Her insistent pounding on his front door had roused him from bed and now he stood illuminated by the porch light in all his glory, which was considerable. His black curls were a wild mess and his eyes were sleepy, but his body was the kind of thing Lisa hadn’t thought existed outside of an NBA locker room.

  Only a pair of really ugly red plaid bottoms stood between him and the night air, and the bottoms were slung so low over his notched hips that the situation could change with the slightest movement. Perfect tan skin gleamed everywhere she looked: across his sculpted shoulders, down the defined muscles of his long arms, and over the ladder rungs of his tight abdomen. A swathe of sleek black hair ran between his flat brown nipples, over his belly, and disappeared into parts unknown south of his waistband, and Lisa, who’d always admired bare-chested men, found her mouth watering at the sight of it. Big bare feet with strong toes peeked out from under the too-long cuffs at the bottom of his jammies.

  It took a lot of effort to shift her focus from that body to the topic at hand, but after a mental head-shake and a deep breath or two, Lisa was ready. “So . . . I had a talk with Atticus.”

  “Atticus?” Cruz’s voice squeaked on all three syllables and he paused to clear his throat. “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  She edged closer until she could feel the waves of heat flaming off Cruz’s big body. With the kind of sexual boldness she’d lacked her entire life until this very second, she circled his belly button with slow fingers—God, his skin was hot—and ran her hand up to the middle of his chest. Like magic, his lungs began to heave and his pulse to pound with the force of a marching band.

  “I told him there were going to be a few changes.”

  Flattening her palm, she gave Cruz a gentle push, backed him through the open screen door and into the house, and slammed the door shut behind them. The light was dimmer inside his enormous foyer, with only a small lamp on a table at the base of the staircase to illuminate his gleaming brown eyes. He stared down at her without blinking or moving, but she felt the restless energy vibrating from his body and waiting to spring free and wild at any moment.

  Licking his lips, he stared at her mouth. “What . . . kind of changes?”

  “Well,” she said, reaching behind her back to unzip her dress, “if I’m going to be spending much more time over here—with you—he needs to take good care of Keenan.”

  “Yeah?” Cruz whispered, eyes bulging as he watched her shimmy out of her dress and kick it to the floor. He stood motionless as she straightened and stood before him in only her black strapless bra and bikinis. “What’d . . . what’d Atticus say to that?”

  Lisa crept closer and planted her hands on his sides. Shuddering with relief, joy, and the rightness of being with him, she pressed her breasts to his chest, her hips to his. He shifted, letting her feel his size, his want, and his need, and sank his fingers into the
hair on either side of her face. Sighing with pleasure, he rested his forehead against hers and held her close.

  “What’d he say?” Lisa echoed, trying to remember the topic at hand. “He said, ‘Eeee-eeee-eeee,’ but I’m pretty sure he meant, ‘No problem, Lisa.’ ”

  That wicked grin, the one that stopped Lisa’s heart every time, even after all these years, flitted across his face. “His English is terrible.”

  “Yeah.” Wrapping her arms around his back now, she writhed against his hard length, setting off a wave of contractions that radiated out from her sex. With a gasp—God, he was going to make her come and he’d barely even touched her—she turned her face into his neck and absorbed the earthy scent of sandalwood on his skin. “But I think we understood each other.”

  “Good.” He groaned as she scraped his shoulder with her teeth. “He’s a—he’s a pretty smart monkey.”

  After that, there wasn’t much more talking. Cruz palmed her butt to grind against her aching sex—she was feverish and soaking wet by then—and caught her lips for a nipping kiss that was so sweet and deep she felt it in her throbbing nipples and over every shivering inch of her bare skin.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “Yeah?” A faint smile worked the corners of his mouth. “You should. I’m a good guy.”

  “I know you are. And I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been . . . Ahhh—”

  “What? This?”

  On this, he kneaded her butt with a rough, slow caress—down . . . down . . . down. On the up stroke, he thrust his hips and found the exact right spot—her sweet spot, God, right there, right there—and she came with a long, keening cry that he caught in his mouth as he kissed her. The pleasure was piercing and bright, strong and deep enough to rearrange her body down to the last atom in the marrow of her bones. Sagging against him, weak now, she was dimly aware of him dragging and half-carrying her to the staircase.

  “Bed,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes glittering and wild. “Now.”

  They made it in record time and then they were in the darkened bedroom, tumbling onto the massive, rumpled, decadent bed that had luxury sheets, the intoxicating smell of Cruz, and the lingering warmth from his body.

  Lying back, she levered up on her elbows, watched as he kicked off those awful pajamas, and caught tantalizing glimpses of his long muscular legs, thick patch of dark hair, and jutting erection.

  “Oh, God.” She opened her arms and legs to him. “Oh, God.”

  “Shhh, mi amor.”

  He came to her, easing between her thighs, removing her bra and panties, and arranging her limbs the way he wanted them: her legs tight around his waist, her hands in his nape, filtering through his silky curls. Staring down at her, his reverent hands stroking over her breasts, he crooned.

  “Mi Lisita,” he said, kissing her and swallowing her whimpers. “Tu eres mi amor. Angelita . . . angelita.”

  The kisses became slower . . . deeper . . . and Lisa was beside herself.

  “Please.” She arched against him, shamelessly rubbing and begging.

  “Abra para mí.” Pulling back, he palmed himself and reached for the nightstand drawer. There was the quick flash of a red wrapper as he opened a condom with his teeth and slid it on, and then he was ready. “Open for me, querida.”

  She hardly needed the encouragement. Clutching his shoulder, scratching him in her haste, she angled herself and spread her legs wider, begging him, needing him.

  “Buena.” A faint smile flickered across his face. “Tan buena.”

  “So good,” she echoed. “So good.”

  Another heavy-lidded smile answered her. He rubbed against her wet core, lubricating himself, and then inched inside, millimeter by slow millimeter until he was seated to the hilt and she was stretched tight and faint with renewed ecstasy.

  And then he began to move in slow, deliberate strokes, each more exquisite than the last, and his eyes rolled closed and his head dropped to the hollow between her neck and shoulder.

  “Te quiero,” he murmured, his tempo increasing with each pivot of his hips. “Te quiero . . . te quiero—”

  “I love you, too.” Locking her ankles behind his back, she pulled him deeper, held him tighter, and the waves crashed over her again. “Cruz. Cruz.”

  Her body’s powerful contractions sent him over the edge; his body went rigid and his two-hundred-plus pounds of heat and muscle surged one last time, driving her up the mattress as he came with loud, unabashed cries.

  “¡Ay Dios mio! ¡Dios!”

  He shuddered over and over again, whimpered, keened. In that second it felt as though he gave her every ounce of himself, every part of his soul, and wasn’t afraid to let her know it. And she loved him all the more.

  At last he raised his head to look at her with wonder in his eyes and a smile touching his lips. “We’re getting married, okay? Just so you know where this is going.”

  She’d hoped, but there was nothing like hearing the words spoken again in that dark velvet voice. “Will you always speak Spanish to me like that?”

  His brows quirked. “Spanish?”

  Reaching up, she smoothed the faint lines across his forehead and then pulled him down for a kiss. “Mmm.” Her skin heated all over again. “You told me you loved me in Spanish.”

  “I love you in Spanish and English,” he said between nips and nuzzles of her lips. Deep inside her body, she felt him stir again and begin to swell. “And I love that crazy little monkey, too.”

  “Atticus?”

  “Without him, Keenan wouldn’t have his job back. He wouldn’t be reclaiming his life, and you wouldn’t be here with me. Would you?”

  “No.” She arched, surging her hips up to meet his, and they both moaned. “I think we owe him a big bag of marshmallows, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” With complete absorption, he kissed her forehead, both her eyes, and the tiny round mole at the side of her mouth before finally making his way to her lips.

  “Here’s to Atticus,” was the last thing he said for a while.

  “To Atticus.”

  RESCUE ME

  Marcia James

  To my husband, James, for his unwavering love and

  wicked sense of humor . . .

  To my friend and critique partner, Patricia Sargeant,

  for getting my jokes and going light on the red pen . . .

  And to Lori Foster and Dianne Castell for conceiving

  these wonderful benefit anthologies and offering me the chance

  to participate in Tails Of Love.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Rata!”

  The shout jerked Adam Baumgardner’s attention away from next week’s menu, and he scanned his restaurant’s dining room. Wasn’t rata Spanish for “rat”?

  “Rata gigante albino!” Rey, his sous chef, stormed from the open kitchen followed by Émile, his maître d’.

  Damn. Thanks to Adam’s basic knowledge of several languages, he understood his international staff. “There better not be a giant albino rat in my kitchen.”

  “Not the kitchen, the alley,” Émile explained.

  Rey muttered something about rats and bad omens.

  “Actually rats, especially white ones, are considered good luck in India,” Émile pointed out in his haughty Gaelic accent.

  Before the two could launch into their customary squabbling, Adam stood. “I’ll take care of it.”

  With Rey and Émile trailing behind, Adam headed through the kitchen to the back door. At least this had occurred between the lunch and dinner seatings. The last thing his Nuclear Fusion Restaurant needed was a rumor about rodent infestation.

  The alley door was propped open for the warm spring breeze. Sergio, his head waiter, stood in the doorway. “Not un ratto,” Sergio said in his half-English-half-Italian way. “Dog.”

  Adam pushed past him into the alley. Sergio was right. The shivering animal huddled against the Dumpster was a small dog. Its pale skin was hairless and mud-
splattered. Two sad, black eyes peered anxiously from its dirty face.

  Without taking his gaze off the pathetic dog, Adam instructed Émile and Sergio to bring him a bowl of water and some country pâté. They left, both chuckling, obviously anticipating their temperamental chef’s reaction to this misuse of his appetizer special. It wasn’t long in coming.

  “No!” Chien’s indignant shout was so loud even the dog cringed. “Pâté for people, not rats!”

  Adam sighed. Chien’s culinary mastery had earned Nuclear Fusion its four-star reviews, but the Chinese chef’s mulish personality was a pain. Before he could remind Chien once again who owned the restaurant, Sergio was back with a slice of pâté on a plate. Émile followed with an empty bowl and bottle of spring water.

  Émile shrugged. “You can’t serve tap water with that pâté.”

  Grinning, Adam took the food and water. He didn’t approach the dog directly but walked to the left of the door. He crouched, ignoring the pain from the damaged knee that had ended his pro-football career. Then he quietly placed the pâté and bowl on the ground.

  April sunlight glinted off the fine china’s gold Nuclear Fusion logo as he filled the bowl with water. The trembling animal whined, its nose twitching. Adam retreated to the door and crooned softly, “It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Slowly the dog skirted the food, sniffing, then backing away. Finally it nibbled the pâté. Adam released the breath he’d been holding, and Émile and Sergio high-fived. The skinny stray took dainty bites of the food, swallowing without chewing.

  Martha, the restaurant bookkeeper, entered the kitchen. “What’s up?”

  Jared, one of the restaurant’s teenaged busboys, made a disgusted noise. “Nuke is feeding some mangy mutt.”

  Adam grimaced. It’d been two years since he’d retired from the NFL, but people still called him “Nuke.” Despite christening his international cuisine restaurant “Nuclear Fusion” as a nod to his football nickname, Adam was getting tired of it.