She looked up at Rafe, not sure how much Kincaid family history he knew. Raven Hunter. “Raven Hunter was the lover of my mother’s sister, Blanche. He fathered my cousin, Summer.”
Rafe nodded. “And disappeared during Blanche’s pregnancy, right?”
Cleo rubbed her forehead. “That’s the way I always heard it. The story was that Raven ran out on Blanche after getting her pregnant, maybe paid off by my uncle, Jeremiah Kincaid, maybe just because he didn’t want to be tied down.”
“No one in your family ever saw him again?”
“Not that I know of.” Cleo looked up at Rafe again. “What does this mean?”
“There’s the bullet, Cleo,” he said.
Her stomach clenched again. Right. The skeleton had been found with a bullet lodged in one rib. Someone had killed Raven Hunter. Someone had killed Aunt Blanche’s lover, Summer’s father.
Cleo swallowed. “You’re sure, Rafe? You’re sure the bullet was the likely cause of death?” She knew his answer, even as she asked the question.
Rafe nodded.
Cleo swallowed again. “And the likely suspect is…?”
Rafe rubbed the back of his finger along his jaw. “Your now-deceased uncle, Cleo. Jeremiah Kincaid.”
Her eyes widened, and her temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Not any of the family had ever really liked the man, but to think that he’d actually murdered someone…
She was still trying to wrap her mind around the idea when Rafe told her he had to leave. They stood and walked toward her closed office door. Before he could get away, Cleo rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I needed a hero.”
Letting free one of his rare smiles, Rafe lightly hugged her with one arm. “My pleasure.”
“I think I might have something to say about that.”
Cleo whipped around. Ethan stood in the doorway of her office. She hadn’t heard the door open.
Maybe Rafe had, because he was out-and-out grinning now. “This has to be the husband.”
Ethan stepped forward. “I am. And you?”
Apparently he wasn’t much impressed by uniforms, Cleo thought. She nudged him with her elbow. “For goodness’ sake. How have you missed the big shiny badge? This is the sheriff, Ethan. Rafe Rawlings.”
Rafe stuck out his hand and managed to swallow his huge grin. “And a good friend of Cleo’s.”
“Never doubted it,” Ethan said, though when he shook the other man’s hand it was brief. “I’m sure you want to tell me all about it.”
Rafe’s lips twitched.
Cleo shot her husband a sharp look. “I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow.”
Ethan dragged a possessive thumb across her mouth. “Is that why I caught you kissing someone else? You didn’t expect to see me?”
Rafe was smirking at them, so Cleo decided against answering the question. That, and she was fairly preoccupied fighting the hot tremor running across her skin.
It was Rafe who spoke into the strangely charged silence. “Actually, Mr. Redford, there was some trouble—”
“Here at Bean sprouts that I needed Rafe’s advice on.” Cleo couldn’t say what made her interrupt the sheriff, but suddenly she didn’t want to bare this mess for Ethan right now. She could handle it herself. “Rafe’s daughter Skye attends our summer arts and crafts program.”
Rafe shot her a puzzled look, but took the hint and then just as smoothly took his leave.
Ethan folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. “What’s the matter, Cleo?”
She avoided his gaze by bustling over to her desk. “I’m just…tired.”
“Why don’t we go home, then? It’s almost five.”
And she usually stayed past six. But Cleo looked down at the paperwork stacked on her desk and then she looked up at the intense blue of Ethan’s eyes. A little shiver tracked down her spine. She didn’t know if it was because of what Rafe had told her, or because Ethan was back.
Suddenly she wanted to be home. Home with him.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll collect Jonah and be right behind you.”
After Ethan left, Cleo made a quick call to Jasmine and discovered that the reporters had been at the B and B, too. But she’d gotten rid of them and Celeste seemed fine. Their mother was planning to have dinner and watch a movie over at Aunt Yvette’s and Uncle Edward’s house.
When Cleo arrived home from Bean sprouts, Ethan was in his room unpacking. Rather than disturb him, Cleo decided to focus on Jonah for a few minutes to avoid thinking about the skeleton and how it was connected with her family.
The last of the sun made a bright patch on the living room floor, and Cleo spread a baby quilt in its warmth. Then she put Jonah down and lay beside him, his delight in her attention and her renditions of patty-cake and This Little Piggy taking some of the chilliness out of her mood.
But then, another set of shivers skittered down her back. Cleo looked up to see Ethan watching her and the baby, and something in his eyes made her shiver again.
“You’re cold,” he said.
Cleo stared at his mouth, suddenly remembering the last time they’d been together in the house, suddenly remembering their last, heated kiss. Another shiver. “A little cold,” she said, and it was a little white lie to gloss over the real reason for her goose bumps.
He came closer and Cleo scrambled to her feet, nervous, silly enough, to be caught lying down around him.
Ethan’s jeans were faded and he wore a white T-shirt that looked soft and comfortable. “Go take a hot shower,” he said. “I’ll take over with Jonah.”
Cleo hesitated. Not that she wasn’t happy that he was going to spend some time with the baby—he needed to do that—but because despite his casual words, there was that something in his eyes. Something that made her want to run and to linger at the same time.
“Cleo?” His gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth.
Running seemed like a really good idea. “Uh, well, thanks.” She backed out in the direction of her room. “There’s a bottle of formula in the fridge.”
He waved his hand. “I’ll take care of it.” His voice hoarsened. “You go get…warm.”
Naked. She thought for a second he was going to say naked.
So this time she really ran.
Though she’d taken the longest shower on record, she still felt tense when she emerged. Even more tense when she heard the doorbell ring. She jumped. Please, no more reporters.
Determined to squash the problem immediately if it was, Cleo headed down the hall in bare feet and her own jeans and T-shirt, only to find that Ethan had beat her to the door and was paying off the pizza delivery kid.
He turned around, the box in his hands. “Jonah drifted off. I put him in his crib and ordered your favorite.”
Cleo tried smiling through her relief. “Oh, good.”
Ethan narrowed his eyes at her again. “What’s wrong, Cleo?”
“I…” She didn’t want to tell him about what happened that day. Exactly why, she wasn’t sure. Maybe because he was home for once and she didn’t want the evening marred by talk of a thirty-year-old murder. “I’m just a little unsettled.”
At her answer, he gave her another narrow-eyed look, but let it go.
In the kitchen, they polished off the pizza without much conversation. She was preoccupied keeping her thoughts free of skeletons and bullets. She had no idea what was keeping Ethan so quiet.
When they finished, they both rose to clear away the few dishes. He set the pizza box on the counter and she loaded the plates in the dishwasher.
Her gaze snagged on the kitchen windows. It was dark and for the first time the giant shapes of the pines trees surrounding their house seemed menacing. Unbidden, all that she’d learned that day rushed to the forefront of her mind. Her uncle Jeremiah had been a murderer.
Nursery rhymes and hot showers couldn’t wash that knowledge away. Her whole body shudd
ered.
“Cleo?” Ethan put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay, honey?”
She swallowed. “Just…cold again.”
He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his chest against her back. He was big and warm, yet even the feel of him against her couldn’t dispel her disquiet.
“Talk to me, Cleo.”
Ethan tightened his arms, coaxing her to lean back.
She let herself sink against him and felt his breath stir the hair at her temples. She should talk to him, she should tell him what had happened today. A murder had been uncovered and it was connected to her family. But her blood was starting to warm. If she talked about it, she might turn cold again.
Ethan’s arms tightened around her. “Cleo?”
She sighed. “Have you ever felt a nightmare coming on? Like a headache? Because that’s just what I’m feeling.”
Ethan stilled. “That’s because you’ve been alone too much,” he said.
She leaned farther into his warmth. “You think so?”
Suddenly his hot mouth was on the side of her neck. “You don’t have to have nightmares, Cleo,” he said against her skin. “Let me be there for you, honey. Let me make your dreams sweet tonight.”
Eight
Ethan lifted his mouth from Cleo’s skin and breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. He wanted to protect her. He’d vowed he would protect her.
If he couldn’t offer emotion, he could at least offer that.
She laughed a little shakily. “I don’t know…”
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to put out of his mind the sensation of her skin beneath his lips. “I’ll just hold you, Cleo. That’s all.” He wanted it all, but he’d settle for watching over her sleep. It was time he gave something back.
“Oh.”
A note in her voice—a touch of embarrassment?—made him open his eyes and turn her in his arms so he could search her face. “’Oh’? What does that mean?”
She looked down, her long lashes casting shadows on her flushed cheeks. “It means you don’t have to go that far, Ethan. You don’t need to…to share my bed.”
A realization clicked in place in Ethan’s brain. He stared down at Cleo—at his wife—stunned, trying to imagine how he’d made such a bad mistake. He let go of her, so mad at himself that he needed to pace around the room to ease the emotion. “Damn it, Cleo.” One more turn around the too small kitchen, and then he stood in front of her again.
“Damn it.”
She cocked an eyebrow, her expression wary. “I heard you the first time.”
“And I think I screwed up every time,” he said in disgust. “You didn’t think— You must have realized— Hell.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Honey. Cleo.”
She swallowed. “What?”
He cupped her shoulders with his hands. “You’ve got to know I want you.”
She shrugged, her shoulders pushing against his palms. “As a caretaker for your nephew.”
His hands tightened on her. “No, Cleo. As a woman in my bed.”
Her violet eyes widened. He stared into them, thinking there wasn’t another color in the world the color of Cleo’s eyes. How could she doubt she turned him on? What kind of man gave a woman these kinds of doubts?
A man struggling to not hurt said woman. But Ethan shrugged the little voice away and pulled Cleo against him. He whispered against her ear, feeling a shiver run through her body. “I want you, Cleo. You’ve got to believe that.”
As if she couldn’t help herself, her hips arched against his. She laughed, shakily again. “Maybe I believe that.”
He caught her hips, pressing her lightly against his hard erection. “Unmistakable evidence.”
“Then why—”
“Because you’ve given so much already.” He leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “I shouldn’t ask for anything else.”
“Ethan…” There was a touch of humor in Cleo’s voice and a smile tugged at her lips. “Something tells me you know how to give back.”
There was a touch of sultriness in her voice, as well, and he smiled. “I want to.”
“I want, too,” she said.
And it was that honesty that did him in. Ethan could handle “I want.” He could meet it, match it, satisfy it. He ran his hands up her back to cup her face, holding it at the perfect angle for a gentle, deep kiss. She tasted warm and sweet and he wanted deeper and hotter, but he admonished himself to pull back. Go slow.
When he broke away, he combed his fingers through her bewitching, wavy hair, and his fingertips snagged on a chain around her neck. Tugging gently, from beneath her shirt he pulled the unicorn he’d given her. It caught the light and sparkled, shining like Cleo’s eyes.
A smile broke over his face. “You like it.” He wanted to see her wearing the unicorn and nothing else.
She shivered, maybe reading the intent on his face. “I like it.”
I’m going to treat her like the unicorn. As she should be treated, Ethan promised himself. Precious and fragile. He would control his impulses tonight. Unlike his father, he wouldn’t let his passions overrule him. Instead, Ethan vowed to use what had always stood by him—his brains—to make Cleo happy.
He let the unicorn drop and watched it fall to rest between her breasts. His gaze lifted slowly to her face. She was flushed more deeply now, and Ethan cupped her hot cheek gently. “Tell me where you want to make love,” he said quietly.
Her pupils dilated.
“Tell me where you want me to touch you first.”
“Ethan—”
“Tell me where you want me to touch you second, and third.”
Her skin heated beneath his hand and her tongue came out to quickly wet her lips. “Ethan.”
Her mouth was ripe and wet. A heat entirely his own shot down his spine, but Ethan ignored it. This was for Cleo. He rubbed his thumb along her cheekbone. “Embarrassed, honey?”
She ducked her head.
He ran his hands down her arms and then up beneath her breasts, to cup their weight in his palms. He ducked his head, too, so he could whisper against her ear again. “Why don’t I tell you my ideas, and you can stop me if there’s something you don’t like or want to change.”
“Ethan.”
He lightly brushed his thumbs across her nipples and she shuddered. “I want to take you to my big bed. I want to undress you slowly. Piece by piece… Okay so far?”
Her lashes lifted but her gaze was languid. “Okay so far,” she whispered. “But, Ethan—”
“Then I’m going to touch this pretty body of yours. Touch it, learn it, know it. Slowly.”
She swayed closer. “But, Ethan—”
“Shh.” He slid his hands from her breasts to cup her round bottom. “And once I know your body, honey, I’m going to please it. I’m going to please you.”
Her hips arched, and he had to grit his teeth, willing himself to not push back. This was the time to go slow, to stay in control for Cleo. “Sound all right?” he asked.
“Ethan…” There was only an edge of purple around the black pupils of her eyes.
He clamped down on his impulses again, though his fingers tightened on the round curves they held. “You haven’t told me what you think.”
“I think—” Cleo reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair “—you talk too much.”
His laugh died abruptly with the first electric touch of her mouth. His hold on her tightened again and she pressed herself closer in response.
Sensing she needed more, he deepened the kiss, but she sent him reeling by sliding her tongue into his mouth and against his.
His muscles tensed and his blood burned. He pulled her tighter against him, rocking her against his erection. She slid her tongue in deeper and he sucked, tasting sweetness and heat, and his mind emptied of everything but Cleo. He needed to feel her, see her, have her.
Without breaking the kiss, he let her slide back to the floor. His hands shook as he snaked them b
eneath the T-shirt she wore. Her skin was smooth and hot. He quickly found her bra strap and unhooked it so he could run his palms unhindered up her spine and around her ribs and then up her sides to fill his hands—aaah—with her breasts.
She jerked her mouth from his, gasping for breath, and he closed his eyes, inhaling desperately. Cleo felt so good in his hands, heavy and full. Without thinking, he pulled off the annoyance of her shirt and slid the bra to the floor with one hand.
He could look his fill then, his heart slamming against his chest wall as her rosy nipples tightened.
“Ethan…”
Her hands rose, but he caught them before she could cover herself. Lacing his fingers with hers, he pushed her hands down, and then bent his head to one breast.
She smelled like flowers and tasted like sin.
She moaned, and he licked one beaded crest again, but the taste was too good, too tempting, and he sucked the nipple into his mouth.
She moaned again and the sound went to his head, making him dizzy. Somewhere along the way he dropped her hands, but it didn’t matter, because she was holding his head to her body and letting him have his fill of her. He sucked at the other breast now, swirling his tongue around her nipple.
Her fingers crawled up his bare chest, beneath his shirt, inflaming him. He pushed her breasts together with his palms, wanting them both at once, wanting it all. Her nails scratched the skin of his back and he ran his tongue up her neck.
Her pulse was frantic, as needy as he felt. He took her mouth at the same moment that his hands met at the snap of her jeans. Goose bumps fanned out across her belly as he slid the denim down her body. He lifted her, and set her on the countertop wearing only a pair of silky white panties.
She grabbed at the hem of his T-shirt and he stripped it away, throwing it across the room. Then he stepped forward, pushing apart her thighs with his hips, so he could rub his chest against her damp, hard nipples.
He groaned.
She captured his head, bringing it to her for another kiss, and he met her mouth hungrily.
But the kiss, the sensation of breast to chest, still wasn’t enough. There was fire inside him, fire inside her, and he wanted to touch it. Had to have it. Had to make it his.
The Marriage Maker Page 11
