Open Season (22 page)

“Swear out a warrant tomorrow,” he said in growing desperation. “Try the watermelon.”

Sure enough, the watermelon condom was green. Daisy gave him an appalled look. “Gangrene.”

He lunged off the bed, grabbed the purple condom from the floor, and tore off the clear wrapper. “If you ever tell anyone I wore a purple condom—”

“I won’t,” she promised, eyes wide; then he tossed her onto the bed and entered her with a quick, hard thrust, and they both forgot about colors.

It was so wonderful being naked with a man that she didn’t even think of being modest. She simply enjoyed him and marveled at the pleasure she had been
missing all these years, not just the intensity of making love but lying together afterward with her head cradled on his shoulder and his arms around her. She couldn’t keep her hands off him; every time she tried, her palms started itching, so she just gave in and stroked him to her heart’s content. “You’re so hard,” she marveled, sleeking her hand down his washboard stomach. “You must work out all the time.”

“It gets to be a habit. When you’re on the Teams, you have to stay in condition. And it isn’t ‘all the time’; I maintain with an hour a day.”

“ ‘Teams’?”

“SWAT. In both Chicago and New York.”

She propped up on an elbow. “SWAT? You mean the guys who wear black and carry big guns?”

He grinned. “Yeah, one of those.”

“And you left that to come to a little town like Hillsboro?”

“I got tired of the pressure. Aunt Bessie died, I inherited her house, and I decided I wanted to try small-town life as an adult.”

“No transition problems?”

“Just language problems,” he said, and grinned again. “Now I can almost say ‘y’all’ like a native.”

“Uh—-no, you can’t.”

“What? Are you saying my ‘y’all isn’t authentic?”

“I suppose it’s an authentic Yankee trying to do a southern accent.”

Just like that she found herself beneath him again; the man could move like a cat. “How about an authentic Yankee doing a southern woman?” he murmured against her throat.

She looped her arms around his neck. “You’ve got that down perfect.”

He turned his head and looked at the “Froot Loops” array of condoms on the floor. “I don’t want to wear purple again. How about the yellow? That would be banana flavored, wouldn’t it?”

Daisy made a face.
“Euww.
Not yellow.”

Exasperated, he said, “Why did you buy colored ones if you don’t like the colors?”

“Oh, I never meant to
use
them,” she said, blinking at him. “They were just for show, “You know. For Mrs. Clud to tell her friends that I bought them, so they’d tell their friends, and some of the single men in town were bound to hear and be interested enough to ask me out. Then you ruined that by giving her the impression we were involved.”

The expression on his face was indescribable. He coughed, strangled a little, and cleared his throat. “That was . . . ingenious.”

“I thought so. It wouldn’t have worked if I’d bought them at Wal-Mart or a chain pharmacy, but Barbara Clud is one of the biggest gossips in town, and she always tells what their customers bought. Did you know Mr. McGinnis takes Viagra?”

He coughed again, thinking of the bluff and hearty city councilman. “Uh, no, I didn’t.”

“Mrs. Clud told everyone. So I knew she’d tell about my condoms.”

He buried his face against her shoulder, breathing deeply. He was shaking a little, and Daisy snuggled him close. “There, there. It’s just small-town life. You’ll adjust.”

He lifted his head to see the humor sparkling in her eyes, and he gave up attempting to control his laughter. “If I ever need Viagra, remind me not to go to Clud’s Pharmacy.”

She considered the firmness pressed against her inner thigh. “I don’t think you’ll need it anytime soon. I didn’t think you were supposed to be able to get hard again so fast. All the articles I read—”

He kissed her, and she stopped talking to taste the honey. His eyes were heavy-lidded when he lifted his head. “Maybe I’ve been inspired. Or provoked.”

She took exception to that. “If anyone’s been provoking, it’s you—”

“I
didn’t buy seventy-two condoms.”

She was silent a moment, digesting the meaning behind that; then a satisfied smile broke across her face. “So my plan worked, didn’t it? After a fashion.”

“It worked,” he said gruffly. “I kept thinking about the bubble gum flavor.”

The phone rang, interrupting them. Daisy scowled; she didn’t want to talk on the telephone; she wanted to play with Jack. She hesitated long enough that he said, “Answer it. It might be your mother, and we don’t want them coming over to check on you.”

She sighed and stretched beneath him, snagging the receiver and bringing it to her ear. “Daisy Minor.”

“Hello, sweetie. How did the hunt go last night?”

It was Todd, and normally she loved gossiping with him, but not right now. “There was another fight, and I left early. I think I’ll go to another club next time.” Uhoh; she hadn’t meant to say that in front of Jack. She deliberately didn’t look at him.

“I’ll ask around, find out which places are best. So there weren’t any prospects?”

“Not yet. I only got to dance three times.” She turned her head away from the mouthpiece and said, as if she were talking to someone else in the room, “I won’t be long. Y’all get started without me.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to interrupt you while you have company,” Todd said instantly. “I’ll call back later.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” Daisy said, feeling guilty about her little deception but definitely not wanting to talk on the telephone when she could be making love.

“Enjoy your company,” he said gently. “Bye.”

“Bye,” she echoed, and fumbled the receiver back into place.

“Pretending to have company,” Jack chided, propping himself on his elbows so he could look down at her. “Slick.”

“I do have company. You.”

“But you definitely don’t want me to get started without you.”

“Definitely not.”

“So someone else is in on your husband-hunting scheme. Who is it?”

“Todd Lawrence,” she said, stroking her hands over his arms and shoulders. “He helped me with my hair and makeup and clothes.”

Jack lifted his eyebrows. “Todd.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, there was the slightest hint of jealousy in his tone. Daisy was thrilled, but at the same time she hastened to say, “Oh, he’s gay.”

“No he isn’t,” Jack said, startling her.

She blinked. “Of course he is.”

“If it’s the Todd Lawrence I know, lives in that big Victorian and owns an antiques store in Huntsville, he isn’t gay.”

“That’s Todd,” Daisy said, frowning. “But he’s definitely gay.”

“He’s definitely not.”

“How would you know?”

“Trust me. I know. And I don’t care if he did pass the puce test”

“He’s great at shopping,” she said, defending her position.

“Hell, I’m great at shopping, too, so long as you’re shopping for a car or a handgun, something like that.”

“He’s great at shopping for clothes. And he knows how to
accessorize,”
she finished triumphantly.

“You’ve got me there,” he admitted. “But he isn’t gay”

“Yes, he is! What makes you think he isn’t?”

Jack shrugged. “I saw him with a woman.”

She was momentarily flabbergasted; then the explanation occurred to her. “He was probably going shopping with her. I’m a woman, and he spent the entire day with me.”

“He had his tongue down her throat.”

Her mouth fell open. “But—but why would he pretend to be gay if he isn’t?”

“Beats me. He can pretend to be from Mars if he wants.”

She shook her head, bewildered. “He even likes Barbra Streisand; I saw the CDs in his den.”

“Straight guys can like Streisand.”

“Really. What kind of music do
you
like?”

“Creedence Clearwater. Chicago. Three Dog Night. You know, the classics.”

She buried her face against his shoulder and giggled. He smiled, liking the sound. “I’m a Golden Oldies kind of guy. What about you? No, let me guess: You like the
old
classics.”

“No fair. You saw my music collection on the shelves in the living room.”

“I was in there, what, a minute, while you called
your mother? I didn’t examine your music collection.’

“You’re a cop. You’re trained to observe things.”

“Give me a break. All I was thinking about was getting in your pants.”

“What color is my couch?”

“Blue with big flowers on it. You think I wouldn’t notice? We were naked on that couch.”

She sighed blissfully. “I know.”

“But you’re right about one thing: because I’m a cop, I’m very observant. For instance, which club were you thinking about going to next time?”

Drat! He’d noticed. “I don’t know,” she said vaguely. “I haven’t decided.”

“Well, when you decide, I expect to know.” There was a hard edge to his voice that she hadn’t heard before. “I mean it, Daisy. If you’re going out alone, I want to know where you are.”

She chewed her bottom lip. What if he showed up wherever she went and scared off anyone who asked her to dance? On the other hand, he was right about the safety issue; she had to be intelligent about the matter. Besides, she was in a difficult position, literally: flat on her back, naked, pinned down.

“Promise me,” he insisted.

“I promise.”

He didn’t ask if she would keep her promise; he knew she would. He pressed his forehead against hers. “I want you safe,” he whispered, and kissed her.

As usual, one kiss led to another, and soon she was clinging to him, giddy with arousal. She wound her legs around his hips, and with a groan he sank into her, thrusting several times before suddenly cursing and pulling out. He leaned over the edge of the bed and
blindly scrabbled for a condom. “I don’t care what color it is,” he said hoarsely.

Daisy didn’t care either, didn’t even look. She was shaken that they had almost made love without protection, that even those few thrusts carried a small amount of risk. Then he surged back into her, and she met his fierceness with her own, demanding everything he could give her.

Afterward, exhausted, Daisy dozed cuddled against his side while Jack stared at the ceiling and wondered what in hell Todd Lawrence was up to. Something was going on that made him feel antsy and he didn’t like it worth a damn, especially when the uneasiness concerned Daisy. He had damn good ears, and Daisy had been lying under him at the time, the receiver only inches away, he’d heard every word of their telephone conversation. Maybe it was just the instincts of a cop prodding him, because there hadn’t been anything he’d heard that he could honestly say struck him as suspicious, but it seemed to him that Daisy was being
guided
to certain clubs. He didn’t like that scenario at all.

He’d been in bars and nightclubs every night except for Sundays since talking to Petersen. He’d seen one episode of a possible date-rape drugging—and that had been at the Buffalo Club on Thursday night, so he’d gone back on both Friday and Saturday to see if he could spot something. As it was, the woman who had possibly been drugged had been with two female friends; Jack had discreetly questioned them, but they had not only allowed men to buy them drinks, they had also left the drinks unattended while they danced or went to the rest room, so there was no telling when or if the drinks had been drugged.

Both of the other women were sober enough to drive, which made him suspect the third woman had definitely been drugged. He helped them get their friend out to the car, quietly told them to get her to a hospital in case someone had put something in her drink, and saw them on their way before going back inside. Everything had been kept very low key, he didn’t make a disturbance, didn’t identify himself as a cop, because if some bastard was there slipping GHB or whatever into women’s drinks, Jack didn’t want to scare him off. He simply watched, trying to spot something or at least step in if another woman looked to be in trouble, and the next morning he’d called Petersen to tell him they maybe had a starting place.

Last night had been cut short by the fight, but his heart had almost stopped when he’d seen Daisy on the dance floor. She didn’t seem to realize how she drew the eye with the contrast between her classy clothes and the way all the other women dressed; men watched her, and not just because she was a good dancer. They watched those legs, and the sparkling eyes that said she was having a ball. They noticed her breasts, and the way that red dress had clung to their shape. Even now, with her naked in his arms, just thinking about those breasts made his mouth water. His Miss Daisy was stacked; not overblown, but definitely stacked just right.

She wanted a husband and kids. He wasn’t in the market for a wife, let alone kids, but he got a burning knot of what he recognized as pure masculine possessiveness at the thought of her actually meeting someone she really liked at one of those clubs, going out with him, sleeping with him, maybe even eventually getting married. He didn’t like that scenario at all. And when he’d realized he had entered her without first putting
on a condom, for an earth-tilting moment he had continued thrusting, tempted almost past control at the thought of coming inside her. If he got her pregnant—hey, he’d marry her. They’d made a deal. Being married to Miss Daisy would be a hell of a lot more fun than being married to Heather the Bitch, and look how long he’d stuck that out.

He knew he was in deep trouble when the thought of getting married didn’t send him running. He glanced down at her sleeping face and gently stroked her bare back. So maybe he’d leave off a condom and see what happened. Naw, he couldn’t do that to her—unless she showed signs of getting serious about someone else, in which case he would fight as dirty as necessary to win.

T
he English setter bounded happily through the knee-high weeds, ignoring her owner’s shouted commands. She was a young dog, and this was only her second time in the field. He’d been training her in his yard to retrieve, using a variety of lures, and her hunting instincts usually held sway there. In the field, though, her youthful exuberance sometimes got the best of her. There were so many interesting smells to be investigated, the heady scents of birds, mice, insects, snakes, things she didn’t know and wanted to follow.