She came to a stand next to the Cheetah, looking on top of her world and so far out of his league that if he didn’t still have her nail indentations in his ass from that last time they’d been together, he might have believed he’d dreamed it all up.
In that damn workshop, she’d told him she loved him. And then she hadn’t really spoken to him since. Now they were in the “real” world, whatever the fuck that meant, so—
“Nice plane,” she said quietly, staring up at the Cheetah.
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember what I said to you on Stone Cay?”
“You said a lot of things. You said, for instance, that I have an ego.”
“I said ridiculous ego.”
“Right,” he said dryly. “Thank you for the clarification.”
“I also said that you’re big, bad, and so damn sexy that you make me melt.”
He stared at her profile. “No, you never said that. I most definitely would have remembered that.”
“Well, I thought it. I also thought that you make me smile. You make me laugh, too, and you make me think.” She turned her head and looked at him. “You make me feel whole, Brody, when I’ve never felt whole before. But that’s not what I was referring to.” Her baby blues softened with things that made his heart pick up speed. “I meant it when I said I love you.”
“You said it under extreme duress.”
“It doesn’t matter whether I said it while thinking we were going to die, or when you were buried deep inside me, or now, when we’re just standing here…I mean it.”
“You never said it when I was buried inside you.”
“Which I plan to rectify ASAP.” She let out a breath, suddenly looking touchingly nervous. “What I’m trying to say is that we
are
a unit. And that I
do
love you. So much. And…”
Jesus, there was an and? He didn’t think he could take an and.
“And like you once said to me, I can’t keep walking away from anyone and everyone who cares about me. I always thought I had to be alone to feel safe and secure, but that plan has a fatal flaw, one I never saw coming.”
“Which is?”
“Alone isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Which means it’s time for a new plan, Brody.”
“And that is?” he barely managed when she paused.
“Staying.” She gnawed on her lower lip. “I thought maybe we could make this thing official. I don’t really know what your plans are regarding us and this whole unit thing, if you wanted us to date or something more…”
He found his voice. “Something more. Way more.”
“Me, too.” She nodded and still looking off center, swallowed hard. “More like…I do more.”
“Hang on.” He grabbed her. “Are you
proposing?”
“Trying.” She gripped him tight. “Brody West, will you—”
“Yes.” He tugged her close. “Christ, yes.”
“I didn’t finish even asking you yet.”
“Yes to anything,” he vowed.
“Everything
. As long as it’s with you.”
You’ve got to get a
HOT DATE,
the latest from Amy Garvey,
new this month from Brava…
T
his was absurd. She was just excited, a little nervous, high on possibility and the idea of a fresh start, even if she’d never imagined starting over back in quiet, boring little Wrightsville, the town she’d been dying to leave ever since she’d been old enough to understand that roads led away from it.
As she leaned against the VW, breathing in the air’s cool bite, she watched Nick direct the SUV around the tangled vehicles. She’d thought a lot about what moving home would be like, about old friends and second chances and possibilities she’d never considered.
But she’d never really thought about temptation, at least not with Nick Griffin in the same sentence.
By the time Nick moved the squad car to the shoulder, and started up the chugging, shuddering VW bus to move it, too, he’d recovered from most of his surprise.
Okay, maybe not
most
, but a lot. Some, at least. And then he stepped out of the ancient bus and turned around to look at Grace, leaning against a tree trunk on the riverbank, her dark curls blowing around her face and her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, a sucker punch of shock hit him in the gut all over again.
Grace Lamb was the last person he ever expected to see in Wrightsville apart from her obligatory Christmas visit to her dad. But here she was, live and in living color, the epitome of trouble on two legs.
Two legs, he realized, that had somehow gotten a lot longer in the years since he’d seen her last. Long, slim legs in faded jeans, with ridiculous bright pink boots on her feet.
He caught himself with a cough. Grace was his best friend Tommy’s little sister. She didn’t have…
legs
. Well, yeah, of course she had legs, but not…
legs
. Not like that, anyway. That had definitely changed sometime in the past couple of years.
Running a stop sign and smacking into a police car, though, that was the Grace he had always known.
“Impulsive” was her middle name. Along with “reckless,” “fearless,” and, well, “distracted by whatever shiny new thing came along.” Which wasn’t a single word, but whatever. It was still the truth.
Grace had once set her backyard on fire when she tried to start the grill to make lunch for her father. Another time she’d decided to try ice fishing on the pond, only to sink into the water once she started cutting through the pond’s frozen skin. She’d tried to go blond, but she’d used household bleach on her dark curls, nearly choking herself on the fumes in the process.
And that was all before she was eleven.
The girl was a walking disaster and always had been. Except she wasn’t a girl anymore, and judging by the suitcases and boxes he could see through the VW’s windows, she planned to be back in town for a while. Which was just frigging weird, because the one thing that Grace had always been was restless, most of all to get out of Wrightsville.
“Billy will be down any minute,” he said as he walked back to her.
She tilted her head, looking up at him quizzically. “Billy?”
“Down at the precinct,” Nick explained, settling his hips against the hood of the cruiser and crossing his arms over his chest. “I can’t write up my own report, since I was involved.”
“There’s going to be a report?” She took off her sunglasses and turned horrified brown eyes on him. “It’s just a little fender bender! Hardly worth mentioning, really. I can pay for the damage and no one even has to know…” She trailed off when he stared her down, arms still folded over his chest, immovable.
Leave it to Grace. Yeah, he’d taken care of the Great Microwave Disaster of 1988, and the time she’d lost the two Pomerians she was dog sitting, but this was a little different. It was an official police vehicle, not his own battered Jeep, and Grace, well…he shook his head. As far as he could tell, she had never really learned to anticipate consequences.
Like wearing jeans that looked molded to her hips, and a white blouse that didn’t completely hide the outline of a lacy bra.
Not that he was looking. Definitely not. He swallowed back a growl of arousal, and turned toward the VW, gesturing vaguely. “What is all that, Grace? What are you doing here?”
He’d forgotten how blinding her smile could be, and it surprised him all over again. He was still blinking at the brilliance of it when she said, “Coming home, of course.”
His eyebrows nearly shot off the top of his head. “You’re…moving back here? To Wrightsville?”
“You don’t have to say it like I just announced I’m having an alien love child and going on the talk-show circuit.” She frowned, the light in her eyes turning to smoke the way it always did when she was mad at him. Boy, was that look familiar.
“Doesn’t Robert work in New York?” he asked, glancing at the old bus again. And why on earth was Grace driving that thing? He didn’t know Robert well, or really at all, but he did know he wasn’t the vintage hippie chic type. “Commuting to Bucks County is an awful long trip.”
“Robert won’t be commuting.” It was Grace’s turn to fold her arms in front of her, but Nick was surprised to realize she didn’t look upset. Instead, she was calm, almost peaceful. “Robert is moving to Chicago, to work for The Museum of Contemporary Art.”
If his eyes widened any further, they’d probably roll out of his head, Nick realized with a start. “And you’re…?”
“Not,” she said simply, and gave him another smile. The sun gleamed on her hair. “I’m starting over, Nick. I’m getting a divorce, and I’m going to figure out a career, and I’m going to do it right here in Wrightsville.”
Just when he’d convinced himself Wrightsville was getting a little boring, Nick contemplated as he restrained a groan, Grace back in town, at loose ends, looking for work and maybe romance?
They were all doomed.
Some authors know that
WHEN HE WAS BAD,
he was better than ever.
Check out the new anthology from
Shelly Laurenston and Cynthia Eden,
out this month from Brava.
Here’s a sneak peek at Shelly’s story,
“Miss Congeniality”…
T
he doorbell rang and Irene didn’t move. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she wouldn’t answer the door. She dealt with enough people during the day, so she’d be damned if her nights were filled with the idiots as well.
The doorbell went off again, followed by knocking. Irene didn’t even flinch. In a few more minutes she would shut out everything but the work in front of her, a skill she’d developed over the years. Sometimes Jackie would literally have to shake her or punch her in the head to get her attention.
But Irene hadn’t slipped into that “zone” yet and she could easily hear someone sniffing at her door. She looked up from her paperwork as Van Holtz snarled from the other side, “I know you’re in there, Conridge. I can smell you.”
Eeew.
“Go away,” she called back. “I’m busy.”
The knocking turned to outright banging. “Open this goddamn door!”
Annoyed but resigned the man wouldn’t leave, Irene put her paperwork on the couch and walked across the room. She pulled open the door and ignored the strange feeling in the pit of her stomach at seeing the man standing there in a dark gray sweater, jeans, and sneakers. She knew few men who made casual wear look anything but.
“What?”
She watched as his eyes moved over her, from the droopy sweatsocks on her feet, past the worn cotton shorts and the paint-splattered T-shirt that spoke of a horrid experience trying to paint the hallway the previous year, straight up to her hastily created ponytail. He swallowed and muttered, “Goddamnit,” before pushing his way into her house.
“We need to talk,” he said by way of greeting.
“Why?”
He frowned. “What?”
“I said why do we need to talk? As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing that needs to be said.”
“I need to kiss you.”
Now Irene frowned. “Why?”
“Must you always ask why?”
“When people come to me with things that don’t make sense…yes.”
“Just let me kiss you and then I’ll leave.”
“Do you know how many germs are in the human mouth? I’d be better off kissing an open sewer grate.”
Why did she have to make this so difficult? He hated being here. Hated having to come here at all. Yet he had something to prove and goddamnit, he’d prove it or die trying.
But how dare she look so goddamn cute! He’d never known this Irene Conridge existed. He’d only seen her in those boxy business suits or a gown that he’d bet money she never picked out for herself. On occasion he’d even seen her in jeans but, even then, she’d always looked pulled together and professional.
Now she looked goddamn adorable and he almost hated her for it.
“Twenty seconds of your time and I’m out of here for good. Twenty seconds and I won’t bother you ever again.”
“Why?”
Christ, again with the why.
“I need to prove to the universe that my marking you means absolutely nothing.”
“Oh, well, isn’t that nice,” she said with obvious sarcasm. “It’s nice to know you’re checking to make sure kissing me is as revolting as necessary.”
“I’m not…I didn’t…” He growled. “Can we just do this, please?”
“Twenty seconds and you’ll go away?”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fine. Just get it over with quickly. I have a lot of work to do. And the fact you’re breathing my air annoys me beyond reason.”
Wanting this over as badly as she did, Van marched up to her, slipped his arm around her waist, and yanked her close against him. They stared at each other for a long moment and then he kissed her. Just like he had Athana earlier. Only Athana had been warm and willing in his arms. Not brittle and cold like a block of ice. Irene didn’t even open her mouth.
Nope. Nothing
, he thought with overwhelming relief. This had all been a horrible mistake. He could—and would—walk away from the honorable and brilliant Irene Conridge, PhD, and never look back. Van almost smiled.
Until she moved slightly in his arms and her head tilted barely a centimeter to the left. Like a raging wind, lust swept through him. Overwhelming, all-consuming. He’d never felt anything like it. Suddenly he needed to taste her more than he needed to take his next breath. He dragged his tongue against her lips, coaxing her to open to him. To his eternal surprise she did, and he plunged deep inside. Her body jerked, her hand reaching up and clutching his shoulder. Probably moments from pushing him away. But he wouldn’t let her. Not if she felt even a modicum of what he was feeling. So he held her tighter, kissed her deeper, let her feel his steel-hard erection held back by his jeans against her stomach.
The hand clutching his shoulder loosened a bit and then slid into his hair. Her other hand grabbed the back of his neck. And suddenly the cold, brittle block of ice in his arms turned into a raging inferno of lust. Her tongue tangled with his and she groaned into his mouth.
Before Van realized it, he was walking her back toward her stairs. He didn’t stop kissing her, he wouldn’t. The last thing he wanted was for her to change her mind. He managed to get her to the upstairs hallway before she pulled her mouth away.