The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) (14 page)

These were such strange thoughts
for her, and she pushed them away as quickly as she could. There was no way she
would forget her own career plans—which didn't include a man right now and
definitely didn't involve making a home for him.

She followed him as he strode down
the dark hallway until they reached the kitchen at the rear of the house. "Marc,"
she ventured. "Is this a good idea? It must be hard to see this after so
many years away."

He turned then, his head jerking as
if just remembering she was there. A pained expression turned softer when his
eyes met hers. He shook his head. "Phoebe."

Coming toward him, she wrapped her
fingers around his arm. "Are you okay? Do you want to sit down?" His
shaking was barely perceptible, but she could feel the muscles in his arm
quivering.

She slid her hand down to encompass
his frigid one to warm with both of hers. If he weren't standing so stiffly,
she'd try to put her arms around him.

He towed her over to the kitchen
sink and gazed out the window. "It was the day before Thanksgiving. The
night, actually. I was home watching TV. Mom and Dad—" He stopped
abruptly.

She gently rubbed her thumbs over
his broad hand. It was the only comfort she could give him.

"They'd gone to Marietty's for
dinner."

Chapter Thirteen

Marc was lost in the past. "They'd
gone to Marietty's for dinner," he repeated. "It was the last time I
saw them alive."

That last word plunged him into a
well of sadness. He ground his teeth in painful bitterness. "One moment I
had a family, the next I didn't. The police said their car ran off the road and
into the river. I just don't believe my dad would have driven drunk, and anyway
my mom wouldn't have let him." He vaguely felt Phoebe's capture of his
hand, felt her warmth seep into his skin, but only so far.

"God Phoebe, you would have loved
them." Despair had been his companion for all these years. His Marine
Corps life had helped, but grief had always been with him. He'd never come to
terms with his parents' deaths.

Suddenly he grabbed an old piece of
crockery on the counter by the sink and threw it at the far wall. He ripped his
hand away from Phoebe, embarrassed that he'd acted so violently and not wanting
her to be afraid of him.

Throwing the dish, though, had let
loose something within him.
Damn. Phoebe's
here. In my home and I want her. I need her.

His blood racing, heating, he
gripped her shoulders, pulling her toward him. She came easily enough and slid
her arms around his waist.

"I'm sorry, Marc. It must have
been awful for you. I can understand it."

"Can you?" He put some
distance between them and tipped up her chin with the edge of his hand. Her
green eyes were moist, her sympathy for him obvious.

He pulled the baseball cap off her
head along with the ponytail band, loosening her long hair, feeling the soft
strands tickle his hands. Trembling fingers threaded through her hair, cupping
her head, bringing his lips to hers. It took one soft touch, and he was lost.

"Phoebe," he groaned,
tightening his arms around her. His hands molded the shape of her hips and her
sweet, round ass. She clutched the waistband of his jeans, slipping her fingers
between the denim and his skin at the indentation of his spine.
Oh yeah.
Deepening the kiss, he claimed
her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sweeping it across every surface,
pulsing it until he could no longer breathe.

Lifting his head, he gasped for air
before nudging up her chin and nipping at her neck over to her ear. Her low
moans vibrated against his lips, inflaming him. He pulled her belly against his
cock, his hands tight on her ass, and he gloried in her grinding response.

He lifted that ass to the kitchen
table, ignoring the dust. This put her breasts at eye level, and he cupped them
in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples.

There was that ring. He manipulated
it up and down, eliciting small gasps and moans from her. "Jesus, that's
so fucking hot," he murmured as he pulled her blouse off over her head. He
just stopped and stared. Her bra was sheer white, and the nipple ring showed
clear as day. Dragging his tongue along one edge of her bra, he licked at the
center of her chest and up over the other breast.

Her fingers were at the buttons of
his shirt. He stopped what he was doing to give her a chance to open it. She
caressed his chest, rubbed her palms against his nipples and leaned in to put
her lips on them, then her teeth. She not-so-gently bit the left nub and sucked
at it, sweeping her tongue over the tip.

Before she could get to the other
one, he opened her bra clasp, swept it off and down her arms, and latched onto
her pierced nipple.

He suckled, and she gripped his
hair, holding him to her breast. Her head tipped back, the movement thrusting
her farther into his mouth.

"Oh God, Marc, you're driving
me crazy."

Pulling her hips forward, he worked
on the snap of her jeans and yanked them and her panties down to dangle off one
ankle. "Lean back, honey," he growled.

He knelt, spread her thighs, and
burrowed his tongue over and between her labia. He couldn't wait a moment
longer and suckled her clit into his mouth. With her shriek and the pumping of
her hips, he could tell she was aroused.

She whimpered and angled toward
him. "Oh my God—God—that's so good—please don't stop."

Lifting his lips for a second, he
glanced up at her.

Her eyes popped open, and she
looked back at him. She snarled, "You bastard. Why…"

He lifted his lips in a crooked
grin, and without breaking eye contact he pushed his forefinger into her
sheath. Her head dropped back again and she groaned. She was so wet, and soft
enough for two fingers. He drove them in, twisting them to massage her vaginal
walls, then put his mouth back on her clit. If only they were in a bed.

She was winding up for a climax. He
wanted to be inside her steamy, snug body, but she tipped over the edge,
grinding herself against his mouth and fingers and clutching his hair. He could
feel her inner muscles milking his fingers.

How
much better would that feel on my cock?
"Baby, I want to be inside
you."

"Yes, yes." She reached
for his snap. "Do you have protection?"

Standing up, he kissed her lips,
long and deep and thoroughly. He nodded, pulled a condom out of his pocket,
lowered his zipper, and sheathed himself. Then he let her guide him home.

Home.
All the way in. He stopped, fully seated within her. Her contractions vibrated
around his cock, pulsating and throbbing along his length. He picked her up
from the table. He needed her higher. Her jeans and panties dropped to the
floor, and he backed her up against the kitchen wall. He palmed the wall to
cushion her back then covered her mouth with his and thrust his tongue in
matching cadence with his cock.

Her walls squeezed him, milking him
until he could hold it back no longer. Seed fired from deep within his balls and
burst from him in a scorching torrent. He broke the kiss and lifted his chin,
howling with his release.

He was gone, but not so gone that
he didn't hear her orgasmic cry. She kept thrusting her hips taking every last
ounce from him. There it was again. A desire for no condom.

All there was now was the sounds of
their gasps. The scents of sex filled the air. Her head rested on his shoulder,
her soft breath wafting over his neck. He pulled out of her so she could drop
her feet to the floor again, then guided her toward a kitchen chair.

He helped her put her panties and
jeans back on before depositing her on a chair. Striding to the window over the
sink again, he disposed of the condom in the wastebasket—still under the sink
where his mother had always kept it—and drew his zipper closed.

With the automatic act of buttoning
his shirt, the pain came again at the simple, stupid reminder of his past. What
had he just done? He'd needed Phoebe so much, her sympathy, her sweetness, her
sexiness. And then he'd roughly used her. Up against the damn wall like an
animal. He glared out the window to the backyard.

The chair scraped on the old
kitchen floor and a hand on the center of his back brought him back to the here
and now. He glanced down at her lovely profile as she also gazed out into the
yard. Unable to articulate his feelings and certainly not planning to
apologize, even if he should, he took her hand and urged her out the back door.

They wandered the perimeter of the
yard. The plantings had gone wild over the years. It would take a contingent of
gardeners to pull weeds, replant, replace, and mulch. Was it something he could
do?

For a moment, his thoughts were
lost in the possibilities of coming back home and restoring the house and yard.
Phoebe walked silently with him, once in awhile kneeling down to pull what he
assumed was a weed. He supposed she needed something to do, since being with
him here had become so awkward.

He gazed around the yard,
surrounded by trees, surrounded in the private grounds. In the winter with the
trees bare of leaves you could see other houses but not now. Thick summer
foliage encircled them, sheltering them.

But not quite.

They heard voices on the other side
of the fence at the back of the yard.

"Dad, you know I'm old enough
to join the business."

"You're not ready, Butch."

Marc glanced at Phoebe. She'd heard
that too. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open in surprise. At the same time they
shook their heads at each other, indicating quiet. It sounded like Butch and
his father were arguing.

"All I've ever wanted is to
come into the company. I don't know why you haven't let me."

"You don't have the
negotiating skills I need." The older man's voice faded in and out. He
could be pacing around.

"How would you know? You've
never had any faith in me." Butch sounded like a whiny child.

"You dropped out of college.
You're just a police officer. What have you done to earn my faith?"

"You don't know what I've done
to help you," Butch grumbled.

"What do you mean? What have
you done?"

"Never mind. I need to get
into the business. I need to make more money. I want Phoebe to marry me. As
long as I'm just a police officer…"

Phoebe gasped and immediately put
her hand over her mouth. Her gaze flew to Marc's, and he shook his head, put
his finger up to his lips, and gave her a "stay" motion.

"That singer? You want to
marry her? That trollop?"

"Once she agrees to marry me,
she'll get rid of that hair color and settle down. I want what's due me. You
owe me, Dad."

"You said that before, Butch.
What have you done?" Harold Wilcox barked.

"I'm not saying anything. Not
until I'm in the company where I belong!"

That was the last they heard of the
argument. The conversation seemed to have ended, leaving no one satisfied.
Neither Butch nor his father. And certainly not Marc.

He couldn't stop thinking about
what Butch had said about helping his father. How had he helped him? It was
crazy to make a connection—but did that have something to do with his parents'
deaths?

"Thank God I got away from
him," Phoebe whispered.

Neither had moved. Marc didn't want
to risk being seen. He had no idea if Mr. Wilcox was still out there. He was
uncharacteristically frozen in place, his head spinning with questions.

Since he didn't know if he could
trust her, he'd never said anything to Phoebe about his suspicions of Butch.
Now that he knew she was still in danger from him, he had to trust her.

After not hearing any noise from
the other yard, he finally urged her back toward his house. They needed to get
inside before he felt perfectly safe. The kitchen, the site of their passionate
lovemaking, made him smile a little. As angry and suspicious as he was, he
couldn't help it.

"What was Butch talking about?
What could he have done to help his father?"

Marc turned to look out through the
window again. His mind was spinning with suspicions. He had absolutely no proof
at this point that his father hadn't been drunk. He had no proof that their
deaths had been anything other than an accident. He had no proof that Butch
might have been involved.

But he couldn't get his mind off
what he'd heard, and a hunch was not evidence. He shook his head and came back
to Phoebe's questions.

"I don't know, but I don't
want you anywhere near that guy. I don't like what I'm thinking, and I have no
way to prove it."

"Oh my God, Marc, you don't
think…" She'd come up behind him and put her hand on his back.

Any other time he'd have welcomed
her touch but now he just felt numb. "Harold Wilcox makes a lot of money
with the resort. He wouldn't have succeeded without the land along the river
where our store had been. Is it possible that Butch did something to help his
father? Without his father's knowledge?"

He needed to talk to Butch again at
the police station. Try to feel out what had happened with the missing files.
But Phoebe's hand was still on his back. He closed his eyes a moment and
breathed in their scent of sex. He turned to her and smiled. Taking her face
between his palms, he angled it up into a kiss. She responded, her arms around
his waist, palms caressing his spine in comforting sweeps.

Reluctantly breaking the kiss, he
pulled her in for a hug. "This was amazing, Phoebe. I wish the timing were
different. I have to go back to my unit. I don't know what'll happen."

Pressing against him, she laid her
head on his chest. "Don't say anything. I don't expect or need any
promises. I have my own plans."

He urged her face up and gazed down
at her.
God.
When he was back in
Afghanistan, he'd remember her features—how beautiful they were, that funny
pink streak in her hair.