In Deep Trouble, page 15
At least it would be a long, awkward evening with Cecily, whose proximity was proving to be a delightful distraction. He concentrated on the road, willing her hand to stay where it was. He loved the warmth her touch sent through his denims, but if she moved it even half an inch to the left, she’d be all too aware of how much he enjoyed it.
His mind insisted on taking its own path, which was a massive shortcut, bypassing dinner and getting straight to the after party. Assuming there would be one. They still had an hour or two for the evening to go south.
In case it didn’t, he had a condom in his wallet. Two more in his blazer pocket. He shifted a little, trying to get things where they belonged. The silk boxers he’d put on—a gag gift from one of his Ranger buddies, but he was glad he’d saved them—felt sleek and smooth, which added another layer to his arousal as he imagined Cecily’s fingers touching him.
Somehow, he managed to keep the car on the road and pull into a parking slot in front of the Lucky Duck.
The host seated them near the fireplace, and Bryce asked for the wine list. He’d already spent time on the restaurant’s website and researched a couple of choices.
“Wine with dinner?” he asked Cecily.
Once she said yes, he followed with, “Red or white? Or do you want to wait to see what you’re going to have for dinner?”
Was he surprising her? Her twitching lips and rising eyebrows said yes, but in a good way. It wasn’t like he didn’t know about wine, and he’d travelled enough in his Ranger days to have sampled an assortment of exotic cuisines—not counting the creatures they had to catch to survive while on some of their ops—to know his way around a menu.
Cecily glanced downward and grinned. “I generally choose my wines based on what I’m wearing rather than what I’m eating. I don’t want to spill any red on this sweater. So, white would be fine with me.”
Bryce couldn’t help but laugh at Cecily’s unique approach to wine pairings. “White it is.” He gave his selection to the server, who promised to return shortly. How long was shortly, anyway?
He set the wine list aside and focused his gaze on Cecily. “Before we go any further, tonight’s on me.”
He braced himself for a retort, but she settled her napkin in her lap and said, “Thank you. Now, I want to hear how you caught the cattle killer. From you, not a police report, or my brother who thinks I don’t need to know what’s going on at the ranch.”
“Not much to tell,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t give me that.”
He shrugged and summarized the events, pausing for the wine tasting ritual when the server brought the Chardonnay he’d ordered.
Cecily raised her glass. “To catching bad guys.”
“To saving good guys,” he added.
After the toast, at Cecily’s urging, he went on with his recap.
“Wait,” she said. “You disarmed him?”
“No big deal.”
“But you said he had a knife. Did you get cut?”
“I need a new shirt is all.” He grinned. “Unless you want to sew up the tear for me.”
“Don’t push it,” she said, but her smile said she wasn’t angry. “First you don’t tell me you caught the killer, then you don’t tell me you could have been killed, and you want me to mend your shirt? I don’t think so.”
They enjoyed their meals, over surprisingly comfortable conversation. Cecily chatted about some of the colorful calls she’d dealt with on the job. Although he could have listened to her all night, she had a knack for turning the conversation around, reminiscing about some of the times they’d worked side-by-side at the Triple-D, and asking him to relate a few stories of his own. Everything stayed on the light side—no prying into his childhood, no war horror stories, and nothing about the sister Bryce knew Cecily had lost.
They lingered over dessert and coffee—the wine bottle long since emptied—and Bryce took care of the check while Cecily excused herself to use the ladies room. Bryce took a turn as well, and then they were on the road. To her house. Where he’d be faced with the awkward goodnight crap. He’d played out all the scenarios, but soon, he’d find out which one hit center stage.
Chapter 22
Cecily basked in the glow of a delightful evening. Good food, good wine, and surprisingly, good conversation. It wasn’t the wine causing the glow, either. They’d taken things slow, spending a generous two hours over their meals.
The ride home was spent in companionable silence, although Cecily felt an unwelcome sense of shame that she’d assumed Bryce would have been out of place at the Lucky Duck. His wine selection had been excellent. A Colorado wine, to boot. She’d have to add that one to her own collection.
As they drove through Pinon Crest, Cecily wondered if Bryce was thinking the same things she was. How to handle the inevitable goodnight. A first date simple kiss on the porch? It was late after all, and Bryce no doubt had to be at the ranch bright and early.
They’d gone past the simple kiss already. Why should she be the one to decide how much sleep Bryce needed? If he said it was too late, that was his call.
Of course, if he did, she’d lie awake all night wondering if it was because he had to get up early, or because he’d decided he didn’t want to take things any further.
You think too much.
When there were no parking slots close to her house, she said, “Garage is around back. You can park in the driveway.” More thinking. Should she get out and use the code for the garage door, which meant entering through the mud room—hardly an elegant end to what was still a perfect evening—or take the path around the house to the front door?
You’re still thinking too much. This is Bryce. He won’t care.
He pulled into the driveway and turned off the ignition. And faced her, an unreadable expression on his face.
Say it.
She took a breath. “I had a great time. Would you like to come up for a few minutes? I mean, I know you have to be at work early, so if you can’t, I understand—”
He silenced her babbling with a kiss tasting of coffee and the triple chocolate cake they’d shared. A heady combination when added to the way her entire body temperature had spiked at least ten degrees, and her insides were as molten as the chocolate on their dessert.
Her tongue sought his, her lips demanded more. She yanked her scarf off, placed one of his hands on the swell of her breast. This kiss was different from their others. Every kiss with Bryce was different. They’d all been good—better than good—but this was an entirely new universe of kisses.
His lips left hers and nibbled at her ear. Was he saying something? She found a few unoccupied brain cells and tried to process his words. “Hmm?” she murmured.
He cradled her cheeks in his hands. Met her gaze. “I said, if I come up, it’ll be longer than a few minutes.”
Her heart stopped. This was not one of the outcomes she’d prepared for. No slow seduction. No hints. No wondering. This was Bryce. Direct and to the point.
“I’ll get the door.” She dashed out of the car, opened the latch on the code box and stared at the buttons as though they displayed an alien language. Stop. Breathe.
Her fingers trembled as she punched the keypad. Relief—and anticipation—flooded her as the door rumbled upward. She realized Bryce stood near her—not close enough to read the code. Always the gentleman.
She crossed through the garage, remembering to hit the button to lower the door before she opened the interior door. He followed her up the narrow wooden stairs until they stood on the tiled entry inside her front door.
“I’ve thought about kissing you goodnight on your front porch all day,” he said. “I like being inside better.”
“I’m counting on a good morning kiss,” she said. Good lord, where had that come from?
“Plenty of time before then.” He cupped her rear end and pulled her against him. No denying his arousal.
Her new silk panties were already wet. She dropped her purse on the floor. “I want you,” she whispered. She shoved her hands inside his blazer, trying to shove it off, shrugging out of her jacket at the same time.
“Whoa,” he said and backed up half a step. He took off his blazer and hooked it over one of the pegs by the door. He’d left his Stetson in the car. Good. One less thing to deal with. She removed her jacket and tossed it in the general direction of her couch, then grabbed his hand and put it on her breast again.
“I need you to touch me,” she said.
He stroked the curve of her breast, kissed her neck. She reached for his shirt, thankful for the snaps instead of buttons, and yanked it open. Pop. Pop. Pop. When had the sound become so erotic? She ran her fingers through the dusting of hair on his chest. Thumbed his nipples, hoping he’d take the hint and do the same to hers. They ached for his touch. Every part of her ached for his touch. She tottered on her high heels trying to position herself closer to him.
He gripped her shoulders and stared her in the face. “Bedroom? Or do you want to stand here awhile longer?”
Clinging to him, she tried to maneuver them both to the bedroom. Her heels threw her off balance, and attempting to kiss, walk, and keep her body parts in contact with his wasn’t working. She grasped his hand in hers and led him down the hall.
Who’d come in while they were gone and added six miles to its length?
She reached the doorway, brief thoughts of the new red nightgown hanging on the hook inside the bathroom door penetrating her muddled brain, which wanted nothing to do with anything other than maximizing the sensations Bryce’s touch created.
Another time, nightgown. Sorry.
Backing toward the bed she knew was in the room somewhere, Cecily tilted her head, exposing her neck for more of his kisses. At the same time, she reached for his belt buckle, fumbling with the metal. By the time she had the leather worked out of the prong, he’d lowered his mouth to her breast, his teeth working at the lace of her bra, his tongue toying with her nipples.
Slow, lazy seduction was far overrated. It was as if this moment had been building every minute, every hour, every day over the years she’d known him. She yanked at his pants. He stayed her hands.
“Wait.”
“Can’t wait,” she said.
“Two seconds.” He reached into his pocket and held up a square foil packet. He tossed it onto the bed. Positioned his lips close to hers. “Where were we?”
Had she been so obsessed, so carried away, so overwhelmed with need she’d forgotten protection? She hoped she’d have remembered before it was too late. Right now, she wasn’t sure. “Here,” she whispered, and unzipped her skirt, letting it fall to her feet. She stepped out of it, kicking off her sandals while she pulled her sweater over her head. “You. Pants. Off.” She reached for the button at his waist. “Those better have a zipper.”
They did, and the rasp as he lowered it was as exciting as the popping snaps had been.
“I don’t normally do this with my boots on.” He sat on the edge of the bed and yanked them off. His socks followed, and he parted his knees, inviting her closer.
A faint glimmer of light from the living room lamp she’d left on cast him in half-shadow, but not so dark she couldn’t see his erection standing at attention behind his boxers. She reached for it, her fingers encountering silky-smooth fabric. Another surprise. She’d expected tighty-whities.
He gripped her hands. “No touching there yet. You first.”
“But—”
He swallowed her objection with another kiss. “Don’t want it over before we start.”
“Then let’s start.” She reached behind her for the clasp of her bra.
“Let me.” Instead of unhooking it, he lowered his mouth to the lacy cups. He nipped at the fabric, finding her nipples, his warm breath fanning them, his tongue swirling around them. They puckered into tight nubs at his touch. She squirmed as pleasure jolted to her core.
Bryce’s finger slipped under one of the straps, lowering it past her shoulder. Then the other. More kisses. He popped the clasp open. She wriggled out of the garment. His work-roughened hands teased and tormented, first one breast, then the other. Then both.
A hand moved lower, a finger slipped inside her. She widened her stance, giving him room as he stroked her slick wetness, found her center.
“Bryce.” She moved her hips, unable to control the need for release spiraling through her. She gripped his shoulders. He stroked. She rocked. Convulsed around him. Her world shattered. Bells rang.
The ringing continued, but not in her head. From the floor. From Bryce’s pants. His cell. Another chiming from the living room. Her cell.
Bryce swore, but picked up his phone. His brow furrowed as he checked the display. “Text from your brother.” He swore again, louder.
Chapter 23
With the cattle killer out of the picture, Grady opted to move to the guest house. He had enough food there to nuke something for his supper, so he packed what he’d brought to the house into his duffle and tossed it in back of the Gator. Derek had left to spend the evening with Sabrina, and Grady preferred to be in his own space. Not that he didn’t like the perks of staying at the ranch house—with the abundant food supply and a television set—but there was usually someone trying to make conversation. And with conversation came the opportunity to let something slip.
No, he’d stay in the guesthouse with his books and his secrets. Although the lock on the front door was a piece of crap, he felt more comfortable with that tiny bit of security between him and whoever might be on the other side.
The envelope Cecily had brought him contained what the inventory sheet had said, with one major exception. Still shoved into the spine of his copy of Dune, he found the fine gold chain with the antique gold heart his mother had given him. A rare show of affection from her. Or was it to assuage her guilt for the way she treated him?
It belonged to my grandmother, who gave it to my mother, and since I don’t have a daughter, I’m giving it to you. There’s a story behind it—something about an aristocrat or royalty in Europe somewhere. A prince, maybe. A lord? Or was it a duke? Anyway, my grandmother wasn’t part of his social status, and they had to keep their love secret. He gave her this necklace to remember him by.
She’d shrugged and laughed her unique laugh—a harsh sound, never cheerful. I have no idea if it’s even true. Maybe someday you’ll find the right woman and give it to her.
It was the only thing of value he’d taken when he’d left. If nothing of hers was missing, he figured she wouldn’t bother trying to find him.
Many times, he’d considered pawning the necklace—she’d said it was valuable for more than its sentimentality—but he never had. So what if he went hungry, or had to sleep in the cold a few times? He would put it in the strongbox along with his other treasure.
Instead of heading straight to the guesthouse, he stopped in the barn and checked on Ginger. The mare nickered when she sensed his approach, a sound Grady found comforting. She struggled to her feet and lowered her head over the stall door. He felt bad he’d disturbed her, when it was obvious it was an effort for her to rise.
“You expecting a snack, girl? I came to say goodnight.” Grady scratched her head between her ears. “Well, I suppose one little apple slice won’t hurt you.” He ducked into the tack room and fetched a treat for her.
As she lipped it from his palm, he enjoyed her velvety muzzle with its bristly whiskers and her soft whooshing breath. “You don’t ask questions, do you? A little scratching, a treat, and you’re happy. Maybe tomorrow I’ll give you another rubdown with the liniment stuff.”
Before leaving, he wandered the barn, peeking in on the other horses. Most looked up when he passed, a few ignored him, but Zephyr, Derek’s big black badass of a horse, gave him the horse equivalent of the stink eye, snorted, and stomped his hooves.
“Goodnight to you, too,” Grady muttered. “And, for the record, that’s not the way to ask for treats.”
From the beginning, Zephyr had sensed Grady’s fear, and Grady wondered why that one horse had picked up on it so much more than the others in the string. Was it because Grady feared Zephyr more than the other horses? Why? Was it one of those chicken-and-egg things, that went round and round, their fears and distrust feeding off each other’s.
No matter. Grady hopped in the Gator and drove to the guesthouse, looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow. Derek had said the cowboys weren’t going to be working cattle, so it would be okay if Grady showed up later for his morning chores, and he’d have the rest of the day off until it was time to bring the horses in for the night.
First order of business was checking his intruder alert in the closet. His scrap of paper was where he’d left it. He unpacked his duffle and went to the kitchen to appease his growling stomach. He reheated a portion of spaghetti and meatballs, washed it down with a glass of milk, and took care of the dishes. Next, he stripped off his dirty clothes and tossed them into the closet where they joined an accumulating pile. Pretty soon, he’d have to take them to the ranch house and get them washed.
He showered off the grime, standing under the spray, letting the hot water ease sore muscles. If his mother could see him now. He wondered which would upset her more, the fact he’d been living with a bunch of other runaways, or that he was doing manual labor—and dirty manual labor to boot.
He shut off the water, and stood there, transfixed, as the memories slotted together like the final pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He couldn’t have been more than three, but the images hung in front of him. Not crisp and clear. Like viewing them through the steam of the shower. His mother had another one of her potential Daddies for him. She told Grady to be very good, and maybe there would be ice cream after an exciting adventure.
Potential Daddy number who-knows-what had been a very rich man. A catch, Mama had called him. They’d gone for a long car ride, and Mama said someone Very Important would be taking pictures. She put him on top of a huge black horse and told him to smile at the nice man with the camera. A light flashed, and the horse reared up and Grady flew off. He’d landed in some loose dirt and straw, but he’d been terrified. Mama had scolded him for crying. There had been no ice cream.
