Hometown Hero

by Anders, Robyn

  When she couldn’t find Millicent at the Shermann Hotel, she tried one last hope.

  “Charlie Daemon motors. We’ll bring the deal to you. Charlie speakin’.

  “Hi Charlie, it’s Cynthia Meadows. I’m looking for Millicent Wanks. I know it’s a long shot but—“

  “But you’re in luck. I’ve given Millicent a job here at the office.”

  “Great. Is she there now?”

  “Think I could track her down. What’s up, Cynthia?”

  “I’m looking for some fashion advice and I thought I would consult with the newly declared queen of fashion here in Shermann.”

  “Urgent?”

  “I’ve got an hour.”

  “We’ll be over in five minutes.”

  Both Millicent and Charlie were wearing the same clothes they’d had on the previous evening, but with some extra rumples. Millicent quickly took Cynthia under her wing, dragged her to Cochrans, and charged up Cynthia's credit card with about a thousand dollars worth of stuff Cynthia suspected she would never have dared wear if it hadn’t been for the crazy dream of sparking something in Russ’s eyes.

  “You got yourself one dynamite body,” Millicent observed when the two of them were in the lingerie changing room at the department store. "But you been hiding it under baggy clothes and counting on the fact that most guys already looked at you a long time ago and decided you were too pudgy and brainy for them. Give yourself a little rope and you’re going to knock some folk back on their heels, girl.”

  Cynthia nodded, but that didn’t make this easy. She always wore sensible cotton undergarments. The thong panties Millicent insisted she buy were little more than black ribbons so tiny it took her a moment to figure out which hole was for the waist and which for the legs. The bra was a bit more substantial, enough so it supported her in a way that definitely made the most of her slender assets. If they’d worn lingerie like that at the fashion show, the Shermann police would have shut it down.

  When she pulled the thin Chinese-print silk sheath over the practically non-existent underwear, she felt like she was dressed in wisps of cloud.

  Charlie goggled when she emerged from Cochran’s oversized dressing room. “Who are you and what have you done with the nerdy reporter?”

  Charlie Daemon, second sexiest guy in her Shermann High class, was flirting with her and Russ Lyons, number one sexiest guy, had asked her out on a date. Cynthia was careful not to pinch herself. If this was a dream, she didn’t want it to end.

  “You look fine,” Millicent assured her. “Now pull back your shoulders and stick out your chest. You don’t have a lot up there, but that’s okay ‘cause you’re slim. Go for it.”

  “Looks like a lot to me,” Charlie offered.

  “That’s because you don’t understand the way push-up bras work,” Millicent informed him. “And no, that isn’t an okay to go out and do research.”

  Interesting. It looked like Charlie had offered Millicent more than just a job. Cynthia hoped things worked out for them. Millicent deserved a lot more than an abusive husband. And Charlie needed someone to calm him down, give his life a sense of direction. It was too bad they were both on the rebound. They might not realize how right they were for each other.

  “If you get tired of working for Charlie, you should think about becoming a professional fashion consultant,” Cynthia told Millicent. “I’d never have dared pick this outfit.”

  “Hey, I only just won my trophy last night. Let’s not rush things,” Millicent said, but Cynthia could tell she liked the idea.

  Not rushing things was a good idea, but not an option. Cynthia glanced at her watch and saw that she only had fifteen minutes before she was due at Russ’s.

  “I guess I’d better head out,” she said.

  Millicent shook her head. “Not until we stop by the cosmetics counter. No point in dolling you up if we don’t finish the job.”

  “But I’m going to be late.”

  “You’ll be worth the wait. Believe me, by the time I’ve finished with you, he won’t be complaining.”

  * * *

  Russ opened a bottle of wine, picked a CD for his stereo, then glanced at his watch. Five minutes after seven. Could Cynthia have changed her mind?

  He wouldn’t blame her if she had. Despite what he’d told her about fighting for control when the memories and the real Russell Lyons came back, he didn’t have much hope. Regardless of his plans, he couldn’t guarantee Cynthia how long anything the two of them developed would last.

  A faint sound got Gomer’s ears twitching, then the dog headed for the stairs.

  The puppy wasn’t quite ready to tackle a major project like going down the steep stairs by himself, so Russ swept him up and carried him down in his arms.

  He opened the front door, and almost collapsed.

  Like a butterfly emerged from a cocoon, Cynthia had transformed from cute to stunning.

  “Wow.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her chest covering up the deep ‘v’ in the dress’s top. “Okay, it isn’t too practical. For one thing, I’m cold. For another, these shoes must have been designed by an Italian sado-masochist.”

  They also made her legs look like a million miles of pure sex appeal.

  “The stairs will be a bit dangerous, then. Maybe I should ...“

  He handed Gomer to her and then wrapped one arm around her shoulders and the other behind her knees to sweep her up.

  Running and exercise packed Cynthia’s body with muscle, but she hardly seemed to weigh anything as he carried her up the stairs, from his office up into his loft apartment.

  “Now it's my turn to say wow.” Cynthia’s eyes brightened as she checked out the exposed brick walls, enormous plate-glass windows, and the view of the town of Shermann spreading down the high Missouri bluffs into the lower floodplains of the river.

  “Yeah. For the most part, my earlier self had pretty good taste. I’ve added a few things, but mostly I went with his concept.”

  She nestled closer to him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her eyes dark, impossibly big, and smoldery as she gazed at him. “It must be strange to have had two lives, to have been two people.”

  “Maybe. But I can’t remember that other person.”

  He was ready to kiss her when Gomer wriggled in her arms.

  “You’d better put us down before you throw out your back,” Cynthia said.

  He wasn’t worried about that, but he did set her down, reluctantly.

  Where her body had been in contact with his own, he still burned, a glowing fire that spread through him, pooled in his groin and swelled him with anticipation and hope.

  “I’ve opened a bottle of wine,” he said. “It’s a nice Bordeaux.”

  She shook her head firmly. “I don’t think I can face anything with alcohol for the next decade or so.”

  So much for the classic romantic dinner. “I made some iced tea, too.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Okay. The steaks will just be a couple of minutes. Why don’t you sit at the island and keep me company.

  Before his earlier self had converted it, his loft had been an open warehouse. He’d kept that basic look. An island separated the kitchen from the dining room where a roaring fire warmed the entire loft. A pair of bookcases separated the living room from the bedroom. The high ceilings and the openness gave it an airy feel. Cynthia could sit anywhere and he could still talk to her, still look at her.

  Dressed as she was, he wanted to look at her.

  The Chinese-pattern silk dress hugged every curve of her body, showing off surprisingly full breasts, the gentle curve of her hips, and her slender waist. The dress swooped down in front, teasing him with a hint of cleavage, and was short enough to let him feast on the sight of her long, muscular legs.

  “Did you say you had cooking to finish? Or were you sizing me up for your frying pan?” Cynthia’s eyes sparkled with wicked humor. She recognized that he had zoned off somewhere from just looking at
her.

  Well, tough. He couldn’t help it if he’d found the woman who fascinated him, compelled his interest.

  “Sorry. My mind was somewhere else for a moment.”

  “I saw.”

  He flipped the steaks, then served up the salad he’d made.

  Cynthia sank bonelessly into the deep plush of an oriental rug and rolled a little ball for Gomer to chase after and return to her.

  “He isn’t very good about giving it back,” Russ warned. “Don’t let him nip you. He still has his milk teeth, but they’re sharp.”

  Cynthia held out her hand and let Gomer drop the ball into it. “Doesn’t seem that tricky to me. Maybe it’s how you do it.”

  “Right.” He’d been royally put into his place.

  “Andrew mentioned something about you running an ad to find a new home for Gomer. Are you sure you really want to give him up?”

  Something in her voice sounded off, as if she was looking for something specific.

  “He’s got to belong to someone. I know how I would feel if someone stole him from me. Despite the temptation to just keep him, trying to find his real owner is the right thing to do.”

  “And you always do the right thing?”

  He flipped the steaks onto heated plates and carried them out to the dining room.

  “I think I told you this over ice cream. Too often, there seem to be more than one right thing to do. The problem is, I can only do one of them. Being with you seemed to be the right thing. Kidnapping someone else’s dog is tempting, but it didn’t seem right.”

  She inhaled quickly, as if surprised. “You know, Russ, I think you’re a pretty good man. Maybe a better man than the old Russell.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m as selfish as the next guy. Sometimes, I spot something and just want it.” And right now, that something was Cynthia.

  She looked vulnerable, nurturing, and incredibly feminine as she sat on the rug playing with his puppy.

  “If you don’t get up and come to the table, I’m going to toss all this food and take you to my bed.”

  She looked up at him, her dark eyes glinting with passion. “Would that be so bad?”

  Chapter 8

  It was Gomer’s fault.

  Watching Russ with his puppy had touched every chord in Cynthia’s instincts. A man who could be so caring, so accepting of the strange gift she and Heather had left on his doorstep, was a special man. Nothing in her experience gave her any resistance to his appeal.

  That was why she had blurted out her bold question.

  His blue eyes darkened in surprise. The plates he’d been carrying hit the table with two thuds. His hotpads followed.

  She held out a hand to him and he took it, effortlessly tugging her to her feet, then keeping the grasp as he pulled her against his muscular body.

  The press of his body against hers had excited her when he’d carried her up the stairs to his loft. Then, though, she’d been uncertain about their destination. She certainly hadn’t come here planning to make love to Russ. Now, it seemed as inevitable and powerful as the flow of the Missouri, hundreds of feet beneath them.

  “When I saw you at the parade, I knew you were special.” His words brushed, featherlike, against her ears as he pressed his mouth close to her neck. “I wanted you then, even though I thought it could never be.”

  “You must have been pretty confident to break up with Heather,” she whispered.

  He shook his head, then wrapped his arms around her and pressed her body against his own. “I wasn’t confident. I knew I’d waited too long, tried so long to protect my other self from harm that I forgot to protect you, or who I am now. I thought I had blown my chances with you forever.”

  “Then why would you break up with Heather?”

  He laughed gently. “Because being with you showed me that I didn’t want to marry her, that spending the rest of my life with her would have been wrong.”

  Did that mean he was ready to spend the rest of his life with her?

  She blinked at the thought. Of course it didn’t mean that. And even if it did, Russ had no idea how long that life might be. The other Russell, the Russell he’d been until an insurgent bomb had sliced his life in half, might emerge in minutes, days, or weeks. Whichever it was, a rest-of-life with Russ wasn’t the long-term security a part of her craved.

  As if reading her thoughts, Russ murmured, “I wish I could promise you more, assure you that I’d be here for you. But I don’t know—“

  “Who does?” she demanded. “When your National Guard unit was called up and sent to the Middle East, we all knew you might never come back.”

  “And part of me didn’t come back.”

  “But part of you did. I think it’s a really good part, maybe a better part than the one who went away. You’re here now, and I’m here now. We’ll make ourselves crazy if we worry about things that might happen in the future. I want you, Russ. I want your body next to mine. If you’re only going to be here for a week, I want to spend that week with you.”

  She worried she was going too far, that he’d see her as too needy, too desperate. That she would frighten him away.

  His lips descended on hers, cutting off their conversation, stopping her before she could blurt anything really stupid, like she had fallen in love with him.

  The brush of lip against lip set a reaction cascading through her body. A cold energy shivered through her spine, sending goosebumps to her naked arms and hardening her nipples beneath the thin fabrics that were the only thing that came between her breasts and Russ’s chest.

  He had to be aware of her reaction, but he ignored it, deepening the kiss until a wash of fire replaced the chill energy.

  Her heart pounded, sending its load of extra blood flooding through her torso, beating so loud that Russ must have been able to hear her. From the warmth in her face, she knew she was flushed. Her breasts swelled against Russ’s body as if anxious to escape their bounds. Liquid rushed to her core, moistening her, preparing her for the most intimate of actions.

  Without conscious volition, her arms had circled around him. She pulled his head closer to her, deepening the kiss. One hand tugged at his shirt, trying to gain access to the warmth of his body, the hardness of muscle beneath skin that still carried the darkened memories of a desert sun that his conscious mind had forgotten.

  * * *

  His body knew what to do.

  Russ’s mind held no memory of making love to a woman. In many ways, Cynthia would be his first. But just like with dancing, instincts and trained reflex served where memory would not. He wasn’t an inexperienced fumbler.

  Letting his body move to the beat of the Vivaldi recording he had playing on his stereo system, he danced her toward his bed.

  As he passed it, he reached out, shoved down the light dimmer until his entire loft transformed into golden glows and shadows.

  His hands ran down her dress, finding the tiny clasps that held it to her body, and undoing them with gentle touches of thumb and finger.

  Her hands, less trained but acting on the same instincts, yanked his shirt from his slacks, then brushed sharp nails against the skin of his back.

  He braced for his explosion, steeled himself to accept her touch, to let her explore him despite the reaction he feared was inevitable.

  Since he’d been in the German hospital, he had become sensitive to being touched. Too much prodding, too many stitches to reunite parts of his body ripped apart by the insurgent bomb, too many therapists putting him through their torture, had overloaded his senses, made him fear even the simplest contact.

  Where Cynthia’s fingers brushed against him, touching the muscles of his back, the long scars that remained as constant and painful reminders of the injuries that had threatened his life, he felt renewal rather than destruction, hope rather than withdrawal.

  He was healing.

  If he didn’t fear the consequences of what that healing could mean to his future, he would have been even more happ
y right then.

  Cynthia stepped away from him for a moment, giving a little shrug with her shoulders, and a tiny wiggle with her hips. Her dress slithered to the floor.

  She wasn’t naked. A lacy bra confined small but perfectly formed breasts. A tiny thong provided a terribly inadequate guard for her sex and a garter belt held up a pair of stockings that glistened when she moved. Royal blue shoes with impossibly high heels completed the outfit. No, she wasn’t naked. Not quite. But the sexy undergarments accentuated more than they covered.

  His already erect hardness swelled further.

  Russ swallowed hard. He wanted to pick her up and throw her on the bed, ravage her, fill her with himself until they were both spent, drained, emptied of everything but their desire for one another. He wanted to be a caveman, claiming his woman.

  He restrained himself, barely. He intended that their first time together would be a pleasant experience for her.

  As if reading his thoughts, she shook her head. “Don’t hold back, Russ. Can’t you see I want it? I’m not fragile.”

  Well, he could always slow down if she complained later. Maybe.

  He picked her up, tossed her on the bed, then leapt in after her.

  She giggled. “Am I the only one who thinks there’s something wrong with this picture?”

  Cynthia looked perfect to him, her stockings glistening, her body hard, practically naked, moist and waiting. “I guess so. I don’t see anything I’d want to change.”

  “Then why am I the only one who’s lost her clothes?”

  Okay. She had a good question.

  He reached for his belt, but her hands grasped it before his did.

  “I want to do this. I’ve only been dreaming about doing it for the past twenty years.”

  He froze. He didn’t want to hear about her crush for another man, not even for the stranger who had shared the body he now inhabited.

  Cynthia didn’t seem to notice his reaction, though. She fumbled a bit with his belt, but then found the clasp, pulled it off, and draped it over the headboard like a trophy.