Even though Lucy had never walked down the aisle, she’d gotten an up-close and personal look at the SCANCs by spending every morning of the past six months with the late Mrs. Arthur J. Moon.
Lucy had taken the second job to help earn enough money to put a down payment on a house. She’d run errands and taken Miss M to bingo three times a week and done any and everything that the old woman had asked of her.
Mrs. M had passed away a few weeks ago from a massive heart attack. She’d been seventy-eight and widowed, with eight marriages to her credit. While most of the SCANCs wanted longevity when it came to wedded bliss, they’d looked to Mrs. M with an extreme amount of awe. Hey, it was hard enough to snag one man good enough to marry, much less eight.
Miss M, even though she’d cheated on husbands one through seven (a definite no-no among the SCANCs), had been considered an expert when it came to matrimony (and after eight weddings, she had all the really good connections when it came to cakes and flowers). Not only had she been allowed to maintain her SCANC membership, she’d served as president for three consecutive terms.
She’d also been the owner of an obnoxious teacup poodle named Cupid.
Lucy, of course, hadn’t known the dog was obnoxious when she’d brought him home after the reading of the will. Rather, she’d thought he was a cute ball of fluff and that Miss M—despite her snobby ways and impossible-to-please attitude—had actually liked her. Why else would she hand over the ticket to relationship nirvana?
Rumor had it that Cupid’s canines were as good as arrows and that he’d snagged every one of Miss M’s eight husbands. She’d brought home the prospective suitors and, bam, Cupid had sunk his teeth into them. They’d each fallen madly in love with Miss M, which explained why every SCANC in town was hot to take the dog off Lucy’s hands.
They all believed the hype and wanted some added assurance for their new marriages.
Lucy, herself, wasn’t one-hundred-percent certain she believed the hearsay, but she’d brought Cupid home with her anyway on the off chance that Cupid was the real deal (and not just one of Satan’s minions).
“Mrs. Wilhelm hasn’t called, has she?” Lucy poured cranberry juice into a shaker while Becky arranged the glasses on a tray.
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“She’s trying to get me to pay for a custom-made quilt she bought at last year’s county fair. Cupid jumped the fence yesterday and shredded it.”
“I told you. Just say the word and I will gladly take him off your hands. I could certainly use him tonight,” Becky added as she reached behind her and untied her apron. “I need you to stay late and cover for me. I have to duck out early.”
“But I’m tending bar. I can’t cover tables, too.”
“Please, please, please.” She stashed the apron under the counter. “Jimmy—that’s his name—works offshore and this is his last night home. If I don’t meet him now, it’ll be two weeks before we can get together again. I don’t have a cute little dog to help snag the man of my dreams. I have to do it myself, which means I can’t give Jimmy a chance to forget all about me.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Out of sight, out of mind,” Becky countered. “Come on, Lucy. I really think he might be the one.”
“That’s what you said about Luke last week and Bill the week before that.”
She shrugged. “So I don’t have the greatest track record. At least I’m persistent. If I keep hanging in there, I’m bound to hit the jackpot. And this could be it. Tonight’s the night. I can feel it. Please.” Her pleading gaze whittled away at Lucy’s resolve.
“Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” The waitress grinned. “Beneath that big, bad reputation of yours lurks the heart of a true romantic.”
“You wish,” Lucy said, but she couldn’t resist the smile that tugged at her lips. Becky was right. She’d finally traded her cynicism for hope—pain-in-the-ass Cupid proved it—and now she couldn’t help but understand Becky’s plight. She, too, wanted to find that one special man to share the rest of her life.
She wanted someone she could talk to. Be herself with. Love.
The way she loved Rayne.
Correction, the way she’d loved Rayne. As in past tense. Once upon a time. Ages ago.
Never again.
Even if he was even sexier than she remembered.
“I owe you.” Becky’s voice effectively distracted her from the disturbing thought.
The waitress gave her a quick hug and grabbed her purse from behind the bar. Just as she disappeared, Zeke slammed the bell in the kitchen. “Order up.”
Before Lucy could turn, a shout came from a table full of camo-clad men. “Where are our cosmos?”
“I’ve been waiting twenty minutes for my veggie dip,” another man added. “It’s bad enough I have to eat the stuff. At least I could get it before my arteries start to harden.” The comments echoed around her and for once Lucy welcomed the distraction.
The last thing she wanted to think about was Rayne Montana and how sexy he was and what—if anything—had transpired in the back alley between them.
Talking, she reminded herself. End of story.
4
HE WASN’T GOING to think about her.
Not about how much he wanted her. Or how good she’d tasted. Or how he could still hear her heartbeat even after three hours.
Rayne gripped the steering wheel tighter. He’d been driving ever since he’d left the Horseshoe. Trying to clear his head. To unwind.
A useless effort.
He was too worked up. Too hungry.
The two-lane paved road he’d been following gave way to gravel. Tires kicked up dust as he hauled ass the half mile to the railroad tracks.
The Chevy pitched as he went over the ties. A half block down, he hung a left onto the one and only road that ran parallel with the tracks. He passed the Happy Snappy Trailer Park and his chest tightened.
His gaze shifted to the overgrown ditch on his right. That was where he’d run out of gas the night they’d met. It had been late and hers had been the only trailer in the park with the porch light on. He could still see her standing in the doorway in her oversize Cowboys T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. She’d been even prettier up close and he’d understood right away why ninety-nine percent of the guys at school had a hard-on for her. But there’d been something else about her.
She’d had a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose and a needle in her hand. She’d been fixing the hem on a worn plaid kitchen curtain.
The sight had been so different from all the rumors he’d heard about her—that she spent her spare time prancing around in skimpy clothes and primping in front of the mirror and watching sex tapes—and it had turned him on even more than her lush curves hidden beneath the huge T-shirt.
He’d realized right then that there was more to Juicy Lucy Rivers than the hot sexpot image she portrayed. She’d had a softer side; she’d just refused to show it because she hadn’t wanted to get hurt.
But he’d seen the real girl back then, and he’d fallen for her. Hard.
His cock throbbed and he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The truck lurched and ate up gravel at a frightening pace until the road finally dead-ended into an overgrown dirt driveway marked by a falling-down mailbox and a red-and-white FOR SALE sign.
He pulled in and killed the engine in front of the run-down two-room house where he’d grown up. The place sat surrounded by thirty-six acres of overgrown pasture and trees.
At one time, it had been his grandmother’s spread. Clean and well-cared for. The gardens tended, the fields plowed. The house freshly painted. But then the old woman had died, his father had lost his job at the railroad and the drinking had started.
The house had deteriorated after that. The tin roof had rusted and the white paint had peeled. Most of the red shutters had fallen off. The porch sagged and the front window had been b
roken, thanks to a whiskey bottle that had been meant for Rayne’s head.
His father had been so mad that night.
More so than usual, because his mom had taken off for some bar with some guy and his father hadn’t been able to deal with either. He’d cursed and carried on about how she was no good and then he’d shifted his rage to his son.
Bastard.
The old man’s voice echoed and Rayne hesitated just shy of grabbing the door handle. There were too many bad memories and he had enough to contend with right now. His insides twisted and the hunger clawed at him.
A faint rustle drew his attention and he turned, his gaze picking out the pair of beady black eyes that stared at him from the far distance near a patch of cedar trees.
The throb of a pulse echoed in his ears and the scent of warm blood spiraled through his head. His gut tightened and his fangs tingled and a hiss worked its way up his throat.
The animal bolted and it took everything in Rayne to resist the urge to go after it and take what he wanted, needed, like the predator he now was.
He wouldn’t. Not now. Not here.
He fought the demon inside him and focused on the house. He couldn’t believe that anyone in their right mind would want to buy the place, but there’d been a message on his cell phone from a local real-estate office last month. He’d had an offer. A cash offer. All he had to do was show up, sign the papers and the money was his by the end of the week.
He’d been neck-deep in Afghanistan at the time and so he’d ignored the request.
But things were different now.
The money would be enough to help him get away from everyone and everything, disappear, and so he intended to take it and hit the road before the Navy showed up. He’d been missing two weeks now, which meant they would start looking for him any day.
The first week they’d undoubtedly assumed he was sleeping off a hangover somewhere. His buddies did it all the time. After a particularly nasty mission they’d go on a drinking binge, desperate to drown the memories of what they’d just seen and done. But one week was usually long enough to bury the memories down deep and get your ass back in gear. Two at most.
Three?
Something was definitely wrong.
He’d either cracked from the pressure of doing two straight special ops tours in Afghanistan, or he was dead. That was what the higher-ups would think. His Master Sergeant would immediately opt for number one. She thought he was too good to get himself killed and so she would file the proper papers and put him on the Navy’s AWOL list. And then, she would come looking for him.
She commanded an elite unit that looked after their own. She wouldn’t stop until she’d accounted for all of her men. Alive or dead.
Or undead in this case.
He hadn’t just disappeared that night two weeks ago outside Kabul. He’d been attacked.
Killed.
He’d suffered over twenty-five knife wounds to the chest. Fatal wounds that had him bleeding out into the dust. He’d glanced up through a pain-riddled haze and seen the faces of the men he’d thought to be merely terrorists.
Biting at him.
Sucking his blood.
Consuming him.
He’d closed his eyes and thought of Lucy. Her blue eyes had pulled him in and soothed away the hurt. He’d taken one breath. Then two. Then the air had stalled and that had been the end.
Or so he’d thought.
But his attackers had taken more than just his life. They’d stolen his humanity and replaced it with something he still didn’t fully understand.
The uncontrollable thirst.
For sex. And blood.
Selling the house was the only solution now. He could take the money and disappear.
That was what he was going to do.
What he had to do.
The Realtor would drop off the papers tomorrow and all he had to do was sign them and hand them back over. And then it would be done.
He headed around the back of the house toward the giant red barn that sat in the distance. It looked like the rest of the place—old and weathered—but there was something inviting about it framed against the moonlit sky.
His Maw Maw Ruth had taught him how to milk her favorite cow in that barn. She’d showed him how to pick out eggs. How to feed the chickens. She’d hugged him when he’d scratched his knee up in the hayloft and picked him up when he’d fallen off the tractor seat. She’d been the only one who’d ever loved him and the old barn reminded him of that.
He hauled open the double doors and walked into the musty interior. The scent of hay and horses tickled his nostrils, along with the faint aroma of vanilla extract. His gaze went to the yellow overalls with the pink daisies hanging near the doorway and the backs of his eyes burned.
Memories stirred, but he fought them back down. He didn’t have time for this. Dawn would be coming soon.
Closing the barn door, he shoved the bar into place and locked it from the inside. A quick leap and he reached the hayloft high above the barn interior. He checked the one window to make sure it was latched before he pulled off his boots and shirt. Burying himself beneath a thick stack of hay, he let the darkness surround him.
And the warmth.
He’d slept in this very hayloft so many times. Hidden in it to escape his father. He’d even brought Lucy here. They’d sat in this very spot and talked about his plans for the future. He’d wanted to make the SEAL team and go on special missions for the government. While she hadn’t really had any concrete plans, she’d loved to sew. He’d encouraged her to do something with it, but she’d been insecure. Scared.
He knew the feeling.
He knew her.
Christ, he still couldn’t believe it.
She loved him.
Then and now.
Not that the truth made one bit of difference. It wasn’t as if they could pick up where they’d left off. He was a vampire for Christ’s sake.
Still, the knowledge that she’d felt something for him, that she still felt something, whispered through him and chased away the cold. The horror of the past two weeks faded and for the first time since he’d been bitten, Rayne Montana felt himself relax a little.
He was home now.
For a little while anyway.
And then he slept.
5
“YOU’RE HORNY,” Robin Rivers declared. She stood in front of Lucy’s dresser mirror and swiped her lips with Crimson Kiss. “When I don’t get any for a few weeks, I go totally nuts, too.” She licked her lips together and dabbed at the corners. “I’d hump a tree branch if it smelled like Tommy Hilfiger.” She handed the tube to Lucy, who sat on the edge of her four-poster double bed. Lucy had picked the bed up at a yard sale a few weeks ago when she’d moved into the house. It was a far cry from the full-size mattress she’d shared with her two sisters while growing up and she couldn’t help the slither of pride that went through her.
“Ye old hormones, little sis,” Robin went on. “That explains everything. That and the fact that Rayne Montana is one fine hunk of man.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Any woman in her right mind would jump him.”
“I’m not horny and I didn’t jump him.” Lucy pushed to her feet and grabbed the pile of discarded clothes Robin had just rifled through while looking for the one perfect blouse to borrow for her hot date with Jimbo Ferris.
Jimbo played the violin for a Southern rock band that had been performing at a small dive out near the interstate. He was cute, gainfully employed—at least on the weekends—and the only single man in the county over the age of eighteen that Robin Rivers hadn’t slept with.
Yet.
“At least not in reality,” Lucy added. Thanks to Rayne’s sudden appearance, she’d fantasized about him all night. She’d kissed him, stroked him, tasted him. “It was just a dream.” She’d opened her eyes that morning to find Cupid gnawing on the rug that matched her new yellow comforter and the bed beside her as empty as when she’d first climbed in the n
ight before. “Just a very real, very vivid dream.”
“A very real, very vivid wet dream,” Robin reminded her. “Which smacks of horny to me.” Her older sister arched an eyebrow and reached for a tube of mascara. “When’s the last time you got laid? A week? A month?”
Try a year. “Something like that.”
“No wonder you can’t control yourself.” Robin pointed the mascara wand at her. “I know you’re trying to do this whole about-face thing, but the truth of the matter is, women like us aren’t cut out for celibacy. You should go out and find a man.”
“I don’t have time to find a man. I’m pulling double shifts to make my mortgage.” And afford the new sewing machine she’d bought last week. “I don’t have time for a man.” She started folding the tanks and tube tops that her sister had just picked through.
Lucy had an endless collection of them, along with dozens of miniskirts and short shorts and corset tops. At one time, she’d been proud of the fact that she could slide on the skimpy clothes and actually look good in them. Now, it just didn’t seem like enough to show for thirty years of life.
Which was why she was working hard to change things. Next week she would start her first design class at Travis County Community College. After that, it was just a matter of time until the rest of her life fell into place. A better job. A real relationship.
Not that she had even a slim hope of staying on track with Rayne Montana back in town. He’d been permanently planted in her brain since the moment he’d waltzed into the Horseshoe last night. She’d tried to concentrate after their encounter out back, but she’d made a mess of things. She’d served old man Farley a Peach Schnapps and iced tea rather than his usual Jack and whiskey. Meryl Winters had gotten Ed Hallsey’s Bloomin’ Onion, while Ed had done fierce damage to his cholesterol with Meryl’s Hot-As-Hell wings. She’d spilled three beers, given the wrong change and stabbed herself with a corkscrew, all because of him.
Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume IV Page 3