"You think it's funny? You think it's a joke? You scared the shit out of me, McMann."
"I'm sorry."
"You should be. Damn you, don't do that again! Don't leave me!"
"I won't," he said gently.
"Without telling me first, I mean," she huffed.
"I won't."
She shoved back her hair, determined to hold on to her anger a while longer. It was her only defense against the overwhelming urge to throw herself into his arms. She was still trying to regain her shattered equilibrium when a small, pathetic meow came through the burlap sack in his fist.
Thunderstruck, Carly gaped at the bag. It bulged, bumped a little on one side, cried again. Her incredulous gaze whipped back to McMann.
"Cats?" she got out on a strangled gasp.
He shrugged, his expression at once embarrassed and disgusted. "I listened to them crying the whole night. I should have let the river take the damn things, but, well..."
"You swam through a flood for cats ? "
"They're kittens. Only two of them. Something must have gotten the rest. And the mother. I couldn't find her." He shoved the bag at her "You'd better take them."
Still reeling with the knowledge that he'd risked his life so recklessly, Carly backed away. She'd spent too many years on a farm to feel any burning desire to take charge of half-wild barn cats.
"No, thanks."
"They're pretty weak. They need, you know, nursing."
"You rescued them. You nurse them."
"I always had dogs. I don't know anything about cats."
"The same general principles apply to both."
"Give me a break here, Carly." He sounded desperate now. "I can't stand the things."
"You... can't... stand... them?" she stammered, flabbergasted all over again.
"Just take them, will you?" He grabbed her hand, wrapped her fingers around the burlap. "I saw a cardboard box in the garage. We can put them in there."
He strode off, leaving her literally and figuratively holding the bag.
"I don't believe this!" Her stunned gaze went from the back of his dripping head to the now restless, mewling bundle in her hand, then to McMann once more. "I don't believe him."
Throughout her career, Carly had always guarded against the habit so many cops and lawyers fell into of stereotyping persons convicted of crimes. Until this moment, she'd prided herself on her professional neutrality. McMann had just blown a career's worth of illusions all to hell.
For weeks now she'd viewed him only in the context of her investigation. She weighed his history, his credibility, his careless kindness to Billy Hopewell against the a backdrop of the current case. Even the lust and longing that kept her tossing last night had centered on the Ryan McMann she thought she knew... a dark, compelling figure at the center of a storm. Never once had she thought of him as a man. Simply a man. Certainly not as the kind of man who'd swim a swollen river to rescue creatures he detested.
Carly sank to her knees, shaken by the emotions that grabbed her heart and squeezed. Hard. Last night's lust was still there, stronger than before, almost strangling her. But there was also a stirring that went deeper, wider.
Slowly, she folded the neck of the bag back. Two calico kittens untangled their scraggly bodies, then cringed away with a hiss and a swipe of needle sharp claws when she tried to stroke one.
"'Smart cats," she murmured. "Don't trust anyone when you're in a burlap bag and this close to water."
The garage door banged shut. Carly lifted her head and felt the ache around her heart intensify.
"Except him," she whispered. "I'm pretty sure you guys can trust him."
He strode down the sloping backyard with that long-legged grace. He'd raked a hand through his hair, but it still stuck up in spikes, glistening like shiny black coal in its wetness. Two days' growth darkened his cheeks and chin. His sodden shirt tails flapped against his jeans. He looked totally disreputable, and so ridiculously cat shy that Carly knew she'd never forget this moment.
He held out the box, regarding the creatures in the burlap bag warily. "I lined the box with some old newspapers and found a piece of Plexiglas to put on top. Just dump them in here."
Reaching around those sharp little claws, Carly got the first one by the scruff and deposited it in the box. The second, a mottled white and orange and black, hissed and spit and jumped in on his own to join his sibling. McMann slid the Plexiglas over the top.
"They're feisty little devils," he muttered. "I had a helluva a time getting them into the bag."
From the scratches on the backs of his hands, she could believe it. He hefted the box, uncertain what to do with it now that he had it.
"Think we should keep them in the house or the garage?"
"They're barn cats, not house pets, but..." She shrugged. "I saw some canned milk in the cupboards. We might as well take them inside and feed them."
While McMann banged through the upper cupboards in search of condensed milk, Carly retrieved a chipped earthenware bowl from under the counter and wiped it free of dust with a paper towel. McMann popped two holes in the can with an old fashioned opener and poured the contents into the bowl.
"Not so much!" she protested. "You'll make them sick."
She knelt beside the box and set the bowl down inside with a careful eye to her fingers. At the first scent of the milk, the calicos' inbred wariness gave way to frantic hunger. One had its front paws in the bowl and was working its tongue before she withdrew her hand. The other pounced and landed facedown in the thick, concentrated milk. It righted itself instantly, lapping nonstop.
McMann hunkered down beside her, observing the frantic feeding. "Greedy buggers, aren't they?"
"They're starving. I guess that's why they kept you awake all night."
"They didn't keep me awake."
"You said they did."
"I said I listened to them all night, but..."
"But?"
His glance slid sideways. He measured his words, tested them in his mind, before letting them go.
"You're what kept me awake."
Carly's lungs stilled. The blunt admission cut through the fright of the past few moments, through the shock of seeing him walk out of the water like Lazarus rising from the dead, and left her with that queer little ache again.
"We're even, then. I didn't get much sleep either."
"Were you thinking?"
"Yes."
He crossed a wrist over his knee. "Still thinking?" The guarded watchfulness in his eyes pulled the truth from her.
"No, Ryan. I've done enough thinking."
"And?"
She wet her lips. "And I want to feel you on me, and under me, and in me."
Her soft echo of his words last night stunned him into immobility for all of two seconds before he surged to his feet, taking Carly with him. Her fingers dug into rock hard biceps still slick and wet under the clinging shirt.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
His jaw locked tight. The muscles under her fingers could have been molded from steel.
He wasn't going to live up to all those dark, promising threats, Carly thought on a spasm of disappointment so strong her womb clenched. Damn him, he was going to leave her wanting, just as she'd left him last night. She was tasting the bitterness of her own need when he shoved his hands through her hair and tilted her head back.
"Which do you want first?"
"What?"
"On or under or in?"
She swallowed the egg-sized lump in her throat. "Surprise me."
In one smooth move, he lifted her onto the kitchen counter and used a hip to spread her legs. At her startled gasp, he flashed her a grin that was pure unadulterated male.
"We call that a body check, sweetheart. Using a shoulder or a hip to slow or stop the opponent with a puck."
That crooked grin sucked every molecule of air from Carly's lungs.
"I don't... Oh!" She gasped again as his hands attacked the butto
ns on her shirt.
His fingers stilled on the last button. The same stillness came into the blue eyes so close to her own.
"You don't what?"
"I don't... have the puck."
At that moment, Ryan knew he wanted more than sex from this woman. She looked so flustered, so flushed, with her hair spilling down her back like a river of tangled flame and her brown eyes alive with an urgency that matched his own. She didn't try to hide it, didn't play the coy games so many women did. He wanted all that he could have of her.
"You may not have the puck," he answered, his grin now ragged around the edges, "but you have what I want."
He peeled back her shirt, trapping her elbows behind her where she braced on the countertop.
"God, you're beautiful."
Beautiful and perfect, her breasts fuller than he'd pictured during all those dark, sleepless hours. Her nipples were almost as red-brown as her hair. They budded at his touch, then peaked when he bent to tease them with his tongue and teeth. Just the taste of her sent need fisting into him. He felt the slam to his groin, knew there was no going back. Not now. Not ever. His breath speeding, he wrapped an arm around her hips, swept her hard against his pelvis and took her mouth, that full, generous, tormenting mouth he'd wanted for so long.
The crush of his lips on hers destroyed any faint notion that Carly could control him... or herself. Her neck bowed. Her head thumped against the upper cupboard. She used its support to take the force of his kiss. He devoured her, consumed her. Some faint corner of her mind recorded that he tasted like toothpaste and smelled like river.
Sandpapery stubble scraped her cheeks until she found that perfect match of lips to lips, chin tucked around chin.
Even then, she couldn't breathe, couldn't concentrate on the dark, erotic play of tongues and teeth. His hands were all over her, smooth and rough and incredibly skilled. He found every nerve ending, every flash point, his palm sliding on her flesh, his fingers rough and tender on her breasts. She fought to get out of her shirt, moaning with frustration when her elbows wouldn't pull free.
"Ryan! I can't... I can't... get my arms... out!"
He dragged his head back, the rise of his chest as fast and hard as hers. "Good."
"Is this...?" She gulped in air and the damp, dank heat of him. "Is this another one of your hockey moves?"
A smile edged the flame in his eyes. "You might call it a power play."
"I don't think I like the sound of that."
The smile slipped into something wicked. "Then I'd better not tell you what we call this."
He flexed his arm, canting her hips high, pulling her harder against him. Carly felt a rush of liquid heat between her thighs and wanted to moan again. She leaned back against his arm, lifted her legs to wrap them around his waist, did some flexing of her own.
She was swimming with need when he attacked the rest of her clothing. The drawstring knot disintegrated. She raised her hips, or maybe he raised them. However it happened, the baggy, borrowed shorts and panties slid down as far as their joined bodies would allow.
"Ryan!" Frantic to free herself of shirt and shorts and everything else between them but flesh, Carly tried to wiggle out of his hold. "Move back. Move away Let me get these things off."
"We'll... work... around them," he growled.
She was still struggling with the shirt when his hand found the damp folds between her legs. Heat jolted through her. The sparks shot all through her body when she felt his fingers slide into her, slide out. Carly felt the first tight waves of an orgasm build, recede, build again, tighter, sweeter. The swiftness of it, the power of it stunned her. She'd never... She'd always...
Elbows back, body arched, every nerve below the waist on fire, Carly groaned an urgent warning.
"You'd better... work... fast!"
He did. Fast and sure and so smoothly that she registered only a short separation and the snap of his jeans before he entered her. She felt herself stretch. Felt him thrust, gently at first, then with the full power of his hips and thighs and knees. Mere moments later, her climax raced at her, a rush of white light and dark, searing sensation. She arched back, groaning, as pleasure splintered through her.
His came a few seconds after she did. Or maybe it was minutes. Or hours. Carly was still shuddering with the force of her release when he thrust up and in, bringing her down at the same time.
She was slick with sweat and completely boneless when he eased her back onto the counter. Her fanny slid across the smooth Formica. The cupboard propped her up. With a determined effort of will, she opened her eyes.
"Don't tell me. Let me guess. That was a slapshot, right?"
A groan rumbled up from somewhere and came out sounding suspiciously like laughter. Chest heaving, he braced one hand on the cupboard and tipped her chin with the other.
"No, ma'am. The slapshot comes later, after the Zamboni."
"You're making that up."
"Think so?" His mouth came down on hers, even more thrilling in its now familiar greediness. "I can see you're got a lot to learn about the sport."
Chapter Eighteen
Whenever she looked back on her time with Ryan, Carly would always think of the bubbles her three-year-old niece loved to blow from one of those little plastic hoops. Like the shimmering circles, those stolen moments in the kitchen were fragile and beautiful. And short. So terrifyingly short.
Harsh reality began to intrude while she was still limp and sheened with sweat from her shattering climax. The hazy notion of squeezing into the upstairs shower with Ryan formed in the back of her mind. Only then did she remember that they'd lost the pump to the river's relentless rise.
Evidently Ryan's mind had shifted to the same reality. He dropped another kiss on her swollen mouth and eased away, snapping his jeans. The sleek, smug look of a satisfied male gave way to a carefully casual expression.
"We'd better think about moving some of these water jugs and cans of food upstairs. Just in case."
Carly dragged her shirt together, fighting the wholly irrational and totally female need for a little postcoital cuddling. This wasn't the time or the place for cuddling. That would come later. Maybe. After the flood receded. Or she and Ryan got back to civilization. Or they cut through the tangled ties of murder and deceit that bound them together.
Willing her boneless body to move, she slid off the counter and reclaimed her borrowed shorts and underwear.
"Do you think it's going to reach the house?"
"It could. Doesn't hurt to be prepared." He loaded himself down with two-gallon jugs. "I'll take these upstairs. Why don't you see if you can find some sacks or a box to carry the cans in?"
Carly stole a few minutes and a meager ounce or two of water to clean up before starting a search. She remembered seeing some paper sacks somewhere. Under the sink, maybe, or in one of the lower cabinets. Sliding the box with the now-sleeping kittens aside, she checked under the sink first, then the cabinets beside it. She worked her way almost to the stove before she found them, neatly folded and stacked on a lower shelf. She'd pulled them out and had started to push to her feet when a cigar box that had gotten shoved to the back of the shelf snagged her eye. With one knee on the floor and a shoulder to the narrow cabinet door, she groped for the box.
At first glance, the contents didn't look promising. The jumble included a package of shoestrings, a set of keys, clipped coupons for everything from dish washing detergent to low-fat pretzels, a rusted jack-nife. Just the kind of flotsam that drifted into a kitchen and ended up in a cigar box. Then she spotted the fat, rolling weights at the bottom of the box.
Batteries! She scooped them out, praying they weren't leaking or rusted. The cigar box dropped with a clatter that startled a hiss out of the kittens. Surging to her feet, Carly aimed straight for the boom box Ryan had left on the kitchen table. Excitement and the thought of reestablishing some contact with the outside world made her clumsy. She fumbled off the plastic battery cover.
Dammit, she never could figure out which end went which way. Squinting at the squiggly marks inside the battery casing, she jammed the fat cells into place. Of course, the cover wouldn't go back on. She pushed and shoved at it, trying to fit the little plastic tabs in the slots. Finally, the damned thing clicked shut.
With a silent prayer, Carly tried the power switch. Static screeched out at her. Sagging with relief, she fumbled for the volume control, then poked at the buttons and levers until she found the station selector. Her thumb held the selector down until the digital display on the front of the boom box flashed the numbers for her favorite station.
The moment she released the lever, one of the Statler Brothers' classics filled the air, mellow, melodic, wishin' they could get back to the sweet Atlanta Blue. Sighing, Carly sank into one of the kitchen chairs. There was still a world out there.
Funny, she hadn't felt the full weight of their isolation until this moment. Now, the familiar ballad both-reassured and jarred. Why were they playing music? Why weren't they broadcasting twenty-four hour emergency information?
The music brought home the telling truth that a disaster really affects only those caught up in it. Ruefully, Carly remembered how she'd draped herself in flame-colored chiffon and driven to her mother's campaign dinner while half of Chilton County was under water.
Obviously, the flooding hadn't hit Montgomery. Yet.
Thinking nervously of the rumble of thunder she'd awakened to this morning, Carly hit the selector again, stopping at each station until she found one with a news broadcast instead of music.
"... assisting state and local rescue efforts. The state director of emergency services has added three more shelters to the list of those up and fully operational. Cots and meals are available at St. Stephens, the First Baptist Church of the Nazarene, and the Lurleen Wallace Middle School on Cloverdale Street. At last count, a little more than four hundred people have taken shelter. More are expected as the flooding south of the city..."
Over the modulated tones of the newscaster, Carly heard the clump of McMann's footsteps racing down the hall just seconds before he burst into the kitchen.
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