Convincing Jamey

by Pappano, Marilyn

  “We’re going to stop at your house and get some pictures of the damage there,” Bennett said. “I’ll write up a report and take it to the D.A.’s office tomorrow morning. Once they review it, it’ll go to a judge. We should have a warrant for the Morgans, Marino and Rodriguez by tomorrow afternoon. Any suggestions where we’ll find them?”

  Jamey shrugged. “Sometimes they’re around. Sometimes they’re not.”

  “I’ll ask Reid at dinner,” Karen volunteered.

  “What makes you think Reid won’t warn them?” Sinclair asked.

  “You people,” she muttered. “A troubled kid breaks a few laws, and he’s branded as no good for life.”

  “Don’t come out alone for a while, Karen—at least until this settles down.” Bennett raised his hands to stall her inevitable protest. “I’m not saying pack up and leave, though I think everyone but you agrees that would be best. I’m just asking you to show some sense. Don’t be one of those idiots who gets badly hurt or killed and leaves everyone around them shaking their heads saying, ‘She was asking for it.’ Be a little more careful. Keep your mouth shut. Stay a little closer to your friends.”

  Sinclair took up the argument. “Maybe you can make a difference, Karen. Maybe you can help these people solve their problems and take back their neighborhood—but not if you’re dead. You’re no good to anyone if you’re dead.”

  “All right,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll be more careful. I’ll show some sense. I’ll cower like Jethro in a storm.”

  Jamey didn’t believe her for a minute. He wasn’t sure the other two men did, either, but they accepted her concession—most likely because they didn’t want to call her a liar outright. He had no such qualms. After the cops left, turning around where the street dead-ended, then heading back up to Karen’s place, Jamey drew her into his arms and gazed down at her. “Liar.”

  She smiled sunnily. “Name one thing I said that wasn’t true.”

  “You won’t cower. You didn’t last evening, when you called Morgan a coward in front of his boys, or last night, when he was threatening you, when they were throwing bricks, breaking out windows and tearing up your car.”

  “I wasn’t scared last evening or last night.”

  “You should have been. You should have been scared right out of town.”

  “But you were there. They never would have stopped the car out front if they’d known that. They’re scared of you.”

  “Right,” he scoffed. “Most of them are bigger than me. They’re all meaner than me.”

  “Yeah, but they’re tough in an immature, hot-tempered, impulsive sort of way, while you’re tough in a cold, dangerous, grown-up sort of way. They grew up hearing that if they screw around with you, they’d better be prepared to pay the price. They may not be one-hundred-percent convinced that you’re tougher, but they don’t have the courage to find out.”

  Hoping they didn’t find that courage, he glanced at the wall, mostly black now, and felt a renewed jolt of the shock that had blasted through him when he’d first seen it, in that first instant when he’d understood its meaning. Looking back at her, he held her tighter. “Karen—”

  “Don’t ask me to leave, Jamey,” she pleaded softly. “I can’t do it, and I can’t fight with you about it.”

  “Then live someplace else. Come down here during the day and work, but go home to someplace safe. Don’t give them another chance at you. You’re right,” he said, before she could interrupt. “They probably wouldn’t have stopped if they had known I was there last night, but they didn’t know. What happens tonight or tomorrow night or next Sunday night when they come back and you are alone?”

  Her smile returned, sweet, sensuous, full of promise. “Maybe we should make certain that I’m not alone tonight or tomorrow night or next Sunday night.” Cupping her hands to his face, she pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Come on, Jamey. It’s your day off. Let’s not spoil it with talk of the Morgans or standing on the sidewalk arguing. Let’s go back to the house, have breakfast—”

  “Fix the windows.”

  “Then spend the rest of the day being lazy and doing nothing that we both don’t want to do.”

  His own smile was rueful. “In all the time you’ve been here, I think we’ve only agreed on one thing that we both wanted.” He wanted her. He wanted to undress her, kiss her, make her hot. He wanted to touch her all over, wanted to watch her nipples tighten, her muscles quiver, her skin ripple. He wanted to bring the hazy, lazy look of arousal into her sweet blue eyes, and then he wanted to bring the damp, heated flush of pleasure to her sweet, slender body. He wanted to seduce her and satisfy her, and he wanted to be seduced by her.

  “Why don’t we go back to the house and I’ll try to guess what that might be?”

  Before he could answer, Shawntae called from the park. “Okay, Karen, unpeel yourself from his body. I’m bringing my innocent little boy out.” She tied a knot in the trash bag she was carrying and dropped it in the cart, then came through the gate. “Whew,” she said, fanning her face with exaggerated motions. “Like it’s not already hot enough out here? You guys need a cold shower or something.”

  They needed something, all right, Jamey acknowledged as Karen stepped back a few inches, but a cold shower wasn’t it. Not yet, at least. Not until after.

  “You need any help cleaning up at your house?”

  Karen shook her head. “Thanks, Shawntae, but it won’t take any time at all.”

  “Well, don’t forget that this is supposed to be a day of rest. Do whatever has to be done, then forget about work for a while. Relax. Enjoy.” The younger woman grinned. “Somehow I doubt you’ll have any trouble at all with that. I’ll see you later.”

  J.T. handed the mutt’s leash to Karen, said his goodbyes and raced after his mother. When the door to the apartment house swung shut behind him, Jamey released Karen completely and pulled the utility cart onto the sidewalk. “Breakfast first,” he suggested as they started toward her house.

  She gave him an amused smile. “In your dreams. If you’re so hungry, you should have gotten up when I did.”

  Three blocks ahead, the car parked in front of her house drove away. Jamey was glad to see them go. Maybe Karen felt comfortable together with Evan’s best buddies, but he didn’t. It took only one glance at Michael Bennett and Remy Sinclair to remember that he didn’t fit in, to remind him that she belonged with someone like them—the good guys, the successful ones, the winners. She deserved better than the best Jamey O’Shea of the Serenity Street O’Sheas—of the Serenity Street losers—could ever provide.

  But right now she wanted nothing that he couldn’t provide: lust, desire, passion, heat, sex and protection. Right now that was enough for her. Right now it had to be enough for him.

  At her house, they returned the fence to its original black and pried the boards from the windows, then she brought out the extra window panes stored in a back closet. Jamey had never replaced a window before, but he didn’t mind being her assistant. He liked watching her, liked the tremendous satisfaction she took in a job well done. He liked the desire her efficiency aroused deep inside him. There was something sensual about a strong, capable woman...especially when she looked so china-doll beautiful.

  Maybe she was right, he thought as she finished with the last window. Maybe breakfast could wait.

  She stood up, tossed her baseball cap to the floor and held her hair with both hands, lifting it high on her crown. “How would I look with hair up to here?”

  “Cute, in a pixie sort of way.”

  “Pixie?” she repeated with mock scorn, as if the word were an insult. She came to where he still sat on the floor in front of the window, moved to sit on his lap and wound her arms around his neck. “A pixie?”

  “You know, a sprite. A fairy. A leprechaun.”

  “I bet Jamey O’Shea doesn’t believe in leprechauns, the way a good Irishman should.”

  He shook his head. Good Irishman or not, he didn’t believe in anythin
g he couldn’t see, while Karen believed in all sorts of things she couldn’t see. He was a cynic. She was an optimist. He was a realist—a pessimist, she insisted—and she was a dreamer.

  At odd times, though, he found himself wanting to share her dreams.

  He buried his hands in her hair, gathering it, clenching his fingers around it. “Your hair is sexy as hell—the color, the length, the curls.” It was wild and unrestrained—exactly the way she had been last night—and the color of passion. Practically from the first time he’d seen her, it had made him think of heat and light and intense desire. “But if you cut it all off, you would still be beautiful.” He would still want her. She would still take his breath away.

  She shifted her hips, rubbing sensuously against him. “Let’s make love, Jamey,” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear, the soft husky tones of her voice sending sensation—need, raw hunger, steamy, red hot desire—through his body.

  “Right here?” His own voice was husky, thick. “On the floor?”

  “Right here.”

  “In front of the window?”

  That stopped her, as he’d known it would. She might be bold, but never that bold. Unlike the kids who filled the park at night, she would never risk an audience for something so intimate and private. With that pleasure-promising smile of hers, she got to her feet and offered him a hand. He let her pull him up, then followed her upstairs to the bedroom.

  They had never made it under the covers last night, so the bed was still made, though badly wrinkled. The windows were still open, the fans still turning. There was little light in the room. The sun wouldn’t touch it until early afternoon, if it came out from behind the dark clouds gathering. With luck, it wouldn’t make an appearance until they’d had a little rain to cool the day. Normally in August, thundershowers were practically a daily event, but these last few weeks had been hot and unusually dry.

  The room was hot.

  They were hot.

  Stopping at the foot of the bed, she removed her clunky white tennis shoes, then peeled off matching socks and dropped them to the floor. He watched from his seat leaning against the windowsill as she drew her shirt over her head and dropped it, too. Her shorts came off next, along with a scrap of lacy panties, and then she approached him. She wasn’t the least bit shy with her nudity, but why should she be? She knew he thought she was beautiful. He’d just told her so downstairs in the parlor. He’d told her last night as he’d kissed her, caressed her, filled her.

  When she came close enough, he drew her between his widespread feet, pulling her snug against his groin. The heat generated by that small contact threatened to burst into flames that would consume them both and would burn into eternity. It robbed his muscles of strength, sapped the energy right from his body and seared his lungs with every breath. It was unbearable, yet he craved it. He wanted to burn. He wanted to be destroyed by need, to be shattered by satisfaction into a million pieces that could be put back together to create a new man. A different man. A man deserving to love a red-haired dreamer.

  She raised her hands to his face, branding his damp skin with her touch, and kissed him. Her hunger fed his, making it stronger, increasing its intensity until the desire became a physical ache, a torturous throb that made him groan. Pleasure became pain, and pain became pleasure. Hurt—tight, demanding, relentless—gathered in his body from his hands where they rested at her waist. From his legs that, through jeans, touched hers. From his chest, rubbed sensuously by her breasts. From his groin, where his swollen flesh strained without success against her. The pain centered deep in his belly and made his wordless pleas harsh, made his response to her kisses savage.

  When she opened his jeans, he moaned. When she wrapped her fingers, soft and gentle, around the length of him, he swore aloud and pushed her away long enough to kick off his shoes, to yank off his clothing with such impatience that he half expected the fabric to tear. Then he was on the bed, on his back, and she was settling over him, taking him deep, deeper, inside herself.

  Satisfaction came that quickly. He was that needy. She took him, and he filled her. But it wasn’t over yet. Heaven help him, it was never going to be over between them.

  She sat astride him, her head tilted back, her hair falling in wild curls to brush against his hip. Her skin gleamed in the thin light, milky and pure. Her breasts were swollen, her nipples taut, inviting his attention, his hands, his mouth. He raised his hands, covering her breasts, feeling the erect nubs of her nipples even against his callused palms.

  Looking down, she covered his hands with her own, pressing them, moving them in hard, slow caresses, and she moved her hips, withdrawing, sinking deep, pulling back again. Her rhythm was slow, deliberate, her body accepting his intrusion with a tight, convulsive little welcome. She was stimulating him as well as herself, her pace quickening, her breathing growing ragged, her need—like his own—spiraling out of control. Faster, deeper, wilder, her muscles straining, his hips rising to meet hers, until at last it was too much. Too much sensation. Too much stimulation. Too much need. Too much heat. Too much to bear.

  Her cries echoed in the high-ceilinged room as her body clenched convulsively around his. It was those last movements, those intense little quivers deep in her belly, that sent him over the edge, his voice ragged, his words unintelligible even to himself—maybe a plea, maybe a curse, maybe a prayer.

  Or maybe a confession of love.

  Chapter 8

  A few days of being more careful, as she’d promised Michael and Remy, left Karen feeling vaguely unsettled. She still went to the park each morning, but only after Jamey was awake and dressed to accompany her. She stayed inside the house working, with the doors closed and securely locked, all day, relying on windows fixed so they opened only so far and fans to stay reasonably cool. She stayed inside evenings, too, working with Cassie Wade the last two nights, spending the evening before that across the street at O’Shea’s—escorted there and back, of course, by Jamey himself. All in all, it was an unsatisfying way to spend her time.

  The nights, though... Ah, the nights were exquisitely satisfying. Whether she and Jamey made love, talked or simply shared the same bed with nothing more intimate between them than a good-night kiss, she always awoke with a feeling of complete contentment.

  It was because she was in love, she acknowledged to herself as she used an extender and a roller to paint the tall walls in the parlor. She certainly hadn’t come to Serenity looking for love—in fact, after losing Kathy, she’d thought that she might have lost the capacity for it—but she wasn’t foolish enough to deny it simply because she hadn’t expected it.

  She loved Jamey O’Shea.

  Nothing in the past had prepared her for this. Falling in love with Evan had been so easy. She had known him all her life. She had loved him all her life—friend to friend, girl to boy, woman to man, wife to husband. It had been so simple. She had known everything about him. There had been no secrets, no getting acquainted, no doubts. She had loved Evan, and Evan had loved her. Plain, simple and easy.

  There was nothing plain, simple or easy about Jamey. His life on Serenity had been as far removed from her own as any she could imagine. By his standards, she had been privileged, given everything her heart desired, both materially and emotionally. She hadn’t known—to this day didn’t know—what it was like to go hungry, to have parents who required the child to parent them, to go through a bad marriage, to be estranged from your only child. She didn’t know what it was like to live in a place without hope, to expect to lose everyone you cared for, to be resigned to living a life governed by despair, fear, despondency and futility.

  Loving him would be no magic cure for their problems. He still wanted her gone. He still believed she didn’t belong down here. He believed her life was in danger as long as she stayed. He thought she was a dreamer, and he didn’t believe in dreams.

  But no one had ever said love had to be easy. She and Evan had lucked out. He had been one great gift for her to treasur
e.

  Jamey was a gift, too, but she was going to have to earn it.

  Dipping the roller into the paint pan, she removed the excess paint, then raised it to the wall again. Always work with a wet edge, her how-to book recommended. Even in a room this size, that wasn’t a problem. With the humidity hovering in the high 90s, the paint wouldn’t even think about drying until she was showered, perfumed and powdered and watching at the window for Jamey.

  She watched for Reid, too, but with no luck. He hadn’t come to dinner Sunday night, and she hadn’t caught even a glimpse of him in the four days since. Maybe he felt uncomfortable knowing that she was sleeping with his father. Maybe he thought she would take Jamey’s side against him. Maybe it was really Jamey he was avoiding; it was hard these days to find her without him. Or maybe it was all those visits from the police that kept him out of sight.

  Although the judge had issued warrants for the arrest of the Morgans and their partners in crime, it hadn’t happened yet. Michael and other officers had made a number of trips to Serenity looking for Ryan and his gang. They drove through the neighborhood, knocked at his door, asked the neighbors about their whereabouts, but they hadn’t yet succeeded in locating them. If the threat of arrest was keeping them from showing their faces on the street, Karen hoped the cops never found them. The neighborhood was more peaceful without them. The younger punks seemed at a loss without their guidance. Serenity was a little bit nicer place to live.

  Finishing with the roller, she picked up a paintbrush to fill in around the trim. All the rooms had elaborate crown moldings and base and door trims. She had painted those early in the week, a soft creamy white that provided a wonderful contrast to the deep rose hue of these walls. It had taken several hours to tape the wood this afternoon, using a special tape that wouldn’t strip the paint underneath or leave its sticky residue on top. Once she got the second coat of paint on the walls tomorrow, she would remove the tape. It was a lot of work, but the room would be beautiful, in her oh-so-unbiased opinion.