by Kathy Altman
And oh, dear Lord, had they gone ballistic once they’d figured it out.
A screech owl sounded off in a series of hoots growing closer and closer together, like the last few frenzied bounces of a rubber ball dropped on concrete. The after-dark chill drifted onto the porch. Charity shuddered. Her bare toes curled, and within the lacy confines of her bra, her nipples beaded. She found herself leaning toward Grady’s chest and the solid promise of heat. A pair of headlights swept the porch, for an instant revealing the stark need on his face. A need that was no doubt mirrored on hers.
Need for an ex-boyfriend whose family may or may not be implicated in a murder investigation.
With a silent gasp, Charity shoved an arm back through the doorway and slapped at the porch light. A yellow shine shoved at the shadows.
“You need to go,” she managed. She backed up against the wrought iron banister that bordered the steps and followed the downward slant with her hip until she landed in the yard. “Thank you for the chocolates.”
Slowly Grady followed her down the steps, hands still in his pockets. “No good-night kiss?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“You can when there’s an ulterior motive.”
“No ulterior motive. Just complications.” He angled his head. “If not a kiss, then how about a joke? For old times’ sake?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Run out of new material? Or have you lost your sense of humor?”
“Fine. You asked for it.”
“I asked for a kiss, too.”
Charity rolled her eyes and thought for a moment. “A man bought a new range of Olympic condoms. ‘There are three colors,’ he told his wife. ‘Gold, silver, and bronze.’ She asked him what color he was going to wear that night. ‘Gold, of course,’ he answered proudly. ‘Why don’t you wear silver?’ she said. ‘It would be nice if you came second for a change.’”
Grady chuckled, and the sound launched a sparkling warmth that tumbled through her veins.
He sobered. “Macintosh,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
He pulled his hands free of his pockets. Before she could back away, he closed the distance between them, reached out, and slid his fingers gently through the tips of her hair. “You smell like Macintosh apples.”
Charity started backing toward the driveway, leading him toward his rental car like one big, giant breadcrumb. Her flip-flops slapped a wary rhythm against the bottom of her feet. “Those complications you mentioned? I don’t have time for those. Especially your brand. More than one person around here believes I can’t work on this case and remain objective.”
“That include you?”
“Funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.” Grady trailed after her. The light spilling from the windows of the house next door lent a roguish gleam to his gaze. “Aren’t you curious? If it’s still the same between us?”
She wanted to say no. Knew she had to say no. But her gaze remained fixed on his mouth, and her lips trembled.
The deep, knowing chuckle that rumbled out of his chest set off a humming in her blood. He moved closer, and she continued to back away until she came up against a tree. The tree. The only tree in her front yard.
The perfect excuse to stop running. Charity pressed her back to the massive trunk, her breath coming faster, her palms slick as they scraped over bark. Okay, so she was curious. Scratch that. She ached with curiosity. The overpowering instinct that it would be like it always had been between them—disorienting and fierce and uninhibited and hotter than a rifle barrel after an hour’s target practice—made her panties go damp and her thighs loose.
Closer, she begged silently. But he stood firm, damn him. She pushed her shoulders back and tipped her pelvis forward, her breath practically ripping out of her throat as she imagined him fucking her against the tree.
Down, girl. They were negotiating a kiss. Nothing more. She wasn’t even sure he’d get to that.
“You let me trap you on purpose,” Grady said softly. “So you can blame me later. I’m not playing that game. You want a kiss? Come and get it.”
Charity almost whimpered aloud at his take-charge tone. When they’d started dating in high school, she’d been the more sexually experienced. He’d never judged her, had actually been so turned on by her boldness—in and out of bed—that he’d been more than content to let her take the lead. She’d been all over that. She’d never been able to get enough of him.
He was right. Assertiveness was arousing. By the time her eyes locked with his, the heat of long-hidden lust had flashed across every nerve ending in her body, and her lungs vibrated with an urgent need for oxygen. Grady was right about the game playing, too. They both deserved better. With him she’d always been candid, always told him exactly what she’d felt, what she’d needed.
Except for that fiasco with his mother’s car, when he’d had her arrested. Then she’d veiled the pain of his betrayal with an it’s-just-as-well-because-we-had-no-future speech. It had hurt like hell delivering the eulogy for something that was far from dead. But she’d always known, from the moment he’d sent the first smile her way, that an ending was inevitable. A small part of her had been grateful he’d provided the perfect out.
Charity licked her lips now and watched his eyes flame and his arms press against his sides. He refused to budge. One eyebrow lifted into an arrogant arch.
He’d gotten smart over the years, and she was about to do something very, very dumb.
The petty side of her wanted to make a break for the house and leave his sorry ass out in the cold. The self-respecting side of her had never managed to refuse a dare. Which he very well knew. The excitement that blazed through her was something she hadn’t felt in…well, in a dozen years.
She lurched forward, taking three steps before settling her hands on Grady’s chest. He inhaled, muscles tensing beneath her palms. Power. Warmth. The smell of—
Her eyes stretched open. He’d always smelled like rain. Was it her imagination, or did he smell more like the ocean now? Salt and sunshine. Seagulls and sand.
For some reason it pissed her off.
He cupped her elbows, slid his hands up her arms and over her shoulders, splayed his fingers in her hair and tipped her head back. “Your expression is making me nervous,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know whether you’re about to kiss me or chew on me.”
“Can’t I do both?” Charity clapped her hands to his head and pulled. Their mouths collided. Opened. Fused. A hot, heady rush of delight had her moaning into his mouth. There you are.
His lips were firm and demanding, his taste both exotic and familiar, satisfying and at the same time stoking a riotous craving she’d thought tamed long ago. His ragged breath warmed her face, and his skin beneath her palms was smooth—he’d shaved before coming over, and that tiny detail was more seductive than the taste of chocolate on his lips.
With a rumbling groan, Grady changed the angle of the kiss, his fingers urgent on her scalp and his tongue wasting no time getting naughty with hers. She wriggled even tighter against the muscled hardness of his chest, and his hands skimmed down to her ass and pulled her flush against the thick length of his rigid cock.
Oh, dear Lord. Bolts of white-hot lightning zinged all the way down to her toes, and Charity was gripped by one long, relentless, bone-shaking shudder. She broke free of his mouth and dropped her face against his neck, sucking in the scents of sea and sweat, desperate to ease the burn of too little air.
Of too much sensation.
She’d forgotten. God help her, she’d forgotten. His kiss was intense and electric, and guaranteed to drive her insensible with need. Why had she thought this was a good idea?
Because you weren’t thinking at all.
Grady’s hands glided up her back and his arms tightened as he hugged her. She let her own hands trail down his chest. One palmed his heart while the other grabbed a
fistful of his sweater.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Wow,” she managed. Regret surged. A hot, aching slide of nostalgia that pricked at the backs of her eyes. More. She wanted more. More cuddling. More kissing. More time.
More Grady.
Charity parted her lips and touched her tongue to his skin. He jumped, then growled, low in his throat. A reckless joy sparked and shimmered beneath her skin, heating her from the inside out. His body shifted, his hands finding her shoulders and squeezing, as if warning her to brace for impact. She licked her lips in anticipation of his greedy mouth on hers and lifted her chin.
Footsteps on pavement. The deliberate clearing of a throat.
Not again.
Charity squeezed her eyes shut, muscles locked as she braced for the ugly bluster of her brother’s voice. Except Lucas wouldn’t keep his distance. He’d charge in and start swinging. She opened her eyes as Grady stepped away from her. The consternation on his face made her belly go hollow. Slowly, cautiously, she turned.
Crap on a cracker.
Sheriff Clarkson Pratt stood in her driveway, arms crossed, head tilted at an oh-yeah-you’re-fucked angle. “Deputy Bishop. Please tell me you’re experimenting with some newfangled interrogation technique.”
* * *
Charity watched the taillights of Grady’s rented sedan flash an apology before disappearing around a curve. Reluctantly she turned back to her boss, her chilled feet slipping and sliding in flip-flops damp with dew. The screech owl hooted again, this time the sound more mocking than mysterious. Charity opened her mouth, but Pratt didn’t wait for the words.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded. “Wait. Don’t answer that. Because we both know you weren’t.” He snatched his ball cap off his head and smacked it against the thigh of his baggy jeans. Now that he’d steered her over into the porch light, the five-o’clock shadow that darkened his jaw and the fury that set fire to his eyes was visible.
“You’re a damned fine cop and a solid investigator. You’re in charge of your first murder case, and it involves the most prominent family in three counties. On top of that, you have a decent chance of being elected sheriff at thirty. Thirty. Yet here you are, willing to give all that up so you can enjoy some goddamned hanky-panky with your high school squeeze?”
Before the sheriff’s untimely arrival, the lights in the house next door had gone out as her neighbors settled into bed. Now a light reappeared in the bedroom window overlooking Charity’s driveway.
She winced and gestured toward her front door. “Maybe we should—”
“I’m not finished. When you go down, you’ll take the entire Becker County Sheriff’s Department down with you. That doesn’t seem to matter to you. Explain it to me. Why are you so hell-bent on going down?” Pratt made a choking sound, and dragged a hand across his face. “That didn’t come out right. But you know what I mean.”
Yeah, she was happy to let that one go. Charity gripped the balustrade behind her and leaned back against her hands. “I wasn’t planning on sleeping with him. He came over to offer to help with the investigation.”
“How is that better? Either way you’re screwed.”
“You said it yourself. We’re understaffed. We could use the help.”
“Not from a civilian. He’s feeding you that line of bullshit because he can’t keep his hands off you. And vice versa, it seems.”
“I’m sorry you’re disappointed.” He had every right to be. She wasn’t happy with herself, either. Especially since her regret wasn’t all about the risk to her job.
Part of it came from the squandered opportunity to feel Grady up. Like a few hours after a breakfast buffet, when you struggle to understand why you hadn’t snagged just one more cinnamon roll. Her palms still tingled with the need to cup his muscled ass, to stroke the gratifying solidity of his—
“At least you’re not offering excuses.” Pratt took his time settling his hat back on his head. “I’m not blind. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, having him here. But he’s not here to stay. You and your career are, as long as you can refrain from…interrogating…Grady West. You deserve to be sheriff, Charity. You’ve worked hard for this.”
The judgment in Pratt’s voice had given way to concern. She sank down onto the cold concrete steps as his words finally penetrated the fog of her naked-Grady fantasies. Her boss was right. It wasn’t only her job at stake here.
Cold seeped through the seat of her jammies, restoring reason and ushering in shame. She shivered, and tipped her head back.
“Did something happen?” she asked. At his blank stare, she got to her feet. “Why are you here?” Third time tonight she’d asked that question. Somehow she doubted Pratt’s reason was the same as Grady’s.
I missed the housewarming.
They’d missed a lot. And after he left, they’d miss a lot more. They each had lives to return to. Eventually Grady would get on a plane, and Charity would get back to the election. They could give each other a lot of pleasure in the meantime. Did they have to miss out on that, too?
“Yes,” Pratt said.
She faltered. “What?”
“Yes. Something happened. But you’re right. It’s late. You need your sleep. We’ll talk about it later.”
Charity hugged herself as he strode toward the pickup he’d parked along the curb. What the hell? She was halfway up the steps when the idea popped.
Had he wanted to discuss Brenda June?
After ten minutes of staring through her bedroom window at the tree that was now guaranteed to play a central role in her nighttime fantasies, Charity brushed her teeth and set the alarm for an ungodly hour—not ungodly enough to allow time for a jog before work, so there was that. She shuffled into the kitchen, put away the brownie mix, and flicked off the light above the sink. And froze.
Movement. She’d seen movement in her backyard. She blinked.
Hadn’t she?
She gripped the edge of the sink, bent closer to the window, and stared hard at the shadows pressing against the weathered-board fence and the scraggly tree line that separated her house from the two-story rental behind her. Nothing. But someone was out there. She could feel it.
Outrage sent her lunging at the back door. As her fingers clutched the knob, common sense kicked in. She indulged in a few calming breaths, followed by a dash to the hall to retrieve her pistol and an LED flashlight. She turned the living room light off and the bedroom light on. Hopefully whoever was out there would believe she was getting ready for bed. She tucked her phone in the waistband of her jammies. She could call for backup now, but what if it was only Pratt circling back to see whether Grady had circled back?
The next thought set spurs to Charity’s pulse. Maybe Grady had returned, and any moment now she’d hear a discreet knock on the back door. The last thing she needed was the humiliation of summoning her fellow cops to what might turn out to be a booty call. Her campaign wouldn’t survive it.
And if she had to send Grady away again, she wouldn’t survive it.
Still she waited, breath locked in her lungs, ears straining toward the back door. Nothing. Didn’t make sense anyway, since whatever she’d seen had been moving away from the house. Maybe waiting for all the lights to go out?
Then she realized. The motion sensor lights hadn’t come on. Not the first time the suckers had failed her, but…
She swiveled toward the front. Had the asshole vandal returned, this time with plans to target her Tahoe, which she’d just had washed and waxed?
Oh, hell no.
With a muttered promise of vengeance to Clarabelle and a violent roll of her shoulders, Charity kicked off her flip-flops and slipped quietly outside.
The chill of the dewy grass seared the soles of her feet and she swore, but hunting down her shoes would have taken precious time. She slunk around the side of the house, weapon pointed at the ground, shoulders rigid, gaze roving for any telltale sign of movement. Nothing but the gentle shiver
of tall, leggy shrubs ruffled by the wind. No sound but the whispering jangle of leaves and the whump whump whump of her own heart.
Just shy of the back corner of the house, she stopped and peered into the backyard, bare except for a rusted pole supporting a birdfeeder and a ramshackle shed that marked the left rear corner of the property. Her right foot found a mud puddle. Cold spiked up through her leg and torso and sliced into her heart. She shuddered. Screw the shoes. Why the hell hadn’t she snagged her coat?
She dried the bottom of her foot against her jammie pants and craned her neck. There. Was that a shadow near the shed? She blinked again. Maybe it was time for a little LED action.
And maybe she’d better announce herself so she didn’t end up with buckshot in her ass. Wouldn’t be the first time her idiot neighbor had gone all covert mission on the raccoons who enjoyed tipping over his trashcans.
She stalked the shed. A snuffling sound drifted her way and she almost lowered her weapon. Perfect. She was about to break bad on a possum digging for worms.
“Police,” she called out anyway and thumbed on the light. “Step away from the shed, with your hands where I can see them.”
More snuffling. She took the corner wide and swore. So much for instinct.
No possum, no raccoon. The noisemaker was a cat. A fat orange tabby that came flying at her face, claws in shred mode. As Charity ducked, she lost her grip on the flashlight. In the tumbling yellow beam she caught a glimpse of a pale face before the human body it belonged to darted away. Fuck. She dislodged the hissing cat from her shoulder, snatched up the light, and gave chase, but the shadow was damned fast. Charity found herself in the middle of a night-shrouded street, gun in hand, feet cold and stinging, and no earthly clue whether she’d run off a vandal or a killer.
She slapped a hand to her waist.
To top it all off, she’d lost her phone.
* * *
By seven the following morning Charity was at Kate’s door, hoping to catch the teacher before she left for school and hating that her own grump factor was at an all-time high. However, little to no sleep combined with self-loathing for letting her intruder escape, a set of cat scratches that stung like hell, and a sad lack of brownies for breakfast was enough to put even Sunshine Barbie in a foul mood.