Men Out of Uniform: 6 Book Omnibus

by Rhonda Russell

  He lifted a brow. “Where are we going?”

  Sarah Jane smiled. “To my dream house,” she said. “I was sick over the Milton Plantation, but if this one were to suffer the same fate...” Her voice trailed off and she let go a small sigh as a break in the trees finally revealed a beautiful old house sitting atop a knoll in the distance.

  Mick whistled low, instantly struck by the beauty and setting. “Wow.”

  And wow was an understatement. The two-story house sported large columns and a double verandah and most notably, showcased a pretty stained glass angel in an oval window on the second floor. An occasional black shudder clung next to the multi-paned windows, giving a hint of what it might have looked like had it all been restored.

  Sarah Jane pulled to a stop, turned off the ignition and opened her door. “Come on, we’ll have to hurry. The light’s fading.”

  Mick exited the vehicle as well and, taking it all in, followed her around to the back, where an unlocked door barely hung from its hinges. “Are we trespassing?”

  She shot him a look over her shoulder and snorted. “Like you’d care if we were.”

  Mick smiled, conceding the point.

  “Like so many of the houses of this era, the kitchen was separate and all that’s left of it is the foundation,” she said. She carefully opened the door and gingerly crept inside. She gestured to the windows on the left hand side of the room. “It’s shaped like a horseshoe, so all of the rooms open into the courtyard.”

  Mick nodded, impressed.

  “Were I to refurbish this house, this room would have to be the kitchen.” She walked into the next. “This one the dining room, of course.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Enchanted, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled along in her wake. He followed her into the next room, which was bigger and grander, with a giant fireplace in one end. “Family room.”

  Mick looked up. “What are these? Ten foot ceilings?”

  “Twelve.” She wandered over to a front window and stared out over the landscape. “There isn’t a bad view in the place, Mick. I love this little hill, the trees marching along the drive. It’s peaceful and elegant...and lonely.” She looked over at him and smiled a bit uncomfortably. “You think I’m a nut, don’t you?”

  Mick rubbed the back of his neck. “Not at all. You’ve spent so much time working on old places like this I’d be surprised if you didn’t feel some sort of connection.”

  “It’s stronger here,” she admitted. “Has been even when I was a kid, coming out here to make the odd repair with my father. I’ve even done a little research, wondering if perhaps any of my family had ever worked here.”

  Why not lived here? Mick wondered. Seemingly following his thought process, a grin tugged at Sarah Jane’s lips. “My people are strictly working class folk. They could have never afforded anything like this.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek. “So have you found an association?”

  She shook her head, causing a lock of hair to shift tantalizingly over her breast. “Not yet. But I can’t shake the feeling that one is here.” She pulled a slow shrug. “I’m just going to have to keep looking, I guess.”

  And she would, Mick knew, because it was important to her. Another admirable trait to add to a growing list of many. Mick wandered into the foyer, keen to inspect the rest of the house before it grew too dark. A beautiful staircase clung to the wall to the left, paused at a large landing, where it made an abrupt right, then continued up the right-hand side of the wall.

  Sarah Jane joined him. “Beautiful architecture, isn’t it?”

  “Amazing,” he agreed.

  “And just think. All of this was done before the age of the power saw, nail gun and pneumatic tools. By hand. When it took time and attention to detail. No prefab work.” Her caramel gaze twinkled with admiration and just the hint of danger. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

  Mick looked into the next room. “What about the rest?”

  Sarah Jane carefully put a foot on the first tread. “It’s a mirror image of what you just saw. Three more rooms, all open to the courtyard, which would house my pool, of course.” She took another step. “Come on. I’ve done this so many times I know which steps are sound and which ones aren’t.”

  “For your weight,” he said. “But what about mine?”

  “It’ll hold. And it’s worth it,” she promised. “Just watch where I go and give me a couple steps head start.”

  If he’d been any other guy, he would have chastised her for taking the chance--old house + rotten wood + staircase = potential disaster. But he wasn’t any other guy--he was the Hell-raiser--and she wasn’t any other girl. She was a woman who wasn’t afraid of hard work, who wasn’t afraid to throw a punch and who wasn’t afraid to trespass on private property.

  In fact, at the moment, he could honestly believe that she wasn’t afraid of anything. Envy and respect grabbed a hold of his insides and twisted. Oh, to have that sort of confidence again, Mick thought, following her up the stairs. To have that sort of assurance, that guarantee of one’s ability.

  Furthermore, if he had any sense at all...he’d be afraid of her. Because, God help him, Sarah Jane Walker, if she put her mind to it, could undoubtedly bring him to his knees.

  And in exchange, he’d bring her to hers, but not in the same sense, unfortunately. Like everything else he’d been involved with in recent memory, he’d infect her with his bad mojo and turn her life into a steaming pile that currently mirrored his own. Honestly, right now his world was so messed up he didn’t have any business being anywhere near her. She was perfect--at least in every way to him--and, despite the issue with the will and her inheritance...happy. He didn’t want to mess that up for her and becoming emotionally involved would do it faster than Clara’s resident ghost could say boo.

  He needed to alert Huck to the change in status of this case, then get the hell out of here before he did something completely stupid--like kiss her.

  And more.

  Having reached the landing, she stood at the window overlooking the vast landscape. Seeing her pretty frame silhouetted against the rolling hills and sunset, the wistfulness along her brow and the hint of pleasure in the curve of her mouth, was almost his undoing. He felt a ball of unnamed emotion expand in his chest, then drop to his feet.

  Mick silently released a shaky breath, then sidled in beside her, purposely crowding into her space because he simply couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t help himself. She was the only bright spot in his otherwise dismal world and he was drawn to her like the proverbial moth to a flame. He caught the scent of her perfume--a combination of apples and warmth--and he breathed her in, savoring the smell. “You were right,” he murmured.

  “I usually am, but about what specifically?”

  A chuckle erupted from his throat and he shook his head. “You don’t have a modest bone in your body, do you?”

  “I do,” she said, turning to look at him. A hint of mischief shone in her eyes, and something else...something less easily defined. She held up her hand and put a minute amount of space between her index finger and thumb. “But it’s very small.”

  Unable to help himself, he laughed again. “I meant you were right about the view. It’s gorgeous. And I love the stained glass.” He paused, moved by the house and its surrounding more than he could have expected.

  A faint grin rife with a hint of embarrassment shaped her lips. “That’s my wishing angel,” she said. “When I was a little girl, I used to make wishes on it, fancied that she could hear me and someday would honor my requests.”

  Mick felt his lips twitch. “What did you wish for?”

  “Oh, the usual stuff. The occasional good grade, a new bike, for Justin Timberlake to come into town and fall instantly in love with me.”

  Mick chuckled. “Justin Timberlake?”

  “Hey, don’t judge,” she admonished. “Justin’s hot.” She sighed, remembering. “But mostly I just wished I could live here.
This is a great house.”

  It was. The Milton Plantation was sad, but this was far worse. This house wasn’t past the point of no return, but was getting there quickly. “What’s the name of this place?” Mick wanted to know. “Who owns it? Why have they let it fall into disrepair?”

  “Officially it’s named Ponder Hill.” She hesitated, grinned, and blew out an uneasy breath. “Unofficially it’s called the Widow-maker.”

  Mick felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I think Ponder Hill is more aesthetically pleasing, but for the sake of argument why is it called the Widow-maker?”

  “Because Imogene Childress has buried three husbands who basically worked themselves to death keeping the place up. She’s childless, in her nineties and refuses to sell it.” Sarah Jane tucked a stray stand of hair behind the delicate shell of her ear. “She hopes the whole thing falls to rack and ruin so that it doesn’t ‘claim the life of another good man.’” She said the last in a theatrical quavery voice which would have done Broadway proud. Or at the very least, Clara whom he got to hear sing last night.

  Mick grunted. “Sounds like Imogene has a flair for the dramatic.”

  “Whether she does or she doesn’t, it’s hers and I haven’t been the only one who’s tried to persuade her to sell. She absolutely refuses.”

  “So...what? Did her husbands fall of the roof making repairs? Tumble down the stairs?”

  Droll humor sparkled in her eyes. “Husband number one had a heart attack at the card table, number two suffered a stroke in his sleep, and number three died of cancer.” She shrugged helplessly. “So did the house kill them? No. But you’ll never convince her of that.” Sarah Jane looked at the ever-darkening sky. “We’d better get going,” she said. “It’s getting late.”

  Though he found himself reluctant to go, Mick nodded and started back down the stairs.

  “Wait,” Sarah Jane said. “I should go first.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mick told her. “I know the way back down.”

  She smiled, considering him. “You’re sure? It’s a little tricky.”

  He’d survived military school, some of the most rigorous military training in the world, enemy fire and countless stunts resulting in the occasional broken bone, but never wounded pride. Oh, yeah. He thought could handle it.

  What he couldn’t handle, he was beginning to realize, was her.

  * * *

  “So, have you got it yet?” Mick asked, as Sarah Jane pulled back into her driveway. While Blinken was AWOL, Winken and Nod sat in the front window, and a flutter of curtains told her the dogs were nosing the gauzy fabric aside, evidently recognizing the sound of her truck. A blanket of warmth settled over her chest as she watched her furry family eagerly, as always, await her return.

  But for the first time in her life, Sarah Jane was nervous about coming home. Because Mick was about to walk her to her door and the anxiety of whether or not that first kiss--the one she wanted so desperately she’d forgone the onion rings at Mabel’s--was going to happen was shredding her nerves like wood-chipper stuck on high.

  “Have I got one what yet?” she asked, trying valiantly to stay tuned into the conversation.

  The smile that turned his beautiful lips was so sexy and knowing her stomach actually gave a little roll. “My Indian name,” he reminded her.

  That had quickly turned into a running joke, she thought, remembering his “Virile Bad Ass” suggestion he’d tossed out over dinner. Quite frankly, she thought Virile Bad Ass suited him perfectly and the more time she spent with him, the more apt the moniker.

  He was certainly both. Still...

  “How many times do I have to tell you,” she said, “that when I come up with it I’ll let you know. The name has to be organic, not dragged from the shadow of your enormous ego.”

  Mick closed the car door and followed her up onto her porch. Her koi pond gurgled along with the typical night sounds, creating a natural soundtrack to her ever-growing nervousness and off-the-charts attraction. It was insanity to want someone so much. Beyond rational thought.

  “Enormous ego?” he chuckled, feigning offense. “Where on earth did you get the idea that I have an enormous ego?”

  Hands trembling, Sarah Jane fished her house key out of her small purse, but hesitated before slipping it into the lock. She felt a wry smile tilt her lips and she turned to face him, then almost jumped when she realized he was much closer than she’d thought.

  She was so definitely getting kissed, Sarah Jane, thought, feeling a wicked thrill whip through her midsection. She resisted the urge to do a little screaming happy dance and felt a burst of anticipation coursing through her blood.

  “Where would I get the idea that you’ve got an enormous ego?” Smiling, she chewed the inside of her cheek. “Well, let’s review a few of your suggestions tonight, shall we?”

  Mick’s twinkling blue gaze dropped to her lips, darkened, then found hers once more. “If you insist,” he murmured.

  Oy. Those blue flame eyes coupled that sexy, endearing mouth were going to be her downfall.

  With any luck, right onto a mattress.

  Clearly she’d lost her mind. Hadn’t she decided he was trouble? That he had more problems than she could take on? That he’d never stay here? Didn’t she know all of this.

  Yes, she did. The problem was...she didn’t care. She just wanted him. Every wonderful, magnificently proportioned inch of him.

  “I, uh... I do,” Sarah Jane said. “We’ve covered Virile Bad Ass. Then there was Brilliant Bad Ass and Handsome Bad Ass.” She cocked her head to the side and hummed under her breath. “I’m recognizing a theme here. You seem to be obsessed with being a bad ass.”

  Mick chuckled softly, the sound curiously intimate between them. “I’d hardly want to be a pansy ass, would I?”

  An unladylike grunt rose in her throat and she rolled her eyes. “I don’t think anyone would ever mistake you for a pansy ass.”

  “You either,” he said, in what was possibly the best compliment anyone had ever paid her. Whether he was simply that insightful or her expectations were just too low who could say? All Sarah Jane knew, as she blushed with pleasure from the inside out, felt it manifest itself on her face and in the tingly palms of her hands, was that Mick Chivers affected her on a level she’d never experienced and instinctively knew would never be duplicated.

  Mick’s gaze tangled with hers, seemingly drawing her closer...

  In this very moment she hovered on the edge of an existence which was about to be permanently altered. Life as she knew it was a mere few seconds away from irreparable change.

  And for better or worse, she didn’t care. She just wanted to taste him. Had to.

  ...he cupped her cheek, the gesture simultaneously sexy and affectionate, pulling a soft sigh from between her lips...

  “Sarah Jane,” he said huskily, his mouth a hairsbreadth from her own.

  “Mmm-Mmm.” Talking wasn’t an option. She could feel his breath, smell him even. Dark, dangerous, musky and Man all rolled into one sense-drugging aroma that made her lids heavy and her sex ache. Her nipples tingled and her knees weakened, making her lean closer to him.

  “Can I kiss you?”

  The gesture was quaint and old-fashioned and, while she would have never associated those qualities to this eternal bad boy, to her surprise...they actually fit, which made the moment all the more special.

  Touched, she smiled against his lips. “Not if I kiss you first,” she whispered, then pushed her hands into his hair and drew him down to her.

  Everything inside her simultaneously stilled and erupted at the first brush of his lips across hers. Her skin prickled, her hair stood on end and a wave of gooseflesh engulfed every inch of her body, including parts she didn’t think could shiver. The anticipation of a first kiss was one of life’s great pleasures, one of the few which could never be duplicated. Reams of paper, odes and sonnets had been written about the phenomenon of that first mating of the mouths, tha
t intimate mimicry of another much anticipated act. Sarah Jane Walker had been the recipient of many first kisses, some of them eagerly, some of them stolen, some of them to simply end a date.

  But absolutely nothing in her experience compared to this first kiss.

  It was heartbreakingly perfect, desperate and dangerous, the disease and the cure. It was though every moment up until this point had simply been a precursor to this event. If the brain in her head had been anything but mush, she would have been absolutely terrified.

  As it were...she just wanted more.

  Mick’s lips were surprisingly soft, but warm and pliant and felt every bit as magnificent against her own as she’d imagined. A soft manly groan eddied from his mouth and into hers, vibrating over her tongue and he drew her closer, one strong arm banding around her waist, while the other slipped past her jaw, into the hair behind her ear, cupping her head. Deliberate fingers kneaded her scalp as his tongue slid against hers, a mind-numbingly wonderful combination that made her stomach flutter and her pulse sing. She sighed in pleasure, in relief because she’d wanted this so desperately, but meanwhile another sort of urgency had taken hold.

  She felt her nipples pebble behind the flimsy fabric of her bra and a rush of warmth pooled in her core. Her blood slugged hotly through her veins, making her conversely hurried and languid. Her pulse tripped wildly while her body felt like it was moving in slow motion.

  Mick suckled her tongue, making her bones melt where she sagged even further against him. The hard ridge of his arousal nudged impatiently at her belly, causing another wicked thrill to swirl through her middle.

  Hot, hard, male.

  It had been so long and he was so perfect. She resisted the urge to whimper and kissed him deeper, mapping the rest of his body with her hands. Muscles bunched beneath her fingers, warm and supple, corded neck and surprisingly soft skin. She inhaled his scent as she fed at his mouth, growing more hungry and needy by the second.

  Thankfully, Mick was too.

  She could feel the tension hovering around him, could taste it on her tongue, heard it in the soft groans of pleasure bubbling up his throat. His hands slid slowly down her back, as though memorizing every vertebrae, then settled warmly over her bottom and squeezed. That small amount of pressure literally made the breath leave her lungs. It was strangely possessive, which should have pissed her off, but instead merely made her moronic heart skip a beat.