Justice For Abby

by Cate Beauman

  She collapsed against his heaving chest, gasping. “Oh…my…god.” Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes, her cheeks flushed, her face damp with sweat. “That was—” She shook her head. “I don’t even know.”

  He stroked his hands down her back, pleasantly empty, content to lie like this for as long as she was. “So you liked it?”

  She grinned, sliding her finger over his pecs. “You’re definitely memorable, big guy.”

  He chuckled. “Oh yeah?”

  She nibbled his lip. “Mmhm. You, my friend, are a stallion.”

  His smile turned into a wince. “Jesus.”

  She laughed as her finger wandered up his neck and over his cheek. “And I’m looking forward to enjoying the ride often.” She wiggled her brows.

  He grinned. “That makes two of us.”

  The back door shut downstairs, and Abby looked toward the closed bedroom door. “I didn’t help with the milking.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, recognizing the guilt in her voice, understanding their night together was quickly coming to an end. “So we’ll handle the milking tonight.”

  She sat up. “I still have to get the eggs.”

  This was one more item he could add to his list of why he didn’t love farm life. “We’ll get the eggs and muck the stalls.” He pulled her back to his chest and rolled, loving the way she felt under him. “After I get a taste of that mouth.” He dove deep, relishing Abby’s sweet flavor, enjoying the way her tongue eagerly sought his as she played her fingers through her hair.

  The kiss heated to flashpoint and she clung, her small, firm breast pressing to his chest, revving the flames of want again.

  “What do you say we go one more time?” He pressed his lips to the hammering pulse in her neck. “Then we’ll get those eggs,” he murmured, nibbling her shoulder, then greedily sampled her beautiful breasts.

  “We can’t,” she said, her eyes closing as she bit her lip. “Your mother’s right downstairs.” A cupboard closed and the squeaks of her steps on the boards highlighted Abby’s concerns. “She might hear.”

  He wandered down her body, a stroke along her ribs, a nip below the bellybutton, exploring as he didn’t last night, kissing her hips, running his hands over her thighs, savoring the sounds of her whimpers and sharp expels of breath. “You do have a point.” He stuck his fingers inside her, and her eyes flew open as her legs trembled.

  “Jerrod, what are you doing?”

  “Taking what I’ve been wanting.” He scooted himself down, pulling her closer, his fingers never stopping their rhythm. “I want to taste you, Abigail. All of you. I never got around to it last night.”

  She shivered, and her eyes grew hot as his tongue darted over smooth, wet skin, finding her as sweet as the rest her sexy body. He groaned, never enjoying the pleasuring of a woman more as their eyes locked and he moved in again. He suckled and teased; her brows furrowed and her mouth formed an ‘o’ with each staggered breath.

  He kept his pace steady, both fingers and tongue, as her stomach jumped and shuddered, as she clawed at the sheets, moaning, growing wetter with every plunge and plunder.

  “Jerrod.” Her hips rocked. “Jerrod.” She froze, tensing, throbbing, contracting wildly as she tipped her head back, calling out quietly as she came. “Jerrod,” she said again, looking at him as her climax subsided. “I’ve never—you make me—I’ve never been like this.”

  He crawled up, lying between her legs, brushing his fingers through her hair. “Good.” The caveman in him wanted to be the best she’d had.

  “It’s kind of hard to believe that this has been here the whole time.” She pulled his mouth to hers. “It’s so good. I feel so happy.”

  He smiled even as he worried, wondering how everything would be once they left the farm. Their vacation from reality was almost over. “That’s what we want.”

  Her smiled dimmed. “I want to make you happy too.”

  “You do.” He stared into her eyes, settled for the first time…ever. The contentment he’d always searched for was right here, flushed and beautiful, looking up at him. He brushed his lips along her forehead. “You make me happy. Trust me.”

  She smiled again. “I’ve never trusted anyone more.” Her gaze wandered to the door. “We should probably go get those eggs and see to the stalls.”

  “Yeah, I guess we should.” But he didn’t want to. He moved to his side, reluctantly untangling himself from her soft, warm body, and they both climbed from the bed. She grabbed her clothes, sliding them on as he pulled on his shorts and gathered their trash, reaching for the doorknob.

  “I’m going to get rid of this.”

  She nodded.

  He walked across the hall.

  “Jerrod.”

  He stopped, turning.

  She moved next to him, wrapping her arms around him, standing on her tiptoes. “The last couple minutes, that was amazing.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  She pulled him closer, snagging his ear. “I’m a big fan of reciprocation,” she whispered. “Think about that today.” She slid her fingers down his stomach and traced him through his shorts, smiling mischievously as she moved past him, hurrying down the stairs. “Good morning, Mary. Sorry I’m late.”

  Jerrod stood where Abby left him, swallowing as he thought of her returning the favor, and stepped in the room. He smothered his urge to call her back as he caught sight of his cell phone lying in the center of his bed. “Damn it.” Lunging forward, he picked it up, checking for missed calls. He was already making careless mistakes. He’d been so caught up in Abby he never gave his phone a second thought. What if Ethan had needed to issue an evacuation? And he never checked in with Adam. “Son of a bitch.”

  He continued to admonish himself as he searched for some place to throw his garbage, not wanting to advertise to his mother that he and Abby had burned up the sheets. He spotted a plastic grocery bag in his closet, dumped the old belts and socks into a bin, and shoved the trash in, tying it off, tucking it to the middle of the trashcan until he could take it out later.

  Grabbing his jeans, he pulled them on, then a sweatshirt, and hurried down the backstairs toward his mother’s small office, booting up the desktop. Adam sent e-mails once a week, updating him on the Task Force’s progress in apprehending Victor Bobco and Dimitri Dubov. So far the leads were slim. He signed into Ethan Cooke Security’s system, then accessed his dummy account. Any activity he created using his mother’s IP address would be scrambled. He clicked on Adam’s latest message.

  Finally something positive to share. We’re closing in on Dubov. Location narrowed down to one of two spots. Briefing in the a.m. Will report ICE’s findings.

  Peace

  Jerrod read Adam’s simple reply three times and pounded his fist on the desk. “Yes. It’s about damn time.” This was huge. If Immigration and Customs Enforcement really had a bead on Dimitri it would only be a matter of time before they nabbed the bastard. Then they needed to find Victor, and Abby would be two huge steps closer to moving on with her life.

  He glanced out the window, catching sight of her bundled in her hat and work coat, heading toward the henhouse with her basket in hand. He smiled and logged out, walking down the hall to grab his boots and jacket. They would be two steps closer to moving on with their lives together.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shelby left her car in the cover of a thick of trees and hurried up the lane in her heels, picking her way over the juts and rocks, wrapping her coat tighter around herself in the bitter winds. She quickened her pace as she came to the clearing, wincing when she spotted Jerrod pounding away at the dark red boards of the barn atop his ladder. If he turned and spotted her, her plan would fizzle before she had a chance to begin. The whole ‘I want to be friends thing’ she tried last night was a bust, getting her no closer to another invitation for dinner, so now it was on to strategy number two.

  She rushed closer to the cover of the house and smiled, noting that Mary
’s truck was gone and Uncle Jimmy’s was back at his house in the distance. This was going to be easier than she’d first thought, unless Abigail was inside. She scoffed, rolling her eyes at the idea of having to make nice and strike up some sort of conversation, but every reporter made sacrifices for the good of their story—and this was going to be one hell of a story.

  Jerrod was definitely Abigail’s bodyguard. That was the only reasonable explanation for the tight leash he kept her on in Nowheresville, Nebraska, and the aversion to pictures. You might have a job to do, but I’m still trying to live my life. Somewhere along the way you forgot that. Shelby grinned, remembering Abigail’s wrenching words the day of the big blowup, loving how everything was coming together. Jerrod was absolutely on the job. Any lingering doubts she’d had vanished in the O’Neil’s barn when he pushed Ms. Hammlin away with her camera.

  Tiptoeing her way up the front steps, she walked into the warmth of the living room, making a beeline for the stairs, listening as she climbed. If all was right with the world, Abigail would be in the studio this afternoon instead of in her room doing whatever it was she did when she holed herself up in there for hours on end.

  She crept down the hall, stopping in Jerrod’s doorway, breathing deep, closing her eyes as she absorbed the familiar scent of his soap. She turned away, her heart aching, missing the man she’d planned to marry since high school, and knocked on Abigail’s door, concentrating on the now. Jerrod would come back to her eventually; she just had to wait a while longer until he realized his mistake. She’d waited when he trotted off to Los Angeles and then Manhattan. “Abigail.”

  Stepping into Abigail’s bedroom, she let loose a quiet, “yes!” when she found the space empty. She sniffed at the air and wrinkled her nose, detesting the subtle perfume scent, hating everything about Jerrod’s across-the-hall roommate—her competition. She glanced over her shoulder and walked to the small desk in the corner of the room, picking up the sketchpad, leafing through dozens and dozens of excellent drawings of clothes she would love to wear. Vocation or avocation? she wondered as she set the pad back exactly the way she found it. Something told her it was both. She opened the drawers next, finding sketching pencils and fancy colored pencils, but nothing that told her anything other than Abigail enjoyed drawing and making Mary Quinn dresses because she was a first-rate kiss-ass.

  She hurried to the dresser, opening each drawer, glaring as she glanced at Abigail’s pant size. “Bitch.” Maybe if she starved herself with vegetables and tiny spoonfuls of this and that the way the California chick did she’d look like a freaking goddess too. She shut the drawer with a slam and winced, peeking out the window, making certain Jerrod was still on his ladder.

  Moving to the closet next, she found Abigail’s purse. “Jackpot.” She rifled through, passing over the tube of expensive lip-gloss, the package of tissues, grabbing hold of the small wallet. She unfastened the snap, studying Abby’s ID and credit card, grinning at her triumph. “Abigail Monroe. Got you now, don’t I?” She shoved the California license away and put the purse back, sliding the closet door closed, eager to be on her way.

  Scanning the room one last time and pausing in the doorway, she made certain everything looked as it did before she came in. She stopped as she spotted the Trendy magazine on the floor by the loveseat. Her eyes popped wide as she stared at Abigail’s striking face on the cover. “No way.” She hurried forward, snatching up the copy, and walked down the hall to the bathroom, locking herself in as she sat on the toilet seat, studying the blue-eyed stunner with perfect skin grinning among the headlines.

  Flipping through each page, she grit her teeth, teeming with envy, glaring at every awesome shot of Abigail. She turned to the next page and gasped, almost dropping the magazine as she gaped at Jerrod and Abigail swinging. “What the hell?” She rushed to her feet, pushing the picture closer to her face, still unable to believe what she was seeing. Jerrod was a bodyguard, not some fashion model.

  She flipped some more, muttering, halting on the page of the little whore straddling Jerrod in a barely there black bra and panty set. She made a noise in her throat, her eyes filling as she studied the sexy couple smiling at each other, their fingers clasped. “Friends my ass.” She struggled not to rip the page to shreds as she looked at the next. Jerrod cuddled the naked tramp close, his arm covering her breasts, his hand in her hair as they stared at each other. “How could you, Jerrod Quinn?”

  She threw the magazine to the floor, wiping at the torrent of tears, trying to gain control of each ragged breath. Abigail wasn’t Jerrod’s client; she was his freaking hussy. They were definitely sleeping together.

  She brushed at her cheeks again and picked up the thick magazine, yanking at each page, wandering back to the article she hadn’t bothered to read, skimming the page discussing Abigail Harris’s Escape line. Who the hell was Abigail Harris if her license identified her as Abigail Monroe? She’d never heard of either.

  Shelby shoved the magazine in her bag and stepped from the bathroom, ready to get to the bottom of this. She would have to read the damn thing from cover to cover when she could actually see straight. She slowed as she passed the window, realizing Jerrod no longer stood on the ladder, no longer caring if he caught her. She had the truth now and planned to run with it—and more. She walked back to Abigail’s sketches, lifting each page, taking pictures with her phone as an idea came to mind. This was going to be good. Her next stop was wherever she wanted to go, because this was going to take her places. Jerrod Quinn and his slut could go to hell.

  ~~~~

  Snow Patrol blasted through the stereo speakers as Jerrod stepped into his mother’s small studio, closing the door behind him. He pulled off his hat and jacket in the warm space, smiling as Abby sat at the potter’s wheel, dipping her hand in the bucket of water at her side, laying dripping fingers back on the bowl she was forming. She sang along with the band, wiggling her hips in time with the beat as small spatters of gray landed on her dingy jeans. He winced as the spinning clay began to wobble.

  “No. No!” She took her foot off the pedal as her creation folded in. “Damn it.”

  “How’s it going in here?” he shouted over the music.

  She screamed, whipping her head around. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” He turned the stereo down to a dull roar. “What are you making?” He gestured toward the chunk on the wheel.

  “A mess.” She huffed. “It doesn’t matter how much I practice. I can’t get this right.”

  He hung his jacket on the hook. “I think you’re pulling up too quickly on the sides.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you an expert?”

  He smiled. “No, but I can make a bowl.”

  “Will you show me?” Her big blue eyes pleaded with him. “I don’t want to ask your mother again. It might send her over the edge. I want to get this right. I refuse to leave this farm until I’ve made one decent piece.”

  He’d come by hoping to steal a couple of kisses. He still had a dozen boards to get to on the front side of the barn alone, but he walked toward her anyway. “I’ll see what I can do. Pull that up and we’ll start again.”

  She took the clay from the wheel, handing it to him as the CD began to play Pearl Jam.

  He nodded his approval as he kneaded the chunk back into a smooth ball. “Good tune.”

  “It’s definitely slow and broody—right up your alley.”

  “Don’t mess with ‘The Jam,’ Abigail.”

  They smiled at each other as he set the clay in the center of the wheel and pulled up a stool behind her. He sniffed at her damp ponytail and nuzzled her neck, smelling the body cream she rubbed on herself everyday. “Mmm, you took a shower.”

  “Yes I did.” She laughed, squirming away. “Your scruff is scratchy.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist, burrowing in again, loving that he could finally touch her the way he wanted to. “I thought you liked my scruff.”

  She tried to evade again,
chuckling. “I do. It’s incredibly sexy.” She looked over her shoulder, grinning. “Now, let’s make this bowl, big guy.”

  He leaned in close to her ear. “What do you say we forget the whole pottery thing and go take advantage of a quiet house?” He’d been craving her since they parted ways in the barn a couple hours ago.

  She shuddered, leaning back against him. “Now that’s tempting.”

  “Mmm. More than.” He playfully sunk his teeth into her earlobe, ready to make good on his suggestion. He’d done little but think of the tenderness they shared last night and the way she went wild in his arms this morning.

  “Jerrod,” she said breathily. “Pottery first. I’ll take thorough advantage of you tonight.”

  He slid his tongue along her lobe, wanting her right this second. “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart.” She tilted her head back, her heated gaze staring into his.

  He grinned. “I’ll be counting down the hours.”

  “That makes two of us.” She wiggled her brows. “Now back to the bowl.”

  “If we must.” He tried out his puppy dog eyes and chuckled when she laughed.

  “Nice try, big guy.”

  “It was worth a shot.” He shrugged and scooted in, pressing himself closer to her body, dipping his fingers in the water as she did. “Palms against the clay. Pushing down hard,” he instructed.

  “I know how to do this part.” She molded the wet clay, forming a smooth, rounded chunk.

  “Looks good. Now stick your thumbs in the center and make a hole.”

  She did.

  “You’ve got it.”

  “The next step is where everything falls apart.” She looked behind her, giving him a quick kiss.

  He dipped his hand in the water again. “You need to open it up, using your sponge for support, then press out with your hand. Like this.” He created an upside down ‘u.’