The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1)

by Jane Leopold Quinn

  "Let's go inside," she whispered.

  "Yeah." As he climbed out of the car, he cautioned, "Wait 'til I come around."

  When her door opened, she glanced around the street to see if anyone might be watching.

  "No one's here."

  With his reassurance they weren't being stalked, they headed inside.

  You can do this. It's just sex. No commitment. He swept her into his arms a second after the front door snicked closed. She gasped at the sudden weightlessness, then again when he sat down on the couch. Her heart beat madly, her sensitive nipples pinged and the folds protecting her throbbing clit were swollen and hot, preparing for his touch.

  He plucked the butterfly clip out of her hair and dropped it she didn't know where. When he took her lips she didn't care where it went.

  His palm cupped her head as he devoured her. It wasn't a sweet kiss or tentative. Massaging her lips, spearing his tongue inside her mouth, he brought out her response—immediate and fierce. She gripped his head and whimpered at his intoxicating, wicked skill.

  Lying across his lap left him with room enough to begin opening the buttons of her blouse. The anticipation alone heated the golden ring pierced through her stiffened nipple, which was now growing more and more sensitive the closer he got to it.

  "Jesus, I can't get over how gorgeous you are. How perfect." His breath came heavy, his voice a barely heard growl. His lips trailed over her chin to her neck.

  He nipped sharply at her skin. There'd be marks. She didn't care. Each stinging bite shot straight to her clit. She squirmed, trying to relieve the agonizing arousal.

  He groaned, his hand clamped around her hip. "Hold still, baby. You're killing me."

  A laugh burst from her at the same moment he unhooked her bra in the front and spread the cups wide.

  "Oh fuck."

  Glancing at him, she saw his attention was focused on the ring. "Suck it," she begged.

  "Thank you for doing it. The thought of it's been driving me nuts since I first saw it. He gave a brief chuckle before closing his lips over her.

  The tip of his tongue immediately slid through the small hoop. The combination of that and gentle tugging and suckling escalated the fire in her belly. Gripping his head, she arched her back and grasped her other breast, pinching and twisting her own nipple.

  He paused, raising his head. "Too many clothes…" He stood up and carried her toward the bedroom. "I need you naked and stretched out on my bed."

  "Oh Marc." When he put her on her feet to remove her blouse and bra, she attacked his shirt buttons, sliding them free one by one. She pulled off his shirt, and they both surrendered their jeans and underwear, dropping them on the hardwood floor.

  "Just stand there, sweetheart, and let me feel you."

  She moaned as his hands cupped her shoulders, drifting down her arms. Her insides quivered as his fingers trickled over her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples. Then his hands spanned her waist. She didn't think she could take it any longer when he palmed her ass and pulled their bodies together to press his thick, iron-hard cock between them. She rolled her body and grasped his bottom.

  "Oh yeah," he murmured.

  Inside her is where she wanted his erection imprinting on her belly. She was wide open, empty, and aching. He was big. He'd fit, but it would be tight. So delightfully tight.

  "Marc." She couldn't tell him what she wanted, could she? Why not? "Fill me up. Fuck me." She leaned up to kiss him, found his lips open and waiting for her.

  She could die right now even without the fucking. His lips brushing and teasing, his tongue making love to her mouth, the hot press of his cock against her belly, all felt so delicious, so sensual.

  All caution went by the wayside when he brought her down to the bed and laid her on her back. He spread her legs, kissing her, and lavishing sensations on her, his mouth at her nipples, fingers opening her, toying with her. Her clit and passage were claimed by his exploring fingers.

  It was impossible to catalogue his actions. She just lay there whimpering and enjoying. His mouth brushed her navel and over her belly while his fingers tormented her throbbing bud. She couldn't keep her hips still. They jerked and thrust. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  His mouth. He'd brought her to the most wonderful screaming orgasm before, and she wanted it again. Now! Pushing at him, she whimpered his name.

  His voice was muffled against her skin. "What do you want, baby? Tell me."

  "Unh—you know." She thrust her hips at him. "You know!"

  "Tell me. I want to hear you say every naughty, hot little word. I want to hear them come out of your sweet mouth. Please, baby."

  He slid two fingers inside her.

  "Yes!" she groaned.

  Sliding them out, he nudged them in again and brushed over the spot that women prayed their men would find. He seemed to know exactly where it was.

  "Fuck me! Suck my clit! Just do it, damn you! I can't take much more."

  "Oh I think you can, and you will." Nuzzling her curls, he finally clamped his talented lips over her clit, suckling it, and fucking her with his fingers.

  She lost her breath and control of her hips. He held on through her spirals of pleasure and heated sensation through two shrieking orgasms.

  He chuckled, rising up over her.

  My God, she's sweet and luscious! He grabbed a condom and slid it on in record time. He needed to feel her convulsions on his dick while her orgasm was still going on.

  "Phoebe, you're perfect." He lifted her hips and thrust into her sheath as far as possible then stilled. "Holy Mother of God!" He could only hold for a second more before he had to thrust. Her tight body massaged him and drove him insane.

  He plunged into her, withdrew even faster, rotating his hips until he groaned at the sensation of his searing release. God, he wished he didn't need a condom. Damn no, I didn't just think that.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alone. He woke and he was alone. How the hell had she left his bed and his house without his notice? Sex with Phoebe had been so good that it knocked him out so completely? Apparently so. Standing on his front porch, he surveyed the street. No Butch lurking. He stared at her house for a long time, before he headed back to his kitchen to make coffee.

  She was very sweet and wanted success so badly. How could such a beautiful woman need so much validation from strangers? She had good friends and parents who apparently loved her. He could easily love her.

  Whoa. Let's not go there. He had something to do in B Falls that was more important to him than anything or anyone. The truth. He needed to prove the truth, and Butch Wilcox was right in the middle of things. Phoebe didn't like Butch, but he hadn't told her his suspicions about the guy. Right now, the only person he really trusted was Mike Banning.

  ***

  "Jesus buddy, you look like shit," Mike greeted when Marc plopped himself down at the bar.

  Marc rubbed his cleanly shaven chin and barked, "Shut up, Banning."

  "Coffee?"

  "Yeah, that's good."

  Mike poured two mugs full. "Sugar? Cream?"

  "Nope." Marc closed his eyes and took a sip.

  "My mom's brew," offered Mike.

  "She's the best."

  Mike came around from behind the bar and perched on the next stool. "So how's it going? Are you finding out what you came home to find out?"

  "Not really, but it's a mystery. Files are missing, parts of files are missing. I even went to Moira Logan's office."

  "What in hell do you suspect? It must be something if you went to the prosecutor's office."

  "Can you keep this between the two of us?" He fiddled with a short stack of bar napkins.

  "Sure. You know you can trust me."

  "Wilcox."

  "Huh? Butch Wilcox?"

  "Maybe, but more than that, his father. I didn't know it at the time but the old man was buying up storefronts along Hickory and the river to build his resort. I talked to Frank Jacquetta, the guy who owned
the video and electronics store. He was bought out shortly before my parents died and always suspected Wilcox of something."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "But what is there to prove? I even went to Wilcox's office to get the sale papers. His secretary is looking for that file." Marc scowled. "What do you want to guess that file is missing too?"

  "When my mom comes down, let's ask what she remembers from back then. I know she and Dad hated Wilcox. Do you think Butch knows anything about this?"

  "I don't know. I don't trust him. Never really did. And he's out of control when it comes to Phoebe."

  "Phoebe? What's she got to do with this? She wasn't even raised here."

  Marc shook his head. "He told her she was going to marry him and she should forget about a singing career. He was brutal about it last night at the club. She held her own against him…"

  "Wait a minute! Did he hit her or threaten her?"

  "He had his hands on her but didn't hit her. She almost had him taken care of by the time I got backstage."

  "Marc, are you interested in her?" Mike's eyebrows lifted.

  Marc gazed into the darkness of his coffee as if a simple answer could be found there. Yes, very interested but…

  Instead he avoided the question. "I have to go back in a few weeks."

  "And she's made it clear she doesn't intend to hang here for much longer," Mike added.

  "Yeah, she wants bigger and better, and I can't blame her. She's really good." He had no intention of hiding his admiration. He knew Phoebe had an excellent chance of becoming famous. How could he compete with that?

  "Do you plan to make the Marines a career?" asked Mike.

  Marc pressed his lips and shook his head. "I have six months left in Afghanistan, then I'm out."

  "Are you coming back home then?"

  Marc shrugged. "I haven't really decided. Maybe I'll come back and join the city or county police force." He grinned at that. "Give Butch some competition."

  "I wish you would," Mike replied. "I don't trust him. Most people don't. I wish you'd seriously think about it."

  "I've got to find out about my folks first, and I'd better get on with it right now." Marc pushed off the barstool.

  "What do you plan to do today?"

  Marc knew what he wanted to do but even telling his best friend was hard. "I've got some errands to get done. You working here tonight?"

  "Yeah. Come on back, pal." Mike stuck out his hand.

  They shook then Marc pulled his friend in for a quick hug. "Thanks, Mike. Say hi to your mom. I'll see you later."

  ***

  Phoebe had left Marc's house, sneaked out like a thief. Before she'd stepped off his porch she checked the street. No Butch lurking, thank God.

  Last night had been awful and weird. God she hated Butch. He was really crazy. It was time for her to make her own move to a larger entertainment venue.

  Chicago was a big market. Instead of waiting for an agent to discover her, she should be proactive and contact clubs directly. She had enough demo CDs to send out. Okay, decision made. She'd start looking on the internet for Chicago clubs. Yes, that's where I need to be. Coffee first, though.

  Five minutes later, she carried her cup of coffee out to her front porch—just to relax a minute, certainly not to see if Marc was up to anything. He was just getting out of his car. Oh Lordy, he looked good in those snug jeans and black t-shirt.

  He glanced over at her, lifting a hand in greeting. A slow, appreciative smile crept over his face.

  Transfixed, warmth stealing over her skin and into her heart, she attempted to hide her smile behind her coffee mug.

  He loped across the street and up her front walk. "Mornin'."

  "Hi." Damn. Why do I have to sound so breathless?

  "You doin' anything this morning?"

  "What do you have in mind?" Crap, isn't that a bit too open-ended?

  "I'm going out to my family's house."

  "And you'd like some company?"

  He parked a foot up on the porch and rested an arm across his thigh. "Yeah," he said simply.

  If he had a family home, why was he renting a house across the street from her? She shook her head reluctantly. "I don't want to intrude."

  His expression went serious. "You wouldn't be. I'd like your company."

  Maybe he needed someone to go with him. It was probably painful to go back to the house under the circumstances. She knew nothing more about his past other than his parents had died in a car accident. "Sure, thanks." She lifted her cup. "Let me get rid of this, and I'll be right out."

  It was always a pleasure to climb into his low-slung car. Actually the term "car" didn't apply. Glorious automobile. Cloud to heaven. She'd pulled her hair back into a ponytail and put a baseball cap on with the tail through the hole in the back. There. That ought to keep her hair somewhat in order.

  They both spoke at once.

  "About this—"

  "Why'd you leave this morning?"

  He glanced at her, lifting a brow to tell her she should go first.

  Damn. Why did I leave? Deciding to make a joke of it, she said, "I'm not usually a love 'em and leave 'em kind of girl. Well I mean—" She quickly turned her gaze to the courthouse as they drove by.

  "But you kind of did love and leave."

  She glanced back at him. "I'm sorry. I woke up and just didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure you'd even want me there."

  His mouth thinned. He shook his head.

  She had no idea what that meant. "So where's the house?"

  "Not too far. At the end of town where Hickory Street curves and heads out of town."

  "I've wondered about it. It looks gorgeous and mysterious."

  "Mysterious?"

  "Well it's kind of derelict." She realized she might have insulted him. It was his home after all. "I'm sorry. It just looks like it hasn't been kept up."

  "That's okay. It really hasn't been tended to. I guess I should have made some arrangements, but that would mean truly accepting they're gone."

  "I'm sorry, Marc."

  "Some brave Marine I am," he murmured as they pulled up to an unattractive chain-link gate and fence surrounding the property. He turned off the car, climbed out, and used a key on the padlock. Getting back in, he nodded toward the gate as they drove through. "I had someone checking to make sure it was locked all these years and to walk around the house to look for break-ins."

  "Chain-link doesn't seem like much of a deterrent," she offered.

  "It's not but at least it's something." He shrugged, then went silent.

  "When were you here last?" Her skin prickled when he didn't respond. She felt his distance now, as if he were prepping himself. But she was glad she'd come with him.

  The flirtatious, seductive Marc Rahn seemed to be gone, replaced with a detached version. The car stopped in the driveway, where the right Y led to a barnlike garage, the left to the steps of a broad veranda running the length of the front and one side of the house.

  Waiting until he levered himself out first, she gazed at the Gothic Revival while she got out. Up close, it didn't look as dark and imposing as it did from the road. She imagined it as a lovely old-fashioned home. Sitting out on the porch on summer days and nights—she caught her breath at the beauty of it.

  What would it have been like to grow up here? Her parents' house was nice, a modern bungalow, but nothing as romantic and awe-inspiring as this. A little ache in the pit of her stomach told her how attracted she was to this house, and she didn't really know why.

  Glancing over at Marc, she watched him examine the house. His expression was stern, eyes wide. She could see a tic at the side of his jaw. He seemed to be holding his breath. Glad she was here, she hoped she could make this easier for him.

  Finally, he let out a huff of breath as if making a big decision and headed for the porch steps. He climbed five wide wood steps up and stopped again. It was as if he'd forgotten she was there, even though she stood right behind him. Fiddling
with the keys, he slid his feet toward the front door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. It creaked, no surprise after all these years. She wondered if there was still furniture inside.

  Barely noticing anything about the house as they entered the front hall, she concentrated on watching him. He obviously was becoming more and more emotional. Then, her mouth agape, her gaze lifted in the narrow central hall. A vaulted ceiling rose two stories above them, its wooden ribs connected by intricately carved, raised ornaments.

  A thought hit her. What an amazing house this would be to restore. The artist in her, the visually creative part of her, saw the gorgeous woodwork sanded and re-stained. She imagined washing all the little diamond-pane casement windows to bring the sunshine inside. She'd lay beautiful thick carpets over the cold stone floors to make a comfortable family home for him again.

  These were such strange thoughts for her, and she pushed them away as quickly as she could. There was no way she would forget her own career plans—which didn't include a man right now and definitely didn't involve making a home for him.

  She followed him as he strode down the dark hallway until they reached the kitchen at the rear of the house. "Marc," she ventured. "Is this a good idea? It must be hard to see this after so many years away."

  He turned then, his head jerking as if just remembering she was there. A pained expression turned softer when his eyes met hers. He shook his head. "Phoebe."

  Coming toward him, she wrapped her fingers around his arm. "Are you okay? Do you want to sit down?" His shaking was barely perceptible, but she could feel the muscles in his arm quivering.

  She slid her hand down to encompass his frigid one to warm with both of hers. If he weren't standing so stiffly, she'd try to put her arms around him.

  He towed her over to the kitchen sink and gazed out the window. "It was the day before Thanksgiving. The night, actually. I was home watching TV. Mom and Dad—" He stopped abruptly.

  She gently rubbed her thumbs over his broad hand. It was the only comfort she could give him.

  "They'd gone to Marietty's for dinner."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marc was lost in the past. "They'd gone to Marietty's for dinner," he repeated. "It was the last time I saw them alive."