by Ruthie Knox
“I’m telling you now.”
Rising to her feet, she leaned across the table and shoved his chest as hard as she could. She managed to catch him off guard, knocking him against the back of the chair. “Damn it, Tom! Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through? Why the hell didn’t you say something a week ago? Wait, how long have you been planning this?”
Her veins felt like they were filled with battery acid, and it was difficult to draw enough air into her lungs. She needed to get away from him. She needed to think. “Give me a minute,” she said, and fled outside.
It was hot and blindingly bright in the parking lot. Lexie leaned back against the building, closing her eyes to the glare off the blacktop. It was nearly September. She was supposed to go back to Portland tomorrow, to be in the classroom again in two weeks. Tom loved her. He wanted to ride back to Oregon with her.
He’d called his mother.
And he’d been thinking about this stuff all the way across Virginia, and he hadn’t said a word.
There were surprises, and then there were surprises. She hadn’t liked it when he threw her bike computer into a field of longhorns, but it had turned out fine. He’d made her nervous with the detour to Steamboat Springs, but the few days they’d spent on the Great Divide trail were among her favorite memories from the trip. This, though. This was Tom pushing her to be spontaneous about the rest of her life. This was Tom hatching plans for the two of them while the two of them were hardly speaking. It was no way to start a relationship. He couldn’t always be in charge.
She heard the front door of the restaurant open to disgorge a knot of customers, and footsteps approached. She didn’t even have to open her eyes, because her skin knew he was there, and anyway, she could smell him.
He braced his hands on either side of her head, and when she opened her eyes he was filling her field of vision. His expression caught her off guard. Tom had the hunted look of the rabbit they’d seen in Kansas, frozen in an open field while a red-tailed hawk circled overhead. There was nothing high-handed or arrogant about him. He was just plain scared.
“Don’t be mad at me, Lex,” he said. “Please. I’ve had a lot to sort through, and I couldn’t talk to you until I had something to offer. I want to be someone you can imagine spending the rest of your life with. It’s just taking me some time to get there.”
He hadn’t been exaggerating earlier, then. Tom had his heart on the chopping block, and she was holding the knife. He was truly afraid she wouldn’t want him. And why shouldn’t he be? She’d told him she loved him, but she’d been yelling at him at the time. He didn’t know he’d carved out such a big place for himself in her heart that she could never be whole without him.
The panic that had driven her out of the restaurant had departed, leaving nothing but clean certainty. They were both afraid. That was only natural, since they were on the cusp of making a commitment that would change both of their lives permanently, and they’d spent the past two weeks trying to pretend they were strangers. But the fear didn’t matter anymore. Tom loved her. She loved him. That wasn’t going to change. They could get married in Vegas or Oregon or not at all. The details weren’t important. They were going to be together. She would ride with him to the ends of the earth if that’s what he wanted.
“You really don’t know how I feel about you?” she asked. “You’re already that someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. There’s never going to be anyone else for me but you, Tom. I love you.”
He exhaled and leaned his forehead against hers. “I thought I was a python.”
“I only said that because I was angry. And I felt like a goose.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him closer, awareness skittering up her spine. She’d missed this. Her arms had been pining for this man for a thousand miles.
“You’re not angry anymore?”
“No. I’m good. Better than good.”
“Thank God.” He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her, hot and sweet, long and hard. A promise of everything to come.
When he straightened back up, he was her Tom again. Relaxed. Confident. Ridiculously hot. He gave her a slow, provocative smile and said, “I know I wasn’t supposed to do that, but you were taking too long to make the first move. You think we could skip straight to the makeup sex and work out the rest later?”
It was the best idea she’d heard in weeks.
After all, they had five thousand miles to iron out the details.
Acknowledgments
For my dad, who bought me my first three kick-ass bikes, and who taught me when I was twelve that there’s really no such thing as a hill I can’t ride up.
With thanks to Faye, for being my friend, and to Serenity Woods for being the best critique partner a gal could ask for. To Gina Leigh Maxwell for stalking me and sharing her superpower of Sonic Perkiness. To Isabel Sharpe for a warm welcome to the wilds of romance and blunt criticism when I most needed it. And to Meg Maguire, Serena Bell, and Christie Craig for helping me rewrite the beginning of this book the fourth, and final, time.
I’m grateful to the Georgia Romance Writers Association for selecting this book as a winner of the Maggie Award of Excellence, as well as to Winona Bateman and Jennifer Milyko at the Adventure Cycling Association for their help with the map.
Thanks also to my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, for being so cheerfully certain about me (and for the pens). To Angela Polidoro at Random House for her eagle-eyed editing and help. And finally to Sue Grimshaw, my editor, for deciding Tom and Lexie’s story deserved to be told, and for helping me tell it better.
About the Author
(Photo: © STUN Photography)
Ruthie Knox figured out how to walk and read at the same time in the second grade, and she hasn’t looked up since. She spent her formative years hiding romance novels in her bedroom closet to avoid the merciless teasing of her brothers and imagining scenarios in which someone who looked remarkably like Daniel Day Lewis recognized her well-hidden sex appeal and rescued her from middle-class midwestern obscurity.
After graduating from college with an English and history double major, she earned a doctorate in modern British history that she’s put to remarkably little use. These days, she writes the sort of contemporary romance in which witty, down-to-earth characters find each other irresistible in their pajamas, though she freely admits this has yet to happen to her. Perhaps she needs more exciting pajamas. Ruthie abhors an epilogue and insists a decent romance requires at least three good sex scenes. You can find her at http://www.ruthieknox.com.
THE EDITOR’S CORNER
Welcome to Loveswept!
Come along with us on a thrilling ride with our next two titles: Sandra Chastain’s RAVEN AND THE COWBOY and THE REDHEAD AND THE PREACHER. Sandra Chastain’s stories are always wonderfully exuberant romances, brimming with adventurous romps, charming humor, and savory sensuality. But I’ll let you discover that for yourself. Enjoy these two delightful reads!
If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: In April, we have Linda Cajio’s brilliant novels, ALL IS FAIR and RESCUING DIANA, as well as Debra Dixon’s unforgettable BAD TO THE BONE. In May, we’re really excited to have nine titles on our list! Here’s what we have in store for you that month: Jessica Scott’s vibrant second book in her Coming Home series, BACK TO YOU, Judith E. French’s exciting MORGAN’S WOMAN, and Katie Rose’s enchanting A CASE FOR ROMANCE. We’re also releasing six fantastic books by Debra Dixon: MIDNIGHT HOUR, MOUNTAIN MYSTIC, PLAYING WITH FIRE, SLOW HANDS, HOT AS SIN, and DOC HOLIDAY. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…
Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …
Read on for an excerpt from Deborah Harmse’s
In the Arms of the Law
ON
E
Head wounds were invariably bloody.
Detective Mackenzie Hoyle reminded himself of that basic fact a split second after he felt a stream of warm liquid trickle down his forehead. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, then swore at the bright red blood smeared from his wrist to his knuckles.
“Cripes, what a way to start the day,” he muttered, taking two prudent steps back from the shattered schoolroom window before checking for further damage.
Miraculously, his shirt and tie had survived the incident unscathed, as had his black oxfords and charcoal-gray slacks. But the gray herringbone sport coat he’d bought just the week before hadn’t been so lucky, he noticed, more than a little ticked off by the splotch of blood on the cuff of the left sleeve. Damn. He’d worn the thing only twice.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you waiting for me?”
Hoyle turned his head in the direction of the voice, and winced at the sharp pain that shot through his neck and down his arm. A dull ache began to pound inside his head. He forced himself to ignore it, instead focusing his attention on the woman standing in the classroom doorway.
He took in the essential details in one glance: Blond hair, blue eyes, an inch or two over five feet, weighing no more than one hundred pounds. The phrase “cute as a button” sprang to mind.
Hoyle drew his brows together into a frown, immediately vowing that if this was Miss Rebekah de Bieren—the teacher he’d come to talk to about his latest murder case—he’d eat his billfold. And the inspector’s badge inside.
“Actually,” he began, “I was waiting for—”
“Uh-oh,” she said, her eyes widening as her gaze swept from the gaping hole in the classroom window, to the rock lying on the floor near his left foot, to the thin line of blood bisecting his forehead. “Looks like someone scored a bull’s-eye this time.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” he replied, and allowed himself a more leisurely inspection of the young woman. He was suddenly very curious to know who she was.
Definitely not a teacher, he decided. She looked too young, too hip, too sweet in a girl-next-door sort of way.
Her cheeks were smooth, wrinkle-free, no doubt soft to the touch. Her short hair was stick straight and cut in a jagged fashion that had been popular sometime in the sixties, uneven spikes feathering across her forehead and framing her face in a haphazard way. And her clothes—neon pink-and-yellow parachute pants with matching T-shirt, separated by an extrawide black belt that made her waist look small, real small—were about as unteacherish as they could get.
“You know, this never should have happened,” she said, shaking her head in obvious disgust as she dumped her armload of books and a red-and-black-plaid thermos on the teacher’s desk.
Teacher’s desk?
Hoyle muttered a disbelieving expletive and reached for his wallet. Then he remembered that no one had witnessed his impulsive vow to lunch on leather and let his hand fall to his side. Lucky break, he thought, more than a little relieved one of his buddies at the precinct hadn’t caught him jumping to conclusions. They’d never let him live it down.
“The taxpayers think they’re so clever,” she continued as she rummaged through her purse, “voting down education measures year after year. Okay, so they pay less in taxes, have a few more dollars to spend going out to the movies or to dinner at some fancy restaurant. But look who suffers—the poor children, that’s who.”
Suffering children? Hoyle thought. At the moment, he was the one suffering, all because one of those “poor” little buggers had heaved a rock through a school window and clobbered him on the head.
“Whoever threw that rock,” she went on, “should be the star pitcher on the school baseball team. But we don’t have a baseball team. And do you know why?” she asked, still digging through her handbag.
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Because we lost our funding for after-school activities a long time ago.” She shook her head. “It’s a crying shame to waste that kind of talent on mere vandalism, don’t you agree, Mr …?”
“Hoyle. Detective Hoyle. Santa Ana Police Department.”
She jerked her head up and locked her gaze with his. Satisfied he’d finally managed to secure her undivided attention, he reached inside his coat pocket with his clean hand and retrieved his wallet. Using his thumb, he flipped it open and flashed his gold shield. “Homicide Division,” he added, taking perverse pleasure in the startled look on her face.
She blinked a couple of times, then drew herself up to her full height. “Homicide?” she repeated. “Your wound must be more serious than I thought.”
“Not that serious,” he replied, silently commending the way she’d recovered her composure so quickly. Still, he didn’t laugh at her joke. As far as he was concerned, assault on a police officer—though unintentional—was no laughing matter.
“Well, I’d better take a look.” She dug deeper into her purse, came up with a wad of tissues, then rushed over to him. Stretching her arm up, she wiped away some of the blood. “Tip your head down a little, will you?”
Without waiting for him to comply, she pressed on his chin until his eyes were aimed at a pair of white sneakers with neon-yellow laces. She stood on her tiptoes, first brushing his hair away from his forehead, then dabbing at the cut.
Her fingers were warm, her touch soft as a lover’s caress. Cupping his face in her hands, she tipped his head to one side, then the other, making hmmmmlike noises as she inspected the damage.
“Typical head wound,” she finally stated, sounding somewhat exasperated by her discovery. “Plenty of blood, but when you get right down to it, minimal damage.”
He listened to her pronouncement, noticing with interest that one of her hands was now resting on his shoulder. “Are you suggesting I’m hardheaded?” he asked, his mood suddenly lighter than it had been in weeks.
She laughed. “That remains to be seen.” Taking hold of his hand, she pulled him toward the door. “Come on, we’d better get you cleaned up.”
His attention captured by the slender curve of her hips as she led him briskly down the hall, he followed without protest. One part of his mind took note of the fact that she needed two short steps to every one of his, while the other pondered her strange reaction to the start of her school day.
She’d taken it all in stride—having a rock thrown through her window, the glass littering the floor, his being hurt. He couldn’t help wondering if she’d witnessed so many violent situations, she’d gotten used to them. The way he had.
He rejected that notion immediately. In spite of the nothing-rattles-me routine, she had a freshness about her, a sparkling innocence in her clear blue eyes that led him to believe she wasn’t as tough as she sounded.
She couldn’t possibly be, he told himself, refusing for some reason to even consider that her tough-guy act was no act at all.
“Here we are,” she said, pausing in front of a door marked First Aid Room. She pulled a ring of keys out of the pocket of her pants and unlocked the door. Flipping on the light with one hand, she pointed to a bench with the other. “Sit.”
Any doubts he’d been clinging to about her being a teacher—or her ability to control a classroom full of kids—vanished. Only teachers gave orders with that kind of authority and expected them to be followed without argument.
Teachers and cops, he amended as he removed his jacket and sat down.
She walked over to the telephone on the wall by the door and dialed a two-digit number. While she waited for someone to pick up on the other end, she paced in the opposite direction as far as the spiral cord would allow.
“Helen,” she said a half minute later. “This is Becky. Someone tried to air-condition my civics classroom again this morning.… Yes, third time this month. Um-hmm, I know.” She glanced at him briefly over her shoulder, her gaze flicking to the cut on his head. “Darned dangerous. Do you think Abe will be able to get the window boarded before school starts?” She looked down at her
watch, then ran her hand through her hair. The straight blond strands floated up briefly before drifting back in place around her face. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” She hung up the phone, then strode over to the cabinet above the sink.
Hoyle watched her bustle about, gathering speed as she went along like a hurricane in its prime. She opened cupboard doors and drawers, and in no time she had a full complement of first-aid supplies set out to the right of the sink in a line as straight as a row at roll call in the police academy. Her scrub routine—aided by the use of a soft-bristled brush and steaming hot water—was equally impressive.
Under normal circumstances, he would have felt foolish letting her make such a fuss over what she’d already declared to be nothing more than a simple flesh wound. But thus far, normal was the last word he would use to describe anything that had happened since the moment he’d stepped into her classroom.
Besides, he was starting to think that in spite of a brand-new sport coat that was history and a headache that was worthy of the record books, getting beaned in the noggin wasn’t so bad after all. Especially since all this quality attention seemed to be included in the deal.
After filling it with water, she set a small stainless steel bowl on the edge of the counter closest to him, then came over to where he sat. He spread his knees wide, and she stepped between his legs, all her concentration focused on the cut on his forehead.
She stood close, so close he could smell her perfume. Testing his ability to name the exact brand, he inhaled deeply. Instantly, his nostrils filled with an unusual scent, something vibrant and alive that suited her to a tee.