d-done.”
No, he was the one who was done, Jeb thought fatalistically. No doubt he’d been done the day he met her. He’d just been too ignorant to realize it.
* * *
SOPHIE’S HEART SKIPPED a beat in her chest and, though she’d finished tidying up those scratches, she still kept Jeb’s hand in hers. She should probably let it go—and had intended to, really—but when she’d glanced up and caught him looking at her like that…
No man had ever looked at her like that.
Like he wanted to lay her out like dinner on the ground and lick her up with a spoon. Like he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Like every depraved thought that had flitted through her mind the last couple of days hadn’t been original at all, because he’d thought of them first and more often.
Impossibly, it made her hotter.
Longing twisted through her, tying her up in knots, and her mouth watered while the rest of her body had decided to liquefy and simmer. She longed to touch more of him, to slide the tip of her thumb across the slope of his brow, to taste the skin on the highest part of his cheek, where she knew it would be the softest.
She had never, ever wanted a man more than she did him right now.
Ever.
And she instinctively knew she never would again. He had some sort of mystical power over her, an appeal that called to her on a purely visceral level. Not that she didn’t find him fascinating, because she did. She liked being able to predict those inscrutable faces—the man behind the mask, as it were—and she especially liked that she appeared to be the only person who could do it. Take now, for instance. For all intents and purposes, he still looked every bit as lethal and intimidating as always.
But she could tell that the alcohol had mellowed him out, easing some of the tension from his shoulders and his eyes—that purely remarkable shade of blue—had gone all heavy-lidded and sultry-looking. Combined with that perpetual sulky, sensual mouth he looked especially hot…wicked, even.
And if he didn’t stop looking at her like that, she was going to be in serious trouble.
“It’s getting late,” he said, his gaze dropping hungrily to her mouth.
“I’m sure Foy is worried about you.”
He snorted, a chuckle startled out of him. “Foy locked me out of the house until two a.m. last night. He had a guest over,” he drawled. “And he was especially hopeful about Mary and her inability to hold her sangria tonight.”
Sophie grinned, not the least bit surprised. “Foy is definitely the resident Romeo.”
He passed a hand wearily over his face. “Foy is a pain in the ass.”
She grinned. “But he’s not at the top of your pain-in-the-ass list, is he? Cause that’s my spot. Undeserved,” she said with a feigned, wounded shrug. “But what can a girl do?”
He hesitated, arched a hopeful brow. “A girl could give me her couch for the night.”
The idea of him spending the night at her house made her belly clench. Too much temptation, too easily accessible. Too close. But the idea of saying no never occurred to her. It was late, and it was a thirty minute drive back into the city. For him to make the trip not knowing whether or not Foy was going to let him into the house seemed absurd when he was already here.
“You’re welcome to the couch, but I’ve got a guest bedroom upstairs.”
He released a sigh. “You’re an angel of mercy.”
More like a glutton for punishment, Sophie thought, but warmed at the compliment all the same.
“An angel of mercy with excellent taste in alcohol,” he added, gesturing to the bottle. “And one who knows her way around a twelve-gauge shotgun.” His twinkling gaze snagged hers and he grinned. “If you can fry an egg without letting the edges get all crispy and gross, you’d be a top contender in The Perfect Woman contest.”
“Ah, I see why you’ve asked to spend the night,” she said. “You’re drunk. Off three inches of scotch.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said, smiling. “I’m…warm. A couple of ticks behind buzzed maybe, but not drunk.” He inclined his head. “That’s good stuff.”
She was “warm” too, but could only attribute a minor portion of it to the alcohol. Of course, she hadn’t finished hers, so…
“Come on,” she said. “Let me show you upstairs.” She released his hand, immediately missing its warmth, then stood and headed toward the hall. A thought struck and she shot him a look over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you call Foy and let him know not to expect you?”
“Can’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “My phone is in the pond.”
Sophie felt her eyes round, started mounted the stairs. “What? Why? How did it get there?”
“It’s not important,” he said. “It wasn’t my finest moment. But if I could use your phone to send a text, I’d appreciate it. Judd’s going to flip a bitch if he doesn’t hear from me soon.” His tone was a bit grim and held a degree of certainty.
Sophie opened the bedroom door, ushering him inside. “Who’s Judd? Your boss?”
Jeb glanced around the room, made a moue of approval. “My twin. This is nice, thanks. I’ve been sleeping on a futon at Foy’s.”
Another jolt of shock moved through her. “You’re a twin. There are two of you?” she asked faintly. She gulped. That was hardly fair to the world, was it?
He grinned. “We’re not identical,” he said, humor lighting his gaze. “But we’re closely bonded.”
“A twin connection, you mean?”
He nodded, didn’t elaborate further.
“That’s cool,” she said. “So you’re close?”
A dark chuckle emerged from his throat. “Uncomfortably, at times.”
She envied him that. Her brother was two years older, but she never remembered being anything but afraid of him. He’d been the perfect blend of the worst of her parents, a sociopath with a violent streak.
Sophie nodded, unable to contribute. “Right,” she said. “There are clean linens on the bed. You can use the hall bath—I’ve got my own—and there are towels and washcloths in the linen closet and a spare toothbrush in the drawer next to the sink. Let me just go and grab my phone. And I’m going to lock up while I’m downstairs. I’ll only be a minute.”
By the time she’d arrived back upstairs, he’d removed his shoes and socks, set the heels against the wall and had stripped off his shirt. He stood, bare-chested, his slacks unbuttoned, but not unzipped, and was in the process of hanging his shirt on the bedpost when she walked in. Lamplight glowed over his gleaming skin, casting shadows over the muscled planes of his body. He was glorious, a living, breathing testament to the ultimate male form. There were scars, too, of course—evidence of war—and she ached to kiss each one, to thank him for bearing them for their country.
A tattoo encircled his right bicep, which at first glance looked almost tribal, but a closer peek revealed it was the sign of the Gemini, repeated over and over. She felt a grin curl her lips.
“I’ll have to tell Cora,” she said, handing him her phone.
A question appeared in his gaze as he accepted it, the muscles rippling beneath his skin. Her stomach clenched and heat flooded her womb. “That you’ve got a tattoo,” she added a bit unsteadily. She shook herself, blinked, determined to look at something besides his splendid abs. “She said you’ve have ink,” she explained.
He glanced at the tattoo, as though he’d forgotten that it was there. “Right. Yes. Judd has the same one, but it’s on his left arm. We got them after we graduated Jump School.” He keyed in a few lines of text, sent it, then handed her phone back over.
“He was in the military as well?”
“He’s still in the military,” he said, an odd shutter falling over his gaze. He glanced away—so that she couldn’t see his face?—and smoothed a finger over the coverlet. “He’s on leave right now, in Crete, which is why he’s had access to a cell phone, otherwise communication is spotty.”
She winced, wondering what had made him sudd
enly shut down. The wall had come down so quickly, she’d nearly recoiled. “That must suck.”
He met her gaze once more. “It does,” he said, expelling a breath. “But it is what it is. We’ll adjust.”
Meaning they hadn’t yet. Interesting. Jeb had told her earlier that he’d come out of the military a couple of months ago and gone to work for a security company. At the time it had seemed like such an innocuous statement, one that didn’t signify…but it clearly did. Why had he come out of the military? Why had he abandoned what should have been a life-long career? Particularly when his brother—his twin—was still serving?
Something horrible had happened, Sophie thought, studying him. Because only something substantial would have made this man switch course mid-stream. She knew it as well as she knew that the world was round, that the sky was blue, the grass green.
To her surprise, he took a step forward, lessening the distance between them, putting his bare skin within arm’s length of her fingers. Too close. Startled, Sophie swallowed.
“Do you remember the song we danced to tonight?” he asked, his voice low, a little rough and unsteady. He sidled a little closer. Or had she moved? She couldn’t be sure. Either way she could feel the heat coming off his skin, could smell the tang of the orange in the soap he’d used.
“I—I do.”
His gaze slid hungrily over her face, along her cheek, her eyes, lingered on her mouth. “Remind me of the title, please.”
She moistened her lips, her own gaze dropping inexplicably to his mouth. Her knees wobbled. “Just a Kiss.”
“I agree,” he said, closing the distance between them. He framed her face with both hands, his thumbs sliding over her jaw, then drew her to him and lowered his mouth to hers. Sophie went up on tiptoe, vibrated like a tuning fork, then looped her arms around his neck and…melted.
A tornado of energy, of sensation, whirled from the bottoms of her feet to the top of her head, wrapping her in an eye of unparalleled joy, infinite desire. Longing bubbled up inside of her, bittersweet and curiously sacred, and she clung to him, feeling the power in his touch, the desperation in his lips. His were soft against hers, but firm and his tongue expertly probed the inner recesses of her mouth.
A low moan hummed against her lips and she smiled when she realized that it was his. He seemed to tense against her, almost as though he’d been shocked into stillness—in awe—then he’d pushed his hands into her hair, angled her head and deepened the kiss. Like he was drowning. Like he couldn’t breathe. Like he needed her. He tasted like good scotch whiskey, spring rain, a new beginning…familiar. Hauntingly so, which was impossible and yet..the sensation was there all the same.
Warmth flooded her womb, tingled hotly in her nipples, made her breasts heavy with longing. Her stomach fluttered, the backs of her thighs quaked with a shiver and she could feel the pulse beat hammering between her legs.
Jeb wrapped her closer, one massive hand on her face, his thumb sliding reverently over her cheek, while the other hand slid down her back and settled hotly on her ass. He gave a little squeeze, lifting her up so that the evidence of his arousal rode high on her belly.
He was…
That was…
Oh, sweet heaven.
His fingers trembled against her face, proof that she affected him as much as he affected her. He groaned softly, the sound ringing with regret, then slowly ended the kiss and rested his forehead against hers.
His brooding gaze burned with longing, a hint of futility and something else, something she couldn’t quite decipher. Wonder, maybe?
“Just a kiss,” he murmured, his breath and tone equally, gratifyingly, unsteady. “For now.”
Quivering from one end of her body to the other, Sophie nodded.
Because that sounded like a promise.
9
DESPITE THE FACT that he’d been wound tighter than a spool of thread, Jeb slept like the dead in Sophie’s guest bedroom. Sleep had eluded him for a couple of hours after she’d retired to her own room—probably because he’d imagined he could hear the whine of the zipper when she’d removed her dress—followed by the sound of her shower starting immediately thereafter. The hard-on he’d been fighting delivered a knock-out punch with that one, because he couldn’t think about her being in the shower without thinking about her being naked. And wet.
He shifted and continued his trek to her barn. Though he hadn’t heard her get up or go out of the house—mildly disconcerting, all things considered—she’d left a note taped to the coffeepot citing her whereabouts should he wake and find her gone.
That kiss must have done more than scramble his loins—it must of fried his brain as well. Honestly, he’d been thinking about kissing her for days—looking at her mouth, longing for the taste of her. He’d wanted it with an intensity that had left him nothing short of baffled.
But nothing could have prepared him for the act itself, or more significantly, the feelings it would provoke. The instant he’d touched her lips to his, felt the sweet slide of tongue into his mouth, that jerk behind his naval had given a massive yank he’d felt to the soles of his feet…then the knot he’d been carrying around in his belly—the one that had grown tighter every time he’d clapped eyes on her—suddenly loosened and unfurled, relaxing with a release so achingly perfect he’d felt the relief of it all at once. It was like his middle had slipped an unknown tourniquet and the feeling of happiness and contentedness, desire and need had welled up within him, filling him so completely he was hard pressed not to collapse beneath the weight of it.
If merely kissing her did this to him, then he couldn’t imagine what it would be like when he finally bedded her. And, he would. He had to. It wasn’t a matter of exercising restraint or using good judgment or even the power of his baser instincts.
He needed her. He needed to get inside of her, to hold her and taste and feel her greedy little body beneath his. And every beat of his heart, every determined, rhythmic push of his blood through his veins, only intensified the sensation, only heightened his awareness of it.
It was terrifying.
Other than failure, Jeb had never been afraid of anything in his life. He’d walked into battle a dozen times over, had been as close to death as anyone was capable of being just as often and yet, he’d never been afraid. Wary, maybe. Careful? Always. Hell, he didn’t have a death wish. But one didn’t join the military without coming to terms with their own mortality pretty damned quick. Fear could get you killed.
That he was afraid of this woman—this extraordinarily ordinary, gun-wielding, soap-making, goat farmer—was nothing short of inconceivable. He released a pent-up breath.
But there it was.
Jeb smothered a laugh and shook his head. Clearly he’d lost his mind. Rather than lingering on that thought, he took a moment to survey her property with the benefit of daylight. Ducks, geese and swans glided along the top of the large pond in front of her house and chickens clucked from a nearby pen. Farther down the lane nearest the barn, half a dozen goats gobbled feed from a trough, while a lone one struggled to get its head out of the fence.
Not the brightest of animals, goats, Jeb thought. Tsking under her breath, Sophie emerged from behind the pen, a cup in her hand. Dressed in a long-sleeved flannel shirt, a pair of jeans and her now infamous muck boots, she looked adorable. Her cheeks and nose were pink from the morning chill and a pink camouflage hat covered the top of her head.
“Come on now, Jenny,” she called. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Why not?” Jeb asked, setting a foot against the fence railing. “Are we in a hurry?”
She started and her gaze found his. A smile slid over her lips, lighting her whole face. Something in his chest squeezed almost painfully.
“Not particularly, but she does this every morning. She’s not as smart as the other goats and they pick on her. That’s why she won’t eat with them.” She bent down and carefully angled the goat’s head back through the fence, then put the c
up up under its nose and rubbed its head. “Here, sweetheart,” she cooed indulgently. “Fight back today, would you? Give ’em hell.”
Jeb grinned. “I didn’t know being a motivational speaker came along with this job.”
She shrugged, gave the animal one last pat. “I’m always a cheerleader for the underdog.”
Because she’d been one? Jeb wondered. Because she had firsthand experience of the inequity? Or, like him, was she just wired that way? Possibly both, he imagined. He cast a sweeping glance around her farm, noting the tidiness of everything. No weeds, no debris, no downed trees or old stumps. A pair of peacocks—one male and one female—walked slowly by, pecking at bits of leftover grass in their path. Despite their “cry”—he suppressed a shudder, remembering—they were truly beautiful birds.
“You’ve got a lovely place here,” he said. It was warm and inviting, nice and lived in.
“Thank you,” she said, coming over the fence. “It’s a lot of work, but I enjoy it and it’s home. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“You’re awfully isolated out here,” he remarked, scanning the front edge of her property, eyeing the fence.
She peeked into the cup in her hand, to avoid looking at him, he suspected. “I’ve got everything I need to take care of myself.”
“The fence—both of them—look relatively new.” He was fishing and she knew it.
“I put them in after Gran died. Some of the family wasn’t happy with the terms of her will.” She arched a brow and smiled. “I see you found the sweatshirt I left out for you.” Her lips twitched. “It almost fits.”
Ah, yes, he thought, poking a tongue inside his cheek. The sweatshirt in question was John Deere green, with the infamous logo on the breast. It was a large. No doubt it would have swallowed her, but it was admittedly a little tight on him. Paired with his tuxedo pants and dress shoes, he looked ridiculous. But his shirt was ruined and without another to go under the equally torn tuxedo coat, he’d no doubt look like a male stripper.
The Professional Page 11