For the Love of Jazz

by Shiloh Walker

  “Around,” he murmured. But she wasn’t going to let it go at that. She heard the reluctance to talk that lingered under his voice, but Anne-Marie paid it no attention. She was so hungry for everything that had to do with Jazz, had so much time to make up for.

  And so many empty days ahead for which she had to prepare.

  Jazz wouldn’t stay around, and Anne-Marie knew, certain as she knew her own name, he wouldn’t let her go with him when he left.

  “Buffalo,” he finally said on a sigh. “I’ve lived in Buffalo, New York, the past nine years.”

  “And what do you do in Buffalo? Are you an arm breaker?” Anne-Marie guessed, smiling against his bare skin. “A professional hockey player? A male dancer?”

  Gripping a lock of silky hair in his hand, Jazz gave it a good sharp yank, smiling when she yelped. “You are still every bit as nosy as you ever were, Annie.”

  Pulling up, rubbing at her scalp, she scowled at him. “Pardon me, but I wasn’t aware it was rude to inquire about your bedmate’s life.”

  With a hoot of laughter, Jazz asked, “How do you do it? How can you sit there, naked as a jaybird, and act as regal as the Queen of frigging England?”

  Pursing her lips, she primly replied, “It’s a gift. And you are trying to change the subject.”

  Flopping onto his stomach, staring out at the dark sky, Jazz groaned. “I write, Annie. Okay?”

  Her lips fell apart in a surprised gasp and she rubbed at her ear. “Excuse me, Jazz. I’m sorry, but it sounded to me like you just said that you write. You mean write as in, writing for a living.”

  “It hasn’t always been for a living. Started out as something to keep my sanity while I was in rehab for my leg. Then for a while, it was to keep food in my mouth and gas in the tank while I wandered around the Bible Belt.” He flopped over onto his back and met her eyes, a little reluctantly, it seemed. “My pen name is J.C. McCoy and I write for AdventPub.”

  “AdventPub. McCoy,” Anne murmured. “McCoy. Wait a second, you write that guy, uh, Vince?”

  “Vance,” he corrected wearily, waiting for the censure.

  “Daddy reads those sometimes,” she whispered, a frown sitting on her face. With a wrinkle of her pert nose, she added, “Not exactly my taste, though.”

  “Your dad reads them?” he repeated dumbly.

  “Yeah. Every once in a while, he gets tired of medical journals. We both do. He picks up one of those and I pick up a romance.” Reaching up, Anne rubbed her temple with her forefinger, still frowning. “I can’t believe this. You write?”

  Where was the disapproval?

  Didn’t she know what kind of trash it was?

  But Desmond read them. Confused, Jazz sat up, turning to look at her in the soft moonlight. “Yeah, I write. Not exactly Nobel prize winning stuff, though.”

  “Nobody calls romance Nobel material, either. But I love to pick one up whenever I have time,” Anne said with a casual shrug. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she studied him. “I don’t quite believe it, Jazz, but I think you are embarrassed.”

  That confused, vaguely blank look still on his face, Jazz asked, “Your dad really reads them?”

  “Uh-huh. So does my business partner, Jake. I believe he keeps one on his desk all the time.” A smile lighting her face, Anne-Marie sat up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Imagine that. Jazz McNeil, a big-time author.”

  “I wouldn’t call writing Vance Marrone big time, Anne. You’d hate him. He’s a jerk, a bastard and a user,” Jazz said in a flat voice. shaking his head.

  “He’s also just a figment of your imagination, Jazz. One you created and gave life. Not everybody can do that,” Anne-Marie said. “I certainly can’t. I couldn’t tell a story to save my life.”

  Stroking his stiff shoulders, Anne said, “You oughta be proud of yourself, Jazz. Most wannabe writers would kill to say they have as many published books as you do.”

  With a snort, he said, “They’re welcome to him. I don’t want him any more.”

  “If you don’t like him, then write about something else,” Anne-Marie suggested with a casual shrug of her shoulders. “I’m certain you can write anything you want to. A writer. Hot damn, Jazz. That’s unbelievable.”

  Lowering them back to the bed, his arms holding her tight against him, Jazz let the dazed wonder wash over him. She wasn’t unhappy about it, didn’t disapprove.

  Hell, she actually seemed proud of him.

  Imagine that.

  Desmond sat in front of his computer, doggedly working to complete an article for the AMA. Why in hell had he agreed to this article anyway?

  When the door whispered open, he didn’t even hear.

  I am supposed to be slowing things down, getting ready to retire. He sat back, flexing his hands, unaware as a shadow moved around the corner of the room to stand behind him. Staring at his hands, he hardly even recognized them anymore. They were getting stiff, and every now and then, shaky. It only happened when he was worn-out and he was careful to make sure he got enough rest, that he ate right, and did everything else required to keep his energy level up, but there was no denying the inevitable.

  Desmond was getting old. No surgeon in his right mind operated with shaky hands. If he couldn’t do surgery, then it was time to shut down the business. Or sell it out. With hope, I’ll find some young version of myself. They needed his skills here in central Kentucky, needed them badly. They were only a half hour out outside of Lexington but the small, rural county had many patients that wouldn’t make that trip into the city to see a specialist for their ticker. Many of his colleagues had questioned his decision to return home and set up his practice. While dedicated physicians, they were caught up in the business of being a highly regarded doctor with their business luncheons, weekends spent golfing, skiing or a thousand other things that didn’t interest Desmond in the least.

  He wanted to be a doctor and he wanted to help people. In Lexington, good physicians were a dime a dozen, but here…here he did some actual good. It was time to let it go, though. He knew that and he could even accept it. Mostly. Once more, he opened his fingers and spread them wide before resting them back on the keyboard.

  But just as he started tapping at keys, he paused. Something white drifted at the edge of his line of vision. Desmond was turning his head to look when a click sounded right behind his head. Slowly, he turned his head but before he could see behind him, his world exploded right before his eyes.

  And he felt nothing else.

  Hours later, at nearly dawn, Jazz lay awake with her curled against his side, sleeping soundly. What in the hell have I done?

  As if life hadn’t been complicated enough. He turned his head, studying her profile in the pale moonlight. He had spent the better part of his life holding himself responsible for the death of her older brother, a brother she had adored, and rightly so.

  Alex had been a golden child, smart, kind, compassionate. He’d had a quicksilver temper and a heart of pure gold. He had died his eighteenth summer, right before he would have started college. There was no sense to it.

  Jazz was tired of trying to make sense of it, had spent too much time trying to do just that. But some years ago, it had dawned on him how very little the puzzle fit. He remembered only fragments of that night after leaving Maribeth’s, but there was one thing that stood out in his mind.

  Jazz hadn’t lingered around town long after he’d been released from the hospital and all he knew about the accident was what little he heard in whispered tones—and what Larry had crowed about. Jazz, driving drunk, had killed Alex.

  But it didn’t make sense. Although the backseat had been littered with empty cans of Miller beer, Jazz hated the taste of beer and wouldn’t drink it. Period.

  Pleasantly sore and content, Anne-Marie opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. Jazz lay in bed beside her, face buried against a pillow. His shoulders rose and fell rhythmically with every breath he took. Reaching out, she traced her hand against the m
ellow gold of his skin, marveling at how smooth it felt, how firm the muscles beneath it.

  She was a medical doctor. Damn it, she could name every muscle that made up those wonderful shoulders, that long, elegant back, and what purposed they served. But all the knowledge meant nothing, not when she was able to simply lie there and admire him. The human body in itself might well be a miracle, but the miracle of Jazz’s body was something else entirely.

  Mmmm, one thing was certain, if the females in school could use him during anatomy, the dropout rate probably wouldn’t go sky-high before they even made medical school.

  Anne-Marie sighed and settled more comfortably against him. This was going to complicate things. That was a fact.

  But she didn’t regret it, not for one instant.

  Closing her eyes, she said silently, You would have wanted this, Alex. You would have wanted me to be happy. And Jazz can do that. I know it.

  She rolled onto her side, just watching him while he slept, while the sun slowly edged up over the horizon. Once the sun’s rays were pouring into the room, she sat, studying the long form under the simple, white sheet. It followed the dips and rises of his body, clinging to one particular rise.

  With a cat’s smile, she threw the sheet to the foot of the bed. For a minute, she sat there and just admired him. The length of his sex jutted upright against his belly, hard and firm. His body gleamed like gold against the white sheets, all sleek, sexy muscle and long limbs. His belly wasn’t a perfect six-pack, but it was flat and as he stretched a little, the muscles there rippled, drawing her eye and tempting her to reach out and touch.

  She did, but she didn’t settle for the smooth, practically hairless expanse of his chest or abdomen. Instead, she straddled him and wrapped her hand around his cock, holding him steady as she took him inside. He was buried deep within her before his eyes opened. She rolled her hips slowly, from side to side, back and forth, until she found the rhythm she wanted. Hands braced against his chest for balance, she rode him slowly, watching his face.

  She was just starting to shudder with climax when his eyes locked on her face. “Annie,” he muttered. Then he grabbed her hips, flipped and twisted, burying her underneath him, and driving deep inside her. He pressed his lips to her mouth and muttered, “That’s one hell of a wake-up call.”

  She might have laughed but he pushed his tongue inside her mouth, kissing her like he had been starving for the taste of her. Anne-Marie wrapped her arms around his neck, arching up into him. One big, rough hand palmed her ass, lifting her up and holding her steady for each deep, hard thrust. “Scream for me, Annie,” he whispered roughly. “Come for me. I want to feel it again.”

  Like she had been waiting for just that, she climaxed, clenching around his length, hard and fast. Distantly, she heard his hoarse groan as he followed her into oblivion.

  “I like the way you wake up,” he said appreciatively, gliding his hand over the curve of her bare hip.

  “Hmm,” she murmured sleepily, her mouth curving up in a smile. “I’m hungry.”

  With a bark of laughter, he raised his head and looked at her. “Now that is one romantic lady I ended up making love with, Annie—did they teach you that in med school, Doc?”

  “Nope. I always wake up hungry. I learned that in the cradle,” she replied. “Got food?”

  Why wasn’t this awkward? he wondered moments later as he headed downstairs to fix breakfast. Why had it felt so right to go to sleep with her beside him? To hold her throughout the night and know she’d be there in the morning. And waking up inside her…sweet heaven. Nothing had ever felt that right.

  Part of him insisted he should feel guilty over what had happened, but he couldn’t. As much as he might have wanted to, he hadn’t seduced Anne-Marie. She had known what she wanted and had taken it.

  Taken him.

  Hell, if anything, she’d seduced him. A faint grin curved his lips but it faded as fast as it had come. He’d loved Anne-Marie his whole life. He’d loved women before. His mother and Sheri. He’d cared a lot about Sandy, might have even loved her a little. But it all paled compared to what he felt about Anne-Marie Kincaid. Letting her go was going to kill him. Jazz lowered himself onto the bottom step, rubbing the heel of his hand over his heart. How on earth could he let her go?

  Why should you have to?

  The voice whispering in his mind didn’t even seem like his own and he felt an even bigger fool when he jerked his head up, searching for somebody else in the house. Only Anne-Marie, padding around upstairs in one of his shirts, waiting for food and coffee.

  But why in hell should he have to let her go?

  He was breaking eggs open when he heard the shower kick on. Whistling under his breath, focused on the job of preparing breakfast, he was so preoccupied, he never heard the car drive up.

  When the knock came, he frowned. He ran a hand over his bare chest then through his hair before he headed for the front door. They’d never gotten around to locking it, he noticed. Pulling it open, he squinted into the bright sunlight, staring in puzzlement at his cousin.

  Hat in his hands, Tate was staring at the little red sports car with a frown on his lean face. Beside him stood Larry Muldoon. It ate at Tate that he’d had to bring Larry along, but being first on the scene…

  “Hey, Tate. Little early for visiting, ain’t it?” Jazz asked, dismissing Larry with less than a glance.

  “Well, Cousin, it seems we have a bit of a problem.”

  “Is that so?” Looking from Tate to Larry and back again, he leaned in the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. “And exactly what is the problem?”

  “Where were you last night?” Larry asked, his chest all puffed out with self-importance.

  Sliding Larry a single look, Tate calmly said, “I will handle this, Deputy. If you don’t like that, then you know your way back to the station.” Turning his gaze back to Jazz, he studied the eyes so like his own and wished to God Jazz hadn’t come back home.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you your whereabouts for last night, Jazz,” Tate said, mouth grim, eyes shadowed and dark.

  “What’s happened, Tate?”

  “There was a shooting, attempted murder. And a witness placed you in the area.”

  “That would be rather…difficult, considering he was in bed with me all night,” a soft, low voice said from the stairs.

  Jazz turned, staring at Anne-Marie as she walked down the stairs, one hand trailing on the banister. Her hair was wet, slicked back from her face, leaving it unframed. The shirt draping her body covered her adequately, but there was nothing sexier than a woman wearing a man’s shirt. Slim, shapely legs were bared to the mid-thigh and the cuffs were turned back to reveal well-toned arms.

  All in all, just the sight of her had him hard and ready. And jealous as hell. He didn’t want Tate or Muldoon seeing her that way. But he wasn’t so stupid to think he could tell her to go get dressed, either. So instead, he held out his hand to her, realizing how very right it felt to do just that. When her hand rested in his, he drew her closer, tucking her against his side.

  “Dr. Kincaid.”

  She nodded politely at Tate, glanced at Larry and away again. “Exactly what is the problem, Tate?”

  “The problem is that there has been a shooting, an attempted murder. We had a call that Jazz was seen in the area at roughly three this morning.” When Muldoon opened his mouth, a steely glare from Tate silenced him once more.

  “That would hardly be possible, Tate. Jazz is a talented man, but it would difficult, even for him, trying to commit murder at the same time he was on top of me,” she replied, silently aligning herself with him. “And that is pretty much how we spent the entire night.”

  “You’d be willing to testify to that?” Tate asked evenly.

  “Of course,” Anne-Marie replied, her voice level, her eyes clear and direct.

  “Your daddy would be ashamed of you,” Larry snarled, poking a bony index finger her way. “Rolling in th
e sheets with trash like him.”

  Anne-Marie turned bland eyes his way and smiled. “Oh, hello, deputy. I didn’t notice you standing there.” Running a languid hand through her damp curls, she aimed sultry, green eyes at him and drawled, “What’s the matter? You jealous?”

  Witch, Jazz thought once more. Heaven and hell, this woman had been born a seductress.

  “Anne-Marie. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Called the answering service and they said Jake Hart was on call. And I couldn’t reach you through your pager,” Tate said.

  Tate’s words pulled Jazz’s attention away from Anne-Marie. Murder. Tate was here because somebody had accused him of trying to kill somebody. He remained silent, thinking, as Anne-Marie leaned back against him.

  “I needed a night away from that thing,” Anne-Marie said, talking to Tate when all she really wanted to do was turn around and press her face to Jazz’s chest. The warmth of his flesh seeped through the shirt she had swiped from his closet. It smelled of him, soap and musk. She smelled of him, she realized with some satisfaction. “What did you need me for, Tate?”

  When Larry opened his mouth, Tate turned to him and said in a lethal voice, “Say another word and I will have your badge, Deputy. I mean that.”

  Something about the tension in Tate got through to her and she straightened. “Tate, what’s wrong? You really are serious? You think Jazz could have actually tried to kill somebody?” she asked quietly, unaware she had reached for Jazz’s hand, gripped it tightly.

  “No,” Tate said honestly. Then he blew out a harsh breath. “But the fact of the matter is, we did receive an anonymous tip, just like I was telling Jazz when you…ah…joined us.”

  She exploded, shoving away from Jazz and planting herself in front of Tate. “That’s nothing but a load of crap, Tate McNeil. Jazz isn’t a killer.”