Who's the Boss

by Linda Turner

  Riley, his husky voice coming from a long way off, coaxing her to wake up. Riley leaning over her, lifting her out of the tub.

  His hands, so strong and sure, patting her dry with a towel. and trembling.

  "Oh, God!"

  Heat firing her cheeks, she sat bolt upright in the bed, her eyes wide, her heart pounding madly in her breast. It hadn't been a dream, but all too real. How could she have fallen asleep in the tub? Or let Riley find her like that? He must have dressed her, put her to bed.

  She seemed to have some hazy recollection of him promising to stay for a while, but that had to have been hours ago. Surely Chloe or the others must have stirred by now.

  That brought her out of bed as nothing else could. Lord, what was she thinking of, lying here dwelling on what had happened in the bathroom, and leaving Riley to watch over a houseful of sick females? He might be able to handle just about anything from drug smugglers to domestic disputes when it came to his job, but somehow she didn't think he'd be too comfortable in a sick room especially if everyone woke at once and needed help.

  Tightening the belt of her robe, she hurried up the stairs, her hair an unruly mass streaming behind her as she reached the upstairs hallway.

  Expecting to find Riley hustling from bedroom to bedroom with juice and words of sympathy, she was greeted with silence instead. Surprised, she started down the hall, checking each room as she came to it.

  Margaret and Clara were snoring softly in the first two and seemed to be resting comfortably.

  Lucille, however, didn't appear to be quite so lucky. Dozing fitfully, she was still ashen, with a grimace of pain wrinkling her brow. Knowing from experience that she would soon wake with another bout of nausea, Becca moved quickly on to her daughter's room at the end of the hall.

  She expected to find Chloe sleeping, too, or playing quietly with the dolls and books she'd left within reach of her bed. What she didn't expect was Riley napping in the rocking chair with a sleeping Chloe sprawled across his chest, the book he must have been reading to her lying facedown on the floor.

  Stopping abruptly in the doorway, her heart shifting at the sight of them, Becca blinked back the sudden sting of tears. Chloe had never known her father—he'd died months before she was born—so she'd never known what it was like to have a big strong man rock her to sleep or hold her close and protect her from the dark. She hadn't known what she was missing.

  Until now.

  They looked like they belonged together, their same dark hair close enough in color that they could have easily passed for father and daughter. And Becca wasn't at all sure how she felt about that. Chloe was an open book, trusting and sweet and vulnerable. She'd never had to deal with a man in her life because there'd never been a man in her mother's life. But all her friends had daddies, and she'd openly prayed for one of her own.

  The more Riley became involved in their life, the more she would expect him to be there. Always. She was too little to understand that there was no such thing as always in the real world. And that was a lesson Becca didn't want her to learn anytime soon. Life would teach it to her quickly enough.

  Crossing the room on silent feet, she bent over Riley and gently eased her daughter from his arms. Chloe, a deadhead once she was out, was as limp as a noodle and didn't move so much as a muscle when she was laid on her bed. Smiling fondly at her, Becca straightened and only then realized Riley was awake and watching her.

  Not aware of what she was doing, she pressed a finger to her lips, motioning for silence, and watched his gaze move to her mouth. Suddenly hot, as aware as he of the electricity thickening the air between them, she stepped out into the hall.

  He followed her, as she knew he would all the way down the stairs to the living room. Feeling as if she were standing in the path of an oncoming truck that was going to flatten her if she didn't get out of the way, she knew she had to tell him about Chloe, about how she couldn't take any chances about her daughter being hurt, ever. But when she turned to face him, she found herself saying huskily, "You've been here for hours, you must be hungry. I'll get you"— '

  "You," he said thickly, catching her arm as she started to turn away.

  Slowly, oh, so slowly he drew her toward him.

  "The only thing I want is you."

  He spoke nothing less than the truth. He'd fought it with everything in him, had lain awake nights telling himself why he couldn't want her, but nothing had driven her from his thoughts. She'd kept his blood hot for longer than she had any right to, and he couldn't, wouldn't, deny it any longer.

  But that didn't mean he'd taken complete leave of his senses. Not sure if he was going to push her away or drag her closer, he slid his hands to her waist, the feel of her robe under his fingers reminding him all too clearly of the heated moments when he'd wrapped the garment around her earlier. Now all he could think of was getting her out of it. His hold instinctively tightening, he rasped, "I need to get the hell out of here before I do something stupid."

  The warning was for her as much as for him. She should have pushed free of his arms and shown him to the door.

  She should have done anything but look up at him with green eyes that were dark with wanting. And she damn sure shouldn't have simply leaned into him and whispered, "Yes."

  Yes to what?

  "Becca ... honey." Closing his eyes for a second, he tried to hold on to his common sense, but it was too late.

  He'd lost his chance of walking away the second he'd touched her. Her name a prayer and a curse on his lips, he felt something inside him snap. Jerking her against him, he crushed his mouth to hers before she could even think about changing her mind.

  Passion. White-hot and wild, it hit them both like a searing wind racing out of the bowels of hell, catching them up in a swirling vortex of emotions that had no beginning or end.

  Need, hunger, frustration, joy—senses whirling, hearts hammering in time to an erotic rhythm that throbbed like a drum in their blood, they felt them all in a span of seconds.

  His head in a spin, Riley tried to tell her that a 'man could only stand so much from a woman so much teasing, so much need but his hands were in her hair, and she was so sweet, so giving. Devouring her, he scattered kisses over her face and throat, stealing her breath, making her shudder, making her burn.

  Dizzy and panting, Becca clung to him, boneless. He knew just where to touch her to make her groan, just where to rub to make her mindless.

  Sure and possessive, his hands swept over her, measuring her hips and waist, teasingly skirting her breasts, until every sensation seemed to focus there.

  Aching, burning, she nipped at his mouth and grabbed his hand, dragging it over her breast where she wanted it, turning his chuckle into a moan. But the thickness of her robe denied her the touch she really wanted. Whimpering in frustration, she tugged at the belt blindly. Lost to everything but him and the needs screaming in her blood, she didn't hear the phone at first. But suddenly Riley stiffened and muttered a curse against her mouth, his hands coming up to gently untangle her arms from around his neck.

  "No!" she moaned.

  "Ignore it. It's probably just Laura Jacobs calling to see how Chloe is."

  He wanted to. God knew he wanted to. For the first time in his career, he wanted to ignore the rest of the world and his responsibilities and just take some time for himself with the only woman he'd ever known who could push him over the edge.

  But he couldn't, and he didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse.

  "We can't, sweetheart. It could be Mark. I left your number with him. You've got to answer it."

  For a moment he thought she was going to flat out refuse. Defiance flashed in her eyes, and it was clear that with the least encouragement, she would have told Mark to take a flying leap.

  Reluctant amusement skimming his mouth, he couldn't say he blamed her.

  He hurt—God, did he hurt!

  Given the least incentive, he'd have yanked the damn phone off the wall and thrown it
out the window. But it would have bought them only a few moments, at most.

  The ringing of the phone was every bit as effective as an alarm clock, and any second now, one of the patients upstairs was going to wake up and need Becca for something. And she knew it as well as he did.

  Her mouth suddenly tight with frustration, she turned on her heel and strode into the kitchen. Snatching up the phone, she snapped, "Prescott residence. And this better be good."

  "Uh, Mrs. P-Prescott? This is, uh, Mark Newman," the flustered rookie stuttered in her ear.

  "Is the sheriff there?"

  "Just a minute." Holding out the phone to Riley, She found little consolation in the sudden laughter sparkling in his eyes.

  "It's for you."

  She would have walked out then and left him to take the call in private, but he had no intention of letting her out of his reach. Not until he had to. Snagging her around the waist with his free hand, he pulled her close until her hip bumped his.

  "What's the problem, Mark?"

  "You gotta come in, Boss. I'm sick."

  With John and Lance already out, and Darrel catching up on a few hours of sleep, Riley knew he should have been expecting it, but the news caught him completely by surprise.

  "Hey, man, I'm sorry. Can you drive yourself home?" "Yeah, I guess."

  "Then go on and leave now."

  "But there's no one here to answer the phone"— I'll be there in ten minutes," Riley said firmly.

  "If anybody calls, they'll call back. Go home and take care of yourself.

  The place won't fall apart if there's no one there for a few minutes.

  When the younger man meekly gave in without further protest, Riley knew he had to be sick—usually it took a crowbar to get Mark out of the office before the end of his shift.

  Replacing the receiver in its cradle, he glanced down at Becca regretfully.

  "I've got to go."

  She nodded, her eyes on the buttons of his shirt.

  "I know."

  They had to talk. About tonight and a need that they both knew wasn't going to go away. About the trouble they were headed for. And an election that was only weeks away, an election one of them was going to lose.

  But there wasn't time.

  Slowly dropping his arm, he stepped back while he still could.

  "I've only got one deputy left: so I don't know when I’ll be able to get back out here.

  We'll be fine.

  There was no question of that—she was a tough lady who had proven she could handle practically anything. He should have been relieved—for the last ten years, he'd gone out of his way to make sure no woman looked to him to be her hero.

  He'd finally found one who didn't have a problem with that, and all he could feel was regret. She didn't need him.

  Chapter 9

  By the next morning, the worst of the crisis was over. With the resilience of youth, Chloe bounced back with a speed her elderly neighbors could only envy, and keeping her quiet so that the others could rest turned out to be a real chore. She wanted to visit—and play—with their houseguests, and over the course of the day, Becca lost count of the number of times she found her in one of the guest rooms, ensconced on the bed and chatting happily.

  Convinced she had a budding talk-show host on her hands, Becca convinced her to come downstairs—again-and tried to explain that Margaret and the others needed more time to get over being sick than she did and that they weren't here for a visit. Chloe listened solemnly to every word, then said, "But Mama, I was just talking. And Clara said I made her laugh."

  "I know, honey. But I think they need a nap now. Why don't you help me make supper instead? We're having your favorite."

  "Chicken and dumplings? Oh, boy! Can I make the dumplings?"

  "I'm counting on it," Becca said, grinning.

  "I've already got everything set up for you."

  Thrilled, Chloe rushed into the kitchen, where she threw herself into dumpling making with joyful enthusiasm.

  Within minutes, she and the old oak table she worked at were covered in flour. With her hands up to her elbows in the sticky dough, she chattered happily, content for the moment to be distracted.

  Later though, after supper, she found one excuse after another to slip upstairs. She had to tell Margaret a secret.

  Then she was sure that Clara needed a glass of water. Lucille wanted her to rearrange her pillows for her, and then, of course, she had to kiss and hug all of them goodnight. Amused, Becca indulged her for a while, knowing that her elderly houseguests really did enjoy Chloe, especially since, none of their grandchildren lived nearby.

  But then she noticed Lucille trying to stifle a yawn and called a quick halt to the nocturnal visits.

  "Okay, shorty, time for you to go to bed, too. Lights out in five minutes."

  "But, Mama" — '

  "No buts. Give the grannies one last kiss, then hop into your room so I can tuck you in."

  When Becca spoke in that tone, Chloe knew better than to argue. That didn't, however, mean she gave in gracefully.

  Grumbling under her breath about how she never got to stay up late, she dragged her feet from one room to the next like a martyr on her way to the gallows, glumly doling out goodnight kisses. Standing in the hallway watching her, Becca struggled not to laugh.

  By nine-thirty, everyone except Becca was asleep, and the house was quiet as a tomb. Needing some noise, she switched on the TV and dropped down onto the couch to wait for the ten o'clock news, too restless to even think about going to bed.

  But the second she put her feet up, two days and nights of practically nonstop work caught up with her. Her eyes heavy, she couldn't seem to focus on the screen. She'd rest them a minute, she decided. Just for a second.

  Later, she couldn't say what woke her. One minute she was dreaming about Riley slipping into the bathtub with her, his hands sliding over her wet skin with agonizing slowness, and the next she was jarred into full wakefulness.

  Her heart knocking against her ribs, she lay perfectly still, listening, but the only sound came from the late-night talk show currently rolling its credits across the television screen. Reaching for the remote control, she hit the power button.

  The silence was immediate, the house quiet.

  "You're hearing things, girl," she muttered as she pushed herself to her feet.

  "It was probably something on the TV." Just to be sure, though, she double-checked the doors, but she'd locked them hours ago and no one had touched them. Shaking her head over her own imaginings, she took the added precaution of turning on the security lights outside.

  "You're getting paranoid in your old age," she told herself, glancing out the picture window.

  "There's nothing out there ....” Her words dwindled to nothingness at the sight of Riley patrol car parked in her drive with its lights off.

  Jerking the chain off with fingers that weren't quite steady, she threw open the dead bolt, her smile as bright as a moonbeam. He'd come. Up until then, she hadn't realized that she'd been waiting for him all day. When, she wondered, had she reached the point where she needed to see him, even if just for a second, to make her day complete?

  Later the answer to that would worry her, but not tonight.

  She was infected with a temporary madness that felt wonderful. It wouldn't last—she knew that, accepted it but for now, she was going to enjoy it and not worry about tomorrow.

  Pulling open the door, she hurried down the porch steps, a teasing remark already forming on her lips. But as she rounded the hood of his car, she saw that he was draped over the steering wheel, his head pillowed on his crossed arms, fast asleep.

  Surprised, she felt her smile grow tender. So the Lone Ranger had finally run out of gas. Considering the way he'd been pushing himself, working double and triple shifts so his men could get the rest they needed, it was a wonder he hadn't crashed before now. He had to be worn out.

  Unable to take her eyes from him, she let her gaze linger on th
e silkiness of his dark hair as it fell forward over his forehead, the thick shadow of his lashes against his bronzed cheeks, the firm, sensuous curve of his mouth in sleep.

  Warmth, sweet and heavy, clutched at her heart, stealing her breath.

  Her fingers itched to touch him, but she sternly ordered herself to leave the poor man alone.

  He was clearly exhausted and wouldn't thank her for disturbing the first decent sleep he'd had in hours.

  But he looked so uncomfortable.

  Torn, she hesitated. He didn't have to sleep in his car, she reasoned. He could stretch out on the couch for a couple of hours and surely rest better there than he could bent over his steering wheel. If he stayed the way he was much longer, he was bound to get a crick in his neck.

  "Riley?" Reaching through the open window, she started to shake him awake, only to suck in a sharp breath as she felt how hot he was. Dear God, he was burning up! The minute she touched him, he groaned.

  Forcing open his eyes, he frowned at her in bewilderment.

  "Becca? What're you doing out here?"

  "Checking on you." Pushing his hair back, she felt his hot forehead.

  "How long have you had this fever?"

  "Dunno ... a couple of hours." His jaw rigid, he pushed himself away from the steering wheel as if every movement was an effort, then fumbled for the key in the ignition.

  "I gotta get home."

  "Oh, no, you don't." Lightning quick, she reached past him to snatch the keys from the ignition.

  "You're in no shape to drive. And even if you were, there's no way I'm letting you go home to fight this alone. You're staying here until you feel better."

  He didn't have the energy to spit, let alone argue, but he gave it a try anyway. Stiffly climbing out of the car, he leaned back against it to give her a narrow-eyed look.

  "I should have known you were the type to take advantage of a sick man."

  "That's right," she said cheekily.

  "So just get prepared. I mean to enjoy it." Slipping her arm around his waist, she turned him toward the house.

  "C'mon, big guy, let's get you inside."