by Julie Miller
“It’s no secret that Alvin was an abusive man.” She picked up the articles and dropped them in front of Dennis. “If you really wanted to help me, you should have told me you had a connection.”
“I didn’t want you to think I had a motive for killing him.”
“Did you?”
Dennis straightened the papers into a tidy pile before answering. “I moved my family out of the Ludlow after my daughter was attacked.”
“Attacked?” A sinking suspicion settled in the pit of her stomach. “Did she by any chance date one of the tenants in the building?”
“My Lydia was knocked down. She hit her head on the concrete stoop. We had her in the hospital for two days before she regained consciousness.”
A horrible pattern seemed to be repeating itself. “Did your daughter date Mark Bishop?”
Dennis made no pretense of being a nosy neighbor with an annoying hobby anymore. The dull resignation in his eyes told her he’d been an unwilling participant in the hell of the Ludlow Arms. “To earn extra money toward college, she tutored students who needed help in English. She worked with Mark for three weeks. Then she had her accident and we moved.”
“But you don’t think it was an accident.”
“Lydia has never remembered what happened. But I know.” He put his glasses back on and stuck the articles in the spine of the scrapbook and closed it. “Old Alvin couldn’t tolerate the thought of Mark getting married or going off to college.”
“You believe Alvin pushed Lydia down the steps?” Zeke Jones’s death popped to mind, but the matching M.O. didn’t make sense. Alvin Bishop had been dead twelve years before Zeke was murdered.
“Who else could it be?”
Ginny clutched at her stomach, unable to absorb anyone else’s grief and anger right now. She needed to get back to her place, among her own things, and regroup. Thanking Dennis for his help, she showed herself out the door.
She stepped across the hall and reached for her own doorknob. But then the old lightbulb in the hallway shorted and went out, plunging her into darkness.
She couldn’t stop the cry of pain that escaped her. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. She’d forgotten about the break-in. There was no sanctuary for her anymore. There was no safe place where she could nurse her wounds and conquer her fears and go out and face the world again.
And then the elevator dinged. She peered through the darkness at the dot of light that indicated the doors were about to open. She caught her breath, hugged herself and waited for whatever fate was about to throw her way.
The doors opened. Lighted from behind, a tall, bulky silhouette emerged. She heard the jingle of metal and a thunking sound, like that of a low drumbeat.
She shivered and her skin prickled with goose bumps as the figure came closer. Then the dimensions took shape. The long length of denim-clad legs, the broad shoulders, the silky waterfall of hair framing a bold face and catching in the collar of a soft flannel shirt.
“Brett?”
She breathed his name in prayer and relief.
“The light went out.” A silly, meaningless thing to say to the man who now stood in front of her. “I’m not really claustrophobic. It’s the dark I can’t stand.”
His eyes deepened to pools of midnight in the shadowed hallway. But they didn’t frighten her. He swung a leather tool belt off his shoulder and hooked it over the tool box he carried in his hand. “I came to fix your lock.”
That dark rasp of his voice filled her ears and seeped into her bones, making her weak, making her strong.
And then, because she was too overcome to be anything less than honest, she simply said, “I’d like that.”
GINNY FINISHED cleaning the bathroom while Brett installed a new dead bolt on her door. He worked in diligent silence, probably afraid that she’d order him out again if he stated an opinion. Without asking, he checked her windows. He replaced a missing screw and mounted a spring-lock rod to her bedroom window.
She was in the art room, picking up emptied tubes of oil paint when he finally called to her. Dropping the mess into the wastebasket, she pulled the door closed and found him in her bedroom.
He was kneeling in front of her bedside table. She saw the end of a black metal box as he shut the drawer. When he stood, he held out a small key ring. “I bought you a new security box. I already locked your gun and badge inside. Here’s the key.”
He dropped it into her outstretched hand without touching her. This completely businesslike demeanor surprised her. He didn’t act like the Brett she knew. Had she done so good a job at making him feel unwelcome that he couldn’t see how grateful she was that he should come back and take care of her like this?
She brainstormed ways she could thank him, ways to show that his very presence helped her feel secure. She needed something straight to the point, something tangible so he would believe her sincerity.
She took the key out to the kitchen and dropped it into her purse. She looked at the clock: 10:00 p.m.
He’d been with his father the night before, at the hospital all day long, with her this evening. When had the man taken time to eat and sleep?
“How’s your father doing?” she asked when he came down the hallway and put his tools away by the front door.
“Resting comfortably.” He closed the toolbox and faced her. His two-day beard stubble gave him a dangerous look, and the haggard circles beneath his eyes turned his jovial countenance into the face of a man with little left to lose. “He has to change his diet. Take some pills for his blood pressure. But you can’t keep Sid Taylor off his feet for long.”
He almost smiled then. But his stomach grumbled instead.
That’s when the inspiration hit her. “I don’t think I saw you eat a thing all day. Can I feed you a late dinner?”
He hesitated, not like Brett Taylor at all. But then he accepted the truce she offered. “Sure. Why not? We’ll call it an even trade. I’ll get washed up.”
After Brett disappeared into the bathroom, Ginny opened her freezer and discovered two boxes to choose from. She opted for the chicken and potatoes. She vented the plastic cover, put the tray in the microwave and set the timer for six minutes.
She checked the fridge for anything to make a salad with, and ended up slicing an apple and arranging it on a plate. She set a place at the counter and poured him a glass of milk. When Brett pulled out one of the wooden stools and sat, she pulled out the microwave tray and set it on his plate with a flourish.
What might have been an ample portion for her shrank in front of Brett. The black plastic cook-tray was no bigger than Brett’s hand, the four fingers of chicken shorter than his own fingers.
Ginny felt the telltale heat creeping into her cheeks. “I’m sorry. When I offered to cook, I didn’t mean I actually knew how to cook.”
Brett stared at the tiny servings until she felt compelled to apologize again. He busted out laughing, putting up a hand to wave off her offer to heat the last frozen dinner she had. In that moment, the Brett she knew best returned. The rich laughter that shook his chest absolved her of embarrassment and triggered an unfamiliar sound from deep behind her own diaphragm.
Ginny laughed.
A noiseless giggle that lifted her shoulders at first. Then it crept into her throat and became a broken hum. Then she opened her mouth and truly laughed.
Brett’s eyes danced and focused on her mouth. She tried to contain herself by covering her mouth, but he reached across the counter and pulled her hand away.
Her laughter became a shortness of breath when he brought her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm. “Thank you.”
His softening beard teased her with hundreds of little kisses, inflaming the sensitive nerve endings in her hand. She pulled away, surprised by how quickly the atmosphere between them had changed from light, easy laughter to something much more sultry.
Feeling a need to cool down, Ginny pulled the ice cream out of the freezer and sta
rted talking. “My building has a super who could have fixed the door, you know.”
Brett picked up his fork and made quick work of the snack she had served him. “He wouldn’t get to it until the morning.”
She set out two bowls and two spoons. “He probably wouldn’t have done such a neat, thorough job, either. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
While Brett polished off the apple, Ginny dipped up heaping dishes of ice cream. She licked the milky sweetness from her fingers, oblivious to the way his eyes narrowed and followed the movement. “Wait. Better idea,” she announced.
He carried his plate to the sink and was standing beside her when she pulled the plastic bottle of chocolate syrup out of the fridge. She turned the bottle upside down over the ice cream and squeezed. Nothing came out.
“Need some help?”
“No. This happens all the time.” She banged the bottle against the side of the counter and tried it again. Still no chocolate. “It gets too cold in the fridge and won’t come out.”
“Try zapping it in the microwave.”
She put the bottle in for ten seconds. She turned it upside down again but had no success. “Maybe the syrup’s stuck in the bottom.”
Ginny pounded the bottle against the counter again, then placed it between her hands and squeezed as hard as she could. The bottle surrendered. The chocolate gushed out…across the front of Brett’s shirt.
For one shocked moment, she stared at the dark brown glob.
Brett reacted first. He picked up a spoon and scraped away the top layer. Ginny’s brain finally kicked in. She set down the bottle and picked up a dish towel. She dabbed at the gooey mess. “I’m so sorry. I’m only making it worse.”
“Don’t worry. It’s an old work shirt.”
Instead of helping, she ended up smearing the chocolate. “Better take your shirt off. I’ll soak it before the stain sets.”
Ginny never considered the consequences of what she had just asked. She only knew it felt like the right thing to do. Brett unbuttoned and untucked his shirt, along with the T-shirt underneath that had soaked up some of the chocolate.
That big, broad chest encased in a flannel shirt or wool suit had been enticing enough. But there was no way she could have prepared herself for the expanse of skin and muscle and crisp dark hair that lay beneath. Trim and powerful and musky with his own unique scent, this man affected her like no other male ever had.
She put the towel to her lips to hide her gaping mouth and buy a moment to regain her composure. Figuring out how to breathe would be a good place to start. Moving away would be even smarter.
She took the shirts from him, rubbed dish soap into the stains and filled the sink with cold water to let them soak.
Brett moved beside her. The heat from his bare skin singed her arm and lit a wildfire inside her veins. She looked up into the incandescent glint of those irresistible blue eyes.
Ever so gingerly, he touched her. With just his index finger, he traced the corner of her mouth, igniting a new flashpoint of sensation. When he took his finger away she saw it was tipped in chocolate. He put the finger between his lips and licked it off. Ginny’s tongue snuck out to lick her own lips, parched by a suddenly consuming heat.
“Speechless?” He taunted her with that sinfully low voice.
Ginny could only nod. She clutched the towel to her chest, trying to muffle the thump of her heart. Trying to hide the tingling sensation in her breasts as they expanded from the heat.
His gaze dropped to the curve of her blouse, and she knew he had seen her reaction to just a look. If he touched her now, she might explode. The unfamiliar flames of such intense desire would completely engulf her.
As if he sensed his power over her, Brett took the towel from her fingers and tossed it aside. “You’re so beautiful. So quick to react. How could you ever think you had no passion?”
He dipped his finger to the tip of her breast. Her breath steamed between her teeth as he drew a circle around the pebbled tip. He traced the same finger across the arc of her lower lip. Her tongue darted out toward the pleasurable friction and she tasted chocolate.
“Oh, my.” The words croaked through her arid throat. “I seem to have gotten chocolate everywhere.”
“I like my sweets as much as you do.” Brett’s hand moved to the V of her blouse and before she realized his intent, he had the buttons undone and was pulling the tails from her jeans. “But we’d better let this soak before it stains, too.”
A sensible enough suggestion. But Ginny’s feverish mind refused to understand what was happening to her. To him.
She swayed as cool air hit her naked shoulders. But Brett caught her and pulled her up against his unyielding strength, his abundant heat. Crushed to his chest, she clung to his shoulders as he lifted her. His hands cupped her bottom and roamed her back. His mouth covered hers and sent the room spinning into a fiery maelstrom of sweet tastes and white-hot passion.
With his wicked mouth tracing a torrid path along her jaw to her ear, he set her on the counter in the center of the kitchen. His bold hands pushed her legs apart and he moved even closer, rubbing the front of his jeans against that most tender part of her, transforming her into a combustible powder keg.
“Chocolate, chocolate everywhere.” His lips were barely more than a hot brush across the curve of her breast. When his tongue darted out to lap a stray dribble of syrup from the lace of her bra, Ginny squeezed her legs around his hips, drawing herself flush to the evidence of his desire. Matching the pooling heat of her own need against his.
His tongue continued its foray, swirling around the rigid tip of her breast through its sheath of cotton lace. An incoherent sound rumbled in his throat, and then his skillful hands brushed across her shoulders, sliding the straps of her bra down to the crook of her elbows. With a needy tug, he freed her breasts and found them again with his mouth.
His hot, moist tongue feasted on the willing tips as if they were a treat too delectable to resist. Her body reacted to the irresistibly hot sweetness of his seduction more quickly than logical thought. Her breathing could barely keep up with the feverish pounding of her heart. She wound her fingers into the silky fall of his rich, dark hair, and clasped him to one burgeoning peak, demanding his full attention there.
Brett’s fingers were never still. They brushed a callused caress over the tip of the abandoned breast, tested the fit of her torso within his grasp, slipped to the front of her jeans and made quick work of the snap and zipper there. And then his big hands traced the elastic waistband of her panties, dipped inside the back of her jeans and lifted her.
Suspended by his strength, she snatched at his shoulders, her aching breasts flattened against the resolute hardness of his chest. He stripped the denim down her legs and cast them aside, leaving nothing between her own damp heat and the bulge in Brett’s jeans except a thin layer of cotton. The clench of muscles between her legs was instantaneous and overwhelming.
“Brett?” She pleaded his name in a ragged whisper. Pleading with him to stop? Or pleading with him to ease this needy torment?
He sat her back on the countertop, the cool Formica a jolting contrast to the heat consuming her. He brushed his lips against the shell of her ear. “Angel, I don’t know if I can stand much more of this. I don’t want to leave you tonight.”
Ginny played with a bit of fire herself, dipping her fingers into the waist of his jeans, pressing them into the supple flex of his backside. She smiled against his chest at the power his involuntary response gave her, and tasted a taut, flat male nipple with a blaze of her tongue.
But the heat in her veins soon took her far beyond conscious thought. “Then don’t go.”
He caught her by the chin and demanded that she look up into the lambent flame of those beautiful blue eyes. “Look into that rational mind of yours and tell me you know exactly where this is leading.”
She traced her fingers along that strong jaw and framed his handsome face. “I w
ant you to stay.” Murders and threats and heartbreak seemed miles away with this man in her arms. He made her feel safe. He made her feel special. He made her feel whole. “I know this is real, Brett. I want you to stay.”
Content with her promise, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to her bed. He laid her down gently on top of the cool sheets and quickly removed their remaining clothes. She watched with fascination and admiration as every bit of his magnificent body was revealed to her.
He’d be a beautiful man to paint, she thought, without consciously thinking it.
And that’s when the first fist of doubt took grip of her heart.
When he lay down beside her, his big, strong body a powerful temptation in itself, she cast aside that doubt. He was twice her size, and took up more than his share of the bed. And when he slid his weight on top of her, propping himself up on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush her, the size of the bed didn’t matter. They were one. She needed to be one with this man. She needed him.
Brett stretched above her, reaching for the lamp beside her bed. An instinctive panic, borne of too many years of hurt and regret, made her snatch at his arm. “No. Leave the lights on. Please.”
The curious expression on his face gave way to a mischievous grin. Not making light of her fears, she guessed, but putting her at ease.
“I don’t mind.”
His teasing smile anchored her in the moment. She focused on the incredibly deep blue of his admiring eyes. Focused on the erotic discovery of nerve-endings along the length of her arm as he slowly drew his fingertips across her skin.
“I love looking at you,” he whispered. “I love seeing how you react to my touch.”
In a heartbeat, he brought her to that feverish pitch once more. And when his mouth and body claimed hers, the flames of pent-up passion consumed her. Searing her body with the rough, tender need of his. Branding her heart with one indelible truth.
She loved Brett.
Despite experience, despite wisdom, despite the threats to their future and her very life, for this one night, she allowed herself the joy of loving him.