by Raina James
"Hold it right there, little sister!"
Grace threw up her hands. "What? I just thought you guys might want a little privacy or something."
"Right, that's what you thought. Nice try. Why'd you take the negative, Grace? And I'm assuming you're also the 'anonymous source close to Serena Jeffries' who fed that magazine all that stuff about me and Finn, too."
"It was either that or have them botch the story even more," she grumbled. "And as for why?" She gestured at them with an abrupt wave of her hand. "Just look at you two!"
Serena and Finn traded looks, equally lost.
Grace snorted impatiently. "After I ran into Riff at a party—"
"Finn mentioned that," Serena said.
"Yeah, well anyway, after I saw him there it got me to thinking about trying to nudge things along. He was single, you were single—so why not? Riff, would you have tried to find Serena if it weren't for that story?" She didn't wait for an answer. "No. You hadn't in fifteen years. I figured you needed a good kick in the ass to get you going."
"Hey!"
"Don't 'hey' me, Mr. Rock Star." Grace sat back down on the bed, her voice going soft. "Serena, you're my sister. Don't you think I know how much it broke your heart when Riff dumped you? And how much you loved him anyway? Hell, the whole reason you wound up with Michael in the first place was because he looked so much like Riff. If that's not Freudian—"
Serena straightened abruptly. "What?!"
"Oh, come on, Serena. It was the first thing I noticed about him."
"I loved Michael! He was a good man, a good dad."
As if realizing she'd gone a bit far, Grace raised her hands and said softly, "Yes, he was. Okay. I'm sorry. It was probably just me, seeing things that weren't there."
Serena stared at the hands fisted in her lap. Was Grace right? Had she been drawn to Michael because of his resemblance to Finn? It seemed so unfair to him …
Serena gave herself a mental shake and focused back on her sister when Finn said, "This was all a bit drastic, don't you think, Grace? You could have just given me Serena's phone number."
"Look, I'm sorry things got so out of hand. I had no idea it would get so crazy, I swear. And that asshole taking pictures of you two on the beach—hot, I admit—was so not a good thing. But give me a break. You guys should thank your lucky stars I had the bright idea to play matchmaker."
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them, as if fully expecting them to heap accolades on her.
Serena felt a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. What Grace had done was terrible, high-handed, intrusive and … she was probably right. If she hadn't leaked the Beautiful Girl tip in the first place, would Serena and Finn be together right now? She met his eyes, saw the answering amusement there. They burst out laughing.
Grace shot to her feet and started to stalk towards the door. "That's a great way to say tha—"
Serena jumped off Finn's lap and caught her sister in a hug tight enough to stop the words in her chest. "You're right, Grace. You are the queen of all matchmakers. Finn and I would be lost without you."
Grace's widening smile was smugger than the Cheshire cat's. She slid a look at Finn, who saluted her with an almost straight face. "Thanks, Gracie. You're right. I definitely needed a boot in the ass."
"Well, okay then. Just as long as we're all clear on that." She made a show of checking her watch. "Will you look at the time? I've gotta get going, my plants will be wondering where I am. Rina, mind if I use your car instead of waiting for a cab?" She didn't appear to need an answer. "Thanks. I'll grab the spare keys from the hall closet. Give me a call tomorrow, okay? See you. I'll lock the door on my way out."
Grace looked pointedly at Finn's button-stripped shirt and gave Serena a knowing smirk. "As you were."
Serena laughed. She'd barely shut the bedroom door behind Grace before Finn was beside her, flipping the privacy lock. Apparently, he wasn’t taking any chances. He caught her hand and spun her around into his arms, then slow-danced her towards the centre of the room.
"You heard your sister. Now, where were we?"
The back of her knees hit the side of the bed. "Pretty close to here, I think." Serena tumbled on the edge of the bed, Grace's revelation a fast-fading memory as Finn's nimble fingers went to work on her blouse. She widened her thighs to make a place for him, and he fell to his knees.
"Oh, Finn—" She broke off with a purring sigh as he latched onto her nipple through the thin satin of her bra.
"I've still got a few buttons left on my shirt here, baby. Hungry?"
Even now, when she was so aroused she was panting, he had the power to make her heart sing. Serena's laugh caught in her throat as his breath fanned against the damp fabric, making her nipple stand up in a hard point. She sank back on one elbow, Finn following to brace his arms on either side of her hips until he was looming over her.
"I know I am."
"Hmmmm?" As he spoke, his lips moved against her, a butterfly soft caress through the thin silk of her blouse. The insistent, skilful play of his fingers between her legs, pressing and kneading through the fine fabric of her slacks, stole her breath. Serena grazed her nails up his neck to thread her fingers through the soft black curls at his nape. Finn shuddered.
"Starved, actually," he said, his voice gone from gravelly to a hoarse rumble she barely recognized.
That was the only warning she had before his hands left off the incredibly arousing intimate massage to skim up her torso, stripping off her blouse and bra as if they were made of tissue paper. In seconds, her slacks and panties joined them on the floor. Draping her legs over his bare shoulders—what happened to his shirt?—he sank his fingers deep where she needed them the most.
Serena stiffened and cried out. Her hips helplessly followed his hand as he slowly withdrew, then pushed in hard, deep. Again. Once more. Then he stopped.
"Serena."
With supreme effort, she lifted passion-heavy lids and looked at him, dark and delicious, poised between her splayed thighs. Met his eyes.
"You don't mind, do you, baby?"
It took a moment for Serena to process what he meant. Her scattered thoughts caught on what he'd last said, something about starving. For her.
"No," she gasped. "I could definitely go for a bite."
Finn grinned wickedly. "That's what I hoped you'd say." He lowered his head and tasted her with a single, voluptuous stroke of his tongue. Then, with exquisite precision, bit down on the hard bud of her clit.
Serena screamed. The tremors that had been building in her belly exploded. Through it all, Finn kept his mouth tight against her, pushing her with tongue and teeth to ride the subsiding swells of pleasure to their end. She sagged back into the mattress, weightless and replete, too shattered to move.
Until she felt Finn's erection sliding into her tight, slick passage.
Instinctively, she tilted her face up for his hot, possessive kiss. Sucking his tongue deep into her mouth, she quickened with new energy at the taste of her own essence mixed with Finn's distinctive flavor.
Wrapping one leg around his waist, she ran the heel of her other foot along the crease of his muscled buttocks. Finn surged forward and they both groaned.
With agonizing slowness, he pulled back to stare into her eyes. Trembling, he pushed the damp curls away from her temples and cradled her face in gentle hands. "Serena, I love you. With everything I am, with my whole heart, I love you."
Serena felt tears prick the corners of her already damp eyes. "Finn. I love you, too."
His kiss was simple, chaste and more moving than anything she'd ever felt.
When he pulled away this time, the wicked glint was back in his silver eyes, the curve of his mouth eloquently sensual. Serena felt his cock throb and her pulse leapt.
"And now for the main course."
Chapter 23
The sound assault hit him as soon as he opened the door. Derek Randall glared over the rusty, waist-high chain link fence separatin
g his yard from his neighbor's. The party had spilled out onto the porch, where music blasted from speakers propped up in the rundown bungalow's windows. Several groups of people were taking advantage of the mild night. Clutching cold beers and oversized plastic cups, they were scattered around the patchy lawn, smoking and dancing and making out with alcohol-fuelled abandon.
The glasses and dishes stacked in his sink had rattled in time with the hard-driving bass; the decibel salvo was even more vicious heard from this vantage point. Randall scowled and pulled the front door closed behind him, automatically stepping over the missing floorboards in the rotting porch. He put the thick silver briefcase down by his feet, handling it with care despite the sturdy padding cradling its contents. The camera was a special-order model, and he wasn't taking any chances. He jerked up on the doorknob to pull the slider into position to line up with the jamb so he could turn the lock on the deadbolt.
Despite his annoyance at being left off his neighbor's guest list—continuing a long-standing policy of such slights—Randall whistled along as a new track blared from the speakers. His current favorite, it was a not-for-radio mix of different ways to say "screw."
The Old Man had just about swallowed his tongue when the song had come on the CD player in the gas station's office earlier in the day. Randall grunted a laugh at the memory.
Picking up the silver case, he clattered down the rickety steps and wove his way along the walkway's weed-cracked concrete slabs towards an equally weed-choked driveway.
A loud hoot of laughter rose over the bone-jarring bass.
"Dick, you suck!"
With the aim of a precision missile, a dark brown bottle smashed into the concrete just in front of his foot, spraying beer foam and glass splinters all over his pant legs. Randall jumped back with a shout, cursing again when his heel caught on a loose chunk of concrete. Pain shot through his ankle, and he briefly bobbled the silver case as he fought for balance.
He shot a look at the group of men hanging over the porch railing next door, apparently needing the support, as they laughed and chanted, "Suck! Dick! Suck! Dick!" like a gang of frat boys at a kegger.
Randall flipped them the finger and an evil glare. One of the men, a brawny specimen with the small eyes and muscled bulk of a brown bear, made to leap over the railing. Randall scuttled down the walk to his truck and fumbled the driver's-side door open, provoking another round of raucous laughter.
Ignoring his neighbors, he put the silver case on the passenger seat, fired up the Fuck Truck and peeled away from his driveway. Out of earshot of his tormentors, he stared into the rearview mirror and let fly with a stream of useless invective. He was so focused on his diatribe that he failed to notice the dark SUV that pulled away from the curb to follow him.
He'd used the check he'd gotten for the pictures of Serena and Riff to buy both the fancy silver case and the custom camera. He'd only sold a few of the pics. There were still lots of frames stored on his computer's hard drive and a backup disc to tap into as needed. As long as he didn't flood the market, dipping demand, he foresaw a profitable future for himself in cashing in on Riff and Serena's lakeside love-in. He'd fielded some serious inquiries from buyers interested in scooping up the lot, but told himself it was about more than the money—every time one of the pictures was published it would be like giving Riff another kick in the face.
While tonight's venture might not be as profitable as that particular outing—and who could really say, considering the growing online demand—it would be an interesting test of things to come. He was taking his new gear out for a test drive, to see if it worked as well as advertised. Anticipation unfurled in his belly, and lower, at the thought. He checked the digital clock on the dash, worried he might be cutting it a bit close.
Randall turned the truck onto Wolf Lake's main street and tore through town, heedless of the speed limit. There were only so many cops to go around, and he'd heard on his scanners that the two on-duty cruisers were already out on calls.
His speed slowed dramatically when he left the tiny "downtown" behind for the stop sign-marked streets of an older neighborhood. The trees in the neighborhood were the sturdy, thick-limbed kind people liked to put their picnic tables under for shade in the summer, or hang tire swings from. He'd become intimately acquainted with many of them. Or rather, intimately acquainted with the views they offered.
Randall cut the truck's lights and cruised to a stop several streets away from his destination. There were more vehicles sidled up to the curb on this stretch of road, and his truck was less likely to be spotted. Still, he was careful to close the door quietly. In this kind of neighborhood, with these kinds of people, such a sound breaking the night's quiet when most of the working families had hit the sack might cause a few curtains to twitch. At the very least, he didn't want to wake up someone's dog and get it going. That could ruin his whole night.
Unpacking his new camera, he slung the strap across his chest like a bandolier, settling the camera itself against the small of his back. Keeping a cautious eye out, he made his way down the sidewalks to the house he was interested in.
It was an older home, two-stories, with large, double-hung windows looking out from each room. The huge oak that presided over the tiny side yard was perfect for climbing. Randall stood in the concealing shadows beneath its branches and looked up at the house. It was too early in the season to install air conditioners, and too early for the flying insects that would have made screens mandatory. So it wasn't a complete surprise to see the sheer curtains billowing slightly from the open window of a room on the second floor. He gave a silent whistle followed by a wolfish grin.
A bit of a jump brought him high enough to grab the lowest branch strong enough to support his weight. Grunting softly with the effort, he braced his sneakered feet against the trunk and heaved until he got his chest, then his stomach, over the branch. Stifling his grunts of exertion, he gradually wormed his way higher up the tree. By the time he'd reached his customary perch opposite the open window, it was a struggle to keep his heavy breathing silent.
Using the tail of his grubby T-shirt, he mopped at the oily sweat beaded on his forehead and rubbed the grit and moisture off his palms until he was sure they'd be able to hold his current prized possession securely. He worked the camera around to his chest, contorting his upper body to slide the strap over his arm until it was settled just around his neck. Finally, he was able to lean back against the trunk and bring the camera to bear on the window and the room beyond.
He'd timed it perfectly.
Sarah Pembley's waitressing shift ended at ten. Through trial and error over the past few months, he'd learned she usually studied for a couple of hours before bed. Through the small-town grapevine, he'd heard she was taking correspondence courses while she saved up the money for college. Her parents were long since in bed, so they were never a problem.
He only had to wait a few minutes before Sarah, rubbing her eyes tiredly, stacked her books neatly on her desk and got up. The light cast by her desk lamp was low, which usually meant any pictures snapped from his perch had turned out either dark and grainy or not at all. Without a flash, or at least brilliant moonlight augmenting a campfire, there was only so much a digital camera could compensate for.
But not tonight. He had high hopes for the special night lens he'd blown his freelance check on. If it worked as well as the reviews raved, he'd consider it money well spent.
Sarah left the room for a few minutes. He took the opportunity to wiggle his butt into a more comfortable position on the branch. When she returned, her face glowed damply and her brown hair hung free midway down her back. Several tendrils of hair curled around her temples and she looked as sweet and fresh as he imagined an eighteen-year-old raised by nuns would. Maybe even sixteen, after some careful editing with his desktop photo program. Pics like that would be a big hit on some of the online sites he contributed to.
Randall lifted the camera to his face as Sarah started to get ready for
bed. His grin wasn't the only thing that stretched when he noticed how crisp and clear her image appeared in the viewfinder. Pulling off her T-shirt with the brisk motions of someone who believed herself to be completely alone, Sarah moved towards her dresser to open a drawer. Randall liked the contrast of her sexy little black bra paired with the blah, knee-length skirt of her waitress uniform. He leaned closer, zooming the lens in for a tighter shot.
The first inkling he had that things weren't going to go quite as planned was when the cop yelled, "Hey! Buddy!"
Randall startled so badly he dropped the camera and bit off a decidedly unmanly, "Erp!" Only the strap around his neck saved the camera from plunging through the branches to the ground below. It got worse from there.
The special lens made the camera surprisingly heavy. So when he dropped it, the resultant tug on the strap was harder than he was used to, and he automatically reached up to ease the pressure. Already leaning forward on the branch, Randall overbalanced even more. Hands tangled in the camera strap, he had nothing to hold on to his perch with except his legs and his clenching butt cheeks. The cop's shout was still a flat echo when Randall did what the camera didn't—plunged out of the tree.
It would have been nice if the branches had slowed his fall on the way down. Instead, each one gave way as he hit it, inflicting bruises on various parts of his anatomy. Randall crashed into each with a medley of oofs, umps, ughs and, for variety, acks. The camera touched down first; Randall didn't have time to mourn its loss before his aching body pancaked it, along with the spindly leg that had somehow gotten twisted under him in a way nature hadn't intended, at least for humans.
Randall screamed and blacked out.
When he came to, it was obvious not too much time had gone by. A cop was kneeling by his side, prying one of his eyelids open and shining a penlight into his pupil. Another cop was standing just behind him, looking down at Randall and shaking his head.
"Ah, shit," he said, his voice full of disgust. He activated the radio clipped on his shoulder and tilted his head to speak into it. "Dispatch, this is O'Neill. We need an ambulance here. Looks like our prowler has a busted leg." He rattled off an address and waited for confirmation while the kneeling officer checked Randall's other eye.