Falling Hard and Fast

by Kylie Brant

  He reached down to give the pup an absent pat, his gaze never faltering. She could feel it, hot and intense, compelling her to look at him. It was a compulsion she was determined to ignore.

  “Well,” she said with forced brightness, “since you fixed dinner I guess I can do the cleaning up.” It would give her an excuse to escape that warm grip, that equally warm gaze. It would also give her an opportunity to get her suddenly jittery nerves calmed again.

  But her plan was waylaid by Cage’s insistence on helping. It was impossible to keep her guard up while the man regaled her with imitations of just about every citizen of Charity while he dried the dishes. He was a wicked mimic, and had each individual’s mannerisms and speech patterns perfected to a T.

  His nonsense soothed her earlier edginess, and when he declared it time to retire outside for the long-honored tradition of porch sitting, she could only follow bemusedly.

  And so it was that she found herself sitting on the porch glider next to him with his arm stretched out behind her. The glider’s slow, rhythmic movements were a perfect metronome for the music of Cage’s drawl. His long languid tales of Charity’s history and his own childhood could make her smile in appreciation or listen with barely suspended disbelief—but always, always, with rapt attention.

  And as they sat and rocked, laughing a little, talking more, darkness was slow to fall and the heat was slower to lift. His placid voice lent a dreamy sort of magic to the air. His words didn’t so much drawl as meander, strolling through story after story like a leisurely walk in the woods. The cadence was hypnotic.

  Fireflies were dancing and glinting in the twilight before the first stirrings of cool air brushed their skin. Both had grown quiet, content to watch shadows gather. Mellow from the wine and the peaceful drifting of time, Zoey let her head rest against the back of the glider, felt the strength of his arm against her neck. His fingers, as harmless as the light breeze, toyed with the ends of her hair. She tilted her head to watch with heavy-eyed fascination as he absently pressed his still-cool beer bottle against the wedge of skin bared by his half-buttoned shirt.

  “This is the very same brand of beer that Tanner and I favored, mostly because it was the kind my daddy filled our refrigerator with.” Because her attention was still focused on the bottle he was smoothing down his chest, she didn’t see the smile on his lips, but it sounded in his voice.

  Her words, when they came, were huskier than normal. “I saw Tanner earlier this evening while I was walking Oxy. I’ve already concluded that the two of you deserved every beating you got, and then some.”

  His chuckle was low and amused. “No sympathy. You know, sugar, somewhere along the line you’ve gotten the worst possible impression of me.”

  She wished his words were true. They certainly had been at first. It would be comfortable if she could go back to believing that there was nothing to the man but surface charm and laziness, but she’d discovered more beneath the surface—much more. The shallow, glib picture wouldn’t fit the man who tried, repeatedly, to help a battered woman find the strength to leave her husband. It didn’t begin to describe a man who cared so deeply about his adoptive family that he worried about betraying parents already dead.

  He tipped the bottle to his mouth and she was close enough to see the moist path it had left on his skin; close enough to wonder if the spot would be cool to her lips, to her tongue. Dimly, a warning bell rang in her mind. Whether the wine or the close-wrapped intimacy was to blame for it, she ignored it.

  “It’s true that Tanner and I were the curious sort. And any trouble that came along, we got into together.” His fingers moved against her neck, not quite casually, and a delicious shiver slid down her spine. “His mother left when he was young and his daddy was a hard man. Tanner spent more time at my house than he did at his own. My mama always said it was like raising twins.”

  Cage set the bottle on the porch floor and reached for her chin, sliding his fingers along her jawline. His voice was low and as smooth as velvet. “I guess some things haven’t changed much. I’m still curious. And I still have the damnedest time avoiding trouble.”

  His thumb gently skated across her lips, following their contours. She registered the need to move away—a need born of self-preservation and logic. She didn’t move. For once, Zoey Prescott wasn’t going to listen to that sneaky little voice that warned of lies, distrust and betrayal. Her lips parted and she tasted the rough pad of his thumb, heard the uneven breath he drew in. She tipped her head up to meet his descending mouth with her own.

  For once, just this once, she was going to let herself feel.

  Emotion drenched her the moment his lips met hers. She’d forgotten just how quickly his touch could mist her mind with emotion. How sweet that descent was as they drifted into sensation. She raised a hand, speared her fingers into his hair. When he shifted her onto his lap without releasing her mouth, she gave a gentle sigh and sank into the kiss.

  Cage drank in the release of her breath and gathered her closer. He lingered over her mouth, taking his time with her to draw out the moment. The smooth glide of tongues mating, teeth scraping, were sensations to be savored. The velvet skin beneath her jaw begged to be investigated, and the soft secret place behind her ear smelled of her perfume. He inhaled deeply, then grazed his teeth over her earlobe, pleased by her quick shudder.

  There was something about his mouth, she thought dreamily, that was tormentingly languid, as if time were inconsequential. He could take her by surprise, alternating the soft lazy pleasure with unexpected darts of pure fire that caused her nerve endings to flash and sizzle. She guided his lips back to hers, eager to swamp herself in his taste and texture.

  His hand slid under her T-shirt and splayed against her back. She had no choice but to feel. He was nudging her emotions to the surface with each velvet stroke, each leisurely glide. Somehow she’d known from the first that he was a dangerous man; one who could effortlessly summon all kinds of sensations that she normally kept tightly guarded—emotions that, once released, couldn’t be so easily contained again.

  He released the snap on her bra and then his warm fingers were closing around her bare breast. She arched into his touch in helpless response. Her nipple tautened against his palm and she wanted him—fiercely, with a pure, reckless need that was as exhilarating as it was foreign. She slid her hand to the strong column of his throat, then lower, to the smooth skin bared by his half-buttoned shirt. There was just a hint of moisture there, and she pressed forward blindly, seeking it with her tongue.

  His breath sawed out of him, his heartbeat sounding raggedly in her ear. “You told me once you didn’t take this casually.” His voice was a low rumble in the shadows. “There’s nothing casual about this, Zoey.” He cupped and shaped her breast with clever, knowing fingers. His kiss held the merest edge of desperation. “I’ve never been more wrapped up in a woman. I guess I’m asking you to trust me on that.”

  Trust. The word triggered a response she was helpless to prevent. Ice shot through her veins and her body stiffened against his. Desire and longing battled against defenses long relied upon. She knew there was no hiding her reaction from him. And she knew he’d guess at the cause.

  His hand stilled against her skin and for an infinite moment they sat, gazes locked. She would have understood anger, expected frustration. But she wanted to cry out at the glimpse of utter desolation she caught in his eyes.

  Then he was smoothing her clothing into place and shifting her away from him. “I rushed you.” The words were even.

  “No,” she denied. She wouldn’t take the easy out he offered. Wouldn’t let him make it simple for her. “I wanted you.” Her hand lifted, touched his jaw. “I still do.”

  He caught her hand, pressed a soft kiss in the palm and brought it down to her side. The gesture might have seemed loverlike. She wondered achingly why it appeared more as if he couldn’t bear her touch.

  “A woman has a right to make up her own mind.” He stood, loo
ped an easy arm across her shoulders, walked with her toward the steps.

  “Are you sure—” her voice quavered and she felt like a fool “—you won’t come inside?”

  He ran his knuckles gently under her chin, pent-up desire churning and frothing in his gut. It joined another emotion—one that came from a bleak and barren place deep inside him, one that could spring forth without warning. “I don’t think so.” The kiss he pressed against her lips was hard and brief. “Lock your doors. Both of them.”

  He turned before he could change his mind. The familiar despair was coupled with a heavy dose of sexual frustration. Something told him he’d better get used to both feelings.

  In the deepest part of the night, the darkness was absolute. Naked, Cage trod lightly across his porch floor, the aged boards murmuring beneath his feet. The front door stood open behind him, the interior of the house as full of shadows as the secluded yard. One shoulder propped against a sturdy column, he drank from a beer he didn’t want, to quench a thirst he didn’t have.

  Sleep refused to beckon. It was just as well. This was the kind of night that summoned unwanted memories, Technicolor reruns of nightmares that refused to fade. At least in the balmy night air his clogged lungs eased a bit. But the ghosts had followed him outdoors. He’d brought them with him.

  Already drops of condensation were forming on the bottle in his hand. He raised it to his lips, swallowed the cool liquid. He didn’t know how long he’d spent sitting in the den staring blindly into the darkness. He hadn’t needed a light. The display on the wall behind his daddy’s antique desk was branded into his mind.

  In the distance a night creature wailed a long, mournful note. He remembered when Nadine and his mama had proudly shown him what they’d done with the commendations and letters buried deep in cardboard boxes. Each had been matted and framed, arranged carefully above the desk that now belonged to him.

  And in the center of the arrangement hung that polished medal, suspended patriotically from a red, white and blue ribbon. He could still remember its weight as the New Orleans Chief of Police had placed it around his neck, still feel the wash of self-doubt and guilt that had accompanied the award.

  He drank, wishing the effects of the beer would summon sleep, knowing it would fail. A citation for bravery in the line of duty. Would the phrase never lose its mockery? Certainly the four survivors had agreed he was deserving. They’d even attended the award ceremony with their families.

  But he’d known the truth. The truth had been in the woman who was absent. The woman whose crumpled, lifeless body had lain with that of her killer.

  Cage squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Then, in a sudden burst of violence, he hurled the beer bottle as far as he could. The sound it made when it smashed among the shadows in the yard failed to satisfy the savage rage that still lingered. Rage born from a sense of failure that refused to fade. He leaned his head against the forearm he’d braced against the porch pillar.

  One instant. Just one split second of indecision could result in ghosts that haunted for a lifetime. He’d never forgive himself for his millisecond’s hesitation that had cost Amy Lou Travers her life.

  It was the most bitter of ironies that Zoey had frozen the way she had tonight. Lips twisted, he stared blindly into the darkness. He’d had some nerve, asking her to trust him.

  It had been over two years since he’d been able to trust himself.

  Chapter 8

  Ordinarily, Cage was a pretty amiable person in the mornings. But when night melted into day without a minute’s worth of sleep, a body was entitled to feel a little irritable. As if in direct reflection of his mood, the weather had turned sultry, with clouds boiling and bumping across the sky. Most likely they were in for a much-needed thunderstorm before the day was over, but not before they’d been treated to several hours of suffocating humidity.

  He wasn’t in a welcoming mood when he pushed his office door open and saw the visitor sitting in his chair, feet propped on the desk before him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Tanner raised his eyebrows, then handed him one of the steaming cups of coffee sitting before him. “Rather testy this morning, aren’t you, son?”

  Cage grunted, took the cup and sipped. Aiming a telling look at his desktop, he pulled up another chair. Tanner obligingly swung his feet to the floor.

  Peering at Cage closely, he noted, “You don’t look like you slept much. Now that could mean one of two things, but given your temperament this morning, I think I’m safe in guessing that you struck out with your lady love and spent hours last night cursing your ineptitude in the dalliance department.” He shook his head in mock reproach. “You know if you need help in that direction, you’ve only to ask.”

  If possible, Cage’s foul mood worsened. He suggested that Tanner perform an anatomically impossible act, and gritted his teeth at the other man’s bellow of laughter.

  When Tanner finally sobered, he said, “You should have stopped in at Jonesy’s. You and I haven’t been out together for a while. I was there until the wee hours showing Marianne Jamison a little sleight of hand.” He winked.

  “I wasn’t in the mood.”

  “Might have done you good. You could have told ol’ Uncle Tanner all about it.” He whirled his chair to face Cage expectantly. “C’mon,” he wheedled when his friend remained silent. “I tell you everything.”

  “Yes. And I’ve asked you to stop.”

  Chuckling again, Tanner sipped cautiously from the steaming brew. “All right, then. I won’t regale you with tales of my exploits with the fair Marianne. No one ever accused me of insensitivity.” He ignored the other man’s snort. “I didn’t have the best day myself yesterday. Had to go to Baton Rouge and meet with our branch manager there. Seems we had a teller who was tucking away a bit of money for a rainy day. Spent a couple of hours with a Detective Fuller filling out a report to file charges.” He drank reflectively. “He said to tell you hey.”

  Cage slouched lower in his chair and tipped the cup to his lips. The coffee was succeeding in making him feel at least half human again. “Lloyd Fuller? Tall fella, thinning dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses?”

  After giving careful consideration to his light-colored trousers, Tanner crossed one leg over his knee. “Don’t know about the thinning hair. Looked plumb gone to me, but that sounds like the detective I met.”

  Cage scratched the chin he hadn’t felt like shaving that morning. “I’ll be. I worked with him in New Orleans. I didn’t know he’d transferred to Baton Rouge.”

  “Spent the better part of the afternoon trying to get that mess sorted out. Then on my way home I was nearly run off the road by another old friend of yours.” Tanner raised his glass in mock salute. “None other than good ol’ Donny Ray.”

  His attention arrested mid-yawn, Cage went still. “Really? Where was he coming from?”

  “Looked to be the same direction as me, Baton Rouge. Recognized that decrepit old truck when he practically sideswiped me. No offense, son, but it’s a fact that there isn’t an officer of the law around when you need one. Not that the boy ever could drive worth a damn. Do you recall when you beat him in a race out on the old Bonneyville blacktop?” He leaned back, clearly lost in old times. “You had that sweet little souped-up Mustang, and he was running that ’72 Chevy pickup.”

  “I remember.” But Cage hadn’t followed his friend back some fifteen years. He was too busy wondering what kind of business Donny Ray had had in Baton Rouge. “Was he hauling anything?”

  Tanner threw him a surprised look. “Hell, no, don’t you remember? Bucky Hanover did the judging and he made sure you emptied out your trunk and Donny Ray cleared out the bed of the truck. He wouldn’t even let me ride with you, the little twerp.” He gave a frown, as if the memory still rankled. “Always regretted missing the opportunity.”

  “I mean yesterday,” Cage said with all the patience he could muster, which wasn’t much. “Was Donny Ray hauling anything ye
sterday?”

  Tanner lifted a shoulder. Clearly the events of a day ago couldn’t compete with the memory of a childhood victory, more than a dozen years previous. “Didn’t notice. Happened to see him last night at Jonesy’s, though, and gave him my opinion of his driving abilities.” His teeth flashed. “He accepted it with his usual good grace and humor.”

  Cage winced. No doubt Stacy Rutherford had taken the brunt of her husband’s temper last night. He made a mental note to send one of the deputies out on some pretext to check on her. A familiar powerlessness filled him. Some way, he had to convince the woman to leave her husband and seek safety. He did what he could, but slipping her a card and a few extra dollars now and again dimmed miserably against the realities of the life she led. He wondered how he would deal with it if the day came that Donny Ray used his fists on her once too often. He was afraid he already knew.

  Belatedly, he realized Tanner was speaking again. “I said, the obvious aside, how are you coming along in the courting of Zoey Prescott?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “You sound a bit peevish, Cage, m’boy.” Clearly enjoying himself, Tanner rocked back in the chair. He wasn’t above needling his friend when the opportunity arose. “If the lady is sick of your pretty mug already, could be she’s in the mood for a change. Maybe she’s ready to appreciate my more heroic qualities. Don’t know how she failed to see them the night we met,” he mused aloud. “Usually I’m like glass when it comes to women.”

  “Give or take a few letters.” Driven to move, Cage rose and threw his cup into the trash.

  It suited Tanner to ignore Cage’s last remark. “Could be I’ll just ask Miss Prescott if she’d like to see a little more of the parish. There’s nothing like a moonlight drive to allow the most interesting developments.”

  His smile humorless, Cage said softly, “Don’t.”

  Their gazes met—Tanner’s amused, the other man’s dangerous. Slowly, slowly, the teasing smile faded from Tanner’s face and he gave a long, tuneless whistle. “Well, I’ll be. Looks to me like you’re smitten, boy.”