He lifted his chin, brought his hand to the back of her head and captured her mouth, lingering there, gliding his tongue over hers in lazy, sweeping circles, as if he could reach some truth inside her if he could just go deep enough. She speared her fingers into his hair and made demanding sounds in the back of her throat. More.
He refused to rush, but he could give her more. Hand under her ass, he lifted her, let go, and she dropped down on him in one smooth, fluid slide. Her long, thankful moan echoed around him and then broke off into urgent little cries as she started to move.
“I need—I need—” she pleaded around his tongue, and struggled to find her rhythm, pushing herself until her breath came out in ragged pants and her body shook with the strain of chasing the orgasm.
“Be still. I’ve got you. I’m going to give you what you need.”
She fought a little longer, and he had to admire her stubborn streak, but moments later she sagged against him. He gripped her hips, holding her up and keeping her flush to the wall. “Don’t move. Tonight I take care of you.” When she finally nodded, he withdrew a few inches, circled his hips, and sank into her again.
She sighed and her head rolled against the tile. He repeated the motion, taking her a little higher, coming back a little harder each time. Within minutes she was finding ways to break the don’t-move rule—pressing her arches into his calves and using the leverage to meet his thrusts, but he stayed the course, drove her up and brought her down just a beat slower than he knew she preferred.
Her mouth found his. She sucked on his tongue with renewed fervor, pleading for speed, but he kept to his pace.
Water rained down on his head. Steam clouded his eyes. She was shaking, and that was okay, because he was shaking, too. He wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her up, up, up… Their mouths broke apart. The rest of her body clutched at him like a necessity.
“Sweet Virginia, are you ready to move?”
Her response was husky and needy and not particularly articulate, but he knew a yes when he heard one. He let go of her waist. She slammed down on him, dug her fingernails into his shoulders and surged up, and then hung there, quivering against him for one long, tense second. And then she went over. Head back, eyes closed, she cried his name…and pulled him into the eye of the storm.
He locked his legs and rode it out, somehow managing to keep them upright. When the last shudders subsided and she lay in his arms like a rag doll, he rinsed them both and then bundled her into the thick robe hanging from the hook on the bathroom door. Probably a bit much for summer, but she didn’t seem to mind. Then he carried her to bed.
They lay there, her snuggled at his side, and he watched her chest rise and fall. After a few minutes he turned out the light.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“I thought you were asleep. I would have turned it off sooner if I’d known it was bothering you.”
“Not the light. Thank you for…the shower. For taking care of me.” She raised her head and stared at him in the dark. “For dragging my mind away from what happened tonight and giving me something else to focus on instead.”
As if he could have done anything else. “Yeah. That was quite a sacrifice, but I’m a giver.”
She laughed, as he’d hoped, and settled against him again. A big part of him wanted to circle back to the whole “I’m here for you as long as you want” epiphany and feel her out…or, fuck it, just tell her, “I love you, but I’m through hiding this relationship. Make a choice. Me or the mayor’s race, but if being with me costs you the election, then this town doesn’t deserve you.” Everything else—his job, a home-base, the future—they’d figure out. But Virginia wouldn’t respond well to an ultimatum, and his timing couldn’t be worse, given the night she’d had and the fact that she was about to drift into some much needed sleep. He circled back to something more innocuous…something he was curious about, nothing more.
“What was the traffic violation Crocker pulled you over for?”
Her fuzzy-edged reply almost didn’t reach his ears. “…Illegal U-turn.”
Chapter Sixteen
Shaun got behind the wheel of his Jeep, went to start the engine, and then stopped and waited for the weight on his chest to move. A U-turn. Maybe she’d forgotten something at the pub, but even as the explanation formed in his brain he knew it didn’t hold. She’d had her purse and jacket—all the essentials—when she’d arrived home. He knew the road out to his cabin was open, since he’d driven it himself. Time to face facts.
Fact one: simple explanations tended to be correct.
You want the simplest explanation? She turned around because she changed her mind about seeing you tonight.
Flawless timing on fate’s part. The same evening he’d manned up to the truth that he was in love with her, she’d stared into her rearview mirror and wondered, “What the hell am I doing, driving miles out of my way to spend the night with a screwed up, rudderless, drifter who also happens to be Tom Buchanan’s son?”
Fact two: if her answer had been, “Falling in love,” she wouldn’t have whipped the U-ball.
He rubbed his palm over his sternum, but the ache in his chest refused to budge, and for the first time in months, he had an overwhelming urge for a drink. The clock on the dash read two thirty in the morning, which ruled out the standard Kentucky cure for a jacked-up Saturday night. Unless he pulled a Justin and raided Tom’s liquor cabinet. Unlike little brother, he didn’t need the key to pop the lock on the cabinet. He was debating the merits of a stop at the house when a vibrating noise snagged his attention.
He picked up his cell phone from the dash, where he’d tossed it when he got in the car, and touched the screen. The icon for the security camera registered a bunch of new images. He’d retrieved some earlier alerts of him sitting on her porch before she’d arrived home. The new ones were probably from when she and Roger had arrived, and then one of him leaving a few minutes ago, but when he tapped the icon and scrolled through the images he got a surprise.
The latest images had been recorded mere seconds ago, at her shop. They revealed a black-clothed figure spray-painting “firecrotch” across the white wall in rude, red letters. The camera’s night-time resolution didn’t quite turn darkness into day, but only a blind person would have trouble identifying Justin’s face.
Fucking idiot. Deep down, he’d hoped his warning would do the trick, which no doubt made him the bigger idiot. He started the car and drove down the hill as fast as he could without waking the neighborhood. Once he turned onto Main, he picked up speed and closed in on the salon, but even from several feet away he could see the empty sidewalk. Only the single slash of paint hinted anyone had been there recently. Luckily, he didn’t need to catch Justin in the act. A picture was worth a thousand words, or, in this case, a thousand hours of community service.
Driving straight to the sheriff’s department and showing them the video would save Virginia the trouble of calling them first thing in the morning when she woke up and checked her phone. Given what had gone down last night, he didn’t want her interacting with them at all—at least not until after the election. Speaking of which, Justin’s prank might deal a death-blow to his father’s mayoral campaign. Maybe Tom would withdraw if he saw the evidence—decide to focus on solving his kid’s behavioral problems instead of fighting to keep the status quo in Bluelick?
One could hope. And the hope had him heading up Riverview Road rather than out to the Double A. The house was dark when he arrived, except for a light shining from the window of his father’s study. He half-expected to see a red Mustang angled in the driveway, but instead he spotted a dark sedan he recognized as Jim Bob Butler’s Buick. Maybe the sheriff already knew about Justin’s nocturnal artistic endeavors? Why else would he be at the house at this hour?
He couldn’t answer the question with certainty, and, in his experience, uncertainty mandated caution. He parked on the street, walked across the lawn, and let himself into the house. The e
ntryway was silent and dark, and he did nothing to alter that status. A few steps down the hall, he picked up voices coming from his father’s study. The door hung half open, and through the gap he saw Butler, in plain-clothes, sitting in the guest chair, and Tom behind the desk in his robe and pajamas, looking primed for an argument.
“Butler, you assured me after tonight, Ginny Boca would be a non-issue. What the hell happened?”
“Crocker picked her up outside Rawley’s just as you suggested, but there was a small flaw with your plan, Tom. A DUI arrest only sticks if the person is, in fact, driving while intoxicated. Not only was she nowhere near drunk, she recorded the incident on her cell phone, unbeknownst to Crocker. Next thing I knew I had Roger Reynolds in my office playing a recording of Crocker threatening her like some tin-badge deputy on a power trip, and I was lucky to negotiate a “let’s forget about this little misunderstanding” settlement just to keep the whole cluster-fucking mess off the front page of the Bugle.”
Shit. It was a night for idiots. Shaun nearly banged his head against the doorframe, but rendering himself unconscious would be taking the easy way out. Instead he hit the record button on his phone and stayed where he was, just outside the study door.
“Look, you brought us to this,” Butler went on. “You told me you’d discredit her during the debate, and she wouldn’t stand a chance of winning, but she wiped the floor with you—”
“I know what happened at the debate. I was there, thank you very much. It’s done. There’s no un-doing it, but I can still win this thing. I just need an advance on the appreciation fee we agreed on, so I can give some people a proper incentive to come out on election day and cast their vote my way.”
Shaun’s stomach churned as he watched Butler stand and pull an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. “There’s half the appreciation fee. You’ll get the other half at the usual time—once the city council votes to renew the contract with the county.”
Tom picked up the envelope and glanced inside. “Thanks, Jim Bob. Thank the rest of the boys for me, too. You won’t be sorry—”
“No, we won’t,” Butler said in a hard voice. “The boys asked me to inform you if you don’t win on Tuesday, they’re taking that back, out of your ass if necessary.”
The envelope in Tom’s hand shook and his pale face stood out in stark contrast against the dark green curtains behind him. “Hey, now, I don’t appreciate threats.”
“What are you gonna do, Tom, complain to the sheriff?” Chortling at his own joke, Butler headed to the door.
Shaun stepped into the shadows and listened to the sound of the sheriff’s footsteps fade down the hall. His leg muscles twitched with the urge to pursue, tackle the man, and make him choke on his laughter, but, frankly, the guy didn’t deserve a fast, easy take-down. He deserved to twist on the line like a hooked fish, and watch while every single person in the ring of corruption turned on him on their way down, starting with Tom.
The front door opened and closed, and the house fell silent. He pulled out his phone, stopped recording, and pushed back alternating waves of disappointment and anger. A tap on the doorframe had Tom’s head jerking up from counting the hundred dollar bills fanned out across the top of his desk. His cheeks turned a guilty shade of red, but he swept the bills into the envelope and smiled. “Shaun, Jesus…always good to see you, but you scared the crap out of me. How long have you been there?”
Shaun walked into the office, sat in the chair Butler had vacated, propped his right foot on his left knee and put his phone on the edge of the desk.
“Long enough to know we need to talk.” Then he hit play.
…
Ginny hurried toward her front door, stopping mid-stride to balance on one foot and tug the heel strap of her black and white polka-dot high-wedge espadrille more snugly into place. She’d slept a bit later than normal—no surprise after last night—and then wasted some time sulking upon realizing Shaun had stuck to his usual MO and left sometime after she’d drifted off. What had she expected? If she’d wanted him to stick around, she should have at least stayed awake long enough to issue the invitation, but then Ms. Van Hendler might have seen him leaving this morning, and, in all likelihood, he didn’t fancy that any more than she did.
He’d remained amazingly neutral about the mayoral race, but she knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t willingly do something to compromise her. Yes, a small, uncertain, and no-doubt unfair part of her wondered where his loyalties would lie if push ever came to shove, but when he’d looked into her eyes last night and told her she had him—as much as she needed, as long as she needed—she’d let herself hope maybe he intended to stick. She’d let herself hope maybe she wasn’t the only one wishing there might be some way to forge a future, whatever happened with the mayor’s race. She’d let herself hope maybe things were changing for him, too.
And then she’d woken up alone.
She mentally kicked her butt into gear and resumed walking toward the door. None of the hoping and wishing accomplished a damn thing at the moment, but between the sleeping and the sulking and having to walk to church because her car was in impound, she was going to miss the opening hymn.
Her purse sat exactly where she’d left it last night, on the entryway table. She scooped it up, and, out of habit, looked in her wallet to make sure she had her checkbook. Jesus took checks and Uncle Sam allowed the deduction. Win-win. Her cell phone woke up from all the jostling and the screen caught her eye. She hadn’t checked it since she’d passed it to Roger last night through the bars of the holding cell. Now she noticed the security camera icon showed eleven alerts.
Shaun on your doorstep. You and Roger arriving last night. Shaun leaving this morning. Even though she didn’t have time to spare, curiosity got the better of her. She tapped the icon and pulled up the images. And froze. The most recent images were from the store cam, not the porch cam, and clearly showed Justin spray-painting the same obscene graffiti on her salon wall.
“Son-of-a—” She dialed Shaun’s number, for no good reason except she wanted to confirm he saw the same thing she saw. And, okay, she wanted to talk to him, and, spineless as it was, she wanted him to offer to be with her when she called the sheriff to report the matter. After all, last night he’d said—
“Hello Virginia.”
God, he sounded like a flat tire. Worn out and depleted. Whatever happened between them, his days of getting up at two in the morning to drive home were over, she vowed. The man needed a decent night’s sleep. “Hey sugar, have you checked the security camera? Because I did, just now, and—”
“I checked. I saw. I handled it.”
Something was wrong. He sounded wrong. “What do you mean it’s handled? I need to call the sheriffs and show them this video.”
“No you don’t. Don’t call. Don’t drive out there. Don’t go anywhere near the sheriff’s department. Promise me, Virginia. What I need you to do is go on to church.”
“Go to church and let Justin get away with defacing my store for the second time? What the hell, Shaun?”
He responded with a weary sigh. “I took the video over to the house last night, to show Tom, and—”
“You showed Tom? You didn’t think to wake me up and show me, but you showed Tom? Why would you do that?” Her voice rose in pitch with each word, until even she cringed by the end of the question.
“I had my reasons. If you calm down long enough to let me finish, I’ll explain.”
Calm down? The man had betrayed her trust and now told her to calm down? How about an I’m sorry? A cold, hollow ache spread through her chest. “You know what? You can take your reasons and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine. I don’t need an explanation for something this clear. I tried really hard not to put you in any position where you had to choose between Tom and me, but, deep down, I wondered who you’d stand by if you had to take a stand. Sucker that I am I actually thought you might stand by me. Now I don’t have to wonder anymore. I know exactl
y where your loyalties lie. So thanks for that.”
“Virginia, you don’t know a damn thing—”
“I know I’ve had my fill of Buchanans,” she hurled back, and then disconnected, because a sob kept trying to claw its way out of her throat, and she’d be damned if she let his choice reduce her to tears.
A text message immediately dinged. From him. Tears blurred her vision, but she managed to read the words.
Trust me. Please. Just go to church.
Trust him? Never again. As far as the rest, it wasn’t like she had any choice. She wasn’t going to call the sheriff on her own. She put her purse on her shoulder, strode out the door and shut it behind her with a wood-vibrating bang.
But if Roger was at church, she planned to show him the video and ask him to hold her hand while she pressed charges. The Buchanans might be powerful, but they couldn’t buy, barter, or back-scratch their way out of this.
Fifteen minutes later she scooted into the pew beside Melody and Josh, and joined in the last verse of the opening hymn, “The Joy of Forgiveness”. She recognized the back of Tom’s head, occupying his usual spot in the front pew, but neither Justin nor Brandi flanked him. Instead he stood between two dark-suited men she couldn’t place from her vantage point. Was Justin sleeping in after his late night spent menacing society?
She cast a quick glance toward the back of the church, not really surprised to find it empty.
Reverend Carlson motioned for the congregation to be seated, and then, with an uncharacteristically solemn face, approached the pulpit and said into the microphone, “I had a different sermon planned for today, but a member of our flock needs our ear this morning. Please join with me in welcoming Tom Buchanan.”
Falling for the Enemy Page 16