by Beth Ciotta
She licked her lush lower lip. “Well?”
“Let’s not go there, Tiger.”
“Too bad for you. I’m a yoga geek.” She raised one brow. “You know what that means.”
“Flexible?”
“Like Gumby.”
The retro green guy that could bend every which way and back.
Christ.
He shut her door, rounded the Aspen and claimed the driver’s seat. “Where am I headed?”
“Route 50, a half a mile past Max’s place. Do you remember where Max lives?”
Flicking on his headlights, he eased onto Adams Street and headed north. “The boonies.” A twenty-minute drive from town, midway between Eden and Kokomo. Corn and soybean fields. Patches of woods. Pig farms. Pastures of grazing cows and horses. Sporadic century-old farmhouses and the occasional contemporary modular home. A wide-open area where the nearest neighbor lived a mile or a half mile away. He shot her a look. “You live alone out there?”
She smirked. “I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking if you live alone. No roommate?”
“I like my privacy.”
“You could live alone here in town.”
“I like the solitude.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He’d rented a home on the outskirts of town, an old two-story brick house on two acres of land. He, too, liked the idea of solitude. Peace and quiet. The exact opposite of what he’d had when he’d lived in the high-rise in Brooklyn. Difference was he was a trained cop, capable of handling a crisis in any form. She was…Kylie. Kylie all grown up, he thought, raking his gaze over her body.
“I didn’t used to live alone. I used to be almost engaged. Are you shocked?”
“That you were almost engaged? Or that you were living in sin?” he teased.
“Either, or.”
“Neither.”
“His name was Bobby Jones. You wouldn’t know him. He was a free spirit.”
You mean a freeloader. “Spenser mentioned him.” Jack kept in touch with his friend via e-mail. Mostly they talked sports and global affairs, but they always touched on family.
“Spenser never liked Bobby.”
That was putting it mildly, but Jack held his tongue.
“I’m not fond of my brother right now.”
“Because he didn’t approve of Bobby?”
“Because he’s an insensitive boob.”
Jack swallowed a laugh. “Did he forget your birthday?”
“No. He forgot I’m human.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I have dreams, too.”
He started to ask specifics, but she’d slumped against the window, eyes closed. She’d either passed out or clammed up. One thing he’d learned on the force, sometimes the easiest way to learn something was not to ask. He’d let it go for now and she’d talk when she was ready.
He tapped the radio media key, scanned his presets and chose a local classic rock station. The same music he’d listened to in his teens while cruising these back country roads. He grinned at the irony when the speakers rattled with the Cars’ “Shake It Up.” What did Kylie plan on doing, anyway? TP-ing every tree in town? Spraying Eden’s sacred water tower with graffiti? Streaking down the center of Main Street?
A vivid image of the woman sitting next to him exploded in his mind. Ivory flesh and toned curves. It was the second time in less than twenty minutes he’d imagined Kylie McGraw naked. Damn. He shifted in his seat, frowning when “Shake It Up” segued into “Keep Your Hands to Yourself.” Seemed the DJ had coordinated a playlist specifically fitted to Jack’s evening. He lowered the volume and concentrated on the road, not Kylie. The scenery, not Kylie.
She’d changed. He’d changed. But aside from a random new home, this rural area had remained the same. Between the music and landscape, he easily slipped back in time. He soaked in the serenity as if it were a restorative drug.
Ten minutes later he zipped by Max Grogan’s place. The antique fire engine parked in the drive had been in the old man’s possession for more than twenty years. He wondered if Red Rover still ran. He relived a few choice memories regarding that red hook-and-ladder truck while keeping an eye out for Kylie’s house. A half mile past Max’s place, she’d said.
He was about to wake her when he spied a lone mailbox and rolled to a stop. Brightly colored shoes were painted up and down the white post and McGraw was scripted on the box alongside #312. He turned his SUV into the crushed-stone drive that led him into the woods and soon after his headlights flashed on a mobile home. Not only did she live alone in the boonies, she lived in a disaster waiting to happen. Eden was smack in the middle of Tornado Alley. If a twister touched down, she’d be gone with the wind. What was she thinking? Why hadn’t Spenser intervened?
She stirred along with his annoyance. “You found it,” she said in a slurred, husky voice. “Great. Thanks for the lift.” Then her lids drifted back shut and Jack smiled in spite of his unease. Damn, she was cute.
Three seconds later he sidestepped potted flowers and carried the dozing woman toward her green mobile home. Moonlight bathed the tended lawn. The warm evening breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding oak and maple trees and the bamboo wind chimes hanging from a wrought-iron pole rooted next to a bird feeder. He smelled earth and flowers and perfume. “Kylie?”
“Hmm?”
“Keys.”
“Purse.”
“Where?”
She furrowed her brow.
“Let me guess. You left it at Boone’s.”
“No problem. Mat.”
“Who’s Matt?”
“Doormat. Hey, it’s like a knock-knock joke. Funny,” she said with a loopy smile, then slipped back into la-la Land.
If he hadn’t been pissed about her obvious hiding place for the spare key, he would’ve laughed. The joke wasn’t funny, but she was. “When you’re sober, you and I are going to have a talk about home protection, Tiger.”
He fished the key from under the mat and unlocked the door, no easy feat while juggling a living rag doll. Once inside he flicked on a wall switch, bathing the compact living and dining area in muted light. “Spotless” was his first thought, quickly followed by “sparse.” Minimal furnishings with an oriental flair. He noted the framed prints on the wall. Japanese temples and landscapes. A movie poster of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Huh.
He located her bedroom, wishing she hadn’t mentioned her agility, compliments of yoga. Oriental images of an erotic nature flashed in his mind as he laid her on her black-and-red comforter.
Time to leave.
He took off her glasses and placed them on the nightstand, noted a book on Zen and travel brochures on China and Japan. Spenser had never mentioned her obsession with the Orient. He wondered if he knew. He thought about what she’d said earlier. “I have dreams, too.” After one peek at her living quarters, any idiot could deduce her dreams involved Asia. He filed away the knowledge, slipped into the bathroom and nabbed a glass of water and two aspirin. He returned and nudged her awake. “Take these and drink this. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
Bleary-eyed, she complied, then fell back on the pillow with a groan.
“Sleep tight, kid.” I’m outta here.
Warm toes skimmed up his T-shirt and across his lower back. “Jack?”
Wary, he turned back and nabbed Kylie’s adventurous foot. The wide pant leg slid toward her body, revealing a toned thigh and a glimpse of red panties. Damn.
“I’m not getting any younger,” she said.
Hit the road, Jack. “Meaning?”
“Meaning if I wait for what I want, I’ll never get it. At least that’s the way it’s worked so far.” She shoved her hair out of her eyes, then wagged a finger in his direction to emphasize another thought. “Although, I did grab the bull by the horns once, if you catch my drift, and I know you do, and I didn’t get what I wanted that time, either. I gotta tell ya, life has been one big-butt di
sappointment.”
She sounded pitiful and angry at the same time, and he cursed himself a pig for imagining the pleasure zone beneath those satin panties. He released her sexy foot and tugged her pant leg back past her knee. Against his better judgment, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Today in particular stunk.”
“Want to tell me what Spenser said or did to ruin your birthday?”
“It’s what he didn’t say or do.”
“You’re losing me.”
“It’s not about my birthday, but my life.”
“Definitely lost.”
“But it is what it is so I need to make the most of what I have, which isn’t much. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
He pressed a finger to his temple, rubbed.
“Creative visualization is a beautiful thing. I will have my adventure, just you wait and see.”
“Back to shaking up things in Eden, huh?”
“I was planning to start tomorrow, but you know what they say…” She quirked a brow, waited.
“No time like the present?”
Her full lips curved into another of those loopy grins. “For the past year, I’ve spent every night in this bed alone. It would certainly break my blah, boring routine if you—”
“No.”
“—kissed me.”
Shit.
“It’s the least you could do.”
“For?”
“Refusing to be my first.”
He scratched his forehead, reflecting on the episode he’d sworn to take to his grave. “You were fourteen.”
She scrunched her brow. “So? How old were you when you first—”
“That’s different.”
“Why? Because you’re a guy? That’s a stupid argument,” she slurred, “but I’ll let it slide and point out that I am now thirty-two.”
“You’re also blitzed.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What if I was sober?”
“You’d still be Spenser’s little sister.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. Then she stretched like a languid cat, teasing him with thoughts of Gumby flexibility.
“I know,” he said, only half kidding. “My loss.”
“My stinky birthday.” She stuck out her lower lip in a contrived but alluring pout.
He knew when he was being played. His ex had been a master manipulator. Not that Kylie was in Amanda’s league. Kylie was drunk. He scrambled for a graceful exit without hurting her feelings.
She mistook his hesitation as an invitation. “A pleasurable distinction,” she whispered, then pressed those pouty lips to his.
Soft. Sweet. Hot.
Holy shit.
He froze.
She sighed. “Thanks for the birthday kiss, Jack.”
He grappled for a casual response.
“Too bad I didn’t feel anything.”
CHAPTER THREE
ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE.
Hell would have been preferable.
As was his routine for the past seven years, Travis Martin rose at 6:00 a.m. He showered—using bargain-brand soap, shampoo and shaving cream. He dressed in Lee Dungarees Carpenter Jeans, a plaid shirt and beige work boots. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal, white toast and a cup of Folgers. He scanned the local newspaper while he ate. The only upset in this routine was the absence of his wife. She’d died three months earlier. Life had been difficult before. Now it was painful.
Still, Travis stayed the course.
At 7:00 a.m. he pinned on his name tag and tugged on a cap embroidered with his employer’s logo: Hank’s Hardware.
At 7:05 he was out the door of his run-down farmhouse and behind the wheel of his 1995 Chevy pickup. The truck, like his clothes, was nondescript. He blended with the male population of Eden. He was just another hardworking, blue collar stiff who occasionally attended church on Sunday mornings—not that he got anything out of the preacher’s sermons. Now and then he dropped by Kerri’s Confections where he indulged in doughnuts and coffee. What he really wanted was a cannoli and espresso, not that he ever asked. Once in a while, like most of the men in these parts, he made an appearance at Boone’s Bar and Grill, where he tossed back a couple of beers. Last night he’d been sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a bottle of Pabst and craving a glass of Chianti, when Kylie McGraw, who was typically as unassuming as himself, went a little oobatz. Unlike anyone else in Boone’s, Travis had empathized.
Like Kylie, he despised the tedium of this Midwestern mom-and-pop town.
Unlike Kylie, he had no intention of shaking things up. He’d flirted with danger a month earlier, a moment of weakness. A mistake he’d quickly rectified. Drawing attention to himself was not an option.
Or was it?
At 7:40, Travis parked his pickup in the alley behind the hardware store. He entered through the back door, traded greetings with his boss and two coworkers. He tidied his work station and skimmed new orders. He did everything exactly as he always did, only this morning, like that one unfortunate night, he couldn’t calm his inner self. His true self.
At 8:00 a.m., his boss opened for business and Travis struggled to maintain his composure, his wife’s last request ringing in his ears. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Unfortunately, as his loneliness and frustration escalated, the warning packed less punch.
CHAPTER FOUR
KYLIE WOKE UP WITH a blinding headache and a gross taste in her mouth. Her memory was splotchy, too, but it could have been worse. She could have woken up next to Ashe. Or she could have puked up her guts. Although, if she had slept with Ashe, she would have felt wretched and not because of a hangover. She didn’t care how good-looking he was, the man was a bed-hopping sleaze with a checkered past, and she had scruples.
She also had a stabbing pain behind her dust-dry eyeballs.
Who would have thought a trendy drink could be so lethal? Except she’d had three, four if you counted the third as a double, over a short period of time. She regretted taking a spill at Boone’s—not exactly a shining moment—and she sort of felt bad for lashing out at Max and gang. But she didn’t regret her vow to shake things up. She’d meant every word, well, the ones she remembered. At the very least, she could attack her own dull-as-dirt existence. She could be bold. She could take risks.
A moment blipped in her mind.
Her. Jack.
She smacked her forehead, winced.
“Stupid cosmos.”
She had a big-butt hangover and one mortifying memory. Her lame attempt at seducing Jack Reynolds. He’d resisted her flirting. He’d tolerated her kiss. She didn’t know what else to call it. He didn’t jerk back, but he didn’t reciprocate. But that wasn’t the shocker.
There’d been no spark!
Considering the Mount Fuji-size crush she’d had on the man for most of her freaking life, she’d expected to go up in flames the moment she’d sampled that sexy mouth. Instead, she’d felt nothing, nada, numb. Either the alcohol had obliterated her senses or she really was over him. Completely. She chose to believe the latter. Otherwise, living in the same town with him, again, would be torture.
She still couldn’t believe he’d moved back to Eden in the first place. He’d devoted his life to fighting the bad guy. Even as a kid, Jack had been the first to stand up to schoolyard bullies, usually in defense of others, because you’d have to be nuttier than a squirrel’s hoard to tangle with Jack Reynolds. He and Spenser were both motivated by macho protector instincts. Only Jack gravitated toward fighting crime in the big city, and Spenser had joined the fight against evil on foreign soil. Kylie had never been to New York City, but she knew it brimmed with art, music and literature, diverse cultures and interesting people. So much to do and see…unlike in Eden. Plenty of criminal butts to kick…unlike in Eden.
“The man will be bored to tears within a month,” she mumbled into the murky predawn. Good thing she was no longer crushing on him, because he wouldn’t be here for long. Unlike
Kylie. The way things were going she’d be here until she was six feet under. Not that she wanted to leave Eden forever. Just for a while. Just long enough to experience the beauty and wonder of Asia. Although at this point, an adventure on any level would do.
“You can hide under the blankets feeling sorry for yourself or you can attack the day with gusto, McGraw.” Despite the nauseating pulse behind her dry, bleary eyeballs, she swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed. “Gusto it is.” She grimaced at the aftertaste of the nacho chips she’d wolfed down, compliments of the midnight munchies. “But first I’m brushing my teeth.”
“HOW THE HELL DID YOU get my toothbrush? Oh, shit. Wait. Shit.”
Note to self, Jack thought as the stray mutt peed on his bathroom floor, don’t yell at the dog. Any time he exhibited frustration, Shy—he had to call her something—peed. Not a lot, just a nervous sprinkle. Still. “Damn.”
He grabbed a wad of tissue and soaked up the mess.
Shy cowered on the bath mat.
Two nights earlier, he’d found the midsize stray cowering under the old rocker on his back porch. She was scared of thunderstorms. She was scared, from what he’d witnessed so far, of everything. Starved, wet and frightened, the pitiful thing had allowed him to coax her inside. Next, he’d called animal control, but no one had reported a missing dog that looked like a miniature German shepherd. He’d told himself, and Shy, that he’d only keep her until he found her owner or a suitable home. The way things were going, that day couldn’t come too soon.
He adopted the casual manner he used to soothe victimized humans. “Easy, girl.” He flushed the soiled tissue, then washed his hands. Noting the dog’s stricken look, he ruffled her bowed head. Five seconds later, she trotted after him and into the kitchen, tail wagging.
He opened the fridge and nabbed the makings of a mushroom omelet.
Shy circled twice, then curled on the braided rug in front of the sink.
“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re coming with me today.” Yesterday, she’d destroyed one of his shoes, two books and a magazine. Either she’d been pissed because he’d left her alone, or bored. He wasn’t a doggy shrink, but this pup had issues. She was a complication he didn’t want or need. His goal was to simplify.