Don't Go Home

by Janelle Taylor

  HER EYES FLEW OPEN

  Matthew was fast asleep in his desk chair.

  God, but he was beautiful. The computer screen slightly lit up half his chiseled face and shone highlights on his dark, thick hair. His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed tanned, strong forearms, lightly covered with dark hair.

  He was tall and lean and muscular. And he had to be uncomfortable in that position.

  Suddenly, he lurched out of the chair and practically flung himself on the bed, his eyes closed.

  He was still asleep.

  And he was lying down right next to her.

  He turned toward her and burrowed his face in the crook of her neck, his warm breath dancing along her collarbone. She could smell his soap, his musky aftershave, the masculinity of him. An arm snaked around her waist, then inched up, dangerously close to her breast.

  Mia held her breath.

  They were so close they could be making love.

  What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

  His eyes opened.

  And then opened wide.

  He bolted up, and so did she.

  “How—” he began, two spots of color forming on his hard cheeks.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her face flaming. “I guess we both fell asleep. I’ll just call a cab.”

  “Stay,” Matthew said. “I mean, you can have the bed, and I’ll take the couch.”

  “I—”

  “It’s”—he glanced at his watch—“three in the morning.”

  So I guess I’m staying, Mia thought.

  (Web Ad)

  DON’T GO HOME

  Janelle Taylor

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  HER EYES FLEW OPEN

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Copyright Page

  Dedicated to my nieces Diane, Robyn, Lisa,

  Julie, and Lynn.

  Prologue

  Robert Gray slipped his wedding ring into his pocket, sucked in his gut, and checked out the women sitting at the bar and the small, circular tables dotted around Chumley’s, his favorite nightclub. Not bad, he thought, eyeing a young, busty redhead in a midriff top and a miniskirt. Perched on a bar stool, the babe leaned over to shout an order to the bartender. Thirty-six C, tiny waist, and hips a guy could hang on to for ten or fifteen minutes. He’d buy her a few cheap drinks, offer to drive her home, “show her the view” at the far end of Lover’s Cliff, then screw her senseless, and be back at Chumley’s in less than an hour. A quick washup in the men’s room, and he’d be ready for babe number two.

  Robert liked to have sex with at least two women on his Saturday “Boys’ Night Out.” The boys had abandoned him a few years ago for serious girlfriends or marriage, but Robert didn’t mind driving into Center City to make the nightlife rounds alone. Less competition for the ladies that way. As long as his wife thought he was out with his buddies, watching a game at a sports bar or shooting pool, she didn’t give him much grief about going out on Saturday nights. He always showered first thing when he got home, making the excuse that he reeked of other people’s smoke. His wife thought that was very sweet, especially because Robbie, their two-year-old son, was asthmatic.

  When the redhead’s girlfriend headed toward the ladies’ room, leaving his dream girl all by her lonesome at the bar, Robert made his move. One classic line later, he had the redhead smiling and leaning closer to him. Two very strong gin and tonics later, he had her crossing and uncrossing her long legs, the sign that he was definitely going to score.

  Until her friend got ditched by the guy she’d been flirting with.

  Suddenly his redhead was putting on her jacket and getting up. Leaving. He couldn’t take his eyes off her chest. Man, what he wanted to do to her.

  “Hey, beautiful, why don’t you stay?” Robert said in his sexiest and most sincere voice. “It’s only nine o’clock. I’ll drive you home later.”

  The redhead giggled and eyed her friend, who looked jealous. “Sorry, but I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the drinks, though. You’re a sweetie.”

  And then she was gone. With eight bucks of his money in her enticingly flat stomach. Bitch.

  Robert sat back down at the bar and ordered a scotch. Forget her, man, he told himself, running a hand through his thick brown hair. There were plenty of other good-looking young women in Chumley’s tonight, and a few were checking him out. At thirty-eight, Robert was in his prime to attract women in their twenties. He had the looks, money, confidence, and experience to seduce them. Sometimes he’d go for a woman in her thirties—if she was hot enough—but it wasn’t much of a challenge. Unmarried women in their thirties were so desperate they’d latch on to any man and give it up too easily.

  Scotch in hand, Robert turned and looked around Chumley’s.

  Whoa.

  Whoa.

  The best-looking piece of ass Robert had ever seen had just walked through the door.

  Twenty-something. Long, silky blond hair. Light brown eyes, like a doe’s. Red lipstick. Little black dress—very little. Lots of cleavage.

  She sat down alone at a table near the bar. Robert couldn’t take his eyes off her. A babe like that has to be waiting for someone, he thought, noting she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But ten minutes later, she was still sitting there by herself, sipping a drink, not paying the least bit of attention to the door. Probably got into a fight with her boyfriend. Probably could use a little male attention. Probably could use a little of the Robmeister’s very talented tongue tonight.

  Robert downed his scotch, popped a breath mint into his mouth, sucked in the ole gut, and made his way over to Blondie’s table. Ten seconds later he was sitting down next to her. A few minutes later, she was sipping the cosmopolitan he’d bought for her.

  Her name was Candy. Twenty-five. Administrative assistant. Aries. She told him a bunch of other stuff about herself, but he’d been so busy fantasizing about whether he wanted him or her on top that he missed the rest of what she’d said.

  He inched closer, and she murmured that his cologne was very sexy ... which was his invitation to get even closer, slip an arm around her shoulder. She smiled and took a sip of her cosmo. Giggled. Crossed her legs. Uncrossed them.

  “I’d do anything for a kiss,” he whispered into her ear.

  She smiled shyly, then tilted that beautiful face toward his and closed her eyes. The zipper of his pants strained against his erection. He wanted to rip off her clothes, lay her down on the table right here and now, and wrap those long legs around his waist.

  He settled for a soft, slow one on the lips, no tongue to show her he was a gentleman, then blew into her ear and—

  Suddenly he was dragged up from his chair by powerful arms. He tried to twist away, but the guy’s grip was too strong. “What the—”

  “I can’t believe you’re all over some woman in public. What the hell is wrong with you, Robert?”

  At the all-too-
familiar voice of his brother, Robert relaxed. “Get the hell off me, Matt,” Robert growled, trying unsuccessfully to shake loose. Despite being four years younger than Robert, Matthew Gray was a good three inches taller and all muscle and managed to drag Robert over by the jukebox.

  Robert glanced at Candy. The blonde was stirring her drink as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Now there was someone who knew how to mind her own business. Any other woman would be watching them and probably hoping a fight would break out so she could screw the victor.

  “What the hell are you doing, Robert?” Matthew hissed over the blare of a rock and roll song. “You’ve got a wife and baby at home, for God’s sake,” he added, tightening his grip on Robert’s arm. “You’re lucky I don’t tell Laurie that you cheat on her.”

  Damn buttinsky. He’d had to put up with Matt’s butting in his entire life, and he was sick of it. “You want to break your sister-in-law’s heart and watch your little nephew grow up with divorced parents, Matthew? Bug off, little brother. Mind your own damned business.”

  Matthew stared at Robert, then shook his head and shoved Robert up against the jukebox. “It’s your life, man. Go ahead and wreck it. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve your own wife and child.” Finally, Matthew stormed out.

  Jerk. Robert rolled his eyes, straightened his shirt, and headed back to his table. “Sorry about that little scene, darlin’,” he told Candy. “Why don’t I buy us a fresh round of drinks, and we’ll continue what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted by my holier-than-thou brother.”

  Candy glanced at her watch, then slipped on her cardigan sweater. “Um, I’d like to, but ... I’d better get going,” she said, offering him a tight smile.

  No way was this piece of feminine perfection going anywhere before he nailed her. She was so hot she was worth two lays in one. “Look, baby, why don’t we go somewhere more private for a drink where no jealous relatives can bother us.” He smiled and leaned close so he could whisper in her ear. “There’s a little motel a few doors down that has a very nice bar and an intimate little dance floor—”

  Candy stood and picked up her purse. “I’d really better get on home. I have an early start tomorrow. Thanks for the cosmopolitan, honey.”

  Damn. Damn. Damn! This should have been an easy score. He stood and forced a smile. “I’m here every Saturday night, Candy. Will I see you here next weekend?”

  “Um, I’m not really sure,” she said.

  “Well, how about your phone number?”

  She hesitated for a second, but then smiled and wrote down her name and number on a cocktail napkin before sashaying that heart-shaped butt of hers out the door. He folded the napkin and slipped it into his wallet. At least he could call her one night this week and go over to her house and finish what he’d started tonight.

  Robert sat back down at the bar and ordered another scotch. While he drank, he fantasized about what he’d do with Candy when he saw her again. In the middle of a particularly hot visual, he suddenly had the sensation that someone was watching him. Please be a busty babe, he prayed heavenward as he glanced over to his right.

  But no one seemed to be paying him the least bit of attention, not even the average-looking trio of women a few seats down the bar. Considering the three of them could hardly fit their ample asses on the bar stools, they should be all over him.

  He angrily gulped the rest of his scotch. What a waste of a Saturday night. Between his two lost scores and his jerk of a brother, he wasn’t in any mood to try his luck with anyone else, even for a super easy score like one of these bimbos promised to be with a free drink or two in her system.

  He slapped a few bills on the bar and stood, wobbling a bit. Shouldn’t have had that last scotch, he thought as he headed outside, the muggy June air hitting him full in the face. “Heyyyy, pe-peeeople,” he called over his shoulder to the door, “bring your drinksies outshide. No von out here at all and all this roooom to d-d ... dance and fu—” He tripped over his own feet, straightened, then stopped still, looking around at the lot packed full with parked cars. Which one mine? he thought, zigzagging a few feet. Ah, there it is.

  He staggered toward his car, figuring he’d sleep off the worst of his drunk in the air-conditioning before getting on the road. Tomorrow was his son’s second birthday, and he didn’t need Laurie yelling up a storm about his coming home drunk or with a totaled car.

  He felt eyes on him again, that same creepy feeling that someone was watching him. He turned around. No one there. He must be drunker than he thought.

  Footstcheps, he thought, the word slurring even in his mind. I definitely hear footstcheps.

  And as he neared his car and fumbled for the keys in his pocket, he felt the plunge of a knife in his back.

  Then another. And another.

  Robert dropped to his knees and put his hands out to break his fall, warm, sticky blood spurting out of his mouth and dribbling down his chin onto his fifty-dollar shirt. Damn, damn, damn—blood didn’t wash out easily. Laurie was going to have a cow over this.

  He heard the soft tap of shoes on the pavement and thought of calling for help, but he couldn’t find his voice. And anyway, wasn’t the sound coming from right behind him?

  He strained to listen. Yes, someone was right behind him. Whispering something now. Chanting, almost. He tried, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  He tried to turn his head to see who it was, but the knife plunged into his back again, low, and then high, and then lower still.

  His face hit the hot pavement. And then he felt a hand reach into his pocket, fish around for something. His wallet?

  No. His wedding ring.

  Damn. Don’t take the ring, you asshole, he thought. Laurie will have a cow when I come home without it. She’ll withhold sex for a month over this one.

  Robert closed his eyes. He was suddenly tired. Very tired. He felt the way he did before he was falling asleep, before he was about to slip into a wonderful dream about Pamela Anderson or Nicole Kidman naked.

  And then he felt his wedding ring being slipped onto his ring finger. Good, he thought. And thanks, since Laurie always bitches like crazy when I come home with it in my pocket. His excuse that beer made his fingers swell didn’t always appease her.

  The warmth was spreading through his entire body. He felt lighter and lighter. And as another and another plunge of the knife split open his back, he finally could make out what the person behind him was whispering: “Cheaters never prosper.”

  Chapter One

  One week later

  Please don’t ask me out on a date, Mia Anderson prayed as she spied Norman Newman, belly jiggling, plodding toward her classroom with a wilted bouquet of lilacs. Please, please, please have gotten the hint after all these months!

  Mia ducked back inside the room, staring longingly at the water fountain just across the hall. It was unseasonably hot for late June—eighty-six degrees and equal humidity—and of course, the air conditioner in her classroom had broken that morning. But a cool drink of water meant a hallway of students and faculty saying their goodbyes to each other would witness Norman’s final attempt at asking her out.

  And what was he doing here, anyway? It was three-fifteen on a Friday, the final day of school, so perhaps he’d come back to say his goodbyes, too. Norman had been given special permission to cram all his unused vacation time into the past two weeks in order to care for his mother, who’d had a terrible stroke and was all alone, save Norman. The staff had banded together and taken care of his finals, grading, and all the administrative duties that had to be performed in the final days of school.

  The smell of the fragrant purple flowers was getting closer. Why had she ever told that traitorous bunch of students that lilacs were her favorite flowers! The entire school knew that Mr. Newman—voted Most Absentminded Teacher per the unofficial school poll (quickly confiscated by the vice principal during lunch period)—had a longtime crush on Ms. Anderson, who’
d been voted Favorite Teacher and, to Mia’s embarrassment, Prettiest.

  Prettiest. Mia shook her head. If everyone, including Norman, had seen what Mia had looked like before she began teaching at Baywater five years ago, they would have voted her Most in Need of a Makeover. Most Mousiest Brown Hair. Most Blah Brown Eyes. Most Blah Schoolmarm Clothes. Most Blah.

  After all, she’d been awarded that title by her own husband before she’d changed to please him. Before she’d turned into someone else. Before she’d become someone who could win “prettiest teacher” four years in a row.

  Yes, she thought, catching her reflection in the pane of glass on the classroom door. The long blond hair. The pale brown doe eyes enhanced by a light dusting of makeup. The fitted dress and stylish sandals. The hoop earrings and large sterling silver ring. It all adds up to pretty.

  A pretty lie.

  But tonight, after the makeup came off for good and the Miss Clairol Ash Blonde hair dye was rinsed clean from her hair, Mia would once again be a fresh-scrubbed ponytailed brunette. Add the clothes she preferred—long, comfortable cotton skirts and pretty blouses, the pearls she’d inherited from her mother her only adornment—and she’d once again be the Mia she used to be. The Mia she was before David Anderson had come into her life.

  You don’t see your sister wearing pearls, do you, Mia? her ex-husband had asked every time Mia even looked at her pearls. They’re a little matronly, don’t you think?

  Five years ago, she hadn’t had the self-esteem to tell David that no, she most certainly didn’t think pearls were matronly, that in fact the pearls were her most precious possession, that they were all she had left of her mother besides wonderful memories. She’d simply stopped wearing them. She also hadn’t had the self-esteem to tell David that if he wanted her to dress like her twin sister, Margot, maybe he should have married Margot.

  Five years ago—heck, one year ago—she hadn’t had the confidence to tell David Anderson to go to hell. And it had cost her dearly.