by Diana Palmer
“From your mother?” she guessed.
He shook his head. “It seems that FBI senior agent Jon Blackhawk came here to eat with his brother, Kilraven, one night. Jon tasted their barbecue sauce, made a face, got up, walked into the kitchen and proceeded to have words with the chef.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not. It didn’t come to blows, but only because Jon put on an apron and showed the chef how to make a proper barbecue sauce. When the chef tasted it, so the story goes, he asked which cordon bleu academy in Paris Mr. Blackhawk had attended. He got the shock of his life when Jon named it.” He grinned. “You see, he actually went to Paris and took courses. His new wife is one lucky woman. She’ll never have to go in the kitchen unless she really wants to.”
“I heard about them,” she replied. “That’s one interesting family.”
He munched a French fry thoughtfully. “I’d love to have kids,” he said solemnly. “A big family to make up for what I never had.” His expression was bitter. “Barbara is the best mother on the planet, but I wish I’d had brothers and sisters.”
“You do at least still have a father living,” she pointed out.
“A father who’s going to get the shock of his life when he’s introduced to his grown-up son,” he said. “And I wonder if Ramirez has had any luck getting his sister-in-law to approach the general.”
As if in answer to the question, his cell phone began vibrating. He checked the number, gave her a stunned glance and got to his feet. “I’ll be right back. I have to take this.”
She nodded. She liked his consideration for the other diners. He took the call outside on the street, so that he wouldn’t disturb other people with his conversation.
He was back in less than five minutes. He sat back down. “Imagine that,” he said on a hollow laugh. “Gracie talked to the general. He wants us to come to the border Monday morning for a little chat, as he put it.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Progress,” she said, approving.
He sighed. “Yes. Progress.” He didn’t add that he had misgivings and he was nervous as hell. He just finished eating.
Chapter Seven
Rick was preoccupied through the rest of the meal. Gwen didn’t talk much, either. She knew he had to be unsettled about the trip to the border, for a lot of reasons.
He held her hand on the way to the car, his strong fingers tangling in hers.
“It will be all right,” she blurted out.
They reached the passenger door and he paused, looking down at her. “Will it?”
“You’re a good man,” she said. “He’ll be very proud of you.”
He was uncertain. “You think?”
She loved the smell of his body, the warm strength of it near her. She loved everything about him. “Yes.”
He smiled tenderly. She made him feel tall, powerful, important. Women had made him feel undervalued for years, mostly by thinking of him as nothing more than a friend. Gwen was different. She was a working girl, from his own middle-class strata. She was pretty, in her way, and smart. And she knew her way around a handgun, he thought amusedly. But she also stirred his senses in a new and exciting way.
“You’re nice,” he said suddenly.
She grimaced. “Rub it in.”
“No. Nice, in a very positive way,” he replied. His expression was somber. “I don’t like sophisticated women. I like brains in a woman, and even athletic outlooks. But I do mind women who think of themselves as party favors. You get me?”
She smiled. “I feel the same way about men like that.”
He smiled. “You and I, we don’t belong in a modern setting.”
“We’d look very nice in a Victorian village,” she agreed. “Like Edward in the Twilight vampire series of books and movies. I love those. I guess I’ve seen the movies ten times each and read the books on my iPod every night.”
“I don’t watch vampire movies. I like werewolves.”
“Oh, but there are werewolves in them, too. Nice werewolves.”
“You’re kidding.”
She hesitated. “I’ve got all the DVDs. I was wondering…”
He moved a step closer, so that she was backed into the car door. “You were wondering?”
“Uh, yes, if you’d like to maybe watch the movies with me?” she asked him. “I could make a pizza. Or we could…order…one…?”
She was whispering now, and her voice was breaking because his mouth had moved closer with every whispered word until it was right against her soft lips.
“Gwen?”
“Hmm?”
“Shut up,” he whispered against her lips, and his crushed down on them with warm, sensual, insistent hunger.
A muffled sob broke from her throat as she lifted her arms and pressed her body as close as she could get it to his tall, powerful form. He groaned, too, as the insane delight pulsed through him like fire.
He moved, shifting her, so that one long leg was between her skirt, and his mouth was suddenly invasive, starving.
“Detective!”
He heard a voice. It sounded close. And shocked. And angry. He lifted his head, still reeling from Gwen’s soft mouth.
“Hmm?” he murmured, turning his head.
“Detective Sergeant Marquez,” a deep, angry voice repeated.
“Sir!” He jumped back, almost saluted, and tried to look normal. He hoped his jacket was covering a blatant reminder of his body’s interest in Gwen’s.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lieutenant Hollister asked gruffly.
“It’s okay, sir,” Gwen faltered. “He was, uh, helping me get my earring unstuck from my dress.”
He blinked and scowled. “What?”
“My earring, sir.” She dangled it in her hand. “It caught on my dress. Detective Marquez was helping me get it loose. I guess it did look odd, the position we were in.” She laughed with remarkable acting ability.
“Oh. I see.” Hollister cleared his throat. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m very sorry. It looked, well, I mean…” He cleared his throat again. He scowled. “I thought you didn’t date colleagues,” he shot at Marquez, who had by reciting multiplication tables made a remarkably quick recovery.
“I don’t, sir,” Marquez agreed. “We both like flamenco, and there’s a dancer here…”
Hollister held up his hand and declared, “Say no more. That’s why I came. Alone, sadly,” he added with a speculative and rather sad look at Gwen.
“She’s a great dancer,” Gwen said. “And that guitarist!”
He nodded. “Her husband.”
“Really!” Gwen exclaimed.
“Oh, yes. They’ve appeared all over Europe. I understand they’re being considered for a bit part in a movie that’s filming near here next year.”
“That would be so lovely for them,” Gwen enthused.
Rick checked his watch. “We’d better go. I’ve got an appointment early Monday morning. I thought I’d brush up on my Spanish over the weekend,” he added dryly.
“Yes, I heard about that,” Hollister said quietly. “It will go all right,” he told Rick. “You’ll see.”
Rick was touched. “Thanks.”
Hollister shrugged. “You’re a credit to my department. Don’t let him talk you into going to South America, okay?”
Rick smiled. “I’m not much good with rocket launchers.”
“Me, neither,” the lieutenant agreed. He glanced at Gwen and smiled. “Well, sorry about the mistake. Have a good evening.”
“You, too, sir,” Gwen said, and Rick nodded assent.
Hollister nodded back and walked, distracted, toward the restaurant.
Rick helped Gwen into the truck and burst out laughing. So did she.
“Did I ever tell you that I minored in theater in college?” she asked. “They said I had promise.”
“You could make movies,” he said flatly. He shook his head as he started the truck. “Quick thinking.”
“Thanks.�
�� She flushed a little.
Neither of them mentioned that they’d been so far gone that anything could have happened, right there in the parking lot, if the lieutenant hadn’t shown up. But it was true. Also true was the look the lieutenant had been giving them. He seemed to have more than the usual interest in Gwen. He wasn’t really the sort of man to put a rose on a woman’s desk unless he meant it. Rick was thinking that he had some major competition there, if he didn’t watch his step. Hollister’s tone hadn’t been one of outraged decorum so much as jealous anger.
Rick left Gwen at her door. He was more cautious this time, but he did pull her close and kiss her good-night with barely restrained passion.
She held him, kissing him back, loving the warm, soft press of his mouth on hers.
“I’m out of practice,” he murmured as he stepped back.
“Me, too,” she said breathlessly, her eyes full of stars as they met his in the light from the security lamps.
“I guess we could practice with each other,” he murmured dryly.
She flushed and laughed nervously. “I’d like that.”
“Yes. So would I.” He bent again, brushing his mouth lightly over hers and forcing himself not to go in headfirst. “Are you coming along, in the morning?”
She nodded. “I have to.”
He smiled. “Good. I could use the moral support.”
She smiled back. “Thanks.”
“Well. I’ll see you at the office Monday.”
“Yes.”
He turned and took a step. He stopped. He turned. She was still standing there, her expression confused, waiting, still…
He walked back to her. “Unlock the door,” he said quietly.
She fumbled the key into the lock and opened it. He closed it behind him, his arms enveloping her in the dark hallway, illuminated by a single small lamp in the living room. His mouth searched for hers, found it, claimed it, possessed it hungrily.
His arms were insistent, locking her against the length of his powerful body. She moaned, a sound almost like a sob of pleasure.
He was feeling something very similar.
“What the hell,” he whispered into her lips as he bent and lifted her, still kissing her, and carried her to the long, soft sofa.
They slid down onto it together, his body covering hers, one long leg insinuating itself between her skirt, between her soft thighs. His lean hands went to the back of the dress, finding the hook and the zipper.
She didn’t even have the presence of mind to protest. She was drowning in pleasure. She’d never felt anything remotely similar to the sensations that were washing over her like ripples of unbelievable delight.
He slid the dress off her arms, along with the tiny straps of the black slip she wore under it, exposing a small, black-lace bra that revealed more than it covered. She had pretty little breasts, firm and very soft.
His hand slid under the bra, savoring the warm softness of the flesh, exciting the hard little tip, making her shiver with new sensations.
She hadn’t done this before. He knew it without being told. He smiled against her mouth. It was exciting, and new, to be the first man. He never had been. Not that there had even been that many women that he’d been almost intimate with. And, in recent years, nobody. Like Gwen, he’d never indulged in casual sex. He was as innocent, in his way, as she was. Well, he knew a little more than she did. When he touched his mouth to her breast, she lifted toward his lips with a shocked little gasp. He smiled as his mouth opened, taking the hard tip inside and pulling at it gently with his tongue.
Her nails bit into the muscles of his arms as he removed his jacket and tie and shirt, wanting so badly to be closer, closer…
She felt air on her skin and then the hard, warm press of hair and muscle as they locked together, both bare from the waist up.
His mouth was insistent now, hungry, demanding. She felt his hand sliding up her bare thigh and she knew that very soon they would reach a point from which there was no return.
“N…no,” she whispered, pushing at his chest. “Rick? Rick!”
He heard her voice through a bloodred haze of desire that locked his muscles so tightly that he could barely move for the tension. She was saying something. What? It sounded like…no?
He lifted his head. He looked into wide, uneasy green eyes. He felt her body tensed, shivering.
“I’m sorry…” she began.
He blinked once, twice. He drew in a breath that sounded as ragged as he felt. “Good Lord,” he exhaled.
She swallowed. They were very intimate. Neither of them had anything on above the waist. His hand was still on her thigh. He removed it quickly and lifted up just a little, his high cheekbones flushing when he got a sudden, stark, uninterrupted view of her pretty pink breasts with tight little dusky pink tips very urgently stating the desire of the owner for much more than looking.
Embarrassed, she drew her hands up over them as he levered himself away and sat up.
“I’m sorry,” he said, averting his eyes while she fumbled her dress back on. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Of c-course not,” she stammered. “Neither did I. It’s all right.”
He laughed. His body felt as if it had been hit with a bat several times in strategic places and he ached from head to toe. “Sure it is.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she groaned. She wasn’t experienced, but she had friends who were, and she knew what was wrong with him. “Here, just a sec.”
She went to the kitchen and came back with a cold beer from the fridge. “Detective Rogers comes over from time to time and she likes this brand of light beer,” she explained. “I don’t drink, but I think people need to sometimes. You need to, a little…?”
He gave her an exasperated sigh. “Gwen, I’m a police detective sergeant!”
“Yes, I know…”
“I can’t take a drink and drive!”
She stared at him, looked at the beer. “Oh.”
He burst out laughing. It broke the ice and slowly he began to feel normal again.
She looked around them. His jacket and shirt and tie, and her shoes and his holster and pistol were lying in a heap beside the sofa.
His gaze followed hers. He laughed again. “Well.”
“Yes. Uh. Well.” She looked at the can of beer, laughed, and set it down. Her glasses were where she’d tossed them on the end table but she didn’t put them on. She didn’t want to see his expression. She was already embarrassed.
He put his shirt and tie back on and slipped into his jacket before he replaced the holstered pistol on his belt. “At least you don’t object to the gun,” he mused.
She shrugged. “I usually have a concealed carry in my purse,” she confessed.
His eyebrows arched. “No ankle holster?” he asked.
She made a face. “Weighs down my leg too much.”
He nodded. He looked at her in a different way now. Possessively. Hungrily. He moved forward, but he only took her oval face in his hands and searched her eyes, very close up. He was somber.
“From now on,” he said gently, “we say good-night at the door. Right?”
He was hinting at a relationship. “From now on?” she said hesitantly.
He nodded. He searched her eyes. “There aren’t that many women running around loose who belong to the Victorian era, don’t mind firearms and like to watch flamenco dancing.”
She smiled with pure delight. “I was going to say the same about you—well, you’re not a woman, of course.”
“Of course.”
He bent and kissed her very softly. He lifted his head and his large brown eyes narrowed. “If Hollister puts another rose on your desk, I’m going to deck him, and I don’t care if he fires me.”
Her face became radiant. “Really?”
“Really.” His jaw tautened. “You’re mine.”
She flushed. She lowered her eyes to his strong neck, where a pulse beat very strongly. She nodded.
He hugged h
er close, rocked her in his arms. He drew in a long breath, finally, and let her go. He smiled ruefully. “After we get through talking with the general, Monday, I’m going to take you to meet my mother.”
“You are?”
“You’ll love her. She’ll love you, too,” he promised. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “I have to get going. I’ll pick you up here at 6:00 a.m. sharp, okay?”
“I could drive to the office…”
“I’ll pick you up here.”
She smiled. Her eyes were bright with pleasure. “Okay.”
He chuckled. “Lock the door after me.”
“I will. I really enjoyed the flamenco.”
“So did I. I know another Latin dance club over on the west side of town. We’ll go there next time. Do you like Mexican food?”
“Love it.”
He smiled. “Theirs is pretty hot.”
“No worries, I don’t have any taste buds left. I eat jalapenos raw,” she added with a grin.
“Whew! My kind of girl.”
She grinned. “I noticed.”
He laughed, kissed her hair and walked out the door.
After he climbed back into the pickup truck, he paused and waited until she was safely in her apartment before he drove off.
She didn’t sleep that night. Not a wink. She was too excited, exhilarated and hungrily, passionately really in love for the first time in her life.
Rick was somber and nervous Monday morning when he picked Gwen up for the drive to the border. It had turned cold again and she was wearing a sweater and thick jeans with a jacket and boots.
“Summer yesterday, winter today,” she remarked, readjusting her seat belt.
“That’s Texas,” he said fondly.
“Is Ramirez going to meet us at the border station?”
“Yes,” he said. “He and Gracie.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Mrs. Pendleton is coming, too? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“We’re not going over the border,” he reminded her. “Just up to it.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He glanced at her, warm memories of the night before still in his dark eyes. She was lovely, he thought. Pretty and smart and good with a gun.