by Jayne Denker
A LONG-AWAITED KISS
“You knew what you were doing.”
“Okay, so what?” she challenged him. “I thought you liked me. I was wrong. If you hate me as much as the rest of this town does, that’s fine—”
“You know I don’t.”
He swung her around, planted her in one spot by the brick wall that made up one side of the alley. She didn’t dare move. Panting as though he’d just run a marathon instead of dragging her a hundred feet, he stood there, hands on his hips, staring at her but saying nothing.
She couldn’t let the silence descend again. “What?”
He held up his hand like he was stopping traffic, then turned his arm so he could check his watch.
“Hey—”
Will held up his hand once more. She fell silent. No easy feat for her, and she was sure he knew it. What the hell was he doing? Now he wasn’t looking at her at all, just staring at his wrist. After a moment, he let out a long breath and said simply, “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’m off duty.”
Will launched into her, slamming Jordan against the wall, one hand braced by her head, the other grasping her chin. Hello, Officer. His heated lips closed over hers and stopped her breath, but she didn’t care. William Nash was kissing the stuffing out of her, and that was all that mattered. It was nothing like she expected. But it was so, so much better. She’d expected gentle. She’d expected tentative. Hell, she’d expected chaste.
This was none of those things…
Books by Jayne Denker
BY DESIGN
UNSCRIPTED
DOWN ON LOVE
PICTURE THIS
LUCKY FOR YOU
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LUCKY FOR YOU
A Marsden Novel
Jayne Denker
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
A LONG-AWAITED KISS
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Copyright Page
For my fellow authors, Glynis Astie, Kathryn Biel,
Tracie Banister, and Tracy Krimmer—the best
support group in the history of ever.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A million thank yous to the rootin’-est tootin’-est crew to ever help an author put a book together:
Police Chief Dan Chapman for sharing small-town law enforcement information and stories.
Tammy Nothnagle for getting me in touch with Chief Chapman and preemptively letting him know I was not, in fact, insane. At least not dangerously so.
D.A. Dan Kopach and defense attorney John Aquilina for all the free legal advice. (Not for me! For Jordan!)
Richard Wild for sharing information and tips on running. Because Jayne don’t run.
Beta readers Jordy Albert, Glynis Astie, and Kathryn Biel for all their help and advice, even though they were never, ever mean enough to me, no matter how much I begged, pleaded, and demanded.
As always, agent Jordy Albert, editor John Scognamiglio, and everyone at Kensington/Lyrical for all their help and support.
My family members, who continue to try to figure out what this writing thing is all about anyway.
And finally, a tip of the hat to Cubmaster Mike Decker. By including him in this list, I can finally say, “Look! You’re in one of my books!”
Chapter 1
Morning was usually Will’s favorite time of day. Usually. But not thid say. Er, this day. Crap. And ow.
Damn that pothole. It had been an obstacle since the spring thaw, five months ago. But because it was only a small blemish on a little-used side road leading down to the heart of town, it was hardly at the top of the Town of Marsden road crew’s repair list. Will knew it was there, but because he had been fumbling for his ringing cell phone, he’d let first his front, then his rear bike tire bounce into and out of it, and as a bonus, the side of his tongue had just been slammed between his teeth. Well, at least he hadn’t wiped out. Road rash would have made a really nasty start to his day.
“’Wo,” he mumbled a greeting. “Off’cer Nash.”
“Hey, baby.”
Okay, nasty start to the day completed, even without a wipeout.
He swallowed, the swelling on the left side of his tongue painful and awkward in his mouth, and said nothing. He really needed to respond, but he was too busy cursing silently.
“You there?”
“Yeah,” he finally managed to say as he coasted to a stop at the bottom of the hill and hopped off the seat, then added a belated, “Good morning.”
“That’s better. Good morning to you, Officer.”
Kyra was shooting for sultry, and she might have hit the target . . . if Will was buying. But he wasn’t.
“Whacha up to?” she went on when he didn’t reply.
“On my way to work.”
Pause. “Don’t you want to know what I’m up to?”
He massaged his jaw and sighed. Not really. But he was nothing if not polite. Then again, manners like that got him into situations like this. “Sure,” he said dutifully. “What are you up to this morning, Kyra?”
“Just . . . thinking about last night.” Will knew from the sound of her voice and the rustling coming through the phone that she was still in bed, likely stretching under a tangle of sheets. “I don’t know why I can’t get you all to myself, you know?” Her seductive tone was derailed by a gurgling coughing fit. She busted out a smoker’s powerful throat-clearing “Hem,” and then he heard more rustling, this time the familiar crinkling of a cigarette pack.
Will knew. He knew better. As the little voice in the back of his head often reminded him, spending time with Kyra wasn’t a smart choice. In his weaker moments, he told the little voice to go drown itself in the Marsden River and he did whatever he liked, but most of the time he was in agreement with the invisible little nag. This morning his head was clear, the little nag was sitting back nodding his head in approval, and Kyra wasn’t swaying him in the least.
Will brightened at the sight of an old woman entering the crosswalk in front of him. “Mrs. Rousseau,” he called. “You’re up early today.”
“Hush, you,” she snapped. “You’re too loud for this time of day.”
Will smiled broadly. It was rumored Mrs. Rousseau was the oldest Marsden resident, although she’d never admit it, so there was no way to prove it unless he went snooping in the town records. And he had no interest in doing that to a law-abiding citizen.
She stopped in the middle of the street and examined him with her sharp, bulbous hawk eyes. “You’re going to be late for work, young man. Get off that cell phone and move along.”
“Yes, ma’
am.”
“And don’t you get involved with that tramp, you hear me? Keep it in your pants before it falls off. Don’t give me that look,” she muttered as she started walking again. “You know what I’m talking about. Too good for that Whalen trash anyway . . . absolutely nothing good comes out of that town . . .”
Will had no idea how the old woman knew Kyra was on the other end of the line—or that she lived in their sketchy neighboring town—and he didn’t bother to ask. It was just the way Mrs. Rousseau rolled. He made his excuses to Kyra, ended his call, and waited patiently until the elderly woman mounted the opposite curb. Then he continued on his way, standing up in the pedals as he sped up and turned left on Main to get to the police station at the back of the town hall, while Mrs. Rousseau headed in the other direction, toward the coffee shop or the diner, or perhaps the market.
The village was quiet—no surprise there. It usually was. The several-thousand strong population was mostly law abiding, making his job as one of four local police officers easy, even a little dull sometimes. But there was nowhere else he’d rather be. In his eyes, his New York hometown was perfect just the way it was—picturesque turn-of-the-twentieth-century Main Street with quaint storefronts and all of three stoplights, hundred-year-old homes on the shaded side streets running from the valley up the steep Catskills hillsides, farms farther out. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him—something some people might have found suffocating, but not Will. Family, friends, neighbors—he couldn’t have been more content.
He settled his bike into the rack by the back door—no need for a lock in this town—and entered the cool, dim hallway, every sound he made echoing off the glossy painted walls and high ceilings of the old building.
The police station was actually just three small rooms with a couple of desks, the “holding cell” a metal ring embedded in the wall with a pair of handcuffs attached and an old wooden chair in front of it. They didn’t have much call for any tighter security than that. If someone was especially disruptive—and Will couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t able to talk a person down, even the rowdiest of individuals who had spent a little too much time at Beers, the most popular local bar—he turned them over to the sheriff’s deputies or state troopers for delivery to the county lockup. Basically, he was a babysitter for drunks and an occasional minder for citizens who’d engaged in some kind of violence . . . usually both at the same time. But that was what he got for accepting a lot of night shifts.
Come to think of it, he probably should have worked last night, instead of spending even five minutes with Kyra. He didn’t want to give her the wrong idea. But he wasn’t averse to having a couple of drinks with her. She was a diversion—nothing more—and she seemed okay with it most of the time. So they existed in some kind of friends-with-potential-benefits limbo that just made him feel . . . unpleasant, to put it mildly.
Will shook himself and put Kyra out of his mind. The late September morning was fresh and cool, the office was dark and quiet, and he had plenty of time to catch up on his paperwork before he had to head out on patrol—
Clunk.
Shuff.
He stiffened. The noises were coming from the chief’s office, but Zoë wasn’t due in for another half hour. And if she was in her office, she would have turned on the lights when she came in. Will’s hand drifted instinctively to his belt, even though he hadn’t drawn his weapon in . . . well, ever. Not in his whole four and a half years as a Marsden police officer.
“Zoë?” he called tentatively, expecting her brusque “Yeah” in answer. It didn’t come.
The silence thickened, as though whoever was in the chief’s office was holding his breath, frozen in place. Will squared his shoulders and put on his “cop attitude”—the air of authority that did more to control a situation than any weapon could—and planted himself in the doorway.
“Oh, hey, Mister Policeman.”
His shoulders drooped. “Shit.”
Jordan Leigh, occasional Marsden resident and frequent scourge of the town, was sitting at the chief’s desk—in Zoë’s chair, no less—like she owned the place. Of course she was. It was what she did. Jordan had more attitude—and more nerve—packed into her small frame than anyone would expect. Anyone who didn’t know her, anyway. Will, on the other hand, knew her pretty well, so instead of relaxing, he stayed on high alert.
“Nice to see you too.” Jordan propped her elbows on the arms of the chair and spun it first one way, then the other, and back again.
“How did you get in here?”
“You’ve gotta ask? It’s not rocket science to get into any building in this town. Even the police station, apparently. Who’s on the cleaning crew lately? They left the door open.”
“They did not.”
“Might as well have, if all it took was a good hip check to open it.”
“What do you want, Jordan, before I arrest you for trespassing?”
She clucked disapprovingly. “Not a morning person, huh? You’d better check your daily briefing or your . . . town crier’s scroll or whatever. I have an appointment.”
Will crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you, now?”
“Yep.”
“No offense, but I thought the last place you’d ever want to visit is the police station. What kind of appointment could you possibly have?”
Jordan ran her fingers through her jagged, pin-straight dark hair, massaged her scalp, then flashed a wicked little smile. Without another word, she rolled the chair backward and propped one leg on Zoë’s desk, then crossed the other one over it at the ankle. Will pushed off from the door frame, ready to ream her out for being rude—a Jordan Leigh specialty—when she cleared her throat and waggled the foot on top.
She sported an ugly, clunky ankle monitor that looked as though it was weighing her down and could snap her slender limb at any moment.
The flicker of sympathy Will felt for her was so slight he barely noticed it. Fighting back a smile that smacked of schadenfreude, he asked, “What did you do this time?”
“I said read your notices.” She wiggled her fingers in a dismissive wave, but he didn’t move.
“Get up; let’s go. My desk is out here, and I’m not turning my back on you for a second.”
Jordan obeyed, but Will still didn’t feel comfortable in her presence. He’d never reveal that to her, of course. Instead, he did his best to fill the room as he watched her rise and saunter over to him. He squinted at her suspiciously—partly because he didn’t trust her, partly because it masked the fact that he was watching the swaying of her narrow hips too closely. When she got closer to him, he realized she was going to have to squeeze past him to get through the door, and his skin started prickling. Still, he didn’t move an inch. No quarter—not for this one. He knew her too well, even if she didn’t spend a whole lot of time in Marsden these days.
When Jordan reached him, she stopped and looked him in the eye. She had a natural end-of-summer tan, as though she’d spent the season boating; a few freckles dotted the bridge of her upturned nose, and the neutral color of her lips accentuated the healthy shade of her skin.
He swallowed and hoped it wasn’t as audible to her as it was to him. “What, Jordan?” he demanded.
She stayed silent for another moment, then her lips twitched. They weren’t full and lush, but they definitely held their own unique appeal. He immediately looked over her head instead of staring at them.
“Nothing. You’re cute when you’re being all bossy, that’s all.”
With an irritated sigh, he muttered, “Move it.”
Jordan laughed softly and passed through the doorway. Will wondered if she’d brushed her shoulder against his chest intentionally or not. He wasn’t even officially on duty yet and already it had been a long, trying shift.
Chapter 2
This was too much fun. The house arrest sucked, of course—Jordan couldn’t think of anything more annoying, not to mention inconvenient—but being in
Marsden, being glowered at by Officer William Nash, almost made it worthwhile. It wouldn’t do her any good to piss him off this soon, but it was pretty easy to do. She was going to have to pace herself. If that was even possible. Tormenting him was way too tempting.
Like brushing her shoulder against him. She shouldn’t have done that, but she just couldn’t help it. She wanted to see the sheen of sweat break out on his forehead, and he didn’t disappoint. Besides, his chest was so very touchable—it was like its siren call just drew her shoulder to it. Will Nash wasn’t super tall, but she was on the short side herself, so his proportions worked fine—just fine. And he certainly was muscular; she could tell because Marsden police officers didn’t bother with body armor unless they were on patrol. That solid torso was all him. Yep, this house arrest might be all right after all.
Trying to look repentant—and doing a poor job, she knew—Jordan slid into the chair Will pointed to. She could tell this was his desk; the old metal thing was sparse, dust free, and neat, with every office item in its place and carefully aligned along some invisible XY axis important only to him. He even had an oh-so-quaint calendar blotter. With nothing written on it. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to stand up, lean across this organized expanse, and sweep everything onto the floor, just to drive him crazy. And maybe give him a peek of her cleavage in the process, so she could watch him fidget. Instead, she pretended to look around the station while he took his seat and booted up his computer.
He was making a point of not looking at her either. Yep, he was definitely cute. She was used to hanging around very different guys: cockier, more arrogant, more demanding, more careless with their behavior. Will Nash was none of those things, and never had been. Of course, she didn’t know him as well as she had when she’d lived in Marsden, back when she’d amused herself by stealing his toys in kindergarten, but intermittent visits to the old hometown over the years proved to her he never changed all that much. He was just . . . bigger. Which was also good.