Stuck With You

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “My turn,” she whispered. “Give me the bowl.”

  He could barely talk. “Be careful,” he choked out as he handed it to her.

  “I’ll be careful. You be still.” She gave him a gentle shove to his back and rose to her knees beside him.

  It wasn’t an easy order to fill. As the cool cranberry dripped over his heated shaft he gritted his teeth to keep from gasping out loud. When she began cleaning the cranberry away with her tongue, he gave up all pretense of manly silence and groaned with pleasure. She took her time, and he nearly lost his mind.

  “Charity…” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking her name or begging for help.

  She slid up beside him, her eyes heavy-lidded with passion, her voice sultry. “You called?”

  “Give me the bowl. That’s enough.”

  Her mouth curved in a seductive smile. “But there’s more cranberry sauce left.”

  “Any more cranberry sauce and I’ll go insane.” He struggled to a sitting position. “Give me that thing.”

  “If you insist.” She relinquished the bowl.

  He leaned down and put it on the hearth next to their plates. Fortunately he’d slipped some condoms under one of the pillows they’d brought in from the guest bedroom. He was in no shape to get up and look for one.

  He stretched out beside her and reached under the pillow. Nothing. Becoming more desperate by the second, he lifted the pillow and patted the sheet underneath.

  “Looking for something?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’m sure I—” He paused as he figured out who had them. He glanced at her.

  From behind her back she produced the packages, fanned out like a hand of cards. “Presto. I found your hiding place.”

  He reached for one and she held them behind her back again. “Let me do it.”

  He stilled. He’d never allowed any woman to do that for him, and he knew exactly why. He was afraid she wouldn’t be thorough enough and somehow the darned thing would come off. And he would become a father. Once that happened, his carefree rodeo days would be over for good, because he’d never deliberately risk his life when a little kid might lose a daddy in the process.

  He gazed deep into her eyes, searching for any sign of deceit. “Why?”

  “Because.”

  It wasn’t a reason, and he waited for paranoia to hit. When it didn’t, he realized with astonishment that he wasn’t afraid of Charity making a mistake with the condom. More earth-shattering still, he hoped she would. The realization that he wanted to make Charity pregnant stunned him.

  Dazed by the significance of his new mind-set, he cupped her face and kissed her with more tenderness than raw passion. “Okay,” he said. “Be quick.”

  She wasn’t quick, and he soon understood that she was an amateur at this procedure. He liked the idea that she wasn’t adept. He positively loved the way she fumbled earnestly at the task. He liked a lot of things about Charity—a lot of things that had very little to do with the act they were about to perform.

  He was crazy to be inside her, but it was a different kind of urgency, a deeper need than the mere quenching of desire he’d craved before.

  “There,” she said in a breathless whisper.

  “Come here,” he said, guiding her over him, closing his eyes with the exquisite sensation when she enfolded him inside her. Then he looked up into her flushed face, with her golden hair wispy and tousled around her shoulders, and the most incredible thing happened. A lump of emotion closed his throat and he felt tears dampen his eyes. He blinked them away. Thank God, she was nearsighted. She probably hadn’t noticed.

  She braced her hands on either side of his head and leaned down to kiss him. He combed his hands through her hair and cradled her head as he answered that precious kiss with all the tenderness that filled his heart.

  Her breath caught and she pulled her mouth slightly away from his.

  He opened his eyes to look into hers. “What?” he murmured.

  Confusion flickered in her gaze. “You seem…different.”

  And so he was, but the feeling was too new to speak aloud. He had to live with this feeling for a while, get used to what was a radical shift before he risked telling anyone. Especially the woman who had caused it, the woman who could bring him to his knees with a single word.

  He cupped her cheek. “Of course I’m different. You’re in charge this time. I’m not used to that.”

  The confusion cleared. “I’ll just bet you aren’t.” She moved her hips provocatively. “Well, I’m in the saddle now, cowboy. And I’m staying on until the buzzer.”

  He guided her down for another kiss. “That’s my fondest hope,” he whispered. Then he abandoned himself to the glory of being loved by Charity.

  ALISTAIR UNHOOKED the stethoscope from his ears and slid to a sitting position in the tunnel. Then he took off his stocking cap and wiped his damp forehead. Incredible. He felt as if he’d been listening to a rerun of Kathleen Turner and William Hurt in Body Heat. But he shouldn’t be surprised, or even very shocked, he thought. Anyone who would plot to kill poor Nora was certainly depraved enough to do whatever they’d been doing with cranberry sauce.

  Alistair would have liked to be able to see, but the tiny hole he’d scratched in the ice hadn’t allowed him a view of anything. He wondered if the nephew had dressed up in the silk bathrobe again. Whips and chains were probably standard fare for these two. Nobody had ever taught them decent family values, that was for sure. Alistair was proud to say that he and Cordelia had never…Well, except for that one time…Cordelia had insisted on tying him to the bedposts with surgical tubing…

  But that was only once, and not important to this investigation.

  Alistair believed he had ample evidence now, even if he hadn’t found the frozen entrails. The nephew had admitted to feeling fully compensated for his trouble. He’d even used the word rich. Then, in a particularly cruel exchange, Charity had wondered what Nora would think if she could see them in their sinful love nest. Of course the nephew had reminded her that wasn’t about to happen. That should be enough for the police. It was certainly enough for Alistair.

  Yet one thing troubled him. They’d made a vague reference to not being able to get away because of the storm. If the power came on, they might leave the house, empty Nora’s accounts and head for Mexico before the police caught them. The power could come on anytime now.

  Alistair faced the fact that he might be the only person who stood between these crazed killers and a clean getaway. He swallowed nervously at the thought of the upcoming confrontation. But he had one more ace up his sleeve—the old .357 Magnum he kept in the upstairs closet.

  12

  AS SHE STARED into the embers of the fire, Charity finally had to admit to herself she was lousy at this one-night stand business. Maybe it was just her, or maybe it was something lacking in the X chromosome that prevented women in general from enjoying a love ‘em and leave ‘em scenario.

  Wyatt, sleeping quietly beside her, had been the perfect candidate to practice the technique on because he didn’t want a permanent relationship any more than she did. And even though Charity didn’t believe in marriage, she had sexual needs. Wyatt had certainly exposed that fact in graphic detail. The experiment had seemed like a good one, and in theory she should have been able to seduce Wyatt and walk away when morning came.

  But morning was very nearly here, and she was no more ready to say goodbye than she was to set fire to her precious bookstore. But she’d let someone pull her fingernails out one by one before she’d ever admit that. Wyatt was probably just waiting for her to throw off her disguise as an independent woman and reveal herself as a husband-hungry spinster. Actually, she didn’t care if Wyatt married her. She just wanted him to stay. Forever.

  That was certainly a pipe dream. Even this delicious isolation they were enjoying couldn’t possibly last much longer. The power might very well come on today and the roads would certainly be plowed soon. Once that happened and the cab
s and trains were running, Wyatt needed to get back for his rodeo.

  And that would be the end of that. She’d been a temporary amusement for him. He’d enjoyed himself, no doubt about that. He might even be willing to stop in again the next time he was in town. That should have been perfect for her. Instead it gave her the most painful heartache of her life.

  A cold nose touched hers. She reached out and scratched behind MacDougal’s ears. “Hi, Mac,” she whispered. “Want to go out?”

  The little dog whined softly.

  She didn’t doubt he needed a potty break. He’d been sleeping ever since he’d lapped up the wine last evening. She eased out from under the comforter and grabbed a nearby quilt to wrap herself in. She didn’t bother looking for her glasses. She knew the hallway well enough to make it to the back door without them. Damn, but it was cold, colder than yesterday, she thought as she walked with the Scottie to the back of the house. After Mac took care of his business she’d better build up the fire again.

  She had trouble getting the back door open and had to pull with all her might. Finally it gave. Mac started out, then whipped around and headed back inside. The cold took Charity’s breath away.

  “You have to go out there, Mac,” she instructed the little dog. “Be quick.”

  He gave her a forlorn look and trotted out into the little tunnel Wyatt had made for him. Charity closed the door and stomped her feet to stay warm. In seconds Mac scratched at the door and she let him in.

  “I hope you took care of everything. It’s too cold for me to check.” She locked the door, grabbed his bag of dry dog food and hurried back into the living room.

  Wyatt was awake, a blanket around his shoulders as he stoked the fire. He glanced around. “Hi,” he said softly.

  “Hi, yourself.” Charity’s heart squeezed at the sight of his blurred image. She decided not to put her glasses on just yet. Glasses might bring everything into focus, and she’d rather live in a fuzzy dreamworld awhile longer. After pouring some food into Mac’s bowl, she sat on the mattress and tucked her frozen feet under her while Wyatt finished feeding the fire.

  He replaced the screen. Still crouched, he turned. “Think fast,” he said, and launched himself at her, tumbling her backward onto the mattress.

  Laughing, she wrestled with him as he tried to rub his beard-stubbled cheek against hers. “You’ll be sorry if you give me whisker burns on my face,” she warned breathlessly.

  “Oh, yeah? How about down here?” He pinned her squirming body to the mattress and leaned down to stroke his cheek gently over her bare breast.

  “You asked for it.” She placed the sole of her foot on his thigh.

  He yelped and released her. “What’s that, a snowball?”

  “My foot.”

  “Good Lord. Something must be done.”

  Before she realized what he planned, he’d burrowed under the covers to grab her ankles. Ignoring her protests and Mac’s furious barking, he dragged her by her feet to the edge of the mattress and held her with her soles facing the fire. Then he began a vigorous massage of her feet.

  She shoved the quilt away from her face and blew the hair away from her mouth. “Is this manhandling absolutely necessary?”

  “Wouldn’t want you to get frostbite. Or give it to me accidentally.” He glanced over at the dog, who was watching with great interest. “Go lie down, Mac. This treatment may take a while.”

  The Scottie trotted over to his basket and flopped down.

  “He’s a pretty good dog when he’s not drunk,” Wyatt commented.

  “I may not report that little incident to Nora.”

  “There’s a lot I hope you don’t report to Nora.” His massage gentled, became more sensuous.

  “And what will you give me to keep quiet?” she teased.

  “This.” His stroking now included the length of both calves.

  “But my legs didn’t get cold.”

  “Can’t be too careful with these cases. Got to keep the circulation going.” His attention moved to her knees.

  Her circulation was improving by the second. By the time he reached her thighs, her circulation was positively tip-top.

  He eased up beside her but kept one hand firmly between her thighs.

  She sighed with pleasure as he probed deeper to tap her wellspring of desire. He stroked her lovingly and she arched into his touch. “Where…did an Arizona boy learn how to treat frostbite?” she murmured.

  “Fact is, I don’t know a thing about frostbite.” Slowly he ended the caress and reached for a cellophane packet lying beside the mattress.

  “You must.” She reveled in his heated gaze as he sheathed himself. “My feet aren’t cold anymore.”

  “Good.” He moved over her. “Because I want you to put them around me. Wrap me up tight, Charity. Tight as you can.”

  She sensed a note of desperation in his request. For one wild, hopeful moment she wondered if perhaps he was as reluctant to end this rendezvous as she was. Then thought gave way to sensation as he set her world to spinning with the touch that only he possessed. She wanted this so much. Too much.

  And if she imagined that his lovemaking was more intense, his cries of release stronger, she knew it could be her own longing that colored what they shared. Fighting tears, she held on very tight, just as he’d asked. When they both drifted off to sleep again, she still held him wrapped securely in her arms. Her last conscious thought was that he was holding her just as close.

  A DEAFENING CRASH and scream from somewhere overhead jerked them awake. Wyatt leapt from the mattress and grabbed his jeans from a chair. As Mac headed for the stairs barking, Wyatt called him back.

  Charity shivered as she stared up at the ceiling where everything was now spookily quiet. “What was that?”

  “Don’t know.” After he pulled on his jeans, he ran to the window seat, scooped up Charity’s sweat suit and tossed it at her before putting on the Syracuse sweatshirt. “But I’m betting Updegraff’s involved.”

  “Wyatt, I need my glasses.”

  This time he didn’t argue but snatched them from a table and handed them to her. “I’m going up there.” He started off, Mac bounding at his heels.

  “I’m right behind you.” She pulled her sweatshirt over her head with trembling hands and put on her glasses. It looked as if she had no choice about facing reality now. By the time she started up the stairs Wyatt was already out of sight in the upstairs hall.

  “Hold it right there!” screeched a voice. “Hold it or I’ll shoot!”

  Charity’s step faltered and her heart pounded hard against her ribs. Alistair. And he had a gun.

  “Take it easy, Updegraff,” Wyatt said in a soothing tone, the kind someone might use for a wounded but dangerous animal. “You need some practice if you’re gonna be an upper-story man, buddy. That’s a hell of a hole you made in Nora’s roof.”

  Cold whooshed down the stairway as Charity climbed to the landing and saw Wyatt, his hands in the air, standing outside Nora’s bedroom. Mac stood beside him, his fur on end, a low growl coming from his throat.

  “I am not your buddy,” Alistair said. “And we all know that Nora won’t be needing this roof anymore.”

  “We might not agree on that one, Updegraff. But I think one of us has been smoking those funny little cigarettes again, haven’t we?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Charity edged closer.

  “That makes us even,” Wyatt said. “Now, why don’t you just put that pop-toy away and—”

  “Never! I’m taking you in.”

  “In?”

  “You’re under arrest for the cold-blooded murder of Nora Logan, may God rest her soul.”

  Charity gasped.

  “What?” Wyatt’s mouth dropped open.

  “You carelessly snuffed out the life of a fine woman, a good neighbor, a loyal friend, even if she never really appreciated that I—”

  “I’ve had enough of this.” Wyatt st
arted forward.

  “Stay there, I said!”

  Wyatt backed up. In the process he motioned Charity away.

  “Your partner in crime is out there, isn’t she?” Alistair said, his tone hysterical. “She’d better get in here, too, if she doesn’t want to see her lover shot.”

  Charity’s throat went dry and she moved down the hall on wobbly legs. “I’m coming, Alistair. Don’t get excited.”

  “Stay out of this, Charity,” Wyatt ordered.

  “Not on your life, cowboy.”

  “Contrary female. Get the hell back down the stairs. We’ve got a certified loony here who thinks we killed Nora.”

  “I don’t think you did. I know it!” Alistair said. “I have all the proof I need to put you both in the slammer!”

  Wyatt shook his head. “You’re not only delusional, you sound like an old Jimmy Cagney movie. You need to update your routine, Updegraff.”

  “Go ahead, make fun of me. You’ve been doing it all along, both of you. But I’ll have the last laugh. Truth will out.”

  “And just what makes you think we murdered Nora?” Wyatt asked.

  “Motive and opportunity. And she’s missing.”

  Charity edged down the hall. Wyatt was blocking most of her view through the door, but what she could see made her heart sink. Alistair sat in the middle of Nora’s bed, or what used to be Nora’s bed. The footboard had been destroyed by the huge oak branch that had apparently broken and crashed through the roof.

  Alistair must have tried to use the tree to get onto the roof. A jagged hole the size of a compact car was open to the leaden sky, and nearly everything in the room was covered with snow. Had Alistair not happened to land on the bed, he might have been killed by the fall. And he did, indeed, have a very lethal-looking pistol pointed at Wyatt’s heart. Cold sweat trickled down Charity’s spine.

  “Nora’s not missing,” Wyatt said. He sounded like the soul of patience, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “She’s still up in Maine, stranded by the same snowstorm that hit us.”

  “Up in Maine?” Alistair scoffed. “That cover story won’t work with me anymore, Mr. I’ll Inherit Everything. She checked out of her bed and breakfast three days ago.”