by Desiree Holt
But now she was back.
Damn it.
His skin was burning and his body ached. One kiss and he wanted her more than ever before. He wanted her worse than a doper wanted his next fix. Zane knew, one way or another, he'd have her, and then he'd be even sorrier than he was now.
Jamming his foot down on the accelerator, he laid rubber pulling back onto the highway and tearing off down the asphalt.
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Chapter Two
Jamie dumped the remains of her coffee in the sink and rinsed her cup. She wished she could rinse out her brain as easily.
Shit, shit, shit.
Her bad luck seemed to be holding.
The very last thing she needed was a confrontation with Zane Cameron. Sheriff Zane Cameron. The town must have been pretty damned desperate to elect that egotistical asshole sheriff. He'd been the wildest boy in town, drinking, brawling, fucking everything that had a pulse. All that crap he'd fed her about their relationship being special. As if she'd believed him. Especially after the scene she'd come across in the Roadkill parking lot.
At eighteen, she'd had no intention of spending one more minute in Amen than she had to. Certainly not with a man whose future and fidelity were both called into question. That, at least, she'd been smart enough to know.
Sex with Zane had been great. Outstanding. Off the charts. Especially to an eighteen-year-old virgin. She'd held that first night close to her like a hidden treasure all these years, afraid to take it out and look at it. Afraid to see what it really meant to her.
But no matter how good it had been, it was not nearly enough to derail her plans. Promises made in the heat of passion weren't worth a nickel. And she especially hadn't trusted hot-blooded Zane Cameron one inch. Rutting pigs never changed their skin. She should have known better. It had only strengthened her resolve to get out of town as fast as she could. And never come back.
Besides, there'd been her father, a drunk since she was six years old. Since the day her mother disappeared, leaving behind a short note as the only evidence she'd even been there, life had gone downhill very fast after that.
She had no idea where her father even got the money to support them as poorly as he did, or to buy the whiskey he consumed by the gallon. Odd jobs, he'd told her. She never asked questions because she didn't want to know.
The scholarship to Texas Tech was her ticket out of nowhereland. She'd taken it and never looked back. Clawing her way up the journalistic ladder had toughened her while it honed her skills. The job at the Herald was a plum she'd plucked gratefully and eaten with relish.
Now it was all gone. She'd been set up like the greenest rookie, tempted into the promise of “writing the big one.” Yeah, right. All she'd be writing now, if she got a job at all, was obit notices.
Shit.
And Zane Cameron was sure to come sniffing around again. She just knew it. She hadn't missed the signals he was sending out. He wanted her gone but not before he fucked her brains out and got her out of his system.
Great.
He still wore his midnight black hair—almost the same color as hers—long enough to need that familiar leather thong to tie it back from his face. His normally bronzed skin was tanned even deeper by constant exposure to the desert sun. High cheekbones gave his face a rough yet classical look, and thick lashes fringed eyes as black as obsidian.
His body had filled out magnificently, muscles rippling beneath the skin with every movement. The uniform he wore emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow hips.
And fine muscular ass.
Shut up, Jamie.
She needed some time to build her defenses before having to face him again. She feared—no, was unhappily certain—what her reaction to him would be. Not one day had passed since she left town that she didn't dream of him, long for him, wonder what would have happened if she'd believed his promises.
Impossible. She knew it. He had more than enough reason to hate her. What better way to take his revenge than to seduce her again and toss her in the garbage the way she had with him. She needed to pull up those hackles she'd come to be known for and drive him away before she did something really stupid.
She'd done her best to hide the fact that he'd knocked her off balance. All six-foot-four of him towering over her, his raven black hair still long, despite his position as sheriff, held back in a ponytail with a leather thong. How unfortunate for her that all that bronzed skin, those hot black eyes, and that sensuous mouth still made her body melt and liquid gush from her cunt.
Holding herself together in front of him had taken all her discipline, especially after that unexpected, scorching kiss. She'd need some rigid self-control not to reveal what he could do to her after twelve years. She wanted to see him again, yet at the same time, she was afraid. One slip and he'd know exactly how she still felt. And that would mean big trouble.
Jamie sighed and turned to the cleaning supplies. The house was a pigsty, but no less than she'd expected. Maybe she could scrub away the depressing memories while she got rid of the dirt.
She'd just gotten started on the downstairs bathroom when the phone rang. She frowned.
That better not be Cameron calling me.
"I was worried about you,” were the first words she heard from Kit London's mouth. “What's with the no calls?"
Kit had been her first friend at Texas Tech, and the friendship had blossomed over the years. They worked in different cities, at totally different jobs—Kit was a financial researcher for an investment broker in New York—but they were bound together somehow, as if they were emotional Siamese twins. When the axe fell, Kit had taken vacation time and come to Florida to mop up the pieces.
"Oh, Kit.” Jamie sighed. “I wonder if this was such a good idea after all."
Kit made a rude sound. “I told you to come to New York. You could lose yourself here instead of sticking out like a sore thumb."
"I haven't been here long enough to attract much attention. Although..."
"Aha!” Kit pounced. “Big Bad Zane Cameron been hanging around?"
During a long night of sharing secrets, Jamie had told Kit about her ill-fated relationship with the town bad boy, a fact she was sure she'd now regret. The last thing she wanted to discuss was the visit he'd just paid her.
"Come on,” Kit prodded. “Give."
Jamie dropped down on the lumpy couch and stretched out her legs. “You won't believe this, but he's the sheriff now."
"Get out of town! The wolf of Diablo County?"
"One and the same. Go figure. They must have been desperate."
Kit chuckled. “So how was it?"
"It was nothing,” Jamie insisted. “He practically tried to run me out of town.” She let her eyes scan the walls while she was lying down, an activity that depressed her more than she already was.
"Oh, I doubt that."
Jamie could just picture her friend, kicked back in her funky arm chair, a wicked look on her face. For just a moment, but not the first since the unknown attorney called her with the news of her ‘inheritance,’ she was seized with the desire to chuck it all and head for Kit's welcoming presence.
"I'm going to pick up my dad's truck tomorrow at the junkyard,” she said, changing the subject.
"And do what with it? You said he'd gone off the side of a hill in a rainstorm. How much of it can be left?"
"I can sell the undamaged parts."
Kit made her strange noise again. “Fuck that. Tell me how much money you need and where to send it."
"Uh uh. No way. I told you. But thanks anyway."
She eventually ended the call, with great reluctance but before she could tell Kit how truly awful her so-called homecoming had been.
She hadn't shed a tear when an unknown voice had called her early one morning to tell her Frank Randall had died in an accident. Drunk, as usual, she was sure. For a panicked moment, she thought the man was going to ask for money to bury him. She was shocked to learn her messen
ger was an attorney from Austin her father hired to draw up a will. Now she was in possession of all his earthly goods, such as they were.
But small as Diablo County was, the filing of the will at the courthouse had engendered a flurry of gossip. When Jamie finally arrived in town, she was met with hostile, knowing stares. No one was reaching out a hand to the daughter of the town drunk, least of all the now-holier-than-thou sheriff.
Well, fuck them all. She'd lost everything in the lawsuit except her car and her personal possessions. This was what she had left.
Suck it up, Jamie.
She went back to scrubbing the layers of grime from the downstairs bathroom, Zane's face still swimming in front of her eyes and the taste of him still strong on her lips.
She was surprised his anger had simmered all these years. The Zane she knew twelve years ago would have cursed for a while, blown it off, and gone on to the next female he could find. She was shocked he hadn't. As stunned as she was to discover he was the sheriff.
Funny that none of the town busybodies had seen fit to tell her that little fact while she'd gone about her business. Of course, today was the first time she'd left the house. She'd deliberately gassed up and laid in a small supply of groceries before she hit Amen, knowing she needed to fortify herself to make her grand entrance. But today she'd decided a full bore shopping trip was in order. She'd especially needed cleaning supplies.
Maybe I should just toss a match over my shoulder and walk out the door.
The house was even shabbier than she remembered it, the hundred acres that stretched out in back waist high in wild grasses and other growth. Once, long ago, the Randalls had run a small herd of cattle on the land. Just enough to bring in extra money, not too large they couldn't handle it themselves. But then her mother left, the remaining cattle were sold, and the life went out of everything.
There was an air of decay, as if, like the man who'd lived here, the building had rotted away through the years. She'd never brought anyone home when she was growing up, too ashamed of what they'd see. Although, of course, there wasn't a living soul in town who didn't know the truth of the situation. Some of her friends’ parents took pity on her and invited her over now and then, but she couldn't say she ever had a close friend. Not until she met Kit.
After that night with Zane, she had almost, for one brief moment, thought about changing her mind and not leaving. But Zane's tomcat reputation clung to him like a second skin, his mother hovered like a full blown harpy, and she knew deep down he'd never settle down with the daughter of the town drunk. So she'd used her temper and her smart mouth to push him away, breaking away before he could. Protecting herself.
She cringed every time she remembered the nasty words she'd hurled at him, but they were her defense mechanism. And lord knew she'd needed one. He'd spit on the ground and cursed her, shouting angry words. Finally, her father, that soul of social graces, fired a shotgun at him, called him a stinking half-breed, and said he'd skin Zane alive if he saw his ugly face on the property again. She'd stood on the porch stone-faced, her eyes never leaving the rear of his truck as he drove away like hell was on his tail. That was when she realized life didn't exist for her anymore in Amen.
The next day, she'd packed up and left.
Closing her eyes, Jamie conjured up Zane's image as he'd looked standing in front of her. She thought again of how her body burned when it touched his. How her nipples peaked and her breasts ached. How betraying liquid trickled from her traitorous pussy. If he touched her there, slipped his fingers inside her hot sheath, he'd have known the truth of the matter and she'd have been dead meat.
She ground her teeth and picked up her cleaning rag again. She needed hard labor to work off the sexual heat she didn't want to acknowledge.
An hour later, she finished the bathroom at last, stood and stretched. Maybe if she went without sleep and worked twenty-four/seven for a month, she might make the place habitable. Right now, she'd settle for two bathrooms and her bedroom.
She peered at herself in the mirror over the sink and grimaced in distaste. Eyes with no life to them, rimmed by dark circles. Sallow skin stretched too tightly across the bones of her face. Hair with no shine pulled into a messy ponytail. A mouth that no longer knew how to smile. An overall look that was hard, edgy. A woman who had lost every bit of softness and peppered her conversation with curses.
What a mess. Why would anyone want to kiss her, least of all Zane Cameron, who'd always been able to get any female he wanted? Why would anyone want anything to do with her, bitter and angry as she was? She hardly wanted anything to do with herself.
She traced her lips where Zane's had touched them with bruising force and remembered other times and other kisses. Her entire senior year when she'd played with fire, tempting the bad boy. Hot kisses, groping hands, panting breath. And that night when she'd given it all to him and he'd taken it. Nothing she'd tried since then had been able to wash that night out of her mind.
Jamie turned away, unwilling to look at the harsh reality of herself any longer. She was considering a break and a beer when the telephone rang again. Startled, she stared at it. Who on earth would be calling her? She had no friends in town. Kit was her only link to the outside world. And she was sure if Zane wanted to talk to her, he'd show up in person.
On the fourth ring, she finally picked it up.
"Miss Randall? Jamie Randall?” The voice was unfamiliar.
"Yes. Who's this?"
"You don't know me, Miss Randall. I'm Grayson Ballou."
Jamie pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it as if it had grown horns. Who the hell was Grayson Ballou? “Who?"
"Grayson Ballou,” he repeated, his voice friendly but matter-of-fact, as if he called strangers every day. Maybe he did. “My friends call me Gray."
"I wouldn't call us friends, Mr. Ballou.” Let's get that straight right up front. I am definitely not your friend. “I don't even know who the hell you are.” She swiped at a stray hair tickling her cheek. “Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but this isn't a number too many people call. What is it you want?"
"Ah. Get right down to business. I like that."
I don't give a damn what you like. I just want to know why you're calling. “I'm not much for socializing these days. Speak your piece."
"To get right down to it, I'd like to talk to you about buying your property."
Jamie nearly dropped the telephone. Buy the property? It couldn't be worth more than ten cents. Could it? “Excuse me?"
He cleared his throat. “I said I'd like to discuss making an offer to buy your property."
"Mr. Ballou.” She stared at a spot on the counter where something had spilled months ago and been left to sit. “Why would you even think this place is for sale? And how do you know who I am?"
He gave a soft chuckle. “Not much goes on in Diablo County that I don't know about. I heard of your father's unfortunate passing and thought someone like you might be happy to have the place off your hands."
"Someone like me?” Jamie frowned. “Exactly what does that mean?"
"Please. I mean no offense. I just happen to be aware that Amen has not been your home for many years. I assumed you'd want to get back to your life as soon as possible."
Jamie wanted to laugh out loud, only it wasn't funny. “If you know so much about me then you know I currently have no life to get back to. And I can't even imagine what you'd want with this run-down piece of land. In any event, I have no intention of leaving, so the place is not for sale. Sorry you wasted your time."
"But—"
"Good-bye.” She cut him off in mid-sentence, hanging up with a little more force than necessary.
Well, that was out of left field. Just who in the hell is this guy? I'm not here forty-eight hours, and he's on my tail. Why?
The only person she knew to call and ask about Grayson Ballou was Zane, and she'd burn the damn house down before she'd do that.
Not that she couldn't use the money.
But then where would she go? No newspaper worth its print would hire her right now. She'd be lucky if the Podunk Press let her write photo captions. She didn't want to be here, but she didn't want to be anywhere else, either.
Truth be told, she had so many unresolved issues, she couldn't make a decision if her life depended on it. Not the least of those issues was Sheriff Zane Cameron. Only Kit knew how often she'd looked back all these years, wondering if she could have made a different choice. If there was a way she could have had both—a career and the man who made her body sing.
Or maybe she could have some kind of surgery and cut him out of her brain.
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Chapter Three
The morning was damp with the threat of rain, and everything in Amen looked as if it had been painted from a gray palette. As Jamie drove down Main Street, she spotted the early risers, opening stores or hustling toward the Buckhorn Diner for breakfast. She wondered if Alice and Craig McDowell still owned it. Maybe she'd get up the nerve to put herself on display and check it out.
When she stopped for a red light, she was conscious of eyes watching her. She turned her head both ways and gave it right back. No way would these people make her hang her head. Sipping coffee from a travel mug she'd filled before leaving the house, she wondered why she was chilled when the temperature was already in the seventies.
Duke's Scrap Metal was clear on the other side of town, on the highway leading west out of Amen. She was probably running a fool's errand, but something inside her demanded to see the truck. Despite everything, she was still surprised that after all those years of driving with a load of alcohol in his body, her father had somehow rolled his truck on a curve he'd taken hundreds of times.
And she needed closure, much as she hated to admit it. A funeral had been the last thing she wanted, so she'd just told the attorney who called her to get it over with. She was more than a week getting here, anyway, and the body couldn't hang around all that time. Seeing the truck ought to be the final chapter in a part of her life she did her best to forget.