Rock Rhapsody
Page 60
What he lacked in skill he made up for in intensity. There were only half a dozen people in the place watching, and Amy had taken care to sit halfway up the bleachers, so she wouldn't be easily spotted.
She loved him. Despite her best efforts to scour him from her heart, there he remained.
The referee blew the whistle for a break and Shane joined his team, laughing and joking as they rehydrated and leaned against the rails. One of the men in the group made eye contact with Amy and grinned. The thickset man shouldered Shane and toasted her with his raised sports drink.
Shane looked up and their eyes met. The grin disappeared, and his face hardened.
Her welcoming smile faded. She watched as he took the stadium stairs in his skates.
She made her way to the aisle to meet him.
The words of greeting died in her throat as he approached. Jaw set, the hard angles and plane of his face flushed with the heat and sweat of exertion. Was he angry? His two hands came down on her shoulders like manacles as he dragged her to him. She raised her head and his mouth came down on hers. The kiss tasted of salt, desperation, and hope mingled together in a searing explosion of intensity. His tongue pushed into her mouth and Amy moaned. Shane took one step down, too tall in his skates. His mouth left hers and he kissed her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, then rested his sweaty brow against hers.
He leaned back, his blue gaze boring into hers. “God, I love you, Amy Astor.”
“I love you, too.”
He gaze swept down her body critically. “Better,” he said, relief evident in his tone. She felt the heat rise in her neck.
“Am I not supposed to say anything? Not supposed to notice?” he asked. “I don't know the etiquette.”
“I'm improving,” she admitted.
“Good. It scared the crap out of me, seeing you like that.”
“And you?” Despite that kiss, she had to know.
He never broke eye contact. “I'm single and abstinent. There's been no one, nothing with anyone since you.”
“Is that how it works?” she asked. “I don't know the etiquette for you, either.”
“I'm only supposed to have sex as part of a healthy relationship—but since I don't want to have a relationship with anyone but you, I haven't had sex,” he said bluntly.
Amy fought a grin. “Then I guess you are doubly glad to see me.”
“I want to love you and only you for the rest of my life,” he said, “starting now.”
“Maybe that should wait until after practice,” she said, smiling as the referee blew the whistle to signal the restart of the scrimmage.
Melt My Heart
A Valentine's Day Collection
Rachel Cross
Debra Kayn
Nicole Flockton
Holley Trent
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Cross, Debra Kayn, Nicole Anne Flockton, Holley Trent.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7999-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7999-8
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8000-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8000-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istock.com/mlashcorp
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Bloom Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
About the Author
Laying Down His Colors Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
About the Author
Trapped by Cupid Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
About the Author
A Demoness Matched Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About the Author
Bloom
Rachel Cross
For Niki B.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to: Chris, Marcy, Julie, and my wonderful editor, Tara Gelsomino.
Chapter One
“Goddamn you, Asher,” Ava Bennett muttered, looking down at her eight hundred dollar Burberry boots. Why had she thought they would be appropriate for a farm? Then again, she didn’t really have any footwear that would survive the muck of a dirt road in the middle of Nowheresville on the central coast of California. It would be nothing less than a miracle if the Prius didn’t sustain lasting damage after hobbling its way in and out of the deep grooves and enormous potholes in the road. She parked the car and climbed out, grabbing her phone.
“Still no cell coverage?” She groaned with exasperation as she squinted and waved the phone in the air. Nothing. How could that be? This was California, land of technology—she wrinkled her nose—and the land of manure, apparently. She thrust the phone, which was still dutifully searching for a signal, back into her cavernous, orange leather bag. She locked the door, looked down, and let out a squeal.
Fluorescent green liquid was leaking into her boots. Wasn’t this supposed to be an organic farm? That didn’t look organic, whatever it was. Or was that coming from her car?
Damn Asher Lowe and his favors. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that she’d made his annual arthritis fundraiser the social event of the L.A. season and elicited hundreds of thousands of dollars in donations. No. He’d cajoled her into driving five hours up to Watsonville to check up on some long-lost buddy of his who didn’t answer his phone and now her car was bleeding Mountain Dew.
Asher had only given her the name Nate, and the name of the place: Ray’s Organics. Her GPS was no help—once she’d left the freeway she had no cellular connection. She’d made three wrong turns until finally she’d happened upon the tiny lettered sign for Ray’s at the end of the long-rutted drive. This guy could use some marketing help. He didn’t even have a web presence—or voicemail for that matter. To save herself the trip, she’d tried to track him down, making several calls to the number listed for the farm but no one ever answered.
How a farmer became friends with rock legend and front man for Spade, Asher Lowe, was mystifying. Asher and his father, billionaire mogul Sterling, had made major contributions at each and every one of her events over the years and encouraged their well-heeled associates to do the same. If they hadn’t, who knows where she’d be now. Probably back planning weddings in sleepy Cielito. She ignored the pang of nostalgia. If she’d realized this farm was hours away and damned near impossible to find, she’d have told him to forget it.
She was already swamped with planning details for the upcoming annual ball for the Pediatric Cancer Foundation. Their board was a joy to work with. But she’d been contracted to manage the event for the past four years and looking ahead to the next event no longer filled her with excitement, it filled her with dread. She’d taken on too much these last few years, but found it impossible to say no to groups that supported kids and adults with cancer, arthritis, and a host of other ills. After all, it was a tough time to be in the charitable fundraising business. Soliciting donations in this econ
omic climate was difficult, but she exceeded her goals each year in large part due to the generosity of the Lowes.
She really didn’t have time for this. Her lips twisted as she eyed the mess seeping out from under her car. And now she was probably stranded out here in the middle of nowhere until she could get a damn tow truck.
Two dogs, a yellow Labrador retriever and some kind of terrier, came running toward her from the barn, barking excitedly, and tongues lolling. Ava moved in front of the green goo and squatted down to greet them. A giant of a man in a blue long-sleeved t-shirt, filthy jeans, and baseball cap followed them.
One of the dogs pushed past her but her eyes tracked the progress of the man approaching. This couldn’t be the guy. There was no way Asher Lowe was friends with a guy who looked like he threw around hundred-pound hay bales.
“Ray, no!” the man shouted from twenty yards away. “Stop him!”
Ava stood and spun on her heel at the panic in the man’s voice. The yellow dog was licking at the green ooze on the road. She yanked the dog away by the scruff of its neck. The white dog came to investigate the neon slime and she tried to push it away with her boot. Unfortunately, her boots were soaked in the stuff and the dog started licking those too.
“Damn it,” the man roared, pushing by to grab both dogs away by their scruff, since they weren’t wearing collars. Ava took a few steps away from him, toward the rear of the car. He picked up the little terrier and barked “heel” to the Lab, who obeyed instantly, then glared at Ava. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked.
“Me?” She marched over, meeting him halfway. He was tall, really tall. She was five foot ten in stocking feet, but this guy had to be six-four or -five, and he was solid. She craned her neck, not so angry she didn’t notice the nearly perfect bone structure under the sweat and grime on his scruffy face. His hooded grass-green eyes were furious. The man was covered in filth, and smelled of dirt or dung or something, but to her horror, Ava’s body stirred to life.
“Yes, you,” his voice was calmer now, well modulated, husky and deep. It sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with fear. “That’s antifreeze coming from your car,” he gestured to the puddle.
At her blank look he continued, “It’s a poison. It could kill them.”
Ava’s stomach clenched. “Oh, no.” Shit. She hoped the dogs would be alright. At least they’d only got a couple licks in before they’d grabbed them. “What do we do?”
He sighed. “I’m going in to get some hydrogen peroxide.” Then he spun around and jogged back down the road, vanishing into the barn with the dogs.
Ava stood, nervously clenching her fists as she eyed the stuff. Still, he could’ve had them on leashes. Or paved his damn driveway. It’s not like she knew the stupid car would start leaking.
She unzipped her boots and peeled off her socks trekking barefoot back to her car, careful to skirt the spreading fluid. She stowed her boots and purse in the car and shoved the key into the front pocket of her jeans. Then she scurried on tender feet, down the dirt road, after him.
She entered the barn and found him talking to the dogs in a stall in the rear. Squeezing through the door, she knelt next to him. The terrier frolicked, licking her, jumping.
“Molly,” he said authoritatively, and the dog instantly subsided, rolling over and presenting her belly. Ava stroked the pale pink flesh, her lips pressed together grimly.
He looked over and caught her expression. “It’ll be okay,” he said gruffly, his tone begrudging. “It wasn’t much.” The Labrador, Ray, was big, nearly a hundred pounds from the looks of him, sitting patiently, his adoring brown eyes followed every move the man made.
“Nate,” the man said, giving her a nod as he poured out some hydrogen peroxide.
So this was Asher’s buddy. Taking in the flannel shirt and dirt-smeared jeans he wore, Ava wondered again about the guy’s connection to one of the world’s biggest rock stars.
He fitted the dog between his knees and poured the substance into the dog’s mouth. The dog gagged and tried to fight free.
“He really doesn’t like it,” she said, watching the dog gag and cough.
“Nope. They hate the stuff. The antifreeze is absorbed quickly, but I’m hoping they puke most of it out. I’ll still need the vet. You lost or a CSA pickup?”
“I’m Ava Bennett, a friend of Asher’s. What’s a CSA?”
His eyebrows shot up at Asher’s name and he stilled. Then he closed his eyes and when he opened them, his lips quirked. “Ah. I’ve been incommunicado, and he’s worried?” At her nod, he continued. “A CSA is community-supported agriculture. People pick up boxes of whatever seasonal fruits and veggies I have,” he gestured outside the barn, “and I deliver to farmers markets and stores. Miss Molly,” he said, holding out an arm.
“Oh,” she said, absently, watching as he repeated the process this time pouring hydrogen peroxide into the terrier. Molly tried desperately to free herself and he released her too. The Labrador gagged a few times and collapsed a few feet from her, tail thumping.
Molly finished coughing and returned for more belly rubs after her treatment.
“It’s an emetic,” he said.
“Uh-huh.” She had no clue what that was—some farmer terminology. Or maybe it was the breed? She didn’t know a lot about dogs, but it looked like a terrier to her.
Three minutes later the little dog stood and vomited next to her pants leg.
Ava made a face. “Emetic?” she gestured to the puddle and he nodded, obviously struggling against a grin. He lost his battle and the smile he gave her lifted the gloomy expression from his face. Her heart skipped two beats then resumed at double time.
This guy couldn’t be more different than the metrosexual guys she was plagued with in L.A. There was something appealing about a man who didn’t get his muscles from the gym, wore a ball cap instead of hair product, and dressed like he didn’t give a good goddamn how he looked. Judging by the tanned, calloused fingers holding the dog, this guy did real work. Her eyes narrowed. What was that webbing of fine white lines on the back of his left hand? Old scars? Farming must be more dangerous than she’d realized.
She watched those enormous capable hands stroke through the fur of the terrier, enviously. She imagined them stroking her skin, almost feeling their rough texture, the heat of those broad palms traversing the sensitive flesh of her stomach. Her breath stuttered as heat rose in her cheeks.
Thirty seconds later, the other dog, Ray, expelled the contents of his stomach in the corner, repeatedly, breaking her reverie.
“Can you watch them while I clean up outside?” he asked. “I’ve got to take care of the antifreeze before a cat or some other animal gets into it.”
“Of course,” Ava responded, sitting cross-legged on the floor, alternately stroking white fur and yellow. “I’m so sorry. Are they going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” he replied, not meeting her eyes.
It wasn’t exactly the most convincing of answers. Ava’s stomach churned. Not only had she driven all morning out here to East Bumfuck, ruined one of her favorite pairs of boots, and majorly messed up her car, but now she might be a dog poisoner on top of it all.
That was it. She was never leaving L.A again.
Chapter Two
Nate needed to call the vet, but first things first. He grabbed a plastic garbage bag, threw a bag of kitty litter and a few other supplies into it. Taking a shovel from next to the door, he took a final look at her, sitting on the floor of his barn, a young, gorgeous, clueless, blue-eyed blonde, with what was obviously a deep if not-quite-abiding love for his dogs.
He shook his head. Lusting after her, he slathered another coating of guilt onto his conscience. He couldn’t believe he’d cursed her out and revealed shades of the old Nate in the process.
The combination of working the land, being with the animals, and the medication these last few years had smoothed out the highs and lows, leaving him content if a little flat. He
hadn’t experienced rage or raging desire in so long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. To have both emotions surface in the past hour was troubling.
He tried the door of her car, relieved to find it unlocked. Pulling the lever, he walked around and lifted the hood. From the amount of antifreeze on the driveway, her radiator was shot. A glance around at the innards of the car confirmed his assumption. Luckily, most of the fluid had drained. He pushed the car to and fro, hoping to get the remainder of the liquid out. Then he knelt down and put kitty litter under the engine block and where it had trickled onto the road to absorb the poison.
This was not exactly how he’d expected to spend his day. Then again, Nate supposed it was a good thing she’d arrived today instead of two weeks from today, when he’d be hosting all and sundry for the Valentine’s Day dinner in his field. People were so odd. He couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to eat off china and white tablecloths in the dirt, let alone pay two hundred dollars a couple for the privilege. Yet, tickets for the dinner had sold out the day they’d gone on sale.
The event raised money for the local charter school, and Yancy, the town vet and his good friend, had insisted it would also give him a chance to talk to people about the land, his efforts to revitalize the estuary on his property, and to showcase not only his farm but other local farmers and chefs. He’d donate his produce, a local meat provider would donate the main course, and a well-known restaurant chef would do the rest. Nate figured it wouldn’t kill him to talk for two minutes about his stewardship of the California-protected wetland area and the CSA. Maybe he might even get some more customers out of it, he thought, as he shoveled the now toxic kitty litter into the plastic then carried it around to the side of the barn to the trash can.