He nodded. “Sure. It’s gonna be crowded, but I might need the extra hands.”
Inside the back of the ambulance, the heat blasted while the paramedics cut off clothes and covered both men with heating blankets and heat packs. The ambulance had room for only one stretcher, on which Mac rested. Cole had been strapped onto a backboard on a bench that ran the length of the treatment bay. As soon as both patients were secured, one paramedic exited to drive them to the hospital, leaving room for Jena to climb inside.
She knew heart attacks were always a danger for hypothermic patients, but these guys were strong.
“What do you think?” she asked, making sure to stay out of the paramedic’s way.
“They’re pretty stable,” he said as the vehicle pulled into traffic, headed toward Houma and the regional hospital. “They aren’t as cold as I would’ve expected. I’d say they’ve been able to stay active to some degree until recently.”
“Hey, Red.” A raspy voice drew Jena to Mac’s stretcher. She got on her knees and took his hand.
“Hey, Motormouth. Feel like you’re back in Maine, eh?”
He managed a weak smile. “Yeah, but Cole’s hockey skills suck. How’s he doing?”
Jena looked over at the bench and broke into a smile at the sight of two slightly unfocused but still bright-blue eyes looking back at her. Cole returned her smile.
“I think he’s gonna be okay.”
EPILOGUE
May might bring spring flowers in most places, but in Terrebonne Parish it brought the first taste of summer heat, high humidity, and mosquitoes.
Jena stepped back to look at her handiwork. The ridiculous foyer of the White Rhino was now a deep teal color, with royal-purple accents and cream trim. She’d have to send a photo to her mom.
She might be growing older, but it didn’t mean maturity followed. She suspected she’d never outgrow the need to poke the beast.
This was the next-to-last room of her big painting project. Every day since she’d figured out the drug case, she’d begun making the White Rhino her own. When she second-guessed her own decisions—which she also might never outgrow—she was learning to second-guess her second-guessing.
So when her gut told her royal-purple made a great trim color for teal, she ran with it and it looked amazing.
The only room on which she waffled was her bedroom. She’d chosen a color called Calypso Blue and was jazzed about it until she realized why she’d picked it. Cole’s eyes were almost the exact shade.
She hadn’t seen him in almost a month. He’d recuperated fast from the wounds he’d suffered, and the department had helped collect money to pay his hospital bills since he’d been instrumental in solving the drug case. Rumor had it the DEA chipped in a chunk of change, but Warren wouldn’t confirm or deny it.
Mac would be back at work next week and paired with his original partner, Paul Billiot. To Jena, Mac had bitched about the change, but she thought it probably would be good for both of them—as long as neither made the other’s brain implode.
Jena was back with Gentry as her partner and it felt good to be on regular patrol again, without the “light” attached to her assignments.
All in all, things had turned out well except for the Patout family. Marty was going to be in jail for a long time unless some fancy legal work took place, and Slade was in a Department of Children and Family Services group home while they looked for someone to take him in. She’d been told that he rarely spoke, and that broke Jena’s heart.
Amelia had died two weeks ago, leaving behind two damaged sons and a community still reeling from the influx of Black Diamond. At least the flood of drugs had been stopped for now, and on her deathbed Amelia had admitted running the operation with the late Ray Naquin, although she blamed him for getting Marty involved. She also never gave up the identity of the drug supplier—only that it was someone in New Orleans. That had sent DEA agent O’Malley slithering off to NOLA to make the NOPD’s life miserable for a while.
Everything had been wrapped up quickly . . . except for Cole. A month ago, he’d gone off the grid again, simply telling her he’d be back. Nothing more. She hoped he would but wasn’t putting anything on hold—and wasn’t painting her bedroom the color of his eyes. Talk about pathetic.
She decided to take a break, and put the painting supplies away before opening the front door to check the mail.
Weird. A torn sheet of paper lay on the welcome mat and atop it, still in its packaging, lay a wrench.
Jena couldn’t wipe the grin off her face.
In black marker, the note read:
Have info that might help painting case. Will drop by today abt 5.
Will only talk to you. No other officers. Please.
—Coleman Ryan
P.S. I lied before. I am very dangerous.
Jena looked at her watch and it was only 1:00 p.m., so she took a leisurely shower and stood before the mirror afterward, staring at her wounds. A puckered, misshapen channel of a scar on the underside of her left breast. The small, pink, round scar in her lower abdomen.
Cole would have a couple of new scars too, and she didn’t care. It didn’t make a difference as to how she felt about him and, yeah, she admitted it, how much she wanted him, whether it was for a day or forever. So maybe he had meant it when he said he didn’t mind her scars. She was going to play things by ear, and trust her gut.
Her new motto.
Somehow, she ate up three hours trying to decide what to wear. Cole was a casual guy. Then again, he’d had to start over again. He’d accepted his past, so maybe he was returning to his old life.
Maybe he’s moving back to Mississippi, her inner doubter taunted. Maybe that’s what he’s coming here to tell you.
No, that note wasn’t saying good-bye. It was a seduction, pure and simple.
Her gut told her a seduction with this particular man had to be casual and spontaneous. If he’d changed enough to require a little black dress, he wasn’t the guy she’d grown to care about.
By five, she’d donned jeans that made her legs look insanely long, a deep-green curve-hugging top, and wore her hair down because she knew he liked it. Then she paced. He was late—again.
Finally, through the window, she saw a faded-red pickup turn in from the main road and come rumbling up the drive. She moved to stand with her back to the door, trying to calm her racing heart and adopt some of Mac’s chill attitude toward the opposite sex.
Oh hell, she was a geek thinking about having sex for the first time since she’d moved to the parish. Who was she kidding?
She turned and opened the door before he rang the bell and they both stopped and stared. He looked different. He’d cut his hair. It was still long, but shoulder length and no braids. He wore jeans and boots and a black T-shirt just tight enough to show the muscles shifting underneath it when he moved. He still had the clearest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
He smiled. “You look great.”
“You too. Come on in.”
“Not yet. I believe I promised you some intel on a painting case.”
Okay, they were going to flirt. She could flirt. Maybe. “Yes, I think you did. Should I take notes and record your statement?”
“Why don’t you listen first, and then I can repeat it.” He returned to the truck and came back with a box, which he handed to her. “Pick out a color, and I’ll come by on my weekends off and paint this house for you. And remember, white is not a color.”
She led him into the living room and put the box on the table. It was full of paint chips. As in, spilling over. “Did you hit every hardware store in the parish and—wait—what do you mean weekends off?”
“Well, I’ve been doing some little projects for the last month, in addition to healing, of course. I’m not ready to go back to Yazoo City for a visit, but I did talk to my friend Mike and my uncles who still live there to let them know I was okay and planned to stay here in Terrebonne Parish permanently.”
“Permane
ntly?” Jenna caught her breath and tried to keep at least a semi-dignified expression on her face. He’s not leaving. “I was afraid you had moved back and I might be the one getting that call.”
He smiled. “No way, Jena. This is my home now, and we have unfinished business. There was just something else I had to get taken care of first that required me to spend some time in Baton Rouge.”
Her mind spun around unfinished business a few moments before the rest sunk in. “What’s in Baton Rouge?”
“Even with everything your department did—which was huge—I still have a lot of medical bills and no insurance. The damage was gonna blow through all I had left of the insurance money. There was an opening with one of the big ambulance companies in Houma that works hospital ER calls in Terrebonne and Lafourche, so we made a trade. I retrained and got licensed as a paramedic in Louisiana, so now I work for them and half my pay goes toward my bills.”
“When do you start? Where are you living? Are you hungry?”
Oh, she was such a dork. Might as well embrace it.
He laughed. “Next week. A fleabag in Chauvin for now, but I’ll start rebuilding my house down on good old Sugarcane Lane as soon as I can. Mac’s gonna help. And I might be hungry a little later.” He paused. “Very hungry.”
Oh God, here she went. Her face had heated up to at least 103 degrees.
“I always did like to make you blush, Agent Sinclair.”
“Yeah, you seem to have a skill for it, and it still clashes with my hair,” she muttered, suddenly feeling nervous. “Want to see the new interior house colors? My brother and I had named the place the White Rhino, but I don’t think it quite fits anymore.”
They walked from room to room. “It’s the opposite of the White Rhino, that’s for sure,” he said. “I can’t seem to find a pattern to the color choices.”
“The pattern is that I like them,” Jena said, flipping on the light to a pale-pink-and-gray room that had nursery written all over it. “My brother, Jackson, and his girlfriend . . . well, his sometimes girlfriend . . . are having a baby. I’m hoping at least Jacks can bring the baby to visit. I’m less excited about Brenna.”
Jena and Jackson had reconciled, although things were still a little strained between them. He had apologized, and so had she. She’d helped him find a place near UNO, out from under their parents’ roof, and he was back in school.
As far as she could tell, he was clean.
“What about this last room?” Cole walked into her stark white bedroom with its white furniture and bedding. Even the freaking ceiling fan was white. “Isn’t this your room? You haven’t decided on a color?” He waggled his eyebrows. “’Cause I know a man with a whole box full of paint chips.”
“I have a color in mind, but I’m still struggling with the decision.”
The look he gave her went straight to her core. “What are you trying to decide, Jena? Can I help you make a commitment?”
She swallowed hard. “Commitment is a scary word. Cole, you’ve lost so much already, so much more than I have, that—”
“Hush.” He turned to face her, slowly reached out, and pulled her to him. He was the perfect height for her to feel his hardness pressing against her, and it took all her willpower to stop her knees from buckling. She had wanted him for so long and had thought he might have run away again. But here he was. With her.
“We’ve run from commitment for too long.” He tangled his fingers through her hair and pulled her toward him. She wanted fire. She wanted him to take control. Instead his kiss was heated, but short. “You want to hear about my commitment?”
She nodded, not trusting her mouth to work and afraid she’d stick her foot in it if she opened it.
He brushed kisses along the curve of her neck, and his breath was warm against her throat when he spoke. “I’m committed to staying in Terrebonne and making it my home.”
Her voice came out in a croak. “I’m glad.”
His hands, which had been resting on her waist, slid underneath her sweater to cup her breasts, and she couldn’t help but flinch when he ran his fingertips along the underside of her left breast, feeling the scar. She closed her eyes, not to increase the sensation but to avoid the pity that probably marked his face.
“Look at me, Jena.” Cole’s voice was soft against her ear as he tugged her sweater and bra up, exposing her breasts. She gasped when his mouth took over for his fingers, and finally she did look down.
He was . . . not feeling pity. In fact, he stopped the work of his mouth and smiled up at her. “You’re as beautiful as I knew you’d be—at least what I can see. Take off the sweater.”
All the air had left the room, or at least she had trouble breathing. “You first.”
“No problem.” He stripped off the black T-shirt, and he was just as beautiful as she remembered. She grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it off, tossing it on the floor next to his shirt. Then she paused, tugging her bra back down to cover herself.
“See this?” He pointed at his abdomen, where a long pink slash crossed his rib cage. “And this?” A round hole, a darker red, scarred the inside of his upper arm.
“I’ve shown you mine; you show me yours.”
Jena nodded, sucking in a breath and reaching behind her to unhook her bra. He slipped his fingers under the straps and pulled it off, kneeling to kiss one breast, then the other—the ruined one. “I’ll have plastic surg—”
“Don’t.” His voice was ragged with need, and his kiss this time—his lips hard against hers, his tongue tangling with hers in a language without words—made her head spin.
They fell backward onto her immaculate white bedspread, but Jena didn’t have long to think about it because Cole was wrestling with her jeans and not doing too well. “Damn, woman, I know I’m out of practice and you look hot as hell in these things but did you paint them on while you were doing the rest of the house?”
She laughed—no, God help her, she giggled—and shimmied out of the jeans. “I picked them out for you . . . and now you’re overdressed.”
“I can take care of that.”
Cole shed the rest of his clothes and lay beside Jena, stroking and kissing, sliding his fingers to keep her hot and distracted. He didn’t want her getting too far inside her head even if she wanted to. He didn’t care about the scars. She was the one he wanted. Only her, and the scars went into making her the person she was. So did his, both the internal and external scars. Without those scars, they’d have never met.
Their losses were serious, but so was what they had found buried beneath the ashes of their pain.
When he rolled on top of her and slid a strong thigh between hers, he could tell how ready she was for him—as much as he was for her. He rocked his hips, and her body took over by instinct, rocking upward to meet him.
“I think we can do better.” He reached down and lifted her leg to his waist so that he was pressed against her more directly, rocking gently until she closed her eyes and moaned. He thought it might be the sexiest sound he’d ever heard.
“I’m gonna arrest you if you don’t move faster,” she panted. “And don’t think I can’t do it, by God. I ran through a marsh to get to this point.”
“Yeah, you did.” His gentle thrust was meant to ease himself inside her, but she clamped her thighs around his hips, and his control was gone. Her hair spread across the white pillow like crimson silk as they moved together, and watching her come—to lose control and then send him into an unfurling spiral of heat and mindless pleasure—Cole knew he was where he was meant to be.
He’d spent so much time and energy pushing people away that he hadn’t realized what he’d given up for his so-called independence. Home. Love. Belonging.
Later, they held each other beneath the white bedspread, and Cole thought Jena was sleeping. Until she propped up on one elbow and looked at his face. Their gazes locked, and he felt the heat building in his groin again.
“I’ve made a commitment,” she said.
>
Yeah, well, so had his body, although he wasn’t sure that was what she meant. “What’s that?”
“This room.” She looked around at the white walls, white furniture, white—and very rumpled—bedspread. “I’m painting it Calypso Blue. Want to see the paint chip?”
Oh hell no.
He pulled her on top of him, and she gasped when she felt him pressed against her. “Does that feel like I want to look at a paint chip?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have been blessed with hard work on my behalf by agent Marlene Stringer and editors Chris Werner and Melody Guy—all of you make my writing infinitely better. Thanks to the whole team at Montlake for believing in me and getting my work out there. Huge thanks always to the ultimate first reader, Dianne Ludlam, who can spot a plot hole at a thousand paces (Pensacola or bust!), and to Deborah Brooks, who is always ready to read and offer sound advice. Special thanks to longtime law enforcement officer, author, and consultant Wesley Harris at Write Crime Right, for steering me through the world of law enforcement procedure and terminology (as always, any errors are purely a result of my own stubbornness). Finally, thanks to the support of the Southern Magic RWA chapter in Birmingham and to my Auburn Writing Circle crew Larry Williamson, Shawn Jacobsen, Robin Governo, Matt Kearley, and Julia Thompson—especially Matt and Shawn and their firsthand knowledge of snakes and gators and the speed at which things will be dissolved by alligator stomach acids. Which proves one never knows when one’s expertise will come in handy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susannah Sandlin is most widely known for her two award-winning series, The Penton Vampire Legacy (paranormal romance) and The Collectors (romantic suspense). She is a three-time winner of the Holt Medallion and a finalist for an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award in both 2014 and 2015. As Suzanne Johnson, she has also written the Sentinels of New Orleans urban-fantasy series and several urban-fantasy novellas. Black Diamond is the second book in her Wilds of the Bayou series.
Black Diamond (Wilds of the Bayou Book 2) Page 24