“How about we take one thing at a time? Right now I want you in bed.” Desire welled up in him, blocking his doubts. This he trusted—this heat, this hunger to have her.
He waited for her eyes to catch fire, then he kissed her. It was the only thing to do.
They were naked in seconds and made quick use of one of the condoms he’d bought from the gift shop.
She met him with her body and they fought their doubts with every stroke of his cock, every lift of her hips. He tried to tell her how he felt with every touch, every shift of weight, every kiss. Once he got inside her, he never wanted to leave.
Afterward, he collapsed onto the thick pillow and pulled her against him, reveling in her sweat-slick body, the way she melted into him, boneless and fragrant.
Outside a fire engine blared.
Brody laughed. “That was a four-alarm fire, boys,” he called toward the window. “We got it out for now, so you can go back to the station. We may need you later if we get out of control.” He ran his hand down her body. “We could break out that vibrator, go for a five alarm. What do you say?”
Jillian groaned happily. “We’ve got work soon.”
“So we rest a bit,” he said, stroking her breast until the nipple tightened happily. The female body was such a miracle of delights. And Jillian was…ah…so much more. He buried his nose in her neck, reveling in her softness, the warm pulse, her delicious smell.
“You’re smelling fruitcake again?” she said. “I have to say that’s not very sexy.”
“Ah, but sure and it is,” he said in an exaggerated brogue. “You don’t know the whole story of barmbrack. At Halloween it tells your fortune. The tradition is to bake in symbols for luck. A ring meant you’d marry that year, a pea meant you wouldn’t. A stick predicted an unhappy marriage, a piece of cloth meant you’d be in rags. A coin meant wealth.”
“How fun.”
“Ma adapted it a bit, took out the marriage stuff and made all the fortunes good ones. A bit of peppermint meant you’d make a mint. Orange rind meant to keep your eyes peeled for good luck.”
“She sounds sweet, your mother.”
“She is. And Pop, too. I still don’t know if they mellowed or I just finally saw them as people, like you said.”
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe not. And it’s probably both. Few things are cut-and-dried, one or the other. They worked out their differences.”
“Unlike my parents, who are probably happier apart.”
“Have you asked them? Maybe if you talked about it you’d feel better about what happened when you were younger.”
“You analyzing me again, Doctor Nite?”
“I just want you to be happy.”
“I am,” she said with a soft smile, then yawned.
“You want to catch up on sleep? We’ve got all day tomorrow. What do you want to do?”
He cupped her pubic area and she sighed. “More of that.”
“Yeah,” he said as renewed lust surged through him. “We might never leave this bed.”
“I did promise my friend Callie we’d get together.”
“I need to meet with my agent, who’s here for some sailing event or other. But after that, I’m all yours.”
“I’d like us to have a normal day. We could do couple things. Go to a park, hang out, have dinner together.”
“Sounds great,” he said, burying his nose in her hair, happy to escape Doctor Night for a while, be the new Brody, see what kind of a couple he and Jillian might make.
13
THANKS TO her friend Callie, Jillian had the perfect day planned for Brody. Since Callie was headed out on assignment, she’d offered them her condo, and Jillian planned to fix Brody the perfect Irish meal, just like his mother used to make.
They would relax, spend the night together, away from the hotel, the crowds, the pressure cooker of the show. They would be an ordinary couple, falling in love in the ordinary way.
She’d put her documentary on hold, too. When they returned to L.A. on Monday, she would figure out what to do about We Women and the rough cut they wanted.
She had this tiny hope that Brody might let her use his tip about forgetting Doctor Nite and looking for the right woman. Maybe he’d even tell her on camera about how he’d changed.
She could be dreaming—caught up in the magic of the moment, missing reality completely—but hope swelled inside, all the same.
For all their differences, she and Brody were similar, too. They both wanted to change the world, to feel passion for their work. They were both curious. They’d been self-sufficient, but lonely. They both had issues with their parents. And Brody claimed they’d felt the same isolation as kids—she because of her weight and he over his weird humor. They both wanted one special someone and weren’t quite sure it was possible.
They’d found each other, hadn’t they? Or maybe she was making up a story to excuse all the rules she’d broken. She hoped to know for sure by the time they left San Diego.
The dinner was to be a surprise. After Brody finished with his agent, he was to join her at Callie’s—supposedly to meet her old friend for a quick beer. Instead, he’d find them alone for a romantic home-cooked meal and the luxury of time alone together.
Before heading to Callie’s to get the key and at least get a hug before Callie took off, Jillian had nabbed recipes from the Internet and gone to a store for ingredients, even scoring novelty gummy candies for their barmbrack fortunes.
By noon, she’d made a salad, put the stew on the stovetop, had the pasties and the barmbrack in the oven, and set the table. The finishing touch—a bouquet of pink star lilies and deep purple irises—gave a dreamy beauty to the scene. Pleased with the homey nest she’d created, she went to take a shower.
A few minutes later, dressed and happy, she was humming to herself as she rounded the corner to the kitchen, expecting that great smell, imagining Brody’s face when he walked in and smelled his childhood kitchen at full strength, real time.
Except there was no smell of warm beef and baked pastry in the air. The stove and oven were dead cold, the food still raw. Damn, damn, damn. Had she blown a fuse? Callie hadn’t mentioned electrical problems.
She had mentioned her neighbor Skip, though, as a good resource if she needed anything. So Jillian dashed over to ask about the fuse box.
With a name like Skip, Jillian expected a yuppie lawyer, not the bleary-eyed biker in a doo-rag, tattoos of twisty reptiles on his forearms, who came to the door. “Yeah?” he said, pot smoke and heavy metal music billowing out behind him.
“Skip? Hi. I’m Jillian. Sorry to bother you, but I’m using Callie’s kitchen and I think I blew a fuse. Do you know where the breakers are?”
“You’re cooking in Callie’s place? She’s a total takeout chick. Let me take a look.”
Precious minutes flew by while Skip mused over the breakers, which were fine, then opened the back of the stove and concluded there’d been some kind of short. Duh.
He sat up, brushed dust from his hands on his jeans and looked up at her. “Tell you what. How about you use my stove?”
“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” But it was a reasonable solution. “It should take just an hour.”
“It’s cool. I got time. And maybe I get a taste?”
“Sure,” she said. “Of course.”
They carried the uncooked items to Skip’s house, walking through a surprisingly orderly living room that held a gleaming motorcycle, into an equally neat kitchen. Jillian thanked him and promised to return when the food was ready.
When she knocked at his door an hour later, however, no one answered. The door was locked and she saw through the window the bike was gone. Damn.
Twenty minutes too late, Skip roared back. She jumped from the step where she’d been waiting and met him at his door.
He held out a twelve-pack of beer. “Something to wet our whistles with,” he said, beaming at her.
The stew had cooked
down to a thick gravy, the barmbrack smelled burnt and the pasties were very dark. So much for a perfect home-cooked meal. She hoped it was edible. She grabbed two of the dishes with hot pads, planning to come back for the barmbrack, but when she got to Callie’s door, she found she’d forgotten about the knob lock and locked herself out.
“Damn!” She sank to the steps in dismay. She’d have to call a locksmith just to get her purse out of there. She balled her fists in frustration. So much for a normal day with Brody.
Skip appeared, carrying the barmbrack pan, chewing a piece he’d pried off. “A little tough, but not bad,” he said, trying to cheer her up, it seemed, oblivious to the fact he’d caused the problem. He sat beside her and reached for a pastie. “You mind?”
“Help yourself,” she said gloomily. “I locked myself out.”
“Not bad if you eat around the crust,” he said. “The onions give it a nice flavor. You can cook, all right.”
“You know a good locksmith?” she asked miserably.
“Why?” He leaned around her to shift the geranium pot far enough to reveal a key, which he handed to her. “Happens to Callie all the time. That little knob lock is a bitch.”
“Why didn’t you tell me…? Never mind. Thanks.” She threw her arms around him and hugged him hard. He laughed, still munching on the pastie.
She’d been rescued, the day redeemed, even if the food was less than perfect. Back in the house, her cell phone beeped, telling her she’d missed a call and had a message. It was Brody, calling from someplace noisy. His words broke up, but she was able to catch that he wouldn’t make it to meet Callie. Something had come up and he’d see her back at the hotel later.
Damn, damn. Double damn. If she’d told him about the dinner, instead of trying to surprise him, he might not have canceled so readily. She looked at the table she’d lovingly set, the flowers gracing the scene, thought about the food she’d wrangled into shape, despite a dead stove and a tardy biker. Disappointment roiled through her.
Then her stubborn streak kicked in. She would not be defeated. If the man wouldn’t come to the barmbrack, she’d bring the barmbrack to the man. She’d take the meal to the hotel. Why not? She’d make this a perfect day one way or another. She didn’t give up on her documentaries, why would she give up now?
Barely thirty minutes later, she set two big shopping bags holding the food, wine and flowers on the floor beside Brody’s room door and knocked. He didn’t answer, so she assumed he hadn’t returned. Good. She’d set up and surprise him. She used the key card he’d given her, but she got the surprise.
“Jillian!” Brody jumped to his feet from the bed where he’d been sitting. “What are you doing here?”
Why hadn’t he answered? And what was the electricity in the air about? It felt like fear. Then she saw that Brody had company—a grim-looking man with a swollen face and glittering eyes sat in the shadows of the room, at the desk, hiding something in his lap with a folded newspaper. Meathead. Had to be. The real Lars Madden.
“I wanted to surprise you with a home-cooked meal,” she said, thinking fast. Tension crackled in the air. Brody had left a message for Fake Madden, but hadn’t heard back. Why was this guy here?
“We’re in a meeting,” Brody said. “If you could come back?” She could tell he wanted to shove her out the door for safety, but no way would she leave him in danger.
“No problem,” she said, acting bubbly and oblivious for Meathead’s benefit. “I’ve got plenty. Too much. We don’t want it to go to waste, do we?” She moved closer to the gunman, between him and Brody, thinking that he wouldn’t harm a bystander. She hoped not, anyway, and maybe he would leave because of the interruption.
“It got a little overcooked, but it will still be good, I hope.” She gestured as if to let the guy look in the sacks, acting like a ditz, but needing to break the tension somehow.
The man shifted his weight at her approach, as if to warn her away, and the newspaper slid to the floor. She saw that he’d been hiding a handgun. Lifting her gaze, she met his and saw that he was going to take action, point the gun, shoot maybe?
Without thinking, she swung the heavier sack—it had the cast-iron pot of stew—at the gun and it flew out of his hand and hit the wall. It fell to the carpet and Brody and Meathead lunged for it.
Jillian swung at the guy’s head this time, connecting with a dull thud, and Brody got the gun.
Madden staggered forward, looked at Brody, now armed, then at her, looking stunned, before he stumbled to the door and out into the hall.
Brody set the gun on the table and rushed to her, grabbing her by the arms. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, trembling. “That was that guy—Meathead—right?”
“Yeah. The real Lars Madden. I’ve got to call Jeffers.” He led her to the bed and sat her down. “Will you be all right for a sec?”
She nodded, feeling numb, dazed by what had happened. In a fog, she listened as Brody apologized to Jeffers because the guy ran off. It sounded as if Jeffers had been on his way over. Her attention faded in and out and she noticed her teeth were chattering. She felt ice-cold, but she was sweating, too, and her fingers still vibrated from smacking the guy’s head with the pot, which had leaked stew onto the sack at her feet.
Brody was insisting he was glad to help…wasn’t about to back out now…something about going back to Plan A and not needing a bodyguard.
Her mind raced and stalled and sputtered, clutching at wild thoughts. Was there any stew left in the pot? Was dinner ruined? The flowers had fallen out and Meathead had trampled them. So sad. Such a waste. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Brody clicked off the phone and reached for her. “Hey, you’re trembling.” He pulled her into his arms and squeezed her close.
She tucked her face against his chest, grateful for the comfort and warmth of his arms. “Did I mess things up for you?” she said against his shirt, then pulled back to look at him. Her teeth still rattled, her chin vibrated uncontrollably.
“You could have been killed.” He rubbed her arms, as if to get her blood circulating. “You were way too brave.”
“He saw me see the gun. I was afraid he’d shoot. I just acted on reflex.” Her voice wobbled. “What was he doing here?”
“After you left, Fake Madden called and I promised to get him a copy of the DVD when we return to L.A. Meathead got wind of the deal somehow. I was heading out to meet my agent—he’d delayed our meeting, which was why I couldn’t come to your friend’s place—but Madden caught me at the elevator and demanded the DVD.”
“But you don’t have it.”
“No. I pretended to be calling Kirk, but I called Jeffers, who was on his way with the DVD when you arrived.”
“So I wrecked it? Would they have arrested him?”
“No, as it turns out, this is better. They want Bascom to take the bait at Kirk’s place. We’ve still got the Fake Madden deal going in L.A. Jeffers thinks this near miss will make them more anxious.”
“So I did good?” She felt so weak, and her words were faint.
“You did great. It’s okay, Jillian. We’re both okay.” He brushed her hair from her cheeks. “What did you hit him with anyway?” He seemed to be trying to distract her from her panic.
“A pot of Irish stew.”
“You hit him with a pot? It was quite a clunk. He probably has a concussion.”
“I certainly hope so. He wrecked my perfect Irish meal.” She was joking to get her head above the waves of fear washing over her. She’d never seen a gun that close before. She could have been killed. Brody, too. To her chagrin, she began to cry.
“Just let it out,” Brody said. “It’s okay. And your meal’s fine. We’ll eat every bite. Shh…shh.” He rubbed her back, comforting her, and she just hung on to him and cried it out.
Brody held on to Jillian with all his might, his heart aching over what she’d done, the risk she’d taken. “It’ll be okay…don’t worry…we’re good….” He kept mumb
ling soothing words, but his chest was a knot of emotion.
He wanted to protect this woman, make everything right in her world. She had beaned a gunman with a pot of Irish stew to save his sorry ass. What a gift she was. She smelled like buttery pastry and onions and flowers, and he never wanted to let her go.
After a little while, she seemed calmer and lifted her tear-streaked face from his chest. “I’m better,” she said, trying to smile.
He wiped her cheeks with his fingers. “Are you hungry?” Food would help her, he thought. “Because I’m starving. Let’s see what you brought me.”
He went to the tipped-over sacks and picked up the crumpled flowers in a cracked vase. One sack held a bottle of wine that hadn’t broken, a seriously tossed salad and the pot, which still held a couple inches of stew. The other had a plastic baggie of something crumbly, and a plastic-wrapped loaf of…“You made me barmbrack?” He was so touched he didn’t know what to say.
She nodded. “Burned it, though. Callie’s stove had a short, so I had to use the biker’s kitchen next door. And he went for beers and came back late. Then I got locked out of Callie’s. It’s a long story…” She took a shuddering breath.
“While we eat, you can tell me all about it.” He cupped her face, so dear to him. “We’ll share each other’s day like a normal couple, huh?” He’d do anything to cheer her up.
He arranged the small table on the terrace, put the bedraggled flowers in place, poured the wine and served them the salad, the pasties from the baggie and the dregs of the stew in the bowls she’d brought.
“This looks nice, Brody. Thank you,” she said faintly, trying to smile.
He took a spoonful of stew. “Yum,” he said, though it was more like gravy and a bit salty. “Better than Ma’s.”
“Don’t exaggerate.” She gave a sad smile.
“It’s good, Jillian. Especially considering the battle conditions in which you were working.” He took a bite of the pastie. “Now, this, this is delicious. I like a well-cooked crust.”
“I wanted this to be perfect.” Tears welled in her eyes.
One-Click Buy: April Harlequin Blaze Page 89