by Ani Gonzalez
"Clever," she murmured. "Very clever."
"You're not the only one with tricks up the sleeves, Hunt." Caine looked at the trashed loft and sighed. "I guess I better get going and arrange for clean up and filming."
"You don't seem too excited," Zach noted.
Caine shook his head. "It'll be fine. The UNESCO guy's an asshole, that's all. Some people get a little intense, you know?"
Zach laughed. "That's the pot calling the kettle black, Caine."
He snorted. "I get excited about Yeti sightings and cold spots. I don't break out in sweats over fancy footnotes and mimeographs." He picked a paperback up and admired the scantily clad Viking princess on the cover. "But it's going to be fun to watch Mr. Fancy-Pants Librarian deal with this."
A small smile lit Elizabeth's face. "That's quality television right there."
Caine smiled. "I thought so too. We should get a good episode out of it. I better call him."
"Okay, guys," Elizabeth said. "Time to get to work. Caine has to make a call and you two," she pointed at Zach and Patricia, "have a lot of stuff to do. Scoot, Holly and I will close up."
Caine sighed and headed down the spiral staircase, his heavy boots banging on the metal. Patricia hesitated and Elizabeth frowned at her.
"Go," she said. "You have work to do."
"Yes, we do," Zach said, pushing Patricia toward the stairs. She hesitated, but he glared at her. "We'll talk outside."
She sighed, grabbing the metal rail. "That's what I'm afraid of."
With that parting shot, she went down the staircase with the air of a condemned man headed for the gallows. He followed, trying not to smile. Her comment was pure Patricia, honest and straightforward.
"You guys need help packing up?" Caine asked, putting on his parka.
"No," Zach replied, grabbing his leather jacket. "The crowd cleaned us out and I think your guys already took out the trash and put back the tables."
He was right. The main floor of the library was back to normal, with reading tables and cozy chairs scattered over the lobby. The projecting screen had disappeared, the podium was gone, and the folding chairs were back in the supply closet.
"We're done for the night," he said.
Caine nodded glumly. "Great, nothing left to do except contact a misanthropic librarian and talk him into cleaning up paperbacks." He shook his head, put on his wool cap and saluted them. "See you tomorrow."
Zach nodded.
"Good night, Caine," Patricia said, putting on the puffy winter coat.
They all headed out to the parking lot. The night was dark and cloudy with a crescent moon and a few stars peeking through the mist. The lights of the library illuminated the treacherous, ice-covered path leading to the back lot. They reached the lot safely and Caine got into his black SUV, a lumbering beast with the town's most coveted vanity license plate, BNSHEE 1, and a bumper sticker that announced "I Want to Believe."
The truck roared out of the library parking lot, leaving Zach and Patricia alone.
Zach tried to think of a way to invite Patricia over to his place. Nothing came to mind, which was unusual for him. Talking pretty girls into bed was pretty much his superpower. But tonight he couldn't think up a good line.
He was a songwriter, for crying out loud. He should be able to come up with something.
But he wasn't a troubadour anymore. He was just a pizzeria owner now, and "would you like to check out my pepperoni?" wouldn't work.
It never did.
He was trying to come up with a good line when she grabbed his arm.
"Zach," she said, stepping closer. "I think we have to talk."
He nodded, torn. Her voice was soft and clear and her hair smelled of gardenias and he couldn't quite think straight. He did know one thing, though.
Nothing good ever followed the phrase "I think we have to talk."
"I really want the Rosemoor," she stammered, looking nervous.
What?
He nodded, wondering how to respond to that. The Rosemoor was the last thing on his mind right now.
"And I know you want it too," she continued, her eyes dark and intense.
"Yeah," he replied. "But that's not..."
His voice trailed off. That wasn't what he wanted to talk about right now. He didn't want to talk at all. He wanted to take her home and rip off her clothes and get to know this new, bad girl Patricia.
Intimately.
But you couldn't just come out and say something like that. That was something that had to be finessed.
Unfortunately, he had no idea how. This was a new and unwelcome situation.
Patricia shook her head. "Let me finish."
She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself.
"I want the Rosemoor, and I'll fight you for it tooth and nail," she said firmly. "And I will not be distracted from that."
He nodded. "I would expect no less."
He tried to hide his disappointment. Bad Patricia was, apparently, a short-lived phenomenon. Good Patricia was in charge, and Good Patricia wanted the Rosemoor.
Good Patricia, he knew, wasn't that much fun.
"Right." She let go of his arm, leaving him feeling somewhat bereft. "I'm glad we understand each other."
"We do," he replied, sticking his hands in his pockets. A sudden chill ran through him, one that had nothing to do with the cold.
But she was right. It was absolutely the right thing to do. They should focus on their respective businesses and on the upcoming competition. They didn't have time for a dalliance, as their library loft misadventure clearly illustrated. This made sense.
Then why was he so upset?
He didn't know, but, here, freezing his butt off in the Banshee Creek Library's frigid parking lot, he felt...an ache. As if he'd just lost something...something he hadn't known he needed.
That was ridiculous.
He felt it, though. An empty space inside, one he hadn't felt for a long time.
And one he'd hoped to never feel again.
"It's getting cold," he said, feeling it in his bones. "We should go."
Patricia nodded, adjusting the silky, impractical scarf that made her eyes look deep and dark, like a mysterious ocean. The scarf that felt like satin and smelled like gardenias and made him think imprudent thoughts.
"Absolutely," she replied in her trademark sensible tone.
He stepped forward, reaching for the door to her van. Isabel Franco had drilled manners into her sons and the Franco boys opened car doors for girls, come hell, high water or sub-arctic weather.
Patricia didn't follow, and he turned around to see what was wrong. She was looking at him, a quizzical expression on her face.
"So," she said in a questioning tone. "Your place or mine?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SHE'D JUST shocked Zach Franco. The thought made her giggle. Jaded, louche Zach was absolutely floored, and she'd been the one who'd done it. Shy, no-nonsense Patricia O'Dare.
It felt surprisingly good. She could scratch this off her bucket list.
"I'd love to ask you to my place," she said, savoring his surprise. "But Elizabeth lives up the street, and Holly is right next door. Once they see your truck in the street, the gig will be up."
Zach stared at her as if she'd grown another head.
"But," she continued, "people won't think it odd if my van is at your place. They'll just think you borrowed it, again."
She'd come up with the plan while Caine and Elizabeth fought over who caused the book avalanche. Zach was constantly borrowing her van, as his pick-up was stylish but totally impractical, and she had a backup set of clothes in the back because catering was messy work and she always had spare clothes in case of accidents. Tomorrow was Sunday and the bakery opened late. She'd be back at work on time, no one the wiser.
Her plan was perfect. Except for one little thing.
Would Zach agree to it?
He looked tousled and intense, like a man who'd been thoroughly kissed in a haun
ted library should look. But he also looked confused and that wasn't a look she was familiar with. She was plain, sensible Patricia O'Dare, and people usually smiled at her or nodded to her in agreement.
They didn't look at her as if she'd just landed in a shiny flying saucer, carrying a ginormous anal probe.
And just as welcome.
Maybe he wasn't as turned on as she was? The library loft interlude, holy smokes, that had been mind-blowingly hot. Her skin still tingled from his touch and a part of her, a dark and primal part, wanted to explore that feeling.
Right now.
But maybe this was all old hat to Zach. Maybe it wasn't special to him. Heck, for all she knew, Zach made out with girls in the library all the time. Well, maybe not in the library, not with a disapproving ghost with strong literary opinions and a sharpshooter's precision on the premises, but maybe he had scorching make-out sessions with girls all the time. After all, this was a guy who'd ended up naked and chained up in the PRoVE specimen room. A make-out session in a haunted library was pretty vanilla in comparison.
A wave of embarrassment overwhelmed her. What the hell was she thinking? This was ridiculous. Of course he didn't want to... She backed away, eager to escape to the security of her trusty van.
But Zach grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. All breath left her body as he wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her close. She stared into his dark eyes, relieved and aroused...
And then he kissed her.
The kiss was deep and strong and warm and... She stopped thinking. He held her tightly, one hand around her body and the other one curled around her neck, as if afraid she'd pull away. The feel of his touch on the sensitive skin of her nape was like fire. She held on, as tightly as she could, drinking him in. The kiss swept all her doubts away. A thread of warmth ran through her. Something deeper and stronger than mere lust. He wanted her. Wanted her desperately. Wanted her as badly as she wanted him.
And that felt good. Real good.
He sucked hard on her lower lip, the sharp pain running through her body like an electric shock. Her eyes closed and she plunged into dark, sensual darkness. Nothing existed except Zach's embrace and the feel of his lips on hers.
Then he let go.
She jerked in surprise...and loss. The night seemed colder and darker without him. She opened her eyes and frowned. The parking lot was definitely darker and it wasn't her imagination.
Someone had turned off the lights in the library. They were closing for the night.
They stood there, breathing hard, for a long moment. Zach shook his head, as if trying to clear it.
"We'd better go," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "Before Holly and Elizabeth catch us."
She nodded, but didn't move. Suddenly, she felt uncertain. Was she really going to do this? Was she really going to sneak off for a night of debauchery with Zach Franco?
"Yes," she said, her voice breathy and unfamiliar.
Zach smiled and kissed her again, a brief caress that left her hungry for more. She was leaning forward, trying to prolong the kiss when she heard the tell-tale dull thud of the library doors snapping shut.
Zach broke the kiss and led her to her vehicle. Before she knew it she was in her van, turning on the ignition. She waited anxiously as Bessie wheezed her way through the parking lot, then followed Zach's truck onto Main Street.
She clutched the ice-cold steering wheel, trying to still her shaking hands. The icy road was a challenge to drive through and it took all her concentration to keep up with Zach, who was now speeding up and down the hills. His impatience was flattering, but he was going to get them both killed.
Her fingers curled, white-knuckled around hard plastic as she drove. Arousal mixed with fear was a potent cocktail and it didn't help that the car's radio had automatically switched on and WPRV was airing...a Barry White marathon?
Oh, for Pete's sake.
At least the music was soothing...and oddly appropriate. She smiled and sang along as she drove out of town. The weird winter weather -- what did the meteorologists call it? Wintry mix? -- had draped the tree branches in icicles and they sparkled in the blueish glare of her van's headlights. The clouds parted and the moonlight bathed the low-lying mist in a magical glow.
She smiled. Their humble and not-well-maintained country road looked like the entrance to Narnia. It made her feel like she was heading toward adventure. It reminded her of leaving home and taking the train to New York for her first year of culinary school. She remembered standing in the middle of the cavernous lobby in Grand Central Station, trying to figure out where to go. She remembered her first day at school, the industrial kitchens, the unfamiliar hygiene processes, the pain in her wrists from constantly kneading dough.
And Trevor.
She could hear Elizabeth's scathing voice in her head now. "How can you get involved with someone called Trevor?" her friend would say, amid laughter and margaritas.
If Patricia had ever told her friends about her Manhattan indiscretions, that is. But she hadn't. No one knew. Her dad knew, of course, she'd had to tell him, given the...consequences.
But no one else. She couldn't talk about it. It hurt too much.
Except it didn't. The thought popped into her head, unbidden. It didn't hurt.
Not anymore.
She followed Zach's truck up a hill, hands loose on her steering wheel, picturing Trevor's smile, the low rumble of his voice, his easy manner. Like Zach, Trevor had a fondness for leather jackets and fancy trucks, but, unlike Zach who favored vintage items found in arcane places, Trevor's paraphernalia was always brand new and found only in expensive Manhattan shops. Only the best would do for Trevor Creed.
She remembered his voice, recalling the terse voicemail left on her phone. She remembered the tears, the paralyzing fear, the acid feel in her throat as she replayed the message again and again. She focused on the scene, forcing herself to remember.
It didn't hurt anymore.
The realization shocked her. She'd known it would happen, eventually. Wounds healed, even if they did it very slowly. Her brain knew that.
But her heart hadn't.
Except now it did.
They passed the Franco Farmhouse and Zach turned into a private road lined with evergreens. The road was narrow and dark and her van shook as she drove it steadily over the frozen gravel. Her muscles tensed on the steering wheel as she kept the vehicle moving forward, strong and steady.
She wasn't the teenage Patricia O'Dare who left Manhattan amid tears and pain. She wasn't the heartbroken baker who'd quietly taken over her parents' business, keeping her head down and focusing on her work. She wasn't that person anymore.
She was an adult, a successful businesswoman, and a...damn it, she was an ass-kicking entrepreneur who'd rebranded a business, no, a town, and turned it into a raging success.
She wasn't afraid anymore.
They reached the end of the road. She followed Bessie into the clearing next to a large barn. The structure was modified as a dwelling with large windows in the sides and industrial light fixtures leading to the rolling doors that made up the entry, but it was still, recognizably, a barn, a place that once housed cows and goats and pigs. It even had a silo rising up behind it.
And it was now, after much remodeling and retrofitting and extensive arguing with the town authorities, Zach's home.
The idiosyncratic building reminded her that Zach was no one to trifle with. She'd thought Trevor was a bad boy? Zach Franco pretty much left him in the dust. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and he didn't let morals or scruples get in his way.
Maybe there was a lot she could learn from Zach. Things like how to let loose, how to have fun, and, most importantly, how to take pleasure without losing your heart.
Because she wasn't going to go through another Trevor experience.
No way.
She parked her van, turned off the ignition. The silence, the kind that could only be found in the countryside, rolled over her l
ike a deep, plush blanket. For the first time in years, she was taking a risk, a personal one, not a business one like the bakery's rebranding. She was heading for dangerous emotional waters.
But she felt oddly at peace.
She pushed open the door. The cold hit her in the face making her flinch. She took a deep breath, drawing icy air into her lungs, stepped out of the car, and walked toward the vintage blue truck.
Zach stood next to his truck, tall and dark in his leather jacket and jeans, looking like sin and danger rolled into one. Looking at him brought back arousing memories, his breath on her neck, his hands on her flesh, the steady drumming of his heart as he held her close in the library loft.
A shrill screech rang out, echoing in the stillness of the night. The eerie sound made her shiver and reminded her that the Banshee Creek silos housed all manner of intriguing critters, including the town's signature barn owls.
The owls were mysterious and scary, but, she had to admit, not nearly as scary as Zach Franco, bad boy extraordinaire.
He walked toward her, all sinuous grace and hard muscle. It was, she suddenly realized, his stage walk, the one he used when he sang, the one that practically dripped sex. He stopped in front of her, grabbed the scarf around her neck, the pretty impractical one that she loved even though it wasn't warm at all, and pulled her close.
She tilted her head up and braced for a scorching kiss.
She could handle Zach Franco.
For sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HE SHOULD stop kissing her.
The thought was a nagging throb in the back of his head. He should take her inside the barn, where it was warm. He should not be kissing her in an icy driveway with a crazy barn owl hooting like a lunatic. It was, a part of his brain urged, ungentlemanly.
But he couldn't stop.
Because she was kissing him back, fiercely and passionately. And boy, could Patricia O'Dare kiss. She kissed like a siren, like a born seductress. Her arms went around his neck and her lips devoured him with exquisite slowness, as if he were a particularly luscious treat she wanted to enjoy to the fullest.