120 Mph

by Jevenna Willow

  But this would be all she could ever be to him—a lover. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Married, now widowed, Christian was not going to saddle himself with a wedding ring again.

  ****

  “I can’t wear this,” Sara sputtered. She held out her hand to give it back to him.

  Reverend Mohr seemed confused by her denial. “You can’t sleep in the nude, Sara.”

  By the look in his eyes, she knew he wouldn’t have told her she could not if the desire for her wasn’t so strong that it was making the poor man’s knees weak.

  Sara had in her hand the top half of Christian’s pajama set. He had on the bottom half—and looked so damn good, she was slowly losing her mind. She would never be able to sleep in this mans’ house with him looking so incredible.

  She was human, horny, and vulnerable. Didn’t he know this? Didn’t he care?

  “Sara, it is the only thing I have within my drawers to give you right now,” he determined.

  To say her mind hadn’t strayed to the other definition of ‘drawers’ would be a falsity. Sara had to do everything in her power not to glance down.

  “Then I will just have to sleep in the nude,” she retaliated, staring at his face.

  Christian stared back in horror. “Like hell you will!”

  Her brow rose sharply. “Reverend Mohr!”

  “Good Lord, Sara. I can swear, as much as I a recovering alcoholic and can have sex with a woman who interests me, if caring enough to make the effort and it’s done out of mutual consent,” he smarted, making the words sting.

  Unfortunately, the word sex had lowered her eyelids without coercion of the muscles. And that sudden gaze drifting downward checked Christian’s anger in breakneck speed. He cleared his throat and stepped from the doorway.

  Sara would be claiming his spare bedroom for the foreseeable future. It was late. They were both tired. Dinner turned out to be two lousy frozen dinners, with equally lousy conversation. Neither was in any mood to open up a conversation on a grander scale since Chief Berken’s terrible announcement. They could not bring up the subject of her loss without it escalating into tears and unwanted sympathy. Moreover, neither cared or needed either.

  Chief Berken did make a quick phone call to the Reverend to make certain he would not let Sara out of the house, or perhaps he to be foolish enough to take her back to her burnt apartment before the authorities were done with their investigation. He said it would be quite a few days before the fire chief was finished with inspection of the premises, and days more while the chief questioned all of her neighbors. After that, she could go to her apartment to see what was retrievable—if anything at all.

  By the sound of the one-sided conversation, Christian doing most of the asking, Sara didn’t expect to find even a single piece of her past still intact.

  For now, she was to stay with Reverend Mohr for safety reasons. Chief Berken said he wasn’t taking chances with a woman’s life due to a menacing threat by note. Nor was Christian willing to do so.

  She held out the pajama top to the man. He shook his head.

  Sara growled, lowered her hand, pulled back, and slammed the door in his handsome face. She could hear the deep chuckle as he moved across the hallway to his own room, the strong tone drawing out the gooseflesh on her arms.

  She gave it a few minutes more before succumbing to the demands of not wanting to be cold over not wanting to wear a man’s pajama top. Any other man’s and she wouldn’t have had a single qualm about it.

  Reverend Mohr was not any other man. Even a confirmed Atheist knew this to be fact.

  Sara strode toward the bed, set the material on the quilt, and with a deep breath pulled her dress over her head. She stood inside the Reverend’s spare bedroom as naked as the day she born. She may have slipped off the tongue the lack of panties unwittingly, but she was braless as well. With all her clothing burnt to a crisp, this looked to be the case for quite a few days, if not longer.

  Two seconds later, she slipped her arms through the too long of sleeves in the pajama top, closed the buttons on a too huge of shirt, and made a hasty glance in a mirror hung on the far wall. Christ! She looked ready for sex. Her bared legs looked longer than really are, her eyes bluer than they should be. A man’s pajama top on her slender frame came to an inch below her bared ass and left little to the imagination.

  She shook her head and nearly dove headfirst under the covers to hide from her reflection. Cold sheets, strange smells, restless mind and heart, all made it quite difficult to find slumber. Yet somehow, she overcame those traumatic obstacles and drifted into nightmares of the worst kind; nightmares that easily broke a person into heart palpitations and cold sweats.

  They’d come to haunt her every night for the past eight years . . .

  Hadn’t she been punished enough over the years? The guilt far too strong to forget? No. Perhaps not. A pound of flesh was gained in ounces, and Sara’s lost pound was leaving her by way of only the miniscule of molecules.

  She reached over, grasping the empty pillow near her head. She’d been so close to having everything anyone ever needed and some sick bastard with gasoline took that away from her.

  The heavy tears started over again as she stared off into an unfamiliar and equally unwelcoming bedroom, and for the time being, Sara Ruby truly regretted being alive.

  Chapter Eleven

  Christian walked into his kitchen in search of coffee. What he found, instead, almost gave him a heart attack.

  It certainly felt like one, as his hand reached for his chest and his feet slammed on the brakes.

  Sara looked to be making pancakes and she was bent over in front of his refrigerator in search of his carton of eggs.

  Christian closed his eyes and took deep settling breaths before there was an actual need to move forward. A hasty clearing of the throat gained him even more trouble.

  Sara jumped at the sound, she hit her head on the bottom of the above freezer compartment, whipped around . . . .then smiled.

  A smile that sexy could only spell trouble to a man—and trouble with a capital ‘T’. Her entire face creased as her cheeks pinked.

  “Pancakes,” was all she said. Then, thinking better of having him guess her thoughts, she added, “And I tossed out all of the beer. Oddly, only one other can was inside the refrigerator.”

  This news startled him into unwanted reaction that was much too early without his usual gallon of caffeine.

  “You what?”

  “I dumped your beer down the drain.”

  She stood tall, set her hands on her hips, and this action unfortunately caused the rising of far too short of top to begin with; a rising that was dangerously close to giving a man who’d been too long without a delectable, Technicolor view of Sara Ruby’s incredible assets.

  “What the bloody hell did you go and do that for?”

  He rushed toward the hotter-than-hell woman making him breakfast, then slammed on the brakes the second her mutiny rose.

  “It was dire temptation, Reverend. And it should not be anywhere near you,” she reasoned.

  “And you’re not?” This thought, by way of horror, slipped off his tongue far too swiftly than could be stopped.

  Thankfully, Sara averted her gaze. Her eyes had been glued on his bare chest for the better part of ten dangerously allowed seconds. Okay. Worst still, her personal attire when combined with doing something out of pity became his undoing. Christian cleared his throat.

  “I didn’t burn my apartment to a crisp, Reverend Mohr. Nor was I the one who told me I had to stay in your house until the authorities catch the creeps. I can’t help it by nature alone if you felt sympathy for me—enough to offer me a place to stay. But if you have a problem with my . . .”

  Christian was inches from her by the time this ended. In fact, he wouldn’t let her finish.

  “I do not have a problem with you being here, Sara. I have a really huge problem with you dumping out my beer.”

  “Why?”


  “It served its purpose while still inside the can.”

  “How?” she started; checked by the sharp rising of his brow.

  “It is . . . was . . . part of my AA recovery process.”

  Her mouth formed a perfect O. A very sexy, very tempting O he could easily mold his lips to. Then again, it wasn’t her fault by nature alone she’d thought ridding his house of temptation was in his best interest.

  Christian nodded, cleared his thoughts from wanting to kiss her again, and confirmed it by voiced repeat. “Yes. Oh. And it did work to a certain degree.”

  Sara stepped back. “Well, if that was only what it was for, I’ll buy you more, once I get access to my funds and the chance to go out in public not dressed like this.”

  “That won’t help, Sara.”

  She seemed unsettled by this sudden news. Her hands put to her hips again, the tone of her voice waspish. “Why not? Beer’s beer, one can is the same as all the rest. Evil and destructive and what brings men to their knees, doing foolish deeds.”

  How could he put this delicately? And still get his breakfast made? By the look on her face, anything less than truthful would see him first in line at the gates of Hell; if not this morning, then in the days sure to follow.

  “They were the last of two cans in a case of thirty that I drank the night my wife died. I consumed all the rest . . . except the one can for my demons and the other for my sins.”

  Sara’s face quickly paled. She grabbed the counter and held onto it, her knuckles turning white. Her other hand moved to her mouth. Shame filled her blue eyes and within seconds the pity regrew.

  Christian was having none whatsoever of Sara’s pity so damn early in his morning. He’d had too much of it last night, and far more than he thought he could handle throughout his rather disturbing dreams; when he’d finally fallen asleep knowing she was across the hallway—completely naked under his shirt.

  He took two steps forward and dragged her into his arms, Sara setting her warm hands firmly against his bared chest.

  Big mistake. Through her fingertips, she certainly felt the rapid beating of his heart. And through hers’ he could feel every degree of her heat, as if his own supercharged inferno had been stoked by nuclear explosion. So it was only inevitable that his lips touched her mouth and she kissed him back.

  As their kiss deepened into the danger zone, the doorbell peeled again. Shamed, they quickly separated, yet again thwarted from choosing between temptation and need.

  “What the fuck!” came out of his mouth far too loudly.

  Sara even glared as though the continued interruptions were part of the plan to keep her from what she needed most.

  This was the absolute farthest from any truth, as Christian checked his thoughts, his reactions to those thoughts, and made to answer his front door.

  “Clothes, Reverend?” A hasty sweep of iridescent blue eyes cast downward to his pajama bottoms.

  He shook his head and very gently removed her hand from his arm, prying off her fingers. “No. Whoever dares ruin my morning is going to see me exactly as I am.”

  Her hand made a hasty sweep over his pajama top. “And they get the added pleasure to see me like this?” she asked, horrified.

  Christian smiled at her blushing face. “It’ll certainly get the tongues wagging, won’t it?”

  “In the wrong direction!” she yelped.

  “Well, what would you have me do? Not answer it? And then explain why I hadn’t to whoever might be standing on the stoop and knows I’m home. My car is the driveway. Everyone in this town is fully aware I’m non-functioning before coffee.”

  Sara shook her head. “No. Go ahead. Just don’t let whoever it is anywhere near this kitchen if you can help it.”

  His grin grew. “Why? Are you hiding something in here that shouldn’t be seen, Ms. Ruby?”

  Her arms crossed her middle. Her cheeks turned red.

  They both knew there wasn’t a damn thing she could hide under a man’s thin cotton pajama top.

  More unfortunate, it was Harriet Thorn he found at his front door. Mrs. Harriet Thorn, who got to witness him half-dressed, and Mrs. Harriet Thorn who followed the scent of food like a bloodhound set on the trail. She discovered the other half of his clothing on Sara Ruby making pancakes inside his kitchen.

  The darling Mrs. Thorn then got the best start to any gossip line ever heard, as God is his witness, Sara bent too far over to pick up a miss-tossed pancake . . . and every gorgeous inch of her was easily seen by the parting of his shirt.

  “Why, Ms. Ruby!” Harriet stated crisply, forcing her way into his kitchen. “You’re still here! And Dear Lord . . .you’re not even properly dressed!”

  Harriet averted her gaze from one slightly naked woman with spatula in hand and who’d bolted upright directly in front of his stove, to detour that gaze onto his paling face.

  Christian found voice before the situation could get much worse. “Then you haven’t heard the terrible news.” He made this come out of his mouth as sarcastically as possible, since following the woman’s hurricane path of self-righteousness toward the smell of food and yet somehow walking into the realm of Hell.

  Harriet Thorn knew everything there was to know in Preacher’s Bend, or so she said. And she knew Reverend Christian Mohr more did not cook. Or should he say, didn’t know how to cook. Therefore, if she did not know Sara as being here, she wouldn’t be aware of Sara’s apartment as being burned by arson. Christian could say he was finally one up on the woman.

  Even more unfortunate, her eyes again turned his way and she looked angrier than he’d ever seen the old bat by the tart exchange he’d dared give her in return; more so, an elder churchwoman brittle furious toward his and Sara’s state of undress so early in the morning—and not married, or even dating.

  Nor even knew each other all that much.

  Her sharp click of tongue sealed the deal for lack of any whip in hand to tan their hides.

  Christian tried to act as nonchalantly as he could under the circumstances. He headed to his coffee pot, while Sara tried to hide her bared half behind the island countertop. He offered Mrs. Thorn coffee by raise of the pot. Thank God neither woman noticed his hands were shaking as he poured a cup of the steaming brew.

  Mrs. Thorn shook her head, stating firmly, “No, thank you. I only stopped by to pick up the prayer books you were supposed to ready last night. And I would guess, by what I have found inside your kitchen Reverend, you did not work on any of them as you said you would.”

  Shit! He’d completely forgotten about the books.

  Christian could feel his nose growing by each passing second, as almost giddy he’d thought of an easy escape out of this. Poor little Pinocchio never really knew what he was missing by telling the truth.

  “I’ll bring them over to the Church before noon. There are a few more details I’d wanted to highlight before the ladies gave their okays to next month’s Bible study.”

  Like . . . all of what he hadn’t done, and was supposed to have accomplished before all of Hell broke loose within his life, and that Hell in the form of one incredibly hot woman dressed in only a man’s pajama top and inside his kitchen burning their breakfast behind her back.

  As was said, Christian only lied when necessary. And Thank God Harriet bought the lie without too much fuss.

  “Fine, you just bring the books over to the Church as soon as can be possible. There is a quilting bizarre a few of us were planning to attend over in Sparta and we wouldn’t want to miss that, having to wait around for you.”

  Christian shook his head. “No. I am sure you wouldn’t want to wait for me, Mrs. Thorn.” He knew the quilting bizarre was the only place Harriet Thorn and her cronies could openly discuss the rest of the townsfolk while not being overheard. Preacher’s Bend loved its gossip. But those who lived down in Sparta loved more the juicy news about a place they considered as being on the wrong side of the tracks.

  About to say something else, Harrie
t changed her mind, glanced hurriedly at Sara, then stated she would expect those books before noon. She turned on heels, gave out a sharp nod, and left the room.

  Sara’s release of breath felt as if a tangible presence while Christian hastily walked Harriet to his door.

  In secret whisper, before crossing the threshold, Harriet told him, “Next time you dare have a woman over for a sinful tryst, Reverend, at least try to wipe that silly little grin off your face before you come and answer your front door. I know you’re lonely, my dear. Ever since Beale died . . . and with you still so young and fit, it must be rather hard on you. But must you be so obvious about your conquests? Pancakes, really? A bowl of cereal would have surely sufficed after a sinful night of debauchery.”

  Ten seconds later, she vacated the premises and left Christian standing at his open doorway, half-naked, with his chin dropped to the floor.

  He never heard Sara come up behind him until she tapped him on the shoulder and tried handing him the cup of coffee he’d poured when still inside his kitchen. She even took it upon herself to close the open doorway he was obviously too startled to do.

  “I take it that whatever Harriet said to you before she left has you second-guessing the decision of my being here.”

  Christian pulled in a deep breath and gathered his thoughts together. He smiled, took a sip of his coffee, and settled his nerves to a certain degree.

  “No. She told me to wipe the silly grin off my face the next time I dare answer my door in my pajama bottoms.”

  He avoided an all-out discussion by foregoing telling her any of the rest, or that the mere mention of things being hard on him was giving him another painful hard-on between the legs.

  Sara’s blue eyes reached over the rim of her cup as she took a sip of the hot brew.

  “Were you grinning, Reverend?” she dared tease.

  “Oh, Sara, my dear . . . grinning wasn’t the only thing I was doing, apparently.”

  And he meant this with a very sincere heart. He’d been wishing to run back into his kitchen and prove the old bat right for a change—dare himself into having that early morning tryst.