Uncovered: A Hearts of the South story

by Linda Winfree

  With a coat of fresh paint, the old saltbox-style farmhouse gleamed under the bluish mercury light. A couple of rockers sat on the wide porch, a lamp shaped like a lantern shining brightly by the front door. The impression was clean, neat and masculine.

  She knocked, shivering a little as a chill wind blew across the yard, slipping in beneath her jacket. Moments passed with no answer, and she lifted her hand to rap again.

  The door swung open, and Ash grinned an apology at her. “I’m sorry. Should have told you to come round to the kitchen door.”

  He stepped back to let her enter and inside heat wrapped about her.

  “Let me get your jacket.” Warm hands descended on her shoulders and she shrugged out of the military-style blazer, glancing around at an equally neat living room. The hardwood floors shone, a couple of couches and a big pine trunk sharing space before the fireplace.

  “Nice place. You’ve done a lot with it.”

  “Pretty bare, isn’t it?” His rich voice tickled her ears.

  “I wouldn’t say bare.” Books packed floor-to-ceiling built-ins. True, the room held little clutter or knick-knacks, but what there was—some pottery pieces, a well-worn guitar leaning against the wall, framed photos and a couple of paintings—hinted at the personality of the man behind her.

  And she’d never been able to resist a good mystery.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, finding his pale eyes resting on her and glowing with humor and good old-fashioned male attraction. The tiny flutters took up residence in her belly once more. My God, the man was handsome.

  “Something smells good.” She stepped back, aware now of spicy aromas flowing through the house. Beneath her lashes, she swept a look over him. Casual looked good on him—jeans, a bark-brown buttondown shirt that made his eyes seem brighter, loafers.

  “Seafood étouffée.” A brash grin lit his face, the awareness she was checking him out passing and crackling between them. “Hungry?”

  “Considering lunch was a pack of crackers and a Coke? Yes.”

  Laughter glimmered in his gaze and he reached for her hand. “Come on and let’s get you fed, then.”

  Her palm tingled at the warm contact of his skin on hers. The sensation moved up her arm in a pleasant wave as he led her through to the large eat-in kitchen.

  Like the living room, this area was clean and neat, but bore the unmistakable stamp of a strong male personality and that of someone who liked to cook—bold reds and browns against white subway tiles, gleaming copper and stainless-steel cookware.

  A scarred antique table set for two waited by the large window at the end of the room. The spicy smells of tomatoes, onions and peppers filled the air. Her stomach gave a tiny rumble and gnawed on itself. That lunch of peanut butter crackers was seriously a long way behind her.

  He pulled out her chair. “I’d planned on opening a bottle of wine, but if you’d rather have something else—”

  “Wine sounds heavenly.” She didn’t indulge often, but one glass shouldn’t hurt. She spread her napkin in her lap. Aromatic steam drifted from the rich seafood stew over its bed of rice. “This looks fabulous.”

  “Go ahead and start.” He moved to the counter, and she took him at his word. Savoring a bite of the wickedly savory concoction, she watched the muscles move in his back and arms as he uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Graceful, not awkward as many tall men were. Nice hands, strong with tapered fingers and short, clean nails. Hardworking hands, the bandage a stark white against the tanned skin of his left, a few nicks on the knuckles and a thin white scar on the back of the right.

  A picture of those hands sliding over her breasts, cupping and molding, flitted through her mind, and she shifted, tiny darts of desire shooting through her.

  He set a glass of wine before her and sank into the chair opposite.

  “Good?” He gestured at her bowl.

  God, she was fixated on his hands now. She reached for her fork again. “Very.”

  They talked over the meal. Madeline found he drew her out easily, asking uncomplicated questions about her day, her time back in Chandler County, without hitting anything that disturbed her slow slide into relaxation. He answered her questions about the farm and what he’d done with the house, making her laugh with stories of his misadventures in renovating.

  Afterward, he refused to let her help him clean up, but she lingered in the kitchen as he loaded the dishwasher and stowed the leftovers. He was more than good-looking—nice, smart, funny—and she liked him way too much already.

  Being attracted to him was one thing.

  Liking him? That was a whole other ballgame.

  He dried his hands on a striped towel and picked up his half-full glass. “Why don’t we go in the living room?”

  “Ash, I really should go.” Regret pulsed in her at the words. Oh, yes, being with this guy was dangerous on all sorts of levels. “Dinner was wonderful but—”

  “But friends spend time getting acquainted.” Another of those engaging smiles lit his face. “And I want to get to know you, Madeline. Half an hour. Deal?”

  “All right.”

  In the other room, she glanced at the books on the shelves and the photos on the walls while he turned on quiet music. She smiled at the mishmash of titles and genres, everything from classic Fitzgerald and the complete works of Marlowe and Shakespeare to Crichton, Grisham and a plethora of nonfiction books. Images of his life peeked from frames, what looked like a West Point graduation, a group of young men in army fatigues, Ash and Stanton, both several years younger, on a fishing boat with two preteen boys, a lovely young woman with the same pale green eyes as he, and a more recent snapshot of Ash and Tick leaning against an old Massey Ferguson tractor.

  Loss shivered through her. She didn’t have photos like this. Somewhere, she had some snapshots from high school shoved in a box, but her life revolved more around crime scene photos than Kodak moments.

  She squared her shoulders. There was nothing wrong with that. She simply lived her life with purpose. If being dedicated meant going without a few photographs, big deal. It wasn’t like she’d missed anything major.

  On the shelf below, a frame held one of Stanton and Autry’s wedding photos, another one of Gabby’s studio portraits, her funny little chestnut curls fluffing out from her head. Madeline smiled and touched a finger to the toothless grin. At nineteen months, her niece was a character already. Leaning next to the frame was another snapshot, slightly unfocused, one someone had obviously taken on impulse—Caitlin Falconetti seated in a rocking chair and holding her baby but smiling up at Tick as he leaned over them. The baby’s face scrunched as if a wail was imminent.

  “That’s right after they brought him home.” Ash tapped the glossy paper. “I was trying to figure out how to use the damn camera.”

  He stood close enough that she could see the brown flecks that hovered around his pupils, but not so close that she felt invaded. His clean smell filled her nose—soap and something elusive.

  “It’s a nice photo.” It was, the joy and emotion palpable despite the soft fuzziness. She took a step back, putting a little distance between them. “Obviously, you like pictures. And books.”

  A self-deprecating sound rumbled from his throat. “I’m not much for television. Give me a book any day. Think it comes from my time in the army, sitting around with nothing to do for hours on end.”

  “So you traveled a lot.”

  “Yeah.” He bent down and tugged a memory album from a lower shelf. “Come sit down and I’ll show you the worst pictures of Europe ever taken.”

  She joined him on the couch, knee bumping his as they paged through the book. She sipped at her wine, laughing softly at his comments on military life when he reached a spread of photographs depicting tents in the sands of Kuwait.

  “Talk about sitting around and waiting.” He rapped one of the photographs. “I read War and Peace sitting out there, then started on Anna Karenina.”

  Sett
ing her empty glass aside, she shook back her hair. “How on earth did you end up here, in Chandler County, Georgia of all places?”

  “Stanton and Tick.” He flipped the album closed and took the last swallow of his wine. “Stan and I were in the army together. We stayed friends after he went to the FBI. When I got out of the service, I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do. I thought about ranching, back home in Texas, but Tick kept going on about investing in no-waste farming. I came down here with him to look at a couple of operations, and somehow, ended up a chicken farmer.”

  “You sound like you love it.”

  “I do.” He half-turned, resting an arm along the back of the couch, his gaze on her face. “It’s a challenge and I never could resist one of those.”

  “Really.” She needed to look away from those glittering eyes and at the same time needed to keep staring into them, needed to be drawn into the blatant desire suddenly blazing there. She leaned forward, simply to get a closer look at the mesmerizing depths, as clear and green as Lake Blackshear on a quiet spring day.

  “Really.” He moved, bending down to cover her mouth with his own. The heat of supple lips warmed hers. A hint of wine lingered on his breath and skin, lending a rich layer to the kiss. Madeline parted her lips just enough to mingle her breath with his and allow her to suck a little at his upper lip. He lifted his mouth, brushed his lips across hers, lowered so they meshed once more.

  Madeline folded her arms about his neck and tilted closer. Sparkling pleasure spread through her, fizzing in her bloodstream. A sweet ardency curled between them, fueled by a series of nipping little kisses, mouths exploring, parting, coming together again. She curved a hand around his nape, his short tobacco-gold hair crisp and soft under her fingers.

  “Do you kiss all your friends like this?” she murmured against his mouth.

  “No.” He rubbed the palm of his uninjured hand over her shoulder, the soft timbre of his words vibrating through her. “I can honestly say I’ve never done this with Stan or Tick.”

  She giggled, wanting to press into his touch. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  His other arm came around her waist, and he tugged her closer. She went willingly, opening her mouth to him, taking everything he offered as his tongue swept between her lips, giving him in return her own passion.

  He traced the back of one knuckle down the edge of her blouse, leaving behind a trail of sensation. At the top button, he paused, as though asking tacit permission.

  Still kissing him, she slid her hands down to front of his shirt, popping first one button, then another and another free, allowing her access to hot, naked skin.

  For a moment, he toyed with the tiny pearl closure before he slowly pushed it through the opening and caressed the inch or so of skin revealed. In a painstaking procession, he undid her shirt, parting the fabric long after Madeline had dispatched his own.

  He eased the garment from her shoulders, leaving it draped down her arms, and finally abandoned her lips to suckle lightly at the curve of her shoulder.

  “Gorgeous,” he murmured against her skin, and she let her head fall back on a stolen breath, the desire trembling through her lower belly and settling into a fiery agitation between her thighs.

  Lifting his head, he trailed one finger down the thin strap of her bra. She stared at his face, the unvarnished wanting tightening his features only intensifying the slow burn in her body. He looked at her like she was some fabulous surprise he wanted to unwrap layer by layer.

  She wanted to let him, wanted to go on touching him and being touched, wanted to forget everything but how being kissed by him was so absolutely damn incredible.

  “This is not smart,” she breathed.

  “I know.” That fingertip moved lower, stopped at the swell of her breast, touching, yet not.

  “We barely know one another.”

  “You’re right.” His hand tightened on her waist, the bandage a light scrape on bare skin.

  “I’m not staying here. I’m going back to Florida in a few weeks.”

  “Yes.” He dipped his head, resting his lips on her shoulder again. The movement brought her torso into closer contact with his. The heat and warmth slammed through her.

  “Ash…”

  “Hmm?” His mouth moved.

  “I want you.”

  He straightened to look at her, devilry dancing in his stormy green eyes. “Thank God.”

  She rubbed her knuckles down his smooth jaw and nodded once, a sharp jerk of her chin. “Take me to bed.”

  “Come on.”

  He rose and pulled her with him, through a formal dining room and down a dim hall, to a darkened room at the rear of the house.

  Chapter Six

  Ash flicked on the small lamp sitting atop his dresser. In the soft light, he gazed down at Madeline, a quiet surge of need pulsing in him. She stepped forward and laid her palms on his bare chest. Sensation spread out from her hot hands and he shivered.

  He’d been right the first time. She was dangerous. Doing this, taking her to his bed, probably ranked as one of his less-than-smart decisions, but he was going to do it anyway, consequences be damned and consigned to be dealt with later.

  Because he simply couldn’t make himself walk away.

  He slipped a finger beneath one thin bra strap and slid the knuckle down her chest, her skin smooth and heated under his easy touch. She watched him, hazel eyes slumberous and dark, and she took another step toward him, gliding her hands up his pecs to his shoulders, fingers exploring the dips and rises of his muscles.

  Sensual mischief curled her lips and glinted in the depths of her eyes. “Nice.”

  Chuckling, he lowered his head to kiss her. She didn’t hold anything back, but opened her mouth beneath his, stroking her tongue between his teeth with teasing little curls. Oh yeah, she was dangerous, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this overpowering urge to get closer, to strip everything away until there were only the two of them and the building desire. He sure as hell hadn’t felt this way with Angie or Layla or any of the safe women he’d dated the last few years.

  “Madeline,” he mumbled against her lips and stroked his hands over her curves to rest at her hips. He dipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her low-rise jeans. The skin there was soft and hot too. God, she was hot all over. He couldn’t wait to have her all over him.

  She purred and tilted her hips into his. Wanting spread through him, firing through his groin, his dick growing heavier, harder, with her nearness. She rubbed against him, a slow, naughty movement. “Very nice.”

  Leaning back, she grasped his belt and went to work on the buckle. His mouth went dry and she held his gaze while she wrestled the buckle free and popped the button loose before lowering his zipper.

  She wrapped her fingers around the waistband of his boxer briefs, brushing his stomach. Every muscle in the vicinity jumped. Shit, the woman wasn’t dangerous…she was deadly. She’d taken him from half-ready to damn-if-she-touched-him-he’d-lose-it in a few short moments. Was this Madeline, confident and utterly sexual, the real one? The wary, isolated Madeline had disappeared as soon as they walked through his bedroom door.

  Head tilted back, she lifted her eyebrows. “Can’t wait to find out if you look as nice as you feel.”

  He had to force air into his lungs, and his laugh came out shakier than he would have liked. “Damn, I like a woman who isn’t shy.”

  The woman actually laughed. She shoved his jeans and briefs down a few scant inches, not quite exposing him. “Then you should love me.”

  He opened his mouth, intending to parry with some smartass comment. Her hand cupping, squeezing, his pulsing erection through his jeans sent every coherent reply out of reach. Instead, he attempted to catch his breath and stiffened his knees so he wouldn’t end up on the floor.

  She eased jeans and underwear down, his happy-to-see-her anatomy bobbing free. Slipping his shoes from his feet, she tossed them behind her and nudged him into steppi
ng out of the denim and cotton garments. Kneeling before him, she slid those hot palms up both thighs. His belly tightened with an unbearable anticipation.

  “Very, very nice.” She curved her fingers around him, tracing the vein running from base to tip. Holding him firmly, she swirled her tongue around the head. Sparks shot along his veins, and he groaned. Hell, he was gonna end up on the floor for sure, and God, if she kept that up, he was gonna cry.

  Still fisting him, she took him into her mouth. Heat and moisture surrounded him, enveloped him. Head thrown back, he let his eyes slide closed.

  Oh, yee-ha.

  He tangled his uninjured hand in her hair. “Hell yeah, baby, that’s good.”

  With a quick pinch on his thigh, she let him go. “I’m not your baby. Find another endearment.”

  Humor spiked in him, tempering the raging need somewhat. “Honey, sweetheart, sugar…whatever you like.”

  “I’m not much for love names, period, Hardison.” She twirled her tongue about him once more, like he was a melting ice cream cone on a hot day. “Although I like the way honey drips off your…lips.”

  He laughed, and she chose that moment to take him to the back of her throat.

  “Madeline,” he gasped, barely controlling the urge to lunge forward. His fingers tightened in her thick tresses, pulling.

  She pinched him again. “Careful,” she mumbled around the head of his dick.

  “Bossy, aren’t you?” The words came out on a strangled moan. Hell, she was killing him, with that slow spin of her tongue, the playful scrape of teeth, the way she took him deep then sucked the head, making him hurt with need, then slowing him down so he buzzed with a simmer of wanting.

  “Mm-hmm.” She slowed on him, nails a light abrasion on his balls. Under her easy teasing, they tightened, desire rippling up into his belly and out to his bloodstream. If she didn’t stop that…

  “Damn, honey, you’re dangerous.” He eased away and tugged her up, covering her lips with his. Dipping his tongue into her mouth, he skimmed the straps down her arms and fumbled with the back until the clasp sprang free. The silky little bit of nothing fell to the floor. He cupped her breasts, the rounded flesh filling his palms, and flicked his thumbs over hardened nipples.