by Terry Odell
She was quiet for several heartbeats. He almost heard the gears grinding in her head.
“How sure are they it was an accident?” she asked.
Those gears had ground out the right question. Too bad he didn’t have the answer. “At this point, they’re not sure one way or the other.”
She digested that for another few heartbeats. “But they’re going to keep investigating, right?”
“Given that it’s a felony in California, most definitely. And my guess is that my boss will be setting up some discreet investigations of his own.”
“I want to see her.”
“Not good,” Grinch said.
Elizabeth wriggled free of his grasp and paced the room. “I need to think.” After a few circuits, she went to the door. “I’m going downstairs. I need more room. And I don’t want to wake the boys.”
He followed her downstairs. No signs of the tipsiness she’d shown earlier. She ended up in the kitchen, opening cabinets, grabbing canisters and boxes, lining things up on the counter.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Cooking helps me think. And I need to think.” She opened the fridge.
“Under the circumstances, I guess that makes more sense than flying.”
She pivoted, a carton of eggs in her hands, eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“When I need to get my head straight, I go flying. Nothing like being surrounded by the big blue sky to put things into perspective.”
She cringed. Then laughed. “Well, I imagine going flying would definitely get my mind off Grace—because I’d be too scared and too busy screaming to think about it.”
Someday I’ll take you up, and you’ll change your mind.
“So what are you cooking?” he asked. “Since I don’t have a plane on hand.”
“I don’t know yet.” She stood, hands on hips, staring at the array in front of her.
“Want me to put on some coffee while you decide?”
“I don’t think I need any more stimulation. I’ll make some herbal tea.” She filled the kettle, set it on the burner, and retrieved a box of tea bags.
God. Not more of her flowery stuff. He gave a halfhearted smile and pulled two mugs from a shelf. “Sounds like a plan.”
She pursed her lips, then smiled. He watched as she assembled an assortment of ingredients, bowls, and other culinary implements. Not so different from his Blackthorne team putting together the equipment they’d need for an op. In contrast to the way she’d acted in the bedroom, here, her movements were smooth and efficient. She was calm, focused.
Cooking as an op. Interesting.
“So,” she said, stirring some butter and sugar together with his mother’s wooden spoon. The one Mom had threatened his knuckles with so many times. “I see two possibilities. Either it was an accident or it wasn’t.”
“Agreed.”
“If it was an accident, it’s sad. But it’s unlikely that it would affect Will and me.” She stopped stirring long enough to flash him a questioning gaze.
“Agreed.”
She frowned. “But if it wasn’t an accident, whoever did it had to have a reason, and that could affect Will and me.”
“You know of anyone who might want to harm Grace?”
“I wasn’t with her long, but I got the impression she was well-liked.” She gnawed at her lip, then stopped, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “Forgot,” she muttered.
“Understandable under the circumstances. But from what I’ve heard about her, Grace has a … colorful history. It’s possible she made enemies. Or maybe she’s working on another project.” However, if she was, it wasn’t a Blackthorne job, according to Jinx.
“But we can’t risk it, can we? Even if the odds are a million to one, don’t I have to make sure I’m not the reason someone went after Grace?”
“Cautious, always. But when you lay it all out, there are a lot more reasons to believe you’re not.” He ticked points off on his fingers. “If they wanted information from her, putting her in the hospital—”
“Say it,” she said, attacking the mixture in the bowl. “Or killing her.”
“All the more reason to discount someone wanting information. If she’s dead, or in the hospital, they’re not going to be able to question her.”
“So, what if they’re trying to lure me out of hiding? Get me to her bedside.”
He shook his head. “To do that, they’d have to notify you, say something about Grace asking for you. But since they haven’t, we can assume that nobody has coerced that information out of her—and all that presumes that you were the actual target.”
Elizabeth stopped stirring. “Makes sense. But what if they already got the information, and then tried to kill her before she told anyone? What if they were torturing her or something, and she was running away from them, and they tried to kill her and make it look like an accident?” She brandished the wooden spoon, splattering batter through the air.
“Whoa.” He tapped her wrist, slowing the spoon action. “Calm down, Lizzie. You’re jumping to all sorts of crazy conclusions.”
“I can’t help it. All these pictures keep racing through my head.” She went back to work, adding the ingredients she’d measured, stirring, adding more, stirring again.
“There’s nothing we can do from here. Jinx will keep us updated.”
She glared at him. “That’s it? We sit here? Oh, right. It’s not you and Dylan with someone chasing you.”
“First, we don’t know someone is chasing you. Second, hard as it is, there’s a lot of waiting. You have to know when to let others do their part.”
“I should never have taken Victor’s collectibles. It’s not like I can cash them in yet—those kinds of specialty items can be traced, and that would lead him right to me. I hoped that eventually I’d trickle them back into circulation—pay for Will’s college.”
“Technically, you probably could argue they’re yours as community property if he acquired them after you were married. Unless you signed a prenup.”
“No. I guess that’s the one good thing about Victor thinking I was a stupid, inferior female. That I’d never have the brains or the gumption to fight him about anything.”
“From where I sit, you’ve got plenty of brains and gumption.” The huskiness in his voice caught him by surprise. So did the heat spreading across his neck.
By now, she was scraping the contents from the bowl into a baking pan. She smoothed out the batter, tapped the pan on the counter—the same way his mother had—and put it in the oven. She set the timer, wiped her hands on a towel and carried the dirty dishes to the sink.
He abandoned his tea. “Here. Let me. It’s only fair. You cooked, I’ll clean.”
Elizabeth didn’t object, but she did pick up a clean towel. “I’ll dry.”
The kitchen temperature rose, and it wasn’t because the oven was on. He concentrated on the hot, sudsy water, and getting each utensil clean before rinsing and handing it over to Elizabeth’s waiting hand. He’d started by putting them in the draining rack, but then she started intercepting them. The briefest touch of her fingers against his. As though by accident. But she wasn’t pulling away. Tempted as he was to let the touch linger, he remembered her words.
It’s not easy to trust a man again—especially one I’m having feelings for. I hope you’ll be patient.
Patience. He continued washing, and she continued touching. Halfway through, she was running her fingertips along his as she took the next item.
Finished at last, he reached for a towel. She intercepted him there, too, taking the one she’d been using and drying his hands. First the palms, then one finger at a time. Slowly. One knuckle at a time. She dropped the towel and repeated the action with kisses. Soft, gentle kisses that sent his blood due south. Given the way she stood in front of him, and had his hands clasped in hers, there was no way to adjust things to accommodate the rising effect she had on him.
“Lizzie,” he croaked. Do you know what you’re d
oing?”
“I think so,” she whispered. “It’s been a while. But I’m hoping it’s like riding a bike.”
“Sounds right,” he said, raising her hands to his lips, mimicking what she’d done. From the way her breathing accelerated, this wasn’t a one-sided encounter.
She worked her hands free, scraped a fingernail over his jaw. He wished he’d shaved. Should he offer to? That would mean not only breaking contact, but actually leaving the room. Without her. No way. He’d jump out of a helo without a chute before he’d abandon the warm, soft woman who’d managed to move closer. Who smelled like sugar and Lizzie. Who tasted like—he lowered his lips to hers, stifling a groan when she parted them to admit his tongue—like butterscotch.
He dove deeper into the heat of her mouth. She matched his fervor, clawing at his hair. Ravishing his mouth. Clutching at his butt, pulling him against her. Grinding herself against his growing erection.
“Lizzie … God, Lizzie.” Two words. His entire vocabulary. He cupped her buttocks, lifted her onto the counter. Kissed her until he couldn’t breathe. Breathing was highly overrated.
His hand found her breast. Through her clothes, he thumbed her nipple. Eyes closed, she tilted backward. Pulling away? No, she arched her back, clearly inviting more. And in case he missed her cue, she pressed his hand into her breast, rocking gently from side to side.
She led, he followed.
He wanted her upstairs. In his bed. But how to get her out of the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs, down the upstairs hallway to his bedroom—had he left the door open or closed?—without leaving the piece of heaven he inhabited at this moment? Or should he stay in the moment? He didn’t have enough functioning brain cells to make a decision like that.
He straddled her thigh, and she immediately picked up his signal and applied pressure to his throbbing groin.
Like riding a bike, she’d said. She must have been some cyclist.
She writhed against him, and his three remaining brain cells realized where else she wanted contact.
“God, Lizzie.” He massaged her mound. She tipped her hips to meet him. He moved his hand lower, giving her what he could through the denim of her jeans. Her hips jerked, riding his hand. Faster. Faster. Faster. She panted. Faster. Faster. Faster. Sweet Mother of God.
“Yes, Lizzie. Let go. For me.”
She squeaked with her release.
He nuzzled her ear, his breathing almost as ragged as hers. At least he hadn’t embarrassed himself. “Next time. You’ll scream. My name.” He swung her off the counter and started to carry her away. “But upstairs.”
“No. We can’t.”
He stopped cold. “What?”
Her lips curved upward. “Not until my butterscotch brownies are done.”
Chapter 24
Elizabeth frowned at the pan she’d removed from the oven. It resembled a sinkhole more than a tray of brownies.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Grinch said. “I’m sure they’ll taste fine.”
“It’s that altitude thing, isn’t it? I’ve made this recipe dozens of times, and they’ve never done this.”
Grinch took a knife, cut off a corner piece and popped it in his mouth. “Yep. They taste fine.”
She blew out a sigh of frustration and contemplated the disastrous results again. Grinch broke off another piece and held it to her mouth. She nibbled. Not that bad. Besides, it was the cooking process, not the result, that mattered tonight. “I guess.”
He took her hand and tugged. “Lizzie. Let’s go upstairs.”
The heat rising to her face wasn’t because she’d left the oven door open. Had she just had fully-clothed sex with Grinch? You probably couldn’t call it sex. More like over-the-top foreplay. At least for her. How had she let him? Let him? Get real. She’d encouraged him. Wanted him. Wanted to escape from all the thoughts of Grace, of Victor, of what her life had become. But now … guilt and doubt crept in. Even so, she owed him.
Then she gazed at him, at the desire in his eyes. The renewed ache surging through her breasts and the heat pooling between her legs said what she felt wasn’t obligation. Or guilt. Or doubt. She flipped the oven door closed.
Aware of Will and Dylan asleep—she hoped—she removed her shoes at the base of the staircase. Grinch did the same.
“Let me check on the boys,” she said when they reached the top of the stairs. He followed, staying at her side as she peeked into the bedroom. Chester raised his head, gave a quick tail-thump, then went back to sleep. As if to say, “You go on, do what you want. I’ll hold down the fort here.” Neither boy stirred. She stood in the doorway, listening to their gentle breathing. As always, her heart ached, as if it couldn’t contain her love.
Grinch stroked her hair, but didn’t pull her away. He seemed to understand her need to see Will. Or maybe he felt the same way about Dylan. He might not have been a hands-on dad long, but she’d come to realize he truly loved his son.
She eased the door closed. Grinch didn’t move. “They’re … so peaceful,” he whispered. Had his voice caught? Her heart opened wider, and alongside her love for Will, new feelings for Grinch flowed in.
What was she thinking? Loving Grinch? After knowing him for a matter of days? No, not love, not so soon, but he’d definitely staked a claim on a piece of her heart.
He snaked his arm around her waist and they strolled to his bedroom, like two lovers on a beach at sunset. He paused at the doorway. “I want you, Lizzie. But if it’s not right—if it’s not what you want, tell me now.”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind them. Placing her forefinger over her lips, she shook her head. She unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Then walked her fingers to the second, sliding the disc through the slit in the fabric. Then to the third, then the next, until she’d laid the plaid flannel open, revealing the tight-fitting black tee she’d seen at the pond this morning when he’d given her the shirt off his back.
It might be a cliché, but somehow, she’d known then that he’d sacrifice more than his own warmth for her.
She worked at removing his belt, then unbuttoned his jeans and dealt with the zipper hiding beneath the bulge of denim.
“Lizzie.”
Again, she shook her head, this time planting her forefinger on his lips. He closed his eyes and gripped her shoulders as she gently, carefully, lowered his jeans. She couldn’t help a quick gasp. So much for wondering if she’d find boxers or briefs. Instead, she found Grinch. A very ready Grinch.
While he dealt with getting his jeans the rest of the way off, she clasped his erection, where a bead of moisture glistened at the tip. Using her thumb, she spread it across the head. A sharp intake of breath hissed between his teeth.
“Shh,” she whispered.
“God, Lizzie,” he said, just as quietly.
Lizzie. Oh, yeah. She could definitely get into that nickname.
He’d stepped out of his jeans. Leaving them in a heap on the floor, he moved across the room to the bed, yanked his tee over his head, and pulled back the covers. While he was busy fumbling in his nightstand, she slipped out of her clothes and crawled between the covers.
Grinch dropped some square foil packets on the nightstand and closed the drawer. Condoms. Right. She’d been on the pill in college, and again after Will was born. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her to put it on him, because she had no idea how to do it. Before she worked herself into a tizzy imagining all the things she might do wrong, he got in bed beside her.
Propped on his side, he gave her that crooked, lazy, bone-melting smile. He ran a calloused fingertip from her forehead to the tip of her nose. “You’re sure?”
She nodded. His fingertip moved lower, to her upper lip. Traced its outline. Her tongue darted out, found his finger. Teased. Suckled.
He groaned. Drew him toward her. Replaced his finger with his lips. Plundered her mouth. Heart pounding, she met his demands. While his mouth was occupied, his fingers moved downward, stopping at her breast.
Fondling. Caressing.
“Grinch,” she gasped, pressing herself closer against him, wishing she could get even closer than skin to skin. The sensations, the passions he’d ignited in the kitchen were barely sparks compared to the fire burning within her.
“Did you want me to stop?” His words were short whispers.
“No. Please, no.” His hand moved lower, skimmed her abdomen, then fingers slipped inside her. She writhed as pleasure suffused her. “I want you. I want this.”
“Hang on,” he whispered. “Hold that thought.”
As if she had a thought left to hold. Desire wasn’t a thought. Want wasn’t a thought. Need wasn’t a thought.
And he was back, poised above her. “Look at me, Lizzie.”
She gazed into his eyes, dark with passion. He slipped inside her, and from that moment, it was like riding a bike. Only not a little sidewalk bike with training wheels. Not a city bike like the ones messengers used. Not even a mountain bike careening up and down a dirt trail. No, this was a sleek, sexy racing bike with more gears than she could count, and she was out there, wind in her hair, sun on her back, over mountains, through valleys, heart pumping, chest heaving, navigating every twist and turn on the Tour de France, crossing the finish line in a dead heat.
She snuggled into his chest. He wrapped his arm around her. She listened to his breathing as she drifted into nothingness. When she floated awake, she was still entwined in Grinch’s arms. She craned her neck enough to view the lighted red numerals on the bedside clock. Two a.m. She extricated herself from his grasp and the tangled sheets and padded to the bathroom, picking up condom packets on the way, smiling to herself. The third time, he’d shown her how. Another skill for Elizabeth. Or Lizzie.
When she went back into the bedroom, Grinch was leaning up on an elbow.
“I have to go,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right for the boys to find us together.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and raised himself to a sitting position. “I’d tell Dylan you were having a bad dream. I let him sleep with me when he’s scared.”