Harlequin Superromance August 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: What Happens Between FriendsStaying at Joe'sHer Road Home

by Beth Andrews

  “I didn’t tell you, not because I didn’t care enough. I didn’t tell you because I cared too much.”

  She stepped down one step and reached to touch his face. Through her fingers she felt the truth of his words. He stepped forward, slipped his arms around her waist and rested his forehead between her breasts.

  She combed through his thick hair, her fingernails grazing the scalp, around to the back, where the silky hairs at his nape grew upward instead of down. “Shh.” His head rose and fell with her breath, and a fierce protectiveness burned beneath the bone where his head lay. “Of course I know how it feels to want no history.” She stopped, realizing she’d spoken her thought.

  Well, she couldn’t undo the past, or save his mother. But she could give him this. “When I ride into a town, I always think, who will I become here? Who will these people think they met, after I’m gone?”

  He lifted his head. She sensed his regard in the dark.

  “Whoever they imagined, it wasn’t me.” She made herself let him go. “Until you.”

  He made a strangled sound in the back of throat. His hands tightened on her back. He seized her lips, and kissing her, released emotion into her mouth: frustration, pain, the aching loneliness of that orphaned kid. His tongue captured hers. His arms were iron bands, trapping her waist.

  She should have been afraid—even claustrophobic in his tight embrace, but she wasn’t. She absorbed it all, and tried to pass back some kind of comfort.

  With a groan that ended in a ragged sob, Nick tore his lips away. “I’m sorry.” His arms loosened their crushing grip. His hands came up to cradle her jaw. He ran a thumb over her swollen lips. “I hurt you.”

  “Your story hurt me, Nick. You didn’t.” She took his hand. Turning, she led him back onto the porch, opened the door and pulled him in behind her. The mingled scent of old and new wood brushed against her face. Bugs scooted between their legs.

  Nick reached for the foyer light, but she pulled him away, into her arms. “Dark is good. I sometimes see things better in the dark. Don’t you?”

  Her kiss said, “Hurry, hurry.” Electricity passed between them, and tinder caught, flaring hot. Her hands slid across his work-muscled back, testing the long tensile strength of the taut muscle. She yanked the back of his shirt free. Her hands made love to his skin as her lips loved his mouth. He reached for the hem of her T-shirt, but she caught his wrists. “No. My turn.”

  His hands relaxed to his sides. She exposed the skin of his chest one button at a time, kissing every inch she bared, breathing in his heady essence. After she released the last button, she pulled it off and led him to the stairs.

  After rising two steps, he turned to her. “Sam...”

  “Shh.” She caressed the soft skin of his ribs with a slow slide south, where low-slung jeans snagged on his hip bones, and a line of hair disappeared beneath the waistband. He shuddered. When she mapped the hard line of him under the placket of his Levi’s, he groaned. She unbuttoned the fly and the length of him sprang into her hands. Finding him naked under the denim shot a bolt of heat between her legs, a rush of moisture.

  She circled the head of him with her fingertip, then leaned down and did the same with her tongue. He tasted like he smelled; solid, safe. When she took him into her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair and he growled, deep in his chest. She felt restraint in the quiver of his thighs, and the gentleness of his hands in her hair. She made love to him, enjoying the contrast between the suede-soft skin sheathing the iron below it. She explored him, gently rolling his balls in her fingers.

  He pulled away with a strangled cry. “Not like this.” Taking the two steps down, he caught her hand. “I want you, too.” He led her to the parlor, to the edge of her narrow bed.

  He stole kisses as he undressed her. His teeth grazed the point of her shoulder, his open mouth at the top of her knee, a flick on his tongue at the tip of one nipple. Golden liquid heat pooled in her pelvis, and her hands wouldn’t still. But he made her wait, placing her hands on the edge of the bed and covering them with his own, while his mouth explored.

  She wanted him. All the way, wanted him. Surely the miserly jailer in her head would allow—she jumped when his whiskers brushed the sensitive inside of her knee, and she twitched, deep inside. He leaned closer, his hot breath stirring her pubic hair. A dark, forbidden wildness zipped through her.

  She grabbed his head, using her thumbs to lever his chin up. “I don’t do that.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t. Ever.”

  He sat back on his heels, head cocked. “Okay.” He climbed to his feet, scooted her over and lay down next to her. “Show me what you do like.”

  It was amazing. Right up to the second when she found herself staring once more at the ceiling, the cornice just a shadow in the gloom.

  Of course, he knew. He stopped, looked into her face then rolled away onto his side.

  She sat up and dropped her feet to the floor. “I’ll see what I’ve got in the fridge to eat.”

  “What are you doing?” His breath was still ragged, his voice sharp.

  “I know this is frustrating—”

  “This does not make me frustrated.” His hand fumbled in the sheets, then took hers. “Your pulling away frustrates me.” He twined his fingers in hers, and tugged. “Will you come back?”

  She let him pull her back into bed. He settled her in front of him and wrapped his arms around her. She snuggled in, knowing this was too good to be true—that Nick was too good to be true. Someone who knew her—not the pretty outside package, but her ugly seething inside, and still cared?

  Even if she’d never have it all, she’d take all of this man she could get.

  But how long would that be enough for him?

  * * *

  SAM OPENED THE refrigerator to get a glass of iced tea. It had to be ninety-five degrees inside the house, and the A/C wouldn’t be delivered until next week. Who knew that autumn could be so hot in California?

  The rush of chilled air bathed her sweaty face and she lingered a moment before closing the door. She gulped the entire glassful, wincing when brain freeze hit.

  Her hair clung to her neck and sweat trickled between her breasts. The windows were open to catch any breeze, but there hadn’t been any. She regretted her own rule of long pants on the job site.

  Her mind strayed to Beau, as her tongue would to a sore tooth. He hadn’t returned to Tim’s after their talk a week ago. Where was he? Yesterday, she’d even called the police department to be sure he hadn’t been picked up.

  Pretty sad when you’re hoping someone’s been incarcerated.

  In a last-ditch moment of desperation, she’d called the Tripp house. She knew Beau wouldn’t have gone home, but felt they were at least owed a call to tell them their son had disappeared. Mrs. Tripp had informed her in a regal, if slightly slurred voice that since Beau was almost eighteen, he was on his own. It wasn’t hard to see why the kid hadn’t picked up the fine points of the whole respect thing.

  This heat wave would break soon, bringing damp, cold nights. Did he have a roof over his head? Was he safe?

  She raised the cold glass, listening as she rolled it on her forehead. Conversation and laughter echoed through the rooms. The crew had worked full time through the summer, making remarkable progress. The interior work was close to being finished, upstairs and down. The biggest remaining project was the creation of the under-the-stairs bathroom, and the carriage house build out.

  The exterior work on the rear of the house had stalled. Beau had removed all the gingerbread trim. It sat abandoned next to the floor saw in the carriage house, waiting to be used as a template to cut replacement pieces.

  She looked around the kitchen. The bay window over the sink brought light to the formerly dark room, and golden oak cabinets lined the walls.
The light granite counters lent a clean, modern look. She’d replaced the worn plank floors with unfinished terra-cotta tile. The kitchen was her favorite room—well, next to the great room. But the bedroom loft was pretty amazing, too.

  She’d always been proud of her projects, but this time her heart swelled with pride for the people involved as well. Any one of her team would be a great addition to a contractor’s staff. Tim was helping Pete obtain his journeyman’s license as a plumber, and Sunny was studying for a general contractor’s license, planning to sit for the exam next spring.

  At the sound of scratching at the screen door, she crossed the room to let Bugs in. He flopped on the cool tile, sides heaving, tongue lolling. Damn, she was going to miss this mutt. A memory of Nick, in jeans, the moonlight on the muscles of his bare chest burned bright in her mind. Other memories followed: Jess, standing behind the counter, Carl smiling through the cook’s window, Ana, rocking on her porch, Tim, in baggy pants and perfectly shiny shoes.

  She was going to miss a lot more than this smelly dog.

  “Well, if you weren’t out chasing squirrels, you wouldn’t be so hot, dude. Maybe you should hang it up—you’ve never come close to nabbing one, anyway.”

  She pressed the button on the fridge, and caught the ice cubes that tumbled out. She carried them to Bug’s water dish and dropped them in. She straightened, and yelled down the hallway, “Hey! Where are you guys?”

  “We’re in here. Or at least as much of us as can fit.” Tim’s muffled voice drifted down the hall from the bathroom.

  She rounded the corner to see Tim and Pete sprawled on the floor, looking up at the bottom of the toilet tank. Sunny straddled the closed seat, holding the hardware in place. Not a square inch of floor space remained. The room practically steamed, between the body heat and the blazing sunlight streaming in her octagonal window. She’d had the glass special made, with the frosted glass fleur-de-lis to match the one in the stairwell.

  She smiled at the sweaty trio. The moment would have been perfect if a sloppy kid dressed in black were there.

  “It’s too damned hot to work. Why don’t you all finish what you’re doing and clean up? I’m taking you all to dinner at The Farm House. My treat.”

  Pete let out a whoop from under the toilet. “Oh, man, that’s my favorite!”

  Sunny groaned and poked him in the stomach, then rose from her perch. “Ice cream, too?”

  “Especially ice cream. Now, let’s go. We need some air conditioning.”

  A half hour later, Sam opened the Farm House door to a solid wall of chilled air. “Oh, this is worth the price of dinner all by itself.” She sighed.

  “Well, y’all look positively wilted.” Jesse stepped out of the kitchen doorway, cool and fresh in a white, form-fitted pantsuit, makeup perfect, every hair sprayed into place.

  “Easy for you to say, Miss Priss. You’ve got A/C.” Sam lifted damp bangs off her forehead.

  “I don’t sit around eating bonbons all day, you know.” Jesse glared, fists on hips.

  “Okay, don’t go all rabid Chihuahua on me, Jess.” She turned to the crew. “Why don’t you guys grab a booth in the back? I’ve got to talk to Jesse for a minute.”

  They squeezed by, joking and jostling each other, Tim bringing up the rear.

  “Jesse, I’ve got an idea I wanted to talk to you about.” Sam perched on a stool at the bar. “I expect the house will be finished sometime late November, and I was thinking about a holiday party. Maybe between Thanksgiving and Christmas?”

  Jesse’s face lit up, as she’d known it would. “What a super idea! I must be rubbing off on you.”

  “Well, you told me the story about the Christmas party there when you were a kid, and the picture stuck in my head. But it has to be classy, and I totally suck at this kind of thing. Biker chicks aren’t known for their classy parties, you know.”

  Her friend gave her a soft smile. “Oh, sweetie, I think you’re all kinds of classy.”

  “Would you help me?”

  Jesse looked as though she’d just gotten what she wanted for Christmas. “Are you kidding? You know I’m the Grove’s Supreme Party Momma. I’d love to help.” She crossed her arms and tapped her lips with a perfect pink-frosted fingernail. “It’s good we’ll be getting a head start on this. Guests will need lots of advance notice around the holidays. How many people are you thinking about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know...all of them?” At Jesse’s jaw drop, Sam shrugged. “I want to show off the house, and maybe attract potential buyers. The word of mouth will make all the effort worthwhile.”

  How fun would it be to have that beautiful house full of people? She remembered Bina’s point, about how Sam created homes, only to give them away. She cleared her throat. “Besides, I can write off the expense.”

  Jesse rubbed her palms together, and her blue eyes glinted. “Oh, this is going to be the party of the year. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into this one.”

  * * *

  “COME ON, ANA. We’ve known each other for months. Surely you can trust me by now?” Sam sat on Ana’s porch, sharing iced tea. The cloying perfume of roses hung in the still air, and the morning sun hinted at the searing heat to come. “I’ll watch to make sure no one bothers you, and I’m a very safe driver. It’s just a trip to the nursery. We could be in and out in a half hour.”

  Ana’s expression didn’t sweeten.

  Sam sighed, wondering how to penetrate the old woman’s stubbornness. “I just wish you’d let me show you the world, outside your fence.”

  “Why does this matter so much?” Ana sat frowning at her, sparrow eyes sharp.

  “The truth?” Sam looked away first. “I guess I’d like to know that it is possible for people to change—to make the brave choice to do that thing they’re most afraid of.”

  Ana stared at her, lips pursed, for so long that Sam thought she wouldn’t answer.

  “Do you think this nursery of yours would have orange poppies?”

  Sam sat a stunned moment, then leaned over her lap, whispering, “Yesssss!” and pumped her fist, just once.

  Ana sniffed. “And if you still have that yellow nightmare, I’m not getting in it.”

  Sam jumped to her feet. “Oh, no. I have my Jeep. I’ll even put the top up for you. I’ll run up the hill and get it. You go get your purse, and I’ll be back down in a jiff to pick you up. Okay?”

  When Ana nodded, Sam jogged down the sidewalk and leapt the gate with a single bound. “I’ll be right back!” She took off, up the hill, happiness making her feel light.

  Halfway up, in occurred to her. If an eighty-year-old recluse could do this, what excuse did she have, whining about being afraid?

  None, that’s what. Her feet flew. The blood pounded in her ears. I’m not holding back anymore. I’m going to push through—no matter what waits for me on the other side.

  * * *

  SONOFABITCH. A BALLOON OF ACID broke in Nick’s stomach. He dumped the rest of the mail on his dining room table and carried the DOC letter to his safe haven, the kitchen. He fingered the envelope. Too thin and light to contain an inmate’s letter.

  What now?

  Only one way to find out. But instead of opening it, he walked to the window and looked out. Unexpected letters from the prison system were never good news. And this one gave off vibes. Bad vibes. He ran his hand through his hair, feeling the heavy portent of change in the air. Was he ready for change?

  “‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.’”

  Even saying it aloud didn’t help. He marshaled his scattered serenity, took a deep breath and with shaking fingers tore open the envelope.

  A minute later, he dropped the letter and bent over, waiting for the dizziness to pa
ss. Fifteen years? The bastard got twenty to life, and he’s eligible for parole after only fifteen? He slammed his fist into the cabinet. My mother’s life is worth only fifteen years of her murderer’s?

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  He read the addresses; where to appear in person, where to mail letters, protesting his father’s parole. He pictured himself driving to Folsom. Attending the hearing. Seeing his father. Imagined the feel of his hands around the man’s throat. Squeezing. And squeezing. The man had taken so much: Nick’s mother, his childhood, his innocence.

  The need for a drink roared in Nick’s ears and his body craved in gut-clenching waves. Sure, he’d made mistakes along the way. But he’d worked hard since he’d come home to Widow’s Grove, to be an asset to the town. Hopefully he’d have kids someday, and he wanted to give them a surname that they could be proud of—not an embarrassment. His father had ruined the Pinelli name, and if it took Nick the rest of his life, he’d undo the damage.

  But he also knew his limits. He wasn’t strong enough to make that trip without committing a felony or falling off the wagon. Or, most likely, both.

  And the son of a bitch wasn’t worth that. He ripped open a drawer, pulling out paper and a pen. A letter wouldn’t be as satisfying as strangulation, but hopefully, it would be as effective.

  * * *

  SAM SAT ONCE MORE in Bina’s office, terrified, but determined to do whatever it took to get better. She gritted her teeth and rolled the cable-taut muscles of her shoulders. “I don’t get it, Bina. I’m there, with Nick, body and mind. Then, it’s like I’m jerked away, outside my body, watching sex happen, feeling nothing.”

  “What does Nick think?” As usual, Bina’s dark eyes gave no hint of her thoughts.

  “He’s wonderful. He tries to reassure me that it doesn’t bother him, that he’s willing to wait. But he’s also a red-blooded man who’s at home in his own sexuality. This is going to cause problems.