by Karen Rock
“Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she called. Her gaze flicked sideways. He had a gorgeous profile, she mused. Square jaw, great bone structure. Everything about him emanated brute strength and a self-assurance which made her feel safe. However, she sensed there was more to him than his calm, controlled appearance revealed; she itched to find out what lurked behind those intense blue eyes.
Blake leveled them on her now, holding her gaze a second too long, reminding her of the best kiss of her life… “Shoot.”
A tractor appeared when they crested a small rise and she eased her foot off the gas. “I—I shouldn’t have kissed you the other night,” she said in her normal voice. They practically crawled behind the put-putting John Deere. The sweet smell of freshly mown hay kicked up from the its oversized tires. “It must have been the medication. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Liar.
“Sure.”
His quick agreement irked her for no good reason at all. “It’s not like I go around kissing random men,” she insisted.
“Of course.”
Did his mouth just quirk?! She couldn’t be certain based on the slant of her sunglasses, but he sounded amused.
“I’m trying to have a serious conversation,” she shrilled. Ugh. What was it about infuriatingly calm men that jumped her voice up an octave every single time? Did they take guys aside and teach them how to drive women nuts that way? Part of the code—along with backing up your bro on all his bullshit and peeing in every other urinal?
“Me too.” His hand settled on her bare thigh, just below the hem of her short sundress. His thumb moved in a magnetic circle, eliciting a lush, heady response. “We were caught up in the moment. It happens.”
She rolled her eyes, trying to ignore that slow, sensual rub. “Is that an occupational hazard? Women throwing themselves at you when you rescue them?”
“Gestures of gratitude are always appreciated.”
She brushed his hand away. “You-you’re—”
“Kidding.” He laughed, his voice warm and rich. “And I owe you the apology. I should never have taken advantage of you.”
Taking advantage of her sounded kind of good. With his pirate’s smile, he resembled the kind of marauder she’d want to ravish her. Sex maniac. “You’re sorry you kissed me?”
“That’s not exactly the word I’d use.”
Me, neither.
She bit back her question about which word he would use—safer not to know—and punched on the radio. Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” ripped from the speakers. The tractor signaled and turned down a dirt lane in a cloud of dust, leaving nothing but the empty road and the intense gaze of the man sitting next to her to occupy her mind.
They rode without speaking, without even hazarding a peek in the other’s direction, until the song’s infectious beat got under Reese’s skin, prying open her mouth so she belted along with it. Who could resist Queen B? Especially driving on a beautiful day, top down, beside a gorgeous man? It felt too damn good to deny. When she reached the chorus, a deep bass joined her.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.”
She slowed, then stopped at a blinking red light. “What are you doing?” she asked when the song transitioned to another pop tune.
“Singing?” he answered.
“You’re singing ‘Single Ladies’?” She pressed the pedal, and the Jeep shot forward.
“I’m in touch with my feminine side, secure in my manhood.”
She briefly eyed his broad-shouldered shape. The dude oozed machismo. “If you say so…”
He slid a fingertip down her cheek. “Want me to prove it?”
“N-no. No need.” She sucked in a breath when he settled back in his seat, grinning. “You’re a Queen B fan. No judging.”
He shrugged. “My older sister bribed me to be her backup dancer in our senior talent show. It was the only way she’d let me borrow her car.”
“So that’s where you got your moves.”
“I’ve got them moves like Jagger, baby. Just call me a jack-of-all-trades.”
“Hot Cop,” Reese intoned, in her best impression of a movie-announcer voice. “Able to scale tall fences and swing around metal poles…”
He slid mischievous eyes her way. “Don’t forget how well I rock a uniform.”
Oh—did he ever. Though she preferred it off… “What kind of music do you like?”
“Older stuff. Pretty much anything except Irish music.”
“Not big on jigging?”
He shook his head. Rueful. “Bad memories of me and too much Guinness.”
“Ah.”
He fiddled with the radio when they lost the station, then picked up her cell. “May I?” At her nod, he plugged her phone into the adapter. “How about you? What’s on your playlist?”
“Lots of ’80s music.”
He whistled as he scrolled through her music. “You like classics?”
“If you call Depeche Mode classic…”
“I do. ‘Personal Jesus’ used to be my shower anthem.”
“And ‘Somebody’…” she trailed off, thinking of all the times she’d belted those haunting lyrics, wishing for someone who’d love her passionately, too, playing it over and over and over as a preteen until her father complained his ears bled and begged to go deaf.
The good old days. When her father was happy and her mother alive and she’d thought their marriage a fairy tale, their family a dream.
They fell silent when he located the song and hit play. The melancholy notes drifted through the speakers. She felt his eyes on her. “If you could go to a concert by an artist from the past, who would you see?” he asked.
“Easy. Prince. Gone way too soon. How about you?”
“The Beach Boys, when they were all alive. My dad used to play them on road trips.”
She wondered what it was like growing up with a parent who took you places. Noticed you. Her mother had been too sick during most of her preteen years, but she remembered cooking together. “You miss him?”
Blake nodded. “Every day.”
“I know how you feel.”
Two wagon wheels marked the entrance to a dirt drive. She signaled, then turned.
“I do.” He rested his hand atop hers and squeezed. “You love your dad.”
“Nothing will ever change that,” she blurted, feeling defensive.
No matter what, she didn’t want her family criticized when her father had done the best he could. He’d been devastated when her mother passed and closed himself off, losing himself in his work, focusing on the club. Reluctant to add to his pain, she’d never complained about feeling shut out. Deep down, she couldn’t blame him. When Mom lost her battle with cancer, their world ended.
Two giant pit bulls burst from the underbrush and lunged at the Jeep’s tires, chasing and barking madly. She stopped at a large wooden gate with an electronic lock and pressed an intercom button. A painted sign arched overhead. It read “King’s Ranch.”
“Your uncle’s serious about his security.”
Reese’s gaze followed Blake’s finger-point to a security camera installed above the entranceway. “It’s not like anyone comes out this way.”
“Your father was shot on Route 77. Was he heading here?”
“At two a.m.? Unlikely. Plus, my uncle says no. We’re not sure what Dad was doing, though he used to take long drives when he couldn’t sleep.”
“Any change in his condition today?”
She shook her head and blinked gritty eyes. While she’d babbled on this morning, telling her father about the new routines she’d choreographed and the drink specials designed to bring in more business, he’d slept on, leaving her bereft and abandoned as usual. Though she was selfish to feel that way when her father fought for his life. Would they miss t
his chance to reconcile and regain their father-daughter relationship?
Her uncle’s voice blared from the speaker mounted inside a fieldstone column. “That you, darlin’?”
“It is.” A grin stretched across her face at his welcoming tone. Since her mother’s death, Uncle Tom had stepped in as a father figure, driving her to dance classes, attending recitals, treating her to sundaes on report card days…the kinds of things she’d longed to share with her grieving, work-consumed father.
“Well. What are ya waitin’ for?” With a grinding snap, the gates opened and she cruised down the bumpy driveway, the pit bulls hot on their heels.
“How do I explain you?” she blurted when she braked to a stop at the ranchette’s main house, suddenly realizing the sticky situation. Her uncle said no cops.
Blake pulled her into his arms, told her to say they were dating, and kissed her on her mouth. It was quick but amazingly thorough, leaving her breathless. “That should put some color back in your face.” His eyes sparkled with devilment. Damn, she wanted him.
“Reese!” her uncle shouted, then, “Pico. Gant. Heel!”
The dogs quieted. Blake leaned close again until his mouth was just inches from hers and whispered, “Call me by my stage name.”
“Hot Cop?”
He rolled his eyes. “Blade Long.”
“Oh…right… Uncle Tom,” she whispered, mouth curved, “Please meet my porn star boyfriend.”
Blake’s eyes danced and his canine tips appeared in a crooked smile. “Now you’ve got it.”
“Hey, y’all!”
Reluctantly, she turned from Blake and slid from the car as Uncle Tom and Aunt Marisol descended the steps of their wraparound porch arm in arm. In a red-flowered sundress that accentuated her upswept, dark brown hair and athletic shape, Marisol exuded lady-of-the-country-manor grace. Uncle Tom’s more casual outfit, a white striped golf shirt tucked into creased khaki trousers, still broadcast a sense of power, stability and—to Reese—home.
He hauled her into a crushing bear hug. When Marisol cleared her throat, Tom reluctantly let go and Reese was enveloped in her aunt’s soft embrace. Aunt Marisol’s expensive perfume rose from her neck.
“Good to see you, darlin’,” crowed Uncle Tom. His genuine pleasure to see her made her feel as wanted and welcome as ever. He’d always treated her like a daughter, right up to his recent financing of her dance studio.
Guilt flashed inside that she might disappoint him. If she stayed in Dallas too long, she could miss the opportunity.
“You look—uh—rested,” Marisol observed. Her black-brown eyes scrutinized Reese then Blake. “And who have we here?”
Reese knew her face was flushed. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. Blake’s brief, enticing kiss made her head spin and crave another, and another…
Blake stuck out his hand. “Blade Long. I’m a new dancer at Dallas Heat. Reese asked me along when I told her I’d never seen the countryside.”
Uncle Tom pumped his hand slowly. “City boy, huh? Who hired you?”
“I did,” Reese spoke up. “We were short and Bla-Blade happened to apply.”
“Interesting timing. You must be the new fellow I heard about. The one Reese’s been spending time with.” Uncle Tom cocked his head. His eyes roamed over Blake as if sizing him up, as ultra-protective of her as ever. Blake returned his shrewd stare, his expression open and friendly, playing the part of harmless performer to perfection.
“Someone told you about me? That’s quite a compliment for a newbie. Who was it?” Blake casually brushed at some nonexistent lint on his shirt. If not for the extra crease around his eyes, Reese would have missed the serious intent behind the question.
Did he think she’d gone against his wishes and mentioned his undercover work?
“Can’t remember.” Uncle Tom smiled wide. “Come on in. We’ve always got room for one more at the table.”
Blake settled a firm hand in the center of Reese’s back as they ascended the porch stairs. The two-story house had recently been painted a pale yellow, and the front door and shutters were now black. Black wicker chairs sat on the porch, their red cushions matching the potted geraniums flanking each of the wide porch steps. Despite the changes, the place welcomed her as it always had.
“Something smells delicious.” Reese sniffed the spicy air when they walked inside the spacious home. She followed the smell through the vaulted entryway and across the great room’s polished wood floors to a massive kitchen. Scattered across the granite countertops were two cutting boards, peppers and a chef’s knife beside a prep sink. Overhead, copper pots hung from a wrought-iron rack. The maple cabinets’ pewter hardware matched the faucet arching over a built-in sink-disposal combination.
“It’s paella.” Aunt Marisol’s wedge sandals clattered on the polished wooden floors.
“You remembered.” Reese exchanged a quick smile with her aunt.
“You think I’d forget your favorite?” Aunt Marisol lifted a glass pitcher. “Now. Who’d like some sweet tea?”
“Me.” Uncle Tom turned to Blake. “Marisol makes the best.”
“Can’t turn that down, thanks.” Blake accepted a glass. “Didn’t know places like this existed way out here. It’s something to see. And is that a garden out there? How do you manage with the drought and all?”
“We’ve got some help, plus an irrigation system.” Her uncle beamed. “I’d be happy to give you a tour if you’re interested?”
“Sure,” Blake replied innocuously, giving no hint he’d just maneuvered her uncle into showing him around the place, ever the detective.
And don’t you forget it, Reese cautioned herself.
After Uncle Tom dragged Blake outside to show off his prized garden, their drinks in hand, Reese grabbed a plate from the cabinet. She paused to study a small, framed picture on the countertop. In it, her father, uncle and another teenager folded their arms across puffed-out chests, their lower lips pushed out, as they struck tough-guy poses beneath a roadside sign: “Entering the Town of Briar.”
Her father and uncle grew up in Briar, an impoverished, crime-ridden neighborhood just outside of Dallas. They’d run with a group of local troublemakers who’d called themselves the Briar Boys. Her eyes drifted over her uncle’s elaborate home.
How far they’d come…
Or her uncle, anyway. Her father, it seemed, hadn’t completely left his roots behind.
Aunt Marisol lightly squeezed Reese’s arm as she passed by. “It’s so good seeing you, honey. It’s been too long.”
Reese carried the silverware and linen napkins to the large table in the sunny, eat-in kitchen and set a place for Blake. How often had she wished herself back here, where she’d felt safe, welcome, wanted, when she’d fled Dallas? Hundreds, maybe thousands of times, more than she could count, as she’d flown from country to country and lived out of a suitcase. Dallas Heat was an obligation; this was chosen family.
“Sorry I missed Zoe’s graduation.”
“Me, too. But you’re here now,” her aunt said as she began to gather vegetables from the refrigerator. “Wish it was under better circumstances. How’s your father? The nurses never have anything new to report.”
The remembered feel of her father’s limp hand in hers this morning swelled her throat. “No change. What if he never wakes up?”
“He will, honey,” her aunt soothed, handing over radishes and cucumbers. “He’s a fighter. Have you heard from the police? Any leads on who did this?”
Reese placed the vegetables on the chopping board beside the prep sink as Blake entered carrying garden tomatoes. He laid them in the sink and turned the water on to wash them, his eyes carefully on his task. Next to him, Reese chopped cucumbers. “They’re not saying much.”
Blake had asked her to keep his investigation quiet, but in the warm, inviting presence of
her family, she longed to confess all—the steroids ring, her father’s agreement to inform on any activity in the club, the parking-lot attack….
“Have they interviewed anyone at Dallas Heat?” her aunt continued, taking a box of croutons from a cabinet. “Named any suspects?”
“I’m—uh—not really sure.” Reese forced herself not to glance at Blake, who whistled softly as he patted the red fruit dry.
“There’s no reason for you to stay, darlin’. I can watch over the club and keep you posted on your father.” Uncle Tom topped off his and Blake’s tea then set down the pitcher. Condensation beaded its sides and ice cubes clanked against one another.
“We know you’re in a hurry to start your new dance studio.” Aunt Marisol set a large wooden pepper grinder on the table. “Don’t you need to put down a deposit to hold the space by the end of the month?”
Reese nodded, glum at the possibility of losing the prime space if she didn’t act quickly. For months, she’d scoured the city, searching for just the right property at a cost she could afford, since she intended on paying her uncle back as soon as possible. She’d finally found it, a fifteen-hundred-square-foot space in an up-and-coming family neighborhood. Its old-world architecture and glamour reflected the legitimate, stable business she’d always longed to helm. But she wouldn’t leave her father, and couldn’t commit with her plans up in the air.
And her delay had absolutely nothing to do with the gorgeous undercover agent whose proximity had her heart pounding every which way.
Nothing at all.
Uncle Tom wandered into the great room and stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the news on television while Aunt Marisol strode into the dining room to retrieve a salad bowl. Blake leaned into Reese’s side.
“Who do you think mentioned me to your uncle?” Blake nuzzled the side of her neck, and her knees wobbled at the brief assault on her senses.
“Not me. And stop with the PDA.”
“We’re a new couple. They expect us to be into each other.” Heat exploded in her belly at the seductive stroke of his hand along her back.