Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2)

by Skully, Jennifer

  “You taste good,” he whispered. He kissed the swell of breast above her bra, then licked her throat and finally leaned back to look in her eyes. “And you feel good around me.” He wanted her heat. Trailing his fingers along the crease of her thigh, he put his thumb to her clitoris and stroked.

  She moaned. “Brax, oh, Brax.” She moved with him, slightly forward, then back, riding his touch as well as his cock. The fingers of his left hand bit into her hip.

  “Are you ready?” he whispered with his last ounce of control. So much for the long haul.

  “Oh please, I am so ready.”

  He couldn’t hold out a second longer, thrusting up hard, wrapping his arm across her waist and holding her tight to meet him. She rose and fell, biting her lip, panting, her gaze never leaving his.

  “Let go, baby,” he murmured. “Let it go. God, I want to hear how good it feels.”

  His muscles bunched, his thighs shrieked, his thumb played her, then he rammed home one last time, and lost himself in her. A moment later, her body spasmed around him, and she screamed out her pleasure with abandon.

  * * * * *

  Darn. She’d screamed again. Loudly. Mr. Doodle probably heard her over at Flood’s End.

  Brax still held on to her, squashing her breasts to his chest, pumping warm breaths against her neck. He cupped her butt, stroking, as her heart rate slowed, the flush on her skin dimmed, and the throb of him inside her subsided.

  “Kiss me,” he whispered against her hair.

  “What?”

  “Kiss me so I know you didn’t use me just for sex.”

  * * * * *

  Putting both hands on his shoulders, Simone pushed back. Brax watched her with a somber face and dancing eyes.

  “I didn’t use you, Sheriff.”

  “You called me Brax a few minutes ago. Now I’m back to being Sheriff. Kiss me so my ego doesn’t get wounded.”

  She wanted to laugh almost more than she wanted to kiss him. His petulant lower lip won out. She laughed.

  Both hands dropped to her butt, and he pulled her snug. “I like being inside you.” He brushed his lips over hers. “I love the way I can make you scream.”

  “Hold me, Brax.” Please God, let him mean it. Brax wouldn’t lie about a thing like that. Not when he knew it was important. And he did know.

  He squeezed her tight in his arms. She wanted to stay that way forever. Safe, warm. Excessive and exuberant.

  Then he eased her away, kissed her nose, her cheeks, finally her forehead. “More than anything, I wish I could stay with you.” He searched her face a moment. “But I have to go in case Maggie wakes up.”

  Icy water suddenly rushed through her veins, chilling her skin, raising goose bumps, and turning to crystal around her heart. “I forgot.”

  “I wanted both of us to forget.”

  Suddenly tears were as close to the surface as they’d been when she’d thrown herself sobbing into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I could have done that when Carl’s—”

  He held her face and her gaze in a powerful grip. “Don’t take away from what we did. It’s the only good and beautiful thing I have. And I needed it.”

  “But—”

  He shook her lightly. “Carl’s dead, and I have to ask Maggie some real shitty questions even though I know she’ll fall apart. So let me keep what we did without turning it to shit, too.”

  She pressed her lips together, sniffed. She’d been terribly selfish in begging, almost forcing him to make love to her. Then she’d followed it up with her it’s-all-about-me guiltfest, never even considering how Brax felt. “You’re right. This was ours. I won’t take it away.”

  “Good. Now kiss me.”

  She leaned in for a kiss sweeter than she’d ever tasted. Just a meeting of lips and a tear’s salty taste at the corner of her mouth.

  Then she rose, pulling free of his arms and his body, the loss of contact tugging at her insides. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She grabbed her T-shirt off the sofa beside him and ran.

  Cleaning up in the bathroom seemed so demoralizing. It should have been like one of her fantasies, where there was no mess, no fuss, no bodily functions, and your hair and makeup remained perfect.

  Instead, the stark fluorescent lights beamed down on ratty party hair, washed-out skin bare of blush, and highlighted the mascara streaks and the smear of lipstick on her chin.

  Oh God. She shouldn’t have thrown herself at him.

  She should have at least made him turn out the lights.

  She rubbed the lipstick off her chin, wiped away the mascara smudges, and smoothed her hair. If only she could have removed her bad thoughts as easily. Brax had told her not to be ashamed, not to destroy the beautiful thing they’d done.

  Beautiful. He’d used that word, hadn’t he? She’d screamed out loud, and he told her he loved it.

  “It was beautiful,” she whispered, then returned to him.

  He’d fastened his jeans and belt and tucked in his shirt. The only reminder of their interlude was the slight ache between her legs.

  He held out his hand. “Come here.” Even in her platforms, she fit securely beneath the arm he draped around her shoulders. “Kiss me goodbye,” he murmured.

  She’d have liked it better if he’d said goodnight instead of goodbye, but she raised her lips to his. Once more, he filled her with sweetness and she could have sworn her morose thoughts flitted away into the night.

  Until a car door slammed out on the road and voices wafted on the summer breeze.

  He leaned his forehead to hers. “Expecting someone?”

  “No.” It was probably Sheriff Teesdale for Brax. With more bad news.

  Her screen door whined and the porch creaked beneath footsteps, then the front door resounded with a loud knock.

  “Better answer it,” he said, brushing his lips across hers.

  She did. Her heart dropped to her stomach, and her stomach plummeted to her toes.

  Her mother stood on her doorstep.

  * * * * *

  Maggie crept to her bedroom door and listened.

  “I need to get out of here, Chloe.”

  Della. In the hallway by her room. Whispering. The thin, wooden inner doors did nothing to muffle their voices.

  “Wait until Maggie’s brother gets back. We can’t leave her alone.”

  Tyler was gone. That was good. The dark room spun, dust bunnies from under the bed stuffed her head, her lips felt like thick slugs, and her wobbly legs threatened to collapse. But she was awake, and she knew what she had to do. Tyler would have stopped her.

  “You stay. I can’t wait,” Della said.

  “Buck up, Della.”

  “How can I face her after the horrible things I said yesterday?”

  “We’ve all done things we wish we hadn’t”—Chloe paused—“but we do what has to be done in the aftermath.”

  “When she’s in her right mind, she’s not going to forgive me.”

  Maggie held her breath in case they might hear her in the silence.

  “Della Montrose, if you leave before Brax gets back, I’ll—” Chloe stopped.

  “You’ll what, Chloe?”

  “Don’t make me say it, Della.”

  Maggie never heard the actual threat. They left the hallway outside her door, though she was sure Della didn’t drive off. Their arguing was a good thing. They’d never notice her leave.

  She couldn’t remember what Della had said yesterday. She couldn’t even remember yesterday.

  Except that yesterday, Carl hadn’t been dead. She couldn’t remember what that felt like. She could only feel the hollow ache in her chest, the pain in her temples, and the screech of her own words like nails on a chalkboard. Drop dead.

  For the first time ever in their marriage, he’d done exactly what she said.

  See, that was the thing. Carl never would have done what she told him to. If she’d shrieked, Don’t drop dead, then he might have fallen into the
gorge to spite her. That’s how she knew someone else had made him fall.

  But how was she supposed to explain that to Tyler? Even she knew how asinine it sounded. He’d say it was grief, disbelief, and Xanax talking. In fact, he might have said something like that before she fell asleep, uneasy despite the Xanax. She couldn’t recall. She only remembered wishing her mother was here.

  She had to go see the chickens. The chickens had found him. Maybe he’d been alive when they did. Maybe he’d said, “Mighty Mouse pushed me.”

  Maybe he’d said he forgave her for being a whacked-out, PMSing, premenopausal bitch.

  Maggie had to know.

  * * * * *

  “Darling.” Her mother glided through the doorway, forcing Simone back two steps. “After that phone call last night, I knew you needed me desperately.”

  What phone call? Simone could only stare, wide-eyed and slack jawed, with total and complete amnesia about last night.

  Her mother patted Simone’s chin. “Close your mouth, sweetie. God only knows what airborne germs there are in this place.”

  Then her mother’s china-perfect eyes landed on Brax.

  “Oh my. Who is this marvelous person?” She held out her hand like a queen expecting him to go down on one knee for the worshiping hand kiss.

  Most men usually did.

  “This is...this is...” Simone was sure she’d hyperventilate if she said his name. Or faint.

  “Brax,” he supplied for himself. He didn’t take the proffered hand nor extend his own. Simone couldn’t bear to look at his face.

  He was seeing her mother. For the first time. In the flesh. Men killed for a glimpse of her mother up close and personal.

  While Simone stood aside in a pantyless state. Oh God, where were her panties? Please, not on the sofa.

  “It’s such an exquisite pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brax,” Ariana simpered. Why was she pretending Simone hadn’t told her about Brax on the phone last night? “I couldn’t have imagined anyone of your ilk would live in such a...place,” she finally added, her lips plopping around the word. Her eyes roamed the trailer, from the ancient orange shag carpet and ratty sofa to the dirty wineglass and cracker crumbs on the coffee table.

  Oh my God. The coffee table. Covered with the beribboned scrolls. It was the ones devoid of ribbons, over half the pages, that freaked Simone out. The ones her mother could read if she got close enough.

  Simone made a mad jump for the table, almost tripping over a bump in the shag. She grabbed the bag and crammed in papers, careful not to bend too much and expose her bare behind. “I should have cleaned up a bit.” I should never have been born.

  “I’ll help.” Brax leaned down, scooping up one of the scrolls that had rolled between the table and the couch.

  And there were the darn panties.

  His mouth quirked.

  She almost dove on them, grabbing the scrap of material and three more scrolls, then shoving the lot into the bag.

  “One more,” he murmured. Darn it, he was laughing at her.

  She glared at him, then took the roll, stuffed it, and squished the bag to her midsection.

  “Well, that’s all cleaned up.” Her blood roared through her ears like a freight train. Red-faced, she gave her mother a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

  She might have hidden the panties, but her mother wasn’t done with her yet. “Darling. How could you even think of entertaining such a handsome man without makeup?”

  Simone slapped a hand to her cheek. Horror of horrors, her mother had caught her with no makeup. A social gaffe worse than not wearing panties. Worse even than blue panties under white slacks.

  Setting elegant hands at the waist of her delicate sky-blue silk pantsuit, Ariana gave Simone a head-to-toe examination. “Why, darling, you’re looking”—she glanced at Brax, then adjusted her word choice—“robust. The food here must agree with you. But you know what animal fat can do to a buxom figure.”

  “It gives a woman curves that appeal far more to the male eye than a bony stick figure.”

  At the sound of Brax’s deep voice, Ariana Chandler stopped her hands in mid-flutter, arms raised, bracelets jangling until they slipped down her forearms to rest at her elbows.

  Some meteorological phenomenon sucked all the air from the trailer and replaced it with a storm cloud that built right over her mother’s perfectly coiffed blond head. A storm built in eyes so blue they could only have sprung from a contact lens case.

  Thunder in the desert could shake a trailer from its cinder blocks, but one of her mother’s rages was a woman-made storm of unparalleled force.

  Though not meaning to, Brax had insulted her mother’s...bony stick figure.

  “Ariana, I am not dragging in every damn bag you brought. Get out here and pick out what you want.”

  “Kingston.” Simone blurted his name as if he were their savior. Which he was. Kingston Hightower, her mother’s manager, was the only person on earth—man or woman—who could bring one of her mother’s tantrums back to dead calm. In two seconds flat.

  She grabbed his arm, dragged him over the threshold, knocking aside the suitcase dangling from his hand, and threw her arms around him. With her lips at his ear, she whispered desperately. “Do something. She’s going to explode.”

  Brax would never recover. A man of steel who dealt with dirty, rotten, low-down criminals every day of his life, he’d never faced Ariana Chandler. He didn’t know what she could do.

  “For you, Simone,” Kingston whispered back, “anything.” Then he set her on her feet, and threw an arm around her mother’s shoulders, trapping Ariana’s fragile figure beneath his beefy arm. Six foot four with a physique like Mr. Universe from 1982, Kingston immobilized her mother’s approaching cataclysmic outburst with an immovable arm.

  “Ariana, sweetie-honey-baby, could you please help Jackie figure out which bag you want for the night. We’ll bring in the others tomorrow.”

  “Kingston, I need everything,” Ariana whined. She only ever whined for Kingston, though she’d never allowed her girls the luxury. Not for Kingston or anyone else.

  Someday, he’d marry Ariana. When her star had faded, and she realized she couldn’t go on without him.

  “Introductions, please, Simone.” Kingston, having been with her mother for the last twenty years, was the father Simone had never had.

  “This is Brax.” She said it out without stumbling this time, but didn’t bother to explain the relationship. They didn’t have a relationship, unless you mentioned Carl’s death, Maggie’s breakdown, or the last half hour on her living-room couch.

  “Brax, this is my mother.”

  He shot her a self-satisfied look saying he’d known all along. She shot him down with the rest of it. “My mother. Ariana Chandler.”

  He raised a brow that said, Yeah, I got that.

  She almost thought for a moment that he didn’t know.

  Sticking out his hand to Kingston, Brax said, “Didn’t catch your name.”

  “Kingston Hightower, at your service.”

  A firm handshake dispensed with, silence fell for several seconds while Brax stood there. Saying nothing. Doing nothing.

  He really didn’t know. Simone’s heart jumped to her throat with hope and glory, then dashed itself as quickly on the rocky shores of reality. He’d know soon enough. Then he’d be on his hands and knees begging forgiveness for the stick-figure comment.

  Two bags thumped to the floor, and her sister leaned against the doorjamb to catch her breath. Flawless skin that had never braved harsh rays without sunscreen, ethereal blond beauty like a water nymph, and the fragile figure of a Greek goddess, men wept at Jackie’s feet in adoration.

  Next to her, Simone looked like Brunhilde out of the “Ride of the Valkyries.”

  The end was near. Simone stepped inevitably toward it. “And this is my sister. Jacqueline Chandler.”

  She saw the moment Brax made the connection. He cocked his head, glancing from Jackie to Ariana. Thre
e times. His eyes widened imperceptibly, then his gaze finally rested on Simone.

  She shrugged. “You’ve probably seen them at the movies.”

  Kingston laughed heartily. “That’s an understatement, sweetheart.” Said like a good PR man. “He’s seen them on the Academy Awards every year.”

  “Sorry.” Brax shook his head. “Don’t watch the Academy Awards.” Then he graciously added, “But I’ve seen a couple of movies and enjoyed the performances.”

  He didn’t expound. He didn’t effuse. He didn’t grovel.

  Simone’s heart started to pound. With the extracurricular workout in the last hour, the organ was close to expiring.

  Kingston broke the silence and Simone’s knot of tension with practical matters. “Show me where to put your mom’s bags.”

  “In my room, I guess. I’ll have to change the sheets.”

  Her mother gasped. “Kingston, we can’t impose on Simone. I didn’t know her trailer would be so small. We need a hotel.” She waggled her fingers at Simone, her bangles jangling. “Darling, is there a Ritz in that town down the highway?”

  Kingston snorted. “A Ritz? We’re not in Hollywood anymore, Dorothy. Simone’s trailer will do fine.”

  Ariana afforded them all a very pretty pout.

  “You came all the way here to see Simone. So let’s spend some quality family time.”

  Quality family time? With her mother? Simone would rather pick a million cactus needles out of her foot with tweezers.

  “Besides, Jackie’s tuckered out.” Kingston pointed to Jackie, then the two bags at her sister’s feet. “Simone, sweetie, could ya show us where to go?”

  Brax snorted at Kingston’s unintentional pun, though sobered quickly when Ariana flashed him a look. “I’ll help,” he offered.

  “Got it,” Kingston said, grabbing both bags in one hand and putting his arm around Jackie’s shoulders to guide her.