Hot

by Julia Harper

  “No, no, stay.” John made himself smile. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

  “I’ll go get you a glass of water,” Amy said, oddly subdued.

  Dennis excused himself and disappeared into the bathroom. John sat on his boring beige couch with his daughter beside him. He already missed Turner.

  “What happened to you?” Rachel asked. “Was she right? Did you get shot at?”

  “Yeah, but the other guy missed. I’m okay, really. The bandage is a lot bigger than it needs to be.”

  She seemed to think about that for a moment. Amy was taking longer in the kitchen than she needed to. Maybe she was giving them some time alone.

  “Are you really going to marry her?” Rachel whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Her lips trembled at the corners.

  “I’ll always love you, no matter what,” John said carefully. “You’ll always be my daughter.”

  “No. You gave me up three years ago.” But despite her words, she huddled more closely to him.

  John sighed. “That’s what you wanted, sweetheart. You said you thought of Dennis as your father and you didn’t need me in your life anymore.”

  “Maybe . . .” She took a deep breath. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

  He felt his lips curve as giddy hope swam in his veins. “That’s allowed.”

  Amy came back into the room. She gave him a glass of ice water and sat down in a chair across from them. “You worried the hell out of me, Rachel. What’s this all about?”

  John took a sip of the water and was silent.

  “She was right,” Rachel finally said. “Dad’s . . . fiancée. I want to know why you and Daddy broke up.”

  Amy looked wary. “You already know—”

  “No, I don’t! Not the truth. There’s more, I know there’s more—”

  “Your mother and I were sleeping together,” Dennis said. John hadn’t even noticed him reenter the room.

  “Dennis,” Amy said faintly.

  He didn’t look at her. “It was pretty tacky of us, because Mom was still married to Mac. But we were in love, and sometimes even adults make mistakes in that state. When Mac found out, he divorced your mother.”

  John winced. “The infidelity happened because of many things. I was gone frequently—”

  “But it wasn’t my fault,” Rachel murmured.

  “No, of course not!” her mother exclaimed.

  John watched Rachel thoughtfully. “Why did you think it was your fault?”

  She shrugged and looked down at her hands. “I always felt there was something you all were keeping from me. A-and I remember that I cried a lot when I was little. Before you left.”

  He frowned. “So?”

  “I thought maybe you didn’t like it.” She stared at him with her big, lake blue eyes.

  It took him a second to get it, probably because it was late and his system was full of painkillers. She thought the normal tantrums of a small child had driven him away. How could she? Rachel was an intelligent girl—he knew that, even if he was biased, being her father. How could she think he’d leave because she’d thrown a hissy fit now and then? But was anyone smart when it came to their own family? And he and Amy had held back the real reason for the divorce. No wonder she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  “No.” He was shaking his head even as the thought crossed his mind. Amy still looked confused. “Nothing— nothing—you did broke us up, Rachel. If anything, your mother and I stayed together longer because of you.”

  Amy frowned, an odd look dawning on her face. “Rachel, darling . . .”

  Then they started talking. Explaining and reassuring. Something they all should’ve done a long, long time ago. It took only an hour, but it felt like a lifetime of tension had been broken. By the end, John was drained of whatever stamina he still had left, but he’d come to a new understanding with his daughter.

  “We’ll e-mail you the airline confirmation,” Amy said briskly at the door. They’d decided that Rachel could come visit him in a week or so—after she’d gone home and sorted things out with her mother and adopted father. “She’ll only be able to stay a few days. School begins right after Labor Day.”

  “That will be a good start,” he said, trying to keep his eyes open. Where was Turner?

  “Bye, Daddy.” Rachel looked awkward a moment, then lunged into his arms and hugged him painfully. Not that he let that show on his face. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” He leaned, he hoped casually, on the doorway and watched them walk away down the hall.

  The moment they disappeared around the corner, he went looking for Turner, even though he felt like warmed-over shit. She’d said that she was going to get Squeaky over an hour ago—where was she? He hadn’t meant to blurt out a wedding proposal in front of Rachel. If you could call such a blunt statement a wedding proposal. John winced. It hadn’t been the time or place. He’d been envisioning something along the lines of a candlelit dinner and white wine. Instead, he’d shown all the finesse of a bull rhino. He hurried down the stairs and looked out at the lit parking lot.

  Her car wasn’t there.

  He stared for a moment more in disbelief, then turned back inside. The stairway going up looked longer than it’d been going down. Turner was skittish of intimacy, of getting close to other people. Maybe she’d used the excuse of his daughter showing up to make a run for it.

  Christ.

  His head was pounding dully by the time he reached his door. He knew her home address, but she was so squirrelly that she might’ve gone into hiding again. He’d have to find out—

  The phone rang from inside his apartment. He swore and fumbled with the door, having somehow forgotten how to work the knob.

  He got it open, slammed it behind him, and dove for the ringing phone. “Yeah?”

  “Special Agent John MacKinnon?”

  He shut his eyes in relief and came close—very close—to crying. “Yeah, baby.”

  Turner cleared her throat, the small sound erotic even over a phone wire. “Has your family gone?”

  “They’ve gone. But only Rachel’s my family. And you.”

  She didn’t comment on that. “Would you mind if Squeaky and I turned ourselves in now?”

  He sagged against the wall. “I’d like that. Where are you?”

  “Open your door.”

  He straightened and looked at the door he’d just shut. Hardly believing, he opened it.

  Turner stood on the other side, phone to her ear, humongous dog beside her. She smiled at him.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  J ohn looked so tired when he opened the door. That was Turner’s first thought. She should have saved this for tomorrow. Should’ve found a motel room and let him sleep in peace. The bandage they’d used to cover his head wound at the hospital looked large and white against his salt-and-pepper hair.

  But then he reached out and pulled her into his arms. The cheap little cell phone she’d just bought at an all-night convenience store fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. And she forgot about her worry. John was kissing her as if she were the elixir to everlasting life. As if she were the most important thing in his world.

  As if he loved her.

  She knew tears were running down her cheeks. She could taste them on his lips, but she didn’t care. She’d come home. She’d finally come home after four long years of isolation. Four long years of living on the outside, peering in on her own life. She could let Rusty rest, let her anger at Calvin settle, and finally look around. She could get on with her own life.

  With this man.

  John somehow got her inside his apartment, his mouth all but devouring hers. His phone began ringing, but she ignored the sound. They bumped against furniture, careened off a wall. Neither one of them wanted to break the kiss. She hoped his eyes were open, because hers sure weren’t. Somewhere Squeaky sighed, and there was a thump as he probably lay down. Then she forgot the dog.

  John h
ad maneuvered them into the bedroom and was busy stripping off her T-shirt. To do that, he had to lift his mouth from hers. “Never leave me,” he muttered as he threw her T-shirt on a chair.

  “I won’t.” The phone kept ringing. “Are you going to answer that?”

  “I don’t want to chase after you all over hell and back.” His fingers were on her front bra clasp. He seemed to be having trouble with it. “Did that already. I don’t need to do it again.”

  “Of course not. Um, the phone?”

  He got the bra off and triumphantly tossed it over his shoulder. She didn’t see where it landed. He was still muttering. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “I hadn’t. I just went to the store to get Squeaky some food and to buy a cell. Speaking of which, are you going to answer that phone?”

  He swore violently and lunged for the bedside phone. “What?”

  Turner busied herself pulling back his brown bedspread. She was going to have to get him something with more color—maybe red?

  “Fine. Good. Thanks.” John hung up the phone while whoever it was on the other end went on squawking. He pulled the phone cord from the wall and turned to her purposely. “You’re not going to jail.”

  “What?”

  “That was my boss—”

  Turner’s eyes widened in horror. “You hung up on your boss?”

  “Yeah.” His eyes were narrowed on her breasts. “He says the bank isn’t pressing charges against you, and under the circumstances, Mrs. Hyman won’t, either.”

  “But how—?”

  “I called Tim—my ASAC—from the hospital to see if he could fix it. He could.”

  “Why—?”

  But he wasn’t listening. He’d opened his mouth wide over her breast. It was like sinking into a hot, humid cavern. Turner gasped and gasped again when he wrapped his big hands around her rib cage and lifted her against him. He walked with her to the bed, his mouth still on her breast, and placed her on the end. Her legs hung off the edge. He knelt there on the floor between her legs and licked his way down her bare torso.

  Turner tried to prop herself up on her elbows. “John, shouldn’t you come to bed, too? You’ve got a head injury.”

  “It’s only a scratch.” He grinned boyishly from between her thighs as he unsnapped her shorts. “I’ve always wanted to say that. Besides, I’m feeling better now.”

  And he yanked her shorts off.

  Well, she’d made her token protest. If he was determined to make love to her, she saw no point in dissuading him. And he’d already parted her legs. John bent his head and licked her, right between the folds of her vulva. Turner flopped back on the bed and closed her eyes. My, oh my, the man knew what he was doing. She reached down and ran her hands through his short hair, feeling the strands like silk against her palms. Her hands brushed against the bandage at his temple. And once again she felt tears prick at her eyes. Which was silly, considering what he was doing to her and how much she liked it. She had come so close to losing him. Had the bullet been an inch over, he would’ve died. She would’ve lost this bond, this love with him.

  John circled her clit with his tongue. She gasped and jolted. Then he began deliberately licking her, over and over again, relentlessly torturing that small nubbin of flesh. She bit her lower lip. The feeling was almost too intense.

  “John.” She arched against the hands holding her hips, but he held her firmly. “John . . .”

  She’d never let another man do this to her. It had always seemed too intimate. And it was. It was. But she spread her legs wider and welcomed him. Him and his love.

  Because this was John.

  She felt so warm. So hot. She couldn’t take much more of this, and she didn’t want him to ever stop. “John—”

  He slowly pressed his thumb into her and at the same time bit gently, firmly on her clit. She shook, her head thrown back, her hips arching. A wave of intense light spread through her, widening, widening, until she simply lay there, gasping. She was sublimely at peace. She was with John.

  She felt the bed move as he took his hands away from her, and for a moment she was cold. Then he was back. He lifted her and pulled her up until she lay fully on the bed. She felt him grasp her hips again, and his cock nudged against her sensitive flesh. She opened her eyes. He was poised above her, his pale eyes grave, the lines on his face looking as if they were carved.

  “I love you,” he said as he began to enter her. “I want you to know that. Now and forever.”

  He thrust heavily into her. She opened her mouth at the intrusion, at the feel of his penis in her.

  But he wasn’t done.

  “You don’t have to respond now. I know it’s too soon. We’ve only known each other a week.” He lay, his pelvis pressed fully into her, warm and heavy.

  She tried to move against him—he wasn’t thrusting—but his weight prevented her. “I—”

  “Just give me time to get to know you. To court you. I won’t force anything.”

  She doubted that. After all, he’d chosen to make his declaration when he was inside of her. And John was the kind of guy who couldn’t help but coerce, even when he tried not to.

  He frowned a little. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Holding still was costing him, she could tell. “I want you to know—”

  She smiled and touched a finger to his lips, quieting him. “I love you, John MacKinnon.”

  The lines eased a bit on his face. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He moved his hips, readjusting his weight. Oh, my, that felt wonderful. She almost let her eyelids fall, but she kept them open with an effort.

  He withdrew slowly. “Because—”

  “John?”

  He froze. Not what she’d been hoping for.

  She took a deep breath and concentrated. “I love you with all my heart and soul. You are the sun and the stars to me. I feel whole when we’re together. And, just for the record—and even though you didn’t officially ask me—yes, I will marry you and be your wife until the day I die.”

  He blinked. “Uh, well . . . good.”

  She wrapped her legs around his hips. Tight. “Now. Is that settled?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked him sternly in the eye. “Good. Please make love to me until I scream.”

  A slow grin spread over his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

  And he did.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Meanwhile, somewhere in northern Wisconsin . . .

  D ude, this is depressing,” Fish said, as the prison van bumped over a rut in the road. His chains rattled.

  “This is, like, worse than at the end of The Lord of the Rings,” Nald moaned. “Nine stupid hours, and then Frodo gets his finger cut off and has to go to the land of unfun with what’s-his-face the wizard.”

  “ This is unfun, man.” Fish shifted on the hard seat.

  “Liver and onions,” Nald muttered.

  He was still, like, stunned. Who ate liver and onions? They should tell everyone that’s what they served in jail. That would keep guys like him from robbing banks.

  “The guy next to me had seconds,” Fish groaned in horror. “It looked like he was eating alien brains.”

  “Gross! Alien brains.”

  “And there’s no cable.”

  “No Sci Fi Channel.”

  “No Cartoon Channel.”

  “No World Wrestling.”

  “Dude, that’s a regular channel,” Fish pointed out.

  “I don’t care,” Nald yelled, suddenly losing it. “They probably won’t let us watch it, anyway! We’re probably going to have to watch Jeopardy! and Martha Stewart!”

  “Martha Stewart?”

  “Christ!” the guard guy yelled from the front of the van. “Will you two just shut up?”

  The guy had a short temper. He’d been yelling that at them ever since they’d left the jail, an hour back. The van bumped again—really hard this time—and stopped.

  Guard Guy swore and
got out of the van, slamming the door behind him.

  “I think we’re stalled,” Fish said. He looked out the window, but Nald doubted he could see anything. It was black outside.

  “I don’t care,” Nald said. He slumped in his seat.

  Headlights glowed in the side window where Fish peered. The guard shouted from outside and thumped on the van door.

  “Man,” Fish said. “That dude ought to switch off his high beams.”

  The light was nearly blinding now. The guard pounded on the door harder. The van started to shake.

  “Do you think we should open the door?” Nald asked.

  Then a really loud horn blared really close. The door opened. Guard Guy stomped in looking very pissed and grabbed them by their orange jumpsuits.

  “Hey—” Fish started.

  The guard dragged them out of the van violently.

  Forty seconds later, Nald and Fish were at the side of the train tracks watching the prison van get hit by a train.

  “Awesome!” Fish screamed as the train went bam! and the van flew up into the air.

  “Dude!” Nald agreed in between jumping up and down. It was the best thing he’d ever seen in his life.

  The train slowed after a while, and the van driver went to yell at the train engineer. A bunch of cop cars and ambulances drove up with flashing lights even though no one was hurt. Nald stopped jumping and glanced around. Everyone was over looking at the van wreck and talking on their radios and stuff. No one was paying any attention to them.

  Nald had his first idea since Saturday. “Dude—”

  But Fish was still thinking about the van getting hit. “Did you see the windshield pop out?”

  “Dude—”

  “And the look on that guard’s face. He was all, like, Oh, shit!”

  “Dude—”

  “And the tire that bounced off the back of the train?”

  “Dude!” Nald yelled.

  Fish stopped. “What?”

  “Which way is Canada?”

  About the Author

  Julia Harper is a midwestern girl, born and bred. She grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, then went to college at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, where she majored in anthropology and took Shakespeare classes for fun. She spent one brief, ghastly summer doing an archaeological survey in northern Wisconsin for the State Historical Society. During that time, she won the Tick Queen title for most ticks on a person at any one time (thirty-six). Oddly, she did not contract Lyme disease.