“Do you aim or just wing it, see where it lands?”
“Depends on my mood. I didn’t aim just now.”
He flung a golf ball–size stone into the river. It dropped into a pool of water among the boulders directly beneath the bridge. He aimed the second stone, targeting a craggy granite boulder near the riverbank. It went wide, splashing into reeds.
“Missed,” Kylie said next to him.
He laughed. “By yards.”
“Out of practice.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever thrown stones into a river.”
“But am I right, it’s addictive?”
“It could be if I had a covered bridge and a river, and someone to collect stones.”
“I always keep my eye out for good stones.”
He looked at her, saw the color in her cheeks—wind, sun, emotion. He couldn’t say for sure what she was thinking, feeling.
She cleared her throat, grabbing another stone and flinging it into the river. “Do you have plans for the evening?” she asked him.
“I’m picking up Daphne and taking her to Moss Hill to check out where she’ll be teaching tomorrow, but she wants to have a quiet night. She’s going to ground until her class. I’ll come back to my apartment.” Russ flicked a tiny stone into the river, but lost it and didn’t see where it landed.
Kylie pointed. “There, by the driftwood.”
But it was too late, any ripples dissipated by the time he saw the driftwood, which looked to be a tree branch of some kind. “You and I can have dinner at Smith’s, or we can cook. I like the idea of cooking, don’t you? My place this time.”
“I’ll bring wine,” she said, taking the last and biggest of the stones, rearing back and throwing it hard. It landed on the opposite bank. She clapped her hands. “Did it!”
Russ could have hugged her, kissed her—made love to her right there on the covered bridge, but a car made its way onto the narrow span. Kylie grabbed her helmet, snapped it on and jumped on her bike, promising to see him soon as she started back toward Moss Hill.
He watched her, getting himself under control. “Kylie, Kylie.” He exhaled, wishing he had more stones to toss into the river. Big ones.
* * *
Daphne would know all about secret identities, Russ thought as she huddled with Ruby and Ava O’Dunn in the Moss Hill meeting room. Ava, also red-haired and turquoise-eyed, was quieter and calmer than her fraternal twin, but she wasn’t involved with a Sloan and local firefighter. That had to help. The three women seemed to hit it off, confirmed when Ruby and Ava volunteered to drive Daphne back to Carriage Hill and she accepted.
“You’re tired, darling Russ,” Daphne said, kissing him on the cheek. “You should have let me upgrade you to first class.”
Ava and Ruby bit back smiles as they showed Daphne out to their car.
Russ was more than happy to go up to his apartment, unpack and take a shower. Daphne was artistic, visual and dedicated to her work. She and Kylie had common interests and talents, but Daphne relished playing the diva. He couldn’t see Kylie breezing into Moss Hill the way Daphne had, squealing in delight, kissing Ava and Ruby on the cheek, all in with her role as the local girl who was now a Hollywood icon.
It was all another world from the one Russ knew.
He probably needed to back off, get a good night’s sleep and let the heat between him and Kylie cool, but he had a dinner to plan.
Fortunately, Maggie Sloan and Olivia McCaffrey had presented him with a picnic basket filled with food, which, combined with the basics in the apartment refrigerator and pantry, made dinner easy. He could cook, but he appreciated not having to tonight.
Kylie arrived, dressed in a long, casual skirt and a silvery gray sweater that outlined the shape of her breasts and fell loosely to her hips. He hadn’t noticed her wearing jewelry earlier, and she wasn’t wearing any now—no rings, earrings or necklace. But she looked put together, her hair brushed and gleaming, pulled back loosely.
“You forgot your shoes,” he said, realizing she was in her stocking feet.
She raised the hem of her skirt a few inches and wiggled her toes. “Daring, don’t you think? My new look. Actually, the only shoes I have that go with this skirt are uncomfortable. I ordered them online last fall and should have sent them back, but I forgot. Now that it’s warm enough again to wear them, I put them on—” she smiled, lowering her skirt “—and I remembered.”
“Good thing I’m across the hall.”
“Isn’t it, though?” She’d set the wine she’d brought—an Oregon pinot noir—on the counter and pointed to it now. “Do you have an opener? I didn’t think to bring one.”
“Mark said the place was stocked with the necessities—”
“And a wine-opener is a necessity,” Kylie said, pulling out drawers until she produced a corkscrew. “I’ll do the honors.”
If she was nervous or self-conscious about having dinner with him, she didn’t show it as she uncorked the wine and brought it to the table, where she poured it into two glasses he’d set out.
“I’m glad we’re having dinner here,” she said. “One meal a day at Smith’s is enough, and I think Sherlock Badger has doubts about you.”
Russ picked up his wine. “What kind of doubts?”
“Professional. He’s a protect-and-serve lawman and you’re a private investigator. You have a bit of a sardonic Humphrey Bogart look about you.”
“Ah, I see. So, Sherlock thinks I fit a certain PI stereotype and bend the rules.”
“It was probably the palm-tree shirt. He must have noticed it when you knocked on my door on Sunday. I didn’t tell him about it. Promise.” Kylie grinned and clicked her glass against his. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Russ sipped his wine, watching her as she tried hers, noticing her throat as she swallowed. “Sherlock’s kind of a stud for a badger.”
“I think so, too.”
“Why did you do a little stuffed version of him instead of the vet badger?”
“Because my father’s a vet,” she said without hesitation. “He’s not like Dr. Badger, but still. No, it had to be Sherlock or... I don’t know. A real lawman, maybe.”
“Tough to find one who’d fit at the base of your lamp.”
She laughed, and together they set out the simple dinner of chicken casserole, green beans, bread and sliced cucumbers and tomatoes, with fresh fruit for dessert.
“Was your work in naval security dangerous?”
“Sometimes. Short answer.”
“Do you have family besides Marty?”
“My mother. My father died in a helicopter crash ten years ago. He was at the controls. My mother and Marty were passengers. He was severely injured but recovered. She suffered only minor injuries.”
“Is she in LA, too?”
“Arizona. Scottsdale. She lives with three miniature poodles.”
“She’s never remarried, then.”
“No.” Russ didn’t elaborate. “Marty quit his job a while back and moved to Hollywood. I hung out my shingle in San Diego after I got out of the navy. I thought I’d stay there but moved up to LA in March.”
“Do you like San Diego?”
He smiled. “What’s not to like except traffic?”
“All that sunshine might get on my nerves after a while,” Kylie said lightly. “But you didn’t stay in San Diego. If Marty’s your older brother, he’s what—thirty-five, thirty-six?”
“Thirty-five. He’s old enough to make his own decisions.” Russ pushed back his chair and got up, taking the casserole dish to the counter. He didn’t know how he’d gotten to talking about his family. “I couldn’t be there for Marty as much as I wanted to be the months he was in rehab after the accident.”
“And you want to be there for him now.”
Kylie stood up with her wine. “How does he feel about that?”
“Mixed.”
“Well, I think it’s sweet.”
Russ grabbed more dishes off the table. “Sweet? I think that’s a first.”
She laughed and took a quick sip of wine, then set her glass on the table and gathered up silverware. “I bet that’s not true, but I imagine your work often requires you to put on your kick-ass face.”
His kick-ass face. He set the dishes in the sink. “You’ve been talking to Sherlock too much.”
“Way too much.” She dumped the silverware in the sink and swung around at him. “Shall we have wine on the balcony?”
Russ grabbed the wine bottle and a throw off the back of the couch, and Kylie took the glasses. The temperature had dropped with nightfall, and it was a chilly evening. The sky was clear and starlit, the millpond and waterfall reflecting light from the renovated hat factory. He unfolded the shawl and draped it over Kylie’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said, catching the ends of the throw with her fingers. “I love the smells of spring. Grass, flowers, leaves—everything’s coming to life.”
“I smell mud, too.”
“Dirt. A great spring smell.”
He laughed and added more wine to the two glasses. “It’s a great spot.”
“We can’t see the house I rented from here. The For Sale sign has gone up. The push won’t happen until after it’s been painted and spruced up. My friend who owns it as a country home agrees it needs a family.”
“The Badgers could move there.”
“It’s fun living on a river after creating a fictional family that lives on a river. They’d do well here, but they’re committed to Middle Branch.”
“Were you nervous when you ran into this Travis Bowman yesterday?”
She shook her head. “There’s no animosity between us.”
Russ drank some of his wine. “You go all over town on your own, don’t you?”
“Mmm. Seeing how I live alone, work alone and don’t know many people here.”
“And enjoy your solitude.”
“I haven’t been alone as much as usual this week.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I’ve enjoyed it. I moved to Moss Hill in part because I wanted to stay in Knights Bridge while I figure out how to emerge from my prolonged artistic retreat or whatever you want to call it. It’s been good, but it’s not sustainable.”
“Sherlock has his limits as company.”
“Don’t tell him that,” she whispered, as if Sherlock Badger could hear her. “He’s tough but sensitive.”
“You’re good company, Kylie Shaw.” Russ set his wine on a side table and then took hers and set it next to his. The throw had drooped, catching in the crooks of her arms. He drew the soft fabric up again, feeling the cool air as his fingertips brushed her warm skin, the contrast downright sensual. “Very good company,” he said, his mouth finding hers.
She responded instantly, wrapping her arms around him, letting the throw fall. He didn’t catch it, and it dropped onto the balcony rail and nearly went over the side. He slipped his arms around her, lifted her off her feet, deepening their kiss. The thin, soft sweater rode up, and he could feel the warm, bare skin of her lower back.
A thousand different sensations rolled over him at once, and he might as well have been a leaf that had fallen into the millpond below, pulled inexorably toward the waterfall and oblivion.
This woman, this funny, clever woman...sexy, vulnerable, strong...
“Kylie.”
He didn’t know if she heard his hoarse whisper between kisses, or if she was beyond hearing anything. He felt her fingers digging into the muscles in his back. He lowered his arms to her hips, lifted her higher, her skirt riding up, only the flimsy fabric and his pants between them as she drew herself hard against him.
He had his hands on the smooth, bare skin of her thighs, his fingers easing over her bottom, between her legs. He felt her wet heat, heard her gasp as she opened for his touch.
Her arms were over his shoulders now. She raised her head, her pale hair shining. “You’re direct, aren’t you?”
“I can be,” he said, his thumb touching just the right spot. He knew because of the change in her eyes, the way she fell back into their kiss. He let his tongue match the rhythm of his thumb. She moaned, lost now. He could feel it. “Don’t hold back.”
As if she could, he thought with satisfaction. He didn’t stop. He ignored his own driving need and got caught up in hers, until she clutched him, digging hard into his shoulders as her release came.
When she sank back onto her feet, she placed her palm under his belt, stroked him under his pants. He pushed against her touch, but at the same time, he tucked his fingers under her chin and tilted her head up. “One night I hope you’ll stay,” he said, his voice ragged. “I want you to stay now...”
“But it’s a small town and you’re on duty with Daphne.”
He smiled. “And Sherlock Badger is a tough little bastard. He could kick my ass.”
“He might anyway.”
“Because of what just happened. He could also give me a high five.”
“Ha.”
His eyes held hers. “If I went too far—”
“You didn’t.” She gave him the slightest of knowing smiles. “That was obvious, I would think.”
Russ scooped up the throw from the rail. She wouldn’t need it now. He tossed it onto the table with their wine and wineglasses. “I think there’s some Sherlock Badger in you.”
“He’s his own self, as are all my characters.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I might get myself a deerstalker hat, though.”
“Thus confirming your reclusive, eccentric artist image. How’s Little Red Riding Hood’s woodsman shaping up?”
“He’s adventurous, reliable and true. Not all versions of the story have a woodsman, but mine does. I’m thinking he should have scars on his hands.” She ran her fingertips over the scars on Russ’s hands. “Don’t all adventurous, reliable and true woodsmen have scars?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, Kylie.”
By the time she went across the hall to Sherlock and all the critters and characters that percolated in that mind of hers, Russ was hopeless. He couldn’t fall in love with Kylie Shaw. He didn’t have the kind of life that would mesh with her life, her sensibilities.
She wanted the Badgers of Middle Branch.
He practically lived out of his duffel bag, and he had his dreamer brother, his remote mother and the memory of a father who’d liked nothing better than to fly helicopters.
Russ texted Marty. Daphne is holding her own in KB. No one to make her a French martini.
His brother responded immediately. Good. She needs to take a break. You?
I’ve got a handle on the rumors.
And your artist?
Russ didn’t respond right away. His hesitation would be enough for Marty to figure out what was going on. Reminded me I’m on duty.
Heh. Good for her.
See you soon. How’s it going there?
It’s good. All good.
Russ smiled and went back out to the balcony, the throw rippling in a cold gust of wind. He gathered it up, noticing the soft wool was still warm from Kylie. He saw there was a splash of wine left in the bottle. He poured it into his glass and stood at the balcony rail, listening to the river and looking at the night sky as he finished off the wine.
* * *
An hour after leaving Russ’s apartment, Kylie sat at her worktable but didn’t turn on a light. The only light was from over the stove in the kitchen, and from the stars, sparkling pinpricks spread out against the black night sk
y. She’d changed into her spa bathrobe, leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she told Sherlock. “Seriously, you tell me how was I supposed to resist a little romance with our neighbor?”
She smiled to herself. Having Sherlock Badger to talk to was a lot of fun, even if her parents and sister wouldn’t get it. Most of her friends, either, including her illustrator friends.
Did Russ get it?
She had a feeling he did. He’d probably seen stranger things during his days in the navy.
Not that talking to Sherlock was strange, of course.
“I know, my friend,” she said. “If I’d worn shoes tonight, my PI and I wouldn’t have gone as far as we did.”
A matter of practicality and physics, she thought. Her shoes would have flown off when he’d lifted her, probably going over the side of the balcony, but just falling off would have jerked her back to her senses. She remembered the feel of her almost-bare feet against Russ’s legs, sensual, intimate.
But she’d known what she was doing and could have stopped herself, asked him to stop—he would have, no question—but she hadn’t, and now she had to face the consequences. The raw need he’d stirred up in her. The swirling emotions. The yearning for something else, something more, in her life.
Was Russ sitting in his apartment running through a similar litany of thoughts, or was he thanking the stars because he’d sucked up the grace and willpower to send her on her way?
Kylie knew she didn’t have the answers.
“I know you don’t have the answers, either, Sherlock,” she said. “I wish you did.”
She got up from her worktable, turned off the light over the stove and went to bed, slipping into her winter flannel pajamas and grabbing a book on fonts she’d been meaning to read. Her way of hitting the reset button on her life and returning it to normal.
Twenty
Daphne awoke too damn early in her pretty room at Carriage Hill. The sun was sort of up, but whatever time it was on the East Coast, it was three hours earlier at home in Hollywood Hills. But she wasn’t going back to sleep, given her nightmares and her nerves, and she moaned and groaned as she threw back the covers and stood on the hand-hooked rug at the side of her bed. The chill of the early-morning air didn’t make her any happier about being awake.
The Spring at Moss Hill Page 20