by Sandra Hill
“No, you look so hot I feel like the luckiest girl alive.”
Oh, man! “Right answer, honey.”
Before she had a chance to say another word, he tugged her closer and moved his chest from side to side, abrading her breasts. He watched as her nipples grew under his friction. She was watching, too. But then she closed her eyes and made a small whimpering sound of pleasure. And it was now she, with her hands on her knees and her neck arched back, who was caressing him with her breasts.
He might have whimpered, too.
Placing one arm around her waist and a hand behind her nape, under her hair, he slowly, very slowly, savored the thrill of lowering his mouth inch by inch to her mouth. At first he just shaped his mouth to hers. She must have brushed her teeth, because she tasted like mint. And sex.
But then he kissed her with all the pent-up hunger that had been building for what seemed like a lifetime. This woman, this crazy woman, was turning him inside out, and he didn’t know why. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to savor the gift that was Claire, sitting on his lap, with her tongue in his mouth, making little mewling sounds that about drove him crazy.
Then he did the most surprising, and embarrassing, thing. Without warning, he shot his rocks off in his pants. Holy hell! He hadn’t done that since he was a teenager, thinking about Mrs. Fisher and her massive breasts that defied gravity.
Claire didn’t seem to have noticed, deep kissing him as she was. Even when he arched himself against her and let loose with a long, drawn-out groan against her lips.
Enough! He stood suddenly, taking her with him so that she was forced to wrap her legs around his hips for balance. “Are we really going to stop this thing with a kiss?” he asked in a voice so gravelly he barely recognized himself.
“What thing?” She tilted her head to the side in a teasing way.
If she thought he was going to engage in a flirty conversation now, she really was crazy.
“You know damn well what thing. We connected from the minute we first met. Hooking up, like this, was inevitable.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Does that mean you’re ready to beg?”
Okay, so now she was going to tighten the screw. Two could play that game. “I don’t know. I was kinda hoping you were ready to beg.”
Meanwhile, he had walked them both into her bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. There was a wide picture window at one end of the small room, providing enough moonlight to see her clearly.
They regarded each other with parted lips, both breathing heavily, both still aroused.
As one, they both said, “Please.”
Also as one, they smiled at each other.
Mutual begging. He liked that idea.
And, so, apparently, did she.
Let the games begin . . .
Claire was lying on her bed, naked.
He was standing by her bed, naked.
“First things first. Hand me one of those sex toys, honey.”
“Sex toys? What sex toys? Do you mean my vibrator?”
Ooooh, boy! “No, I mean those erotic feathers hanging from your ears.” Note to Caleb: Vibrator. Later.
He had to give Claire credit. She didn’t even blush. “You think these are sexy?” She sat up, removed both of the earrings, and gave them to him.
He handed her a strip of condoms, wanting to get that established up front. No babies. The condoms didn’t seem to bother her, which was a relief to him.
He used the feathers then, painting imaginary pictures all over her body. Especially her breasts, which he brushed so long and in ways that were damn creative before he put his mouth to each nipple and suckled hard. Claire was alternately screaming for him to not stop and get on with it. Man oh man, her arousal ratcheted his arousal to the point where they were both hot, hot, hot.
Caleb did what he did best then. Using the stamina of his SEAL training, the experience of some fifteen-plus years of sex, his general love of the female body, and that old Elvis principle “A Little Less Talk, a Lot More Action,” he brought Claire to climax more times than he could count over the next few hours. And Claire reciprocated very, very nicely, thank you very much. There was something to be said for two physically fit bodies in the sack.
At some point in the middle of the night, she pulled the quilt up over them both, threw her arms over her head, and said, “Wow!” before falling into a dead, satisfied sleep.
“Wow, indeed!” he thought, and he was about to follow suit, probably with a dippy grin on his face.
But then Claire did something that scared the spit out of him. She snuggled up to him and murmured against his neck, “I love you.”
About last night, baby . . .
It was almost dawn when Claire awakened, stretched out the kinks of the most delicious sex she’d ever had, then noticed that Caleb was missing. His side of the bed was still warm, though.
Immediately, she recalled what she’d told him just before falling asleep. “I love you.” Well, she couldn’t take it back, and she wouldn’t. Above all else, she was an honest woman. And she’d fallen hook, line, and sinker for the guy almost from the moment she’d first laid eyes on his perfect-ten body.
He, on the other hand, was probably repulsed. Or at least scared to death. She would have to reassure him that she didn’t expect reciprocation. But first, where was he? Did he go for his morning run without her? The rat! Or did he go back to the B & B without her? The rat!
Her questions were soon answered as she donned her nightshirt and walked into the living room, yawning widely. The dog and cat dishes had been replenished with food and water. The coffeemaker was beginning to perk. Even the bird and porcupine had been cared for. And there was Caleb out on the deck—Be still my heart!—wearing only his athletic shoes and a pair of boxers. He was doing push-ups, while lined up watching him, heads tilted to the side, were Boney and her five cats. They regarded him as if he was looney . . . or manna from heaven.
If she didn’t already love him, she would now.
She leaned against the kitchen counter for a few moments just watching him. Caleb was a complex man. There was so much she didn’t know about him. But she knew without a doubt that he was a good man, whose shunning had affected him tremendously in ways even he didn’t recognize. Yeah, he had been military and probably held conservative views that would clash with hers, but she wanted him anyhow.
He noticed her then.
And he didn’t smile as he stood and came inside.
Uh-oh! Looks like the I-love-you isn’t sitting too well this morning. Talk about morning-after regrets. Isn’t that supposed to be the woman’s prerogative?
“Hey, babe,” she said, walking up, going on tiptoe, and giving him a quick kiss.
He grabbed her and pulled her back. “What kind of good-morning kiss is that?” He kissed her thoroughly then, lifting her off the floor, high in his arms, burying his tongue deep in her mouth, before setting her on her feet. Then he nipped her bottom lip. Her lips burned in the aftermath of that short, fiery possession. “We need to get over to the cavern ASAP, but I was wondering, do you think we have time for a quick shower?”
Caleb’s lips looked kind of bruised. From my kisses? And an expression of supreme male satisfaction had overtaken his normally rigid facial expression. From my lovemaking? Claire knew that men liked putting their marks on women . . . marking the territory, so to speak. She’d never felt that way. Till now.
“I like the we part of the shower suggestion,” she said, taking him by the hand.
Less than an hour later, they were outside getting into their respective vehicles. Caleb felt as if his life had suddenly gone off balance. Not in a bad way. Just . . . disconcerting.
Claire had thrown the three-word bomb at him last night. “I love you.” Shiiiiit! Why did women always have to say that? It wasn’t true, of course. It was probably lust speaking. But holy crap, that kind of talk was not welcome at this stage in his life, if ever, because sure as shit, to a woma
n like Claire, love meant marriage and kids. The whole works. He wasn’t about to bring it up, though, knowing Claire would want to discuss the subject to death. If he just ignored the issue, maybe it would go away.
After she stowed some gear in her station wagon, Claire turned to him.
His heart skipped a beat. Yeah, it was a cliché, but she had this odd effect on him. And the fact that the lady looked ridden hard in the best possible sense was a real boost to his ego. He’d sensed that Claire would be a passionate lover, but her lack of inhibitions had been a gift. She’d more than matched him in the stamina department, too, praise God and good genes.
“I need to leave the project around noon to come back here.”
He arched his brows.
“Even though I have another month till the closing, my buyer wants another run-through of the property.”
“You’ve sold this?” He waved a hand to encompass her cabin and the river. “Why? It’s a great place. Spectacular location.”
“It is, and I got a good price for it, but I needed all the cash I could put together for my other property.”
Caleb eyed Claire warily. The woman had put him off guard from the first moment he’d met her, and she sure as hell had thrown him for a loop last night when she’d told him she loved him. He sensed that she was about to throw him another zinger.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What other property?”
“A small farm over in Alexandria. It borders on the river.”
Caleb groaned. The two things he’d been avoiding for half his life . . . family and farming. God must have some sense of humor to have wrapped both of them in a tempting package like Claire.
I hope she isn’t seeing me in that farming/family picture?
Of course she isn’t. We just met three days ago.
Yeah, but she already said she loves me. Even if she didn’t mean it.
Maybe I should ask.
Note to Caleb: Are you nuts?
Caleb was beginning to feel as if he’d landed in a no-win situation. Damned if he did. Damned if he didn’t. Hopeless.
Where is St. Jude when a guy needs him?
St. Jude was on vacation . . .
Shock.
They were all in for a major shock. And it wasn’t just the sight of the two of them looking like sin on the hoof.
When she and Caleb arrived back at the B & B, unnoticed by the just-arising inhabitants, they walked into the kitchen from two different directions—he from the front door and through the hall, and she around the side and through the kitchen door. It was silly, really, acting like teenagers with something to hide. But neither of them was in the mood for teasing, which would be inevitable with this crew.
They headed for the coffeemaker, which was perking away, obviously on a timer. She’d barely taken her first sip before Tante Lulu walked in wearing a yellow miniskirt to match her blonde curls, with a tight red T-shirt that said “Cajun Goddess” and white sneakers with pink laces and pom-poms and white lace anklets. Good thing Claire didn’t have a hangover. She’d be blinded by all those colors.
Noticing Claire’s gaze, Tante Lulu said, “Me ’n’ Abbie decided to go over to Pine Grove Mills to check out Amos and Andy’s farm. Do ya think I look hot enough?”
Oh, good Lord! What did one say to that?
“Hotter than hot,” Caleb observed, waggling his eyebrows at Tante Lulu.
Tante Lulu blushed. Who knew the old lady could blush? But then she pulled out her usual zinger. “You two look lak ya been wrestlin’ in a briar patch. Know what they call a hickey down in bayou land? A whisker kiss. Ha, ha, ha! Heard any thunderbolts yet?”
With that cue, the two of them turned on their heels and headed out the door toward the cave, especially since the rest of the gang could be heard coming down the hall toward the kitchen. Claire heard Tante Lulu tell someone, “Caleb and Claire been havin’ hanky-panky. Someone better fetch the preacher.”
“Now, auntie,” Tee-John could be heard remarking, “there’s hanky-panky, and then there’s hanky-panky. Not all hanky-panky warrants a weddin’ cake. Is that Cajun coffee I smell? Praise the Lord and pass the beignets!”
“Hah! This hanky-panky has rice, weddin’ veils, and ‘I do’s’ all over it. Talk about!”
She and Caleb were both a bit red-faced and quiet as they were about to cross the bridge over the creek. Then they noticed the condition of the cavern door. It had been bashed in, probably with an ax.
“Sonofabitch!” Caleb exclaimed and started to run.
Claire was right behind him.
Grabbing flashlights, the two of them headed inside, only to find worse destruction. The lighting cables had been sliced. Diving equipment bashed in. The actual cavern formations hadn’t been harmed, thank God for that, but everything pertaining to the Pearl Project was damaged beyond repair.
She and Caleb stared at each other, stunned.
“Someone doesn’t want this project to go on,” she remarked.
“And I know exactly who,” Caleb said, stone-cold fury in his voice. “You call the police.”
“Where are you going?”
“To kick ass and take names.”
Chapter 10
It was a sinnin’ shame . . .
Jonas was standing outside one of his greenhouses, giving Lizzie directions on watering the azaleas. Lizzie worked for him in the summertime.
His daughter Sarah, at twelve, was in the house doing her cleaning chores, and eight-year-old Fanny was gathering eggs. Noah had begged him to go off with his friends to the farmers’ market in Belleville, which was a busy, exciting place for a nine-year-old boy with its auctions and flea markets and food stands every Wednesday, spring through autumn, but Noah would have plenty of digging of mulch to do here when he returned. He expected his children to work, but, unlike the Amish, and even some of the Mennonites, he allowed his children to go to school beyond eighth grade. And they would continue through high school, if they wanted. Maybe even college. He’d heard through the grapevine that Dat thought it was a sin for him to be so lenient.
“I still don’t see why I can’t go stay with Caleb. Or with Claire and Tante Lulu. They like me.” Lizzie was back to wearing her plain clothing, which he’d insisted on if she was to stay with him, even for only one day, but somehow she’d managed a few English touches, like holes in her ears and pink paint on her fingernails. To say she was unhappy about his rules—no music, no dancing, no running around—would be like saying the Amish were a little bit strict. “That is so uncool,” she’d said this morning, stomping off. Since when did Amish girls stomp off? Lizzie was out of control, and he didn’t know if his parents would ever be able to reel her back in.
For now, Lizzie appeared to be paying attention to his outline for her day’s work, but he was no fool. His sister was just biding her time.
“I know they like ya, but ya gotta take things slow. Dat ain’t gonna let ya take off just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Slow? How slow can I go? Ach, fer two years I been talkin’ ’bout singin’. The next American Idol auditions are comin’ up in two months. I gotta get ready.”
Jonas groaned. He was sick of hearing about that ridiculous television program where Simon said this and Paula said that. Where she was watching the show, he had no idea, and he didn’t want to know. “Lizziebelle,” he began, “ya can’t give someone castor oil and expect them to drink the whole bottle. Ya gotta give ’em one sip at a time.”
“Oh, so now I’m castor oil? Why dontcha just call me pig poop?”
He had to grin at her choice of words. “I’m willin’ ta intercede with Dat for ya. Ask ’im if ya can stay with me for a bit. But there’s gotta be rules, and for sure and for certain, ya can’t—”
His words were cut off by the roar of an engine and blare of a horn as a dark green Jeep sped by. He and Lizzie stared at the vehicle and then at each other. “Caleb,” they said as one. And he was headed in the direction of the old homestead.
“Uh-oh!” he said, sensing trouble.
Lizzie was smiling, relishing the idea of trouble.
Both of them jumped into Jonas’s pickup truck and followed after Caleb.
Jonas couldn’t help but ruminate on the sad state of his life. Caleb was back but would soon return to a life of sin. Lizzie had been singing last night in a house of sin. A woman in red boots, of all things, had tried to entice him into sin. And he had an awful bad suspicion that there was gonna be some sinnin’ in his future.
What else can go wrong?
He could swear he heard laughter in his head.
Can’t we all just get along? . . .
Samuel Peachey watched as two vehicles came squealing into his yard, making more noise than pigs being chased by a swarm of honeybees. It was his sons Caleb and Jonas and his daughter Lizzie.
Tears welled in his eyes on seeing these three lost sheep of his, back where they belonged. Home. But no, that was two lost. Lizzie was not yet lost, although she was ferlunkin if she thought he would not notice those holes in her ears and the painted nails she tried to hide in her apron when he’d seen her over in Spruce Creek yesterday. Of his nine children, these three were the most willful and wild, and he loved them so much his heart ached.
But he was Amish to the bone. Came from five generations of Anabaptists before him. He was a divided man and had been unable to find a way to reconcile his love of God and love of family for seventeen long years. The shunning practice was evil, to be sure, but a necessary evil. Or so he had always believed.
Rebekah came out on the porch to stand beside him, wringing her apron with dismay. They had been married for forty-three years come November, long enough for him to recognize the silent plea in her eyes: Don’t be so stern, Samuel. Even the strongest tree’s gotta bend sometimes. It was a message she’d delivered repeatedly ever since they’d “lost” their two sons to the Ordnung.
He put an arm over her shoulders and squeezed, trying to reassure her, but in truth he had no idea how to proceed with these three errant fruits of his loins.
“Hullo, Caleb.”
“What the hell have you done?” Caleb shouted at him.