120 Mph (10 page)

Because of all they’d gone through
tonight, and all each wanted of the night that hadn’t come to fruition,
Christian’s answer was harsh. “I would rather be a complication than an enemy,
Sara. And if you can’t accept that, then perhaps you shouldn’t. . .”

Sara leaned back far enough to reach up
and touch his face. This gentle touch sent too much through him as a man to be
able to prevent leaning down and molding his lips to hers.

This newest kiss was meant only to state
things would be okay, and that life had an unseen benefit for both—though she might
not feel this way. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out as planned. The moment her
palm contacted his cheek and her wide blue eyes stared into his, looking for all
the answers he did not have—couldn’t even beg for them even if his life
depended on it—Christian was dragged into her silken web. A web so strong, fire
could not destroy and water could not replenish.

He felt tenfold the emotional pull as
earlier in their night. He wanted to help. He, as well, wanted to make love to
her. These two things should not be done—in the same timeframe or even the same
breath—when labeled the Reverend of Preacher’s Bend.

Sara would resent him if he even dared
ask for such a promise.

A catch formed in the back of his throat.
“I’ll make up the guest bedroom for you. You can and will stay here for as long
as you need.”

There was a catch in her throat, as
well. “Do you truly understand the ramifications of my being here, Reverend?”

Boy did he ever!
Those ramifications were screaming mountains in his head. To which he
contradicted. “What ramifications?”

He needed her to say them, for Christian
to believe they even existed.

“The ramifications that will come to
your front door, point judgmental fingers at your face, make your life
completely miserable, and perhaps mark you as a traitor to the entire town.”

“Let them point,” he informed quickly.
“I’m a big boy. I can take the heat.”

Sara looked at him with so much pity that
it tore at his heart. This woman just lost everything she ever owned or had
deemed valuable in her life, and she was giving him pliancy for what would come
his way once the town found out about this. This said a lot to him; as a man,
as a person, and . . . as her potential lover, if things went as God planned.

But this would be all she could ever be
to him—a lover. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Married, now widowed,
Christian was not going to saddle himself with a wedding ring again.

****

“I can’t wear this,” Sara sputtered. She
held out her hand to give it back to him.

Reverend Mohr seemed confused by her
denial. “You can’t sleep in the nude, Sara.”

By the look in his eyes, she knew he
wouldn’t have told her she could not if the desire for her wasn’t so strong that
it was making the poor man’s knees weak.

Sara had in her hand the top half of Christian’s
pajama set. He had on the bottom half—and looked so damn good, she was slowly
losing her mind. She would never be able to sleep in this mans’ house with him
looking so incredible.

She was human, horny, and vulnerable.
Didn’t he know this? Didn’t he care?

“Sara, it is the only thing I have within
my drawers to give you right now,” he determined.

To say her mind hadn’t strayed to the
other definition of ‘drawers’ would be a falsity. Sara had to do everything in
her power not to glance down.

“Then I will just have to sleep in the
nude,” she retaliated, staring at his face.

Christian stared back in horror.  “Like
hell you will!”

Her brow rose sharply. “Reverend Mohr!”

“Good Lord, Sara. I can swear, as much
as I a recovering alcoholic and can have sex with a woman who interests me, if
caring enough to make the effort and it’s done out of mutual consent,” he
smarted, making the words sting.

Unfortunately, the word sex had lowered
her eyelids without coercion of the muscles. And that sudden gaze drifting
downward checked Christian’s anger in breakneck speed. He cleared his throat
and stepped from the doorway.

Sara would be claiming his spare bedroom
for the foreseeable future. It was late. They were both tired. Dinner turned
out to be two lousy frozen dinners, with equally lousy conversation. Neither
was in any mood to open up a conversation on a grander scale since Chief
Berken’s terrible announcement. They could not bring up the subject of her loss
without it escalating into tears and unwanted sympathy. Moreover, neither cared
or needed either.

Chief Berken did make a quick phone call
to the Reverend to make certain he would not let Sara out of the house, or perhaps
he to be foolish enough to take her back to her burnt apartment before the
authorities were done with their investigation. He said it would be quite a few
days before the fire chief was finished with inspection of the premises, and
days more while the chief questioned all of her neighbors. After that, she
could go to her apartment to see what was retrievable—if anything at all.

By the sound of the one-sided
conversation, Christian doing most of the asking, Sara didn’t expect to find
even a single piece of her past still intact.

For now, she was to stay with Reverend Mohr
for safety reasons. Chief Berken said he wasn’t taking chances with a woman’s
life due to a menacing threat by note. Nor was Christian willing to do so.

She held out the pajama top to the man.
He shook his head.

Sara growled, lowered her hand, pulled
back, and slammed the door in his handsome face. She could hear the deep
chuckle as he moved across the hallway to his own room, the strong tone drawing
out the gooseflesh on her arms.

She gave it a few minutes more before
succumbing to the demands of not wanting to be cold over not wanting to wear a
man’s pajama top. Any other man’s and she wouldn’t have had a single qualm
about it.

Reverend Mohr was not any other man.
Even a confirmed Atheist knew this to be fact.

Sara strode toward the bed, set the material
on the quilt, and with a deep breath pulled her dress over her head. She stood
inside the Reverend’s spare bedroom as naked as the day she born. She may have
slipped off the tongue the lack of panties unwittingly, but she was braless as
well. With all her clothing burnt to a crisp, this looked to be the case for
quite a few days, if not longer.

Two seconds later, she slipped her arms
through the too long of sleeves in the pajama top, closed the buttons on a too
huge of shirt, and made a hasty glance in a mirror hung on the far wall. Christ!
She looked ready for sex. Her bared legs looked longer than really are, her
eyes bluer than they should be. A man’s pajama top on her slender frame came to
an inch below her bared ass and left little to the imagination.

She shook her head and nearly dove
headfirst under the covers to hide from her reflection. Cold sheets, strange
smells, restless mind and heart, all made it quite difficult to find slumber.
Yet somehow, she overcame those traumatic obstacles and drifted into nightmares
of the worst kind; nightmares that easily broke a person into heart
palpitations and cold sweats.

They’d come to haunt her every night for
the past eight years . . .

Hadn’t she been punished enough over the
years? The guilt far too strong to forget? No. Perhaps not. A pound of flesh
was gained in ounces, and Sara’s lost pound was leaving her by way of only the
miniscule of molecules.

She reached over, grasping the empty pillow
near her head. She’d been so close to having everything anyone ever needed and
some sick bastard with gasoline took that away from her.

The heavy tears started over again as
she stared off into an unfamiliar and equally unwelcoming bedroom, and for the
time being, Sara Ruby truly regretted being alive.

Chapter
Eleven

Christian walked into his kitchen in
search of coffee. What he found, instead, almost gave him a heart attack.

It certainly felt like one, as his hand
reached for his chest and his feet slammed on the brakes.

Sara looked to be making pancakes and she
was bent over in front of his refrigerator in search of his carton of eggs.

Christian closed his eyes and took deep
settling breaths before there was an actual need to move forward. A hasty
clearing of the throat gained him even more trouble.

Sara jumped at the sound, she hit her
head on the bottom of the above freezer compartment, whipped around . . . .then
smiled.

A smile that sexy could only spell
trouble to a man—and trouble with a capital ‘T’. Her entire face creased as her
cheeks pinked.

“Pancakes,” was all she said. Then,
thinking better of having him guess her thoughts, she added, “And I tossed out
all of the beer. Oddly, only one other can was inside the refrigerator.”

This news startled him into unwanted
reaction that was much too early without his usual gallon of caffeine.

“You what?”

“I dumped your beer down the drain.”

She stood tall, set her hands on her
hips, and this action unfortunately caused the rising of far too short of top
to begin with; a rising that was dangerously close to giving a man who’d been too
long without a delectable, Technicolor view of Sara Ruby’s incredible assets.

“What the bloody hell did you go and do
that for?”

He rushed toward the hotter-than-hell woman
making him breakfast, then slammed on the brakes the second her mutiny rose.

“It was dire temptation, Reverend. And
it should not be anywhere near you,” she reasoned.

“And you’re not?” This thought, by way
of horror, slipped off his tongue far too swiftly than could be stopped.

Thankfully, Sara averted her gaze. Her
eyes had been glued on his bare chest for the better part of ten dangerously
allowed seconds. Okay. Worst still, her personal attire when combined with
doing something out of pity became his undoing. Christian cleared his throat.

“I didn’t burn my apartment to a crisp,
Reverend Mohr. Nor was I the one who told me I had to stay in your house until
the authorities catch the creeps. I can’t help it by nature alone if you felt sympathy
for me—enough to offer me a place to stay. But if you have a problem with my .
. .”

Christian was inches from her by the
time this ended. In fact, he wouldn’t let her finish.

“I do not have a problem with you being
here, Sara. I have a really huge problem with you dumping out my beer.”

“Why?”

“It served its purpose while still inside
the can.”

“How?” she started; checked by the sharp
rising of his brow.

“It is . . .
was
. . . part of my
AA recovery process.”

Her mouth formed a perfect O. A very
sexy, very tempting O he could easily mold his lips to. Then again, it wasn’t
her fault by nature alone she’d thought ridding his house of temptation was in
his best interest.

Christian nodded, cleared his thoughts
from wanting to kiss her again, and confirmed it by voiced repeat. “Yes. Oh.
And it did work to a certain degree.”

Sara stepped back. “Well, if that was
only what it was for, I’ll buy you more, once I get access to my funds and the
chance to go out in public not dressed like this.”

“That won’t help, Sara.”

She seemed unsettled by this sudden
news. Her hands put to her hips again, the tone of her voice waspish. “Why not?
Beer’s beer, one can is the same as all the rest. Evil and destructive and what
brings men to their knees, doing foolish deeds.”

How could he put this delicately? And
still get his breakfast made? By the look on her face, anything less than
truthful would see him first in line at the gates of Hell; if not this morning,
then in the days sure to follow.

“They were the last of two cans in a
case of thirty that I drank the night my wife died. I consumed all the rest . .
. except the one can for my demons and the other for my sins.”

Sara’s face quickly paled. She grabbed
the counter and held onto it, her knuckles turning white. Her other hand moved
to her mouth. Shame filled her blue eyes and within seconds the pity regrew.

Christian was having none whatsoever of
Sara’s pity so damn early in his morning. He’d had too much of it last night,
and far more than he thought he could handle throughout his rather disturbing
dreams; when he’d finally fallen asleep knowing she was across the hallway—completely
naked under his shirt.

He took two steps forward and dragged
her into his arms, Sara setting her warm hands firmly against his bared chest.

Big mistake. Through her fingertips, she
certainly felt the rapid beating of his heart. And through hers’ he could feel every
degree of her heat, as if his own supercharged inferno had been stoked by
nuclear explosion. So it was only inevitable that his lips touched her mouth
and she kissed him back.

As their kiss deepened into the danger
zone, the doorbell peeled again. Shamed, they quickly separated, yet again
thwarted from choosing between temptation and need.

“What the fuck!” came out of his mouth
far too loudly.

Sara even glared as though the continued
interruptions were part of the plan to keep her from what she needed most.

This was the absolute farthest from any
truth, as Christian checked his thoughts, his reactions to those thoughts, and
made to answer his front door.

“Clothes, Reverend?” A hasty sweep of
iridescent blue eyes cast downward to his pajama bottoms.

He shook his head and very gently
removed her hand from his arm, prying off her fingers. “No. Whoever dares ruin
my morning is going to see me exactly as I am.”

Her hand made a hasty sweep over his
pajama top. “And they get the added pleasure to see me like this?” she asked,
horrified.

Christian smiled at her blushing face.
“It’ll certainly get the tongues wagging, won’t it?”

“In the wrong direction!” she yelped.

“Well, what would you have me do? Not
answer it? And then explain why I hadn’t to whoever might be standing on the
stoop and knows I’m home. My car is the driveway. Everyone in this town is
fully aware I’m non-functioning before coffee.”

Sara shook her head. “No. Go ahead. Just
don’t let whoever it is anywhere near this kitchen if you can help it.”

His grin grew. “Why? Are you hiding
something in here that shouldn’t be seen, Ms. Ruby?”

Her arms crossed her middle. Her cheeks
turned red.

They both knew there wasn’t a damn thing
she could hide under a man’s thin cotton pajama top.

More unfortunate, it was Harriet Thorn he
found at his front door. Mrs. Harriet Thorn, who got to witness him
half-dressed, and Mrs. Harriet Thorn who followed the scent of food like a
bloodhound set on the trail. She discovered the other half of his clothing on
Sara Ruby making pancakes inside his kitchen.

The darling Mrs. Thorn then got the best
start to any gossip line ever heard, as God is his witness, Sara bent too far
over to pick up a miss-tossed pancake . . .  and every gorgeous inch of her was
easily seen by the parting of his shirt.

“Why, Ms. Ruby!” Harriet stated crisply,
forcing her way into his kitchen. “You’re still here! And Dear Lord . . .you’re
not even properly dressed!”

Harriet averted her gaze from one
slightly naked woman with spatula in hand and who’d bolted upright directly in
front of his stove, to detour that gaze onto his paling face.

Christian found voice before the
situation could get much worse. “Then you haven’t heard the terrible news.” He
made this come out of his mouth as sarcastically as possible, since following
the woman’s hurricane path of self-righteousness toward the smell of food and
yet somehow walking into the realm of Hell.

Harriet Thorn knew everything there was
to know in Preacher’s Bend, or so she said. And she knew Reverend Christian Mohr
more did not cook. Or should he say, didn’t know how to cook. Therefore, if she
did not know Sara as being here, she wouldn’t be aware of Sara’s apartment as
being burned by arson. Christian could say he was finally one up on the woman.

Even more unfortunate, her eyes again
turned his way and she looked angrier than he’d ever seen the old bat by the
tart exchange he’d dared give her in return; more so, an elder churchwoman
brittle furious toward his and Sara’s state of undress so early in the
morning—and not married, or even dating.

Nor even knew each other all that much.

Her sharp click of tongue sealed the
deal for lack of any whip in hand to tan their hides.

Christian tried to act as nonchalantly
as he could under the circumstances. He headed to his coffee pot, while Sara
tried to hide her bared half behind the island countertop. He offered Mrs.
Thorn coffee by raise of the pot. Thank God neither woman noticed his hands
were shaking as he poured a cup of the steaming brew.

Mrs. Thorn shook her head, stating
firmly, “No, thank you. I only stopped by to pick up the prayer books you were
supposed to ready last night. And I would guess, by what I have found inside
your kitchen Reverend, you did not work on any of them as you said you would.”

Shit! He’d completely forgotten about
the books.

Christian could feel his nose growing by
each passing second, as almost giddy he’d thought of an easy escape out of this.
Poor little Pinocchio never really knew what he was missing by telling the
truth.

“I’ll bring them over to the Church
before noon. There are a few more details I’d wanted to highlight before the
ladies gave their okays to next month’s Bible study.”

Like . . . all of what he hadn’t done, and
was supposed to have accomplished before all of Hell broke loose within his
life, and that Hell in the form of one incredibly hot woman dressed in only a
man’s pajama top and inside his kitchen burning their breakfast behind her back.

As was said, Christian only lied when
necessary. And Thank God Harriet bought the lie without too much fuss.

“Fine, you just bring the books over to the
Church as soon as can be possible. There is a quilting bizarre a few of us were
planning to attend over in Sparta and we wouldn’t want to miss that, having to
wait around for you.”

Christian shook his head. “No. I am sure
you wouldn’t want to wait for me, Mrs. Thorn.” He knew the quilting bizarre was
the only place Harriet Thorn and her cronies could openly discuss the rest of
the townsfolk while not being overheard. Preacher’s Bend loved its gossip. But
those who lived down in Sparta loved more the juicy news about a place they
considered as being on the wrong side of the tracks.

About to say something else, Harriet
changed her mind, glanced hurriedly at Sara, then stated she would expect those
books before noon. She turned on heels, gave out a sharp nod, and left the
room.

Sara’s release of breath felt as if a
tangible presence while Christian hastily walked Harriet to his door.

In secret whisper, before crossing the
threshold, Harriet told him, “Next time you dare have a woman over for a sinful
tryst, Reverend, at least try to wipe that silly little grin off your face
before you come and answer your front door. I know you’re lonely, my dear. Ever
since Beale died . . . and with you still so young and fit, it must be rather hard
on you. But must you be so obvious about your conquests? Pancakes, really? A
bowl of cereal would have surely sufficed after a sinful night of debauchery.”

Ten seconds later, she vacated the
premises and left Christian standing at his open doorway, half-naked, with his
chin dropped to the floor.

He never heard Sara come up behind him
until she tapped him on the shoulder and tried handing him the cup of coffee
he’d poured when still inside his kitchen. She even took it upon herself to
close the open doorway he was obviously too startled to do.

“I take it that whatever Harriet said to
you before she left has you second-guessing the decision of my being here.”

Christian pulled in a deep breath and
gathered his thoughts together. He smiled, took a sip of his coffee, and settled
his nerves to a certain degree.

“No. She told me to wipe the silly grin
off my face the next time I dare answer my door in my pajama bottoms.”

He avoided an all-out discussion by
foregoing telling her any of the rest, or that the mere mention of things being
hard on him was giving him another painful hard-on between the legs.

Sara’s blue eyes reached over the rim of
her cup as she took a sip of the hot brew.

“Were you grinning, Reverend?” she dared
tease.

“Oh, Sara, my dear . . . grinning wasn’t
the only thing I was doing, apparently.”