Controversy (9 page)

When he didn't answer her, she felt herself grow angry. “Just fix the tire and I'll go home.”

Again, he didn't move.

“Please,” she added with artificial sweetness, and batted her eyes just so, which usually had the effect of men giving her what she wanted.

“All right,” he finally agreed. “But I'm following you home.”

N
o doubt about it, he was dealing with a nut job.

Kyson expelled a long, tired breath, but kept his eyes focused on the black Volvo driving ahead of him. It had only taken him a few minutes to change her flat tire, but he had to admit he was more than a little intrigued by what really happened on the side of the road.

Whatever it was, it wasn't an ordinary blowout or even a nail that had flattened a brand-new tire. Frankly, it looked as though someone had stabbed it with a knife. But why would anyone do that?

Or why did she do it?

He remembered her dramatic exit out of Nicolino's and how she didn't even glance his way. Gone was the earlier flirtation and in its place was a marching Amazon giving him the cold shoulder.

Was it possible that she'd been jealous of his brother's so-called birthday gift? He considered the possibility, but then dismissed it as wishful thinking.

Well, maybe not so wishful since it was now clear that Michael Adams needed psychiatric help.

Minutes later, he pulled into Michael's driveway and watched her as she climbed out of her car. She gave him a short wave as she slipped a purse strap over her shoulder and then turned and headed toward the front door.

“Once she's inside, put the pedal to the metal,” he told himself, already shifting the gears into Reverse. However, when she reached the door, she stopped cold. He watched her for a few seconds but she remained frozen on the doorstep. “Good Lord. What is it now?”

Kyson shifted the car back into Park and then rolled down his window. “Is there a problem?”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “The door is open,” she said just barely over the hum of his engine. “I
know
I locked this door when I left.”

“I was right,” he mumbled to himself as he shut off his engine. “Crazy is never boring.” He climbed out of his car and walked toward the front door. “Are you
sure
you locked it?”

She nodded yes, but said, “I think so.”

He warred with whether or not it would be rude to ask her if she was on some sort of medication, and then decided that it would be. “Do you want me to go in and check things out for you?”

It was odd that she hesitated and again he wondered what type of game this woman was playing. One minute she was afraid of her own shadow and then the next she was direct and bossy.

“It will just take me a few minutes,” he said, wanting to speed things up a bit. When she looked up at him beneath the porch light, he caught the flicker of uncertainty in her dark orbs.

The muscles around his heart tightened while the ones in his pants hardened. What was it about this woman that intoxicated him so much? Why did his hands itch to run through her hair? Why did he crave her taste as though he was already addicted to it?

“Stay right here,” he instructed and then pushed open the door and entered.

Michael followed his instructions—for a few seconds anyway. Coming home and finding her door unlocked stunned and threw her off her game for a moment, but now she found herself growing angry at what had to be Phil's retaliation. Did he honestly think that he could beat her at her own game?

She was the queen of revenge and practical jokes. He would have to come harder than this. She started to march into the house behind Detective Dekker when something rustled from the side bushes.

“Who's there?” she challenged and then squinted for a closer look. The night silence roared back at her while her eyes started playing tricks with light and shadows. “Phil, if that's you and your cronies, the gig is up. There's a cop here and I don't think he'll find any of this funny.”

Her words melted into the night. Soon after, her anger upgraded to fury. “Phil, it's late and I'm not in the mood.”

Again, silence was the night's only answer and instead of staying put on the porch, she launched her own investigation around the house.

Meanwhile, Kyson had no idea whether Ms. Adams's home had been disturbed. The place looked in the same disarray as it had been the other day. He gave the place a casual once-over and then went back out to the front porch to find it deserted.

“Now where did she go?” He glanced around, saw that her car was still parked and then started scratching his head. “Not boring at all,” he mumbled under his breath and then searched around the house.

Spooked by how still and quiet the night was, Michael had trouble swallowing the lump in her throat because she expected Phil to jump out of the bushes at any moment. When she finally made it around to the pool area, she finally heard the heavy footfall of her elusive predator.

However, before she could get the drop on him, a tabby cat streaked in front of her. She jumped, screamed and lost her balance at the edge of the pool. Michael flailed her arms but she knew before her legs swept completely out from beneath her that she was going down.

A pair of hands appeared out of nowhere and she grabbed at them as a last bid to save herself. Instead, she pulled her potential savior into the pool with her. Eight feet of ice-cold water felt like a bed of needles pricking every inch of her body, but at least she had the presence of mind not to cry out or fill her lungs with the dirty chlorine water.

Now, more than ever, she regretted buying a house with a pool when she didn't know how to swim.

Something akin to steel bands wrapped around her waist and swept her upward where sweet oxygen awaited her once she broke through the water's surface. She chugged in as much as she could while trying to kick and splash her way back to the pool's edge.

“Relax. Relax,” Kyson barked. “I've got you!”

Relax?
How could she relax? She was drowning.

“Ms. Adams, if you don't stop, you're going to drown both of us. Now relax so I can get us out of this damn water!”

Going against her nature, she decided to trust this man. Still, she halfway expected to sink like a stone, but was relieved when they began to tread toward the metal stairs near the end of the pool.

“C'mon. Climb up.”

Again, Michael did as she was told though it now felt as if her jeans weighed an extra fifty pounds—and where were her shoes?

“Wait, wait,” she said, stopping halfway up the ladder. “I lost my shoes. You gotta go back in and get my shoes.”

“What?” he thundered incredulously.

“You don't understand. They're Prada!”

He didn't move nor did he say anything.

He couldn't.

“Please,” she added, purring.

“Fine,” he said. “Just get out of the pool.”

With a trembling smile, Michael finished climbing the ladder and turned in time to see Detective Dekker dive back into the pool for her precious babies. Despite feeling like a frozen Popsicle, Michael remained poolside while watching Kyson's beautiful body glide beneath the water. The man was truly poetry in motion and she was certain that magnificent body would be revisiting her tonight in her dreams.

When he broke through the water's surface with her shoes held high in his hands, she knew she was in love. Okay, maybe not in love, but certainly she had a serious case of lust. The man was a chiseled chocolate god and he'd just rescued one of her most prized possessions.

Surely that deserved a reward.

A hug.

A kiss.

Hot buck-naked sex with lots of baby oil.

Good Lord, when was the last time she'd had sex?

“Okay, I've rescued your shoes, there's no one in your house. Now I'd like to go home,” Kyson said, climbing out of the pool and thrusting her shoes and her purse into her hands.

Her smile died as she pushed her wet hair from her line of vision. “But—but—”

“Good night, Ms. Adams,” he said, marching off.

She turned and rushed after him. “You can't go like this. You'll catch your death in those clothes.”

He stopped suddenly and she crashed into his brick wall of a back.

“Oops. Sorry,” she said.

He turned and faced her. “Ms. Adams—”

“You know, considering all we've been through tonight, you really should just call me Mike.”

“Ms. Adams,” he insisted. “I'm going home because around you, my life seems to be in danger every ten minutes. I'll just take my chances with pneumonia.”

Michael never liked losing an argument, and not getting her way only appealed to her competitive side.

Plus, she was really horny.

“Okay,” she said and pulled her low-cut blouse over her head and flashed him with the sight of her large breasts nestled in a lacy pink bra.

“I just wanted you to know I have a perfectly good dryer in the house.” She unsnapped the top button of her jeans and watched as his mouth sagged open.

Yeah. She still had it.

K
yson wasn't thinking.

Well, not with the right head anyway.

He couldn't remember what Michael had said after she'd removed her top. His gaze had immediately dropped to the sight of her creamy caramel breasts that seemed to glow beneath the moonlight. When she turned away to walk back toward the house, he followed as if hypnotized.

There was a voice, although very faint, in the back of his head telling him to run to his car and get the hell out of there, but he ignored it and followed the sway of Michael's hips.

Entering the house, Kyson couldn't help but hesitate.

Michael stopped at the door and leaned against it with a taunting smile. “Don't worry. I won't bite…hard.”

The challenge was made and Kyson's lips curled as he crossed the threshold. True, it wasn't clear exactly what Michael Adams was offering or even suggesting, but he hoped—no, prayed—that it was going to be worth his while.

Michael closed the door and turned the lock.

From over his shoulder, he glanced back in time to catch her checking him out. When her eyes crept up to finally meet his, they held another challenge that made him hard as a rock.

“Wait here,” she said, heading toward the stairs. “I'll change and then bring you something so you can slip out of those clothes.”

He didn't answer. He was once again hypnotized by the sway of those magnificent round hips as they ascended before him. He followed as far as the foot of the stairs, gazing up as if looking toward the heavens.

In a way, he was.

When she finally disappeared from sight and he heard the soft click of the bedroom door, he finally blinked out of his trance and wondered what in the hell he was doing. Had abstinence addled his brain?

Kyson remembered the ditsy twins and knew that couldn't quite be it. He'd had no trouble turning down the women his brother had thrown at him, but one flash of Michael Adams's Victoria's Secret and he was practically salivating.

Would she be everything his dreams had promised? Would her skin be as soft, her mouth as intoxicating, her inner thighs…

Kyson closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, but still mumbled a “Lord have mercy.” If he allowed his thoughts to get carried away, whatever was going to happen between them could possibly end a lot sooner than anticipated.

His fingers attacked the buttons on his shirt. He removed it and then whipped the T-shirt over his head. Kyson unbuttoned his pants and started to unzip them, when he stopped.

Michael didn't exactly say anything about having sex—more like it was implied. Wasn't it?

He replayed what had happened by the pool and then fast-forwarded to when she'd walked up the stairs. Unfortunately, there were a lot of holes in his memory—at least as far as the conversation went—and he was still unsure whether being naked when she returned was such a good idea.

Maybe he should toss a coin.

 

Michael raced through her bedroom like she was in the middle of a three-alarm fire, digging through drawers and boxes, searching for her best lingerie. That's if she had any that fit anymore.

It had been awhile since she had cause to wear lingerie. She and her ex were behaving like an old married couple long before they had taken their vows. Surely descending the stairs buck naked was a bit too forward.

Wasn't it?

Drawer after drawer, box after box, Michael came up empty, which heightened her frustration and killed her mood. Here she had a gorgeous man in her house with the perfect excuse to get him naked and do sinfully wicked things to him and the best thing she had to wear was…flannel.

Maybe she should just go down naked.

Naked or flannel.

She sighed.

Maybe she should toss a coin.

 

What was taking so long?

Kyson wondered if he was the butt of a joke, standing in a strange woman's house in wet clothes. Yet, he stood riveted at the foot of the stairs, waiting anxiously to see what heavenly creation she'd wear as she descended.

A door opened from the top floor and every muscle in Kyson's body clenched in anticipation.

“Play it cool. Play it cool,” he coached himself, trying to prop himself against the banister, determined to be as suave and debonair as Denzel.

At long last, his curvaceous angel appeared at the top of the stairs—magnificent in…flannel.

He straightened from the banister and blinked up at the vision coming toward him. True, he'd envisioned something silk, perhaps with a little lace, or even something the other way around. So he was stunned to see the red-and-black midlength flannel gown, but Kyson had to hand it to the buxom beauty: she was the only woman he'd seen who knew how to make flannel
sexy.

He lowered his gaze and then worked his way up from her bright red painted toes to where a thin gold chain with the letter M bounced against her left ankle; his gaze then slid up thick, creamy brown calves that led the way to even thicker creamier thighs.

Blood raced from one head to the other at a speed that left him dizzy. Michael's short gown clearly outlined the dangerous curves of her body, as well as hinted of sweet promises of pleasure. By the time he took in her sly smile and her twinkling gaze, he knew resistance was futile.

Michael stopped before him. “Let's see if we can get you out of those clothes now.” She pressed a robe to his chest and made sure her right breast brushed against his arm as she stepped off the last stair and sashayed around him.

Of course he followed, pulling and unbuttoning clothes as fast as he could. He nearly fell on his face, trying to get one leg out of his pants, leaving him to hop halfway through the living room. He was almost panting by the time he reached the laundry room off from the kitchen.

Michael opened the top of the washing machine and turned toward him and stopped. It was the only thing she could do when fantasy crashed with reality. Quite frankly, fantasy paled in comparison.

This was no couch-potato cop with a donut belly. This man looked as if he was born and raised in a gym. Large and small mountains of muscle stood proud along his shoulders and arms, while his abs looked like rippling waves of chocolate.

“My, my, my,” she said, still smiling when he handed over his clothes and then slipped into the soft terry-cloth robe that, surprisingly, fit.

“I bought it as a birthday gift for my brother,” she explained. “It's coming up.”

“I hope he doesn't mind,” he said.

“But tonight is your birthday, right?”

He nodded.

She dumped his clothes in. “Then I guess I should see about giving you something…special.” She held out her hand.

He looked down, wondering what she was asking for.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” she prompted.

He swallowed. At this moment, he wouldn't be able to tell her his name if she asked.

“Your boxers,” she said. “Surely you don't think I'm going to let you walk around in wet boxers?”

He'd hoped not, but he was still unsure what was and wasn't appropriate. Quickly, Kyson decided to err on the side of caution and tied the robe closed before sliding out of his underwear, but he did do so with his eyes locked on Michael's.

Her smile inched higher before she glanced down. “Ooh, Armani. On a cop's salary?”

Heat scorched its way up Kyson's neck. “They were a gift from my sister,” he said.

“Sister?” She placed the boxers in the washing machine, threw in some detergent and started it. “Do you have any idea how sad it sounds that your sister buys your underwear?”

He chuckled. “You said this robe was for your brother.”

Mike shrugged. “That's different.”

“How?” he barked, incredulous.

“My brother is gay.”

Kyson's laughter faded.

“I guess my first question should be—are you gay?”

He started laughing again. “No.”

“Bisexual?”

“No.”

“On the down low?”

“No.” He captured her gaze again and then moved toward her until her breasts pressed against his chest and his steel-rod erection pressed against her soft belly. “I'm one hundred percent straight. I love women.” His gaze traveled down to where he had a damn good view of the double D's she was carrying. “I especially love voluptuous beauties who tease too much.”

Kyson, in a startling move, picked Michael up and sat her on top of the washing machine. “Now suppose we stop all this playing around and get down to business?”

She didn't respond, but he certainly had her attention. Brute strength had that effect on her.

It also had a way of turning her on.

“What are we doing here tonight?” he asked, standing in between her legs. “Did you really bring me in here so you could dry my clothes or…” Kyson leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers like a feather. “Are we going to play games all night?”

This was the moment Michael had been waiting for since Detective Fine showed up at her door. Now that it was here, she didn't feel so confident.

She was giddy.

Hot.

Nervous.

“Maybe we should start off by removing this,” he said, playing with the hem of her gown. He allowed a few seconds of silence to lapse, plenty of time for her to say no.

When she didn't, he pulled the gown up and over her head. He was blown away by the glorious vision before him. Rich, luscious feminine curves beckoning for his touch, caress and kiss.

And he was anxious to get started.

Pleasure rushed through Michael at seeing Kyson's open approval. So much so, she could feel her confidence dripping back into her blood. She deserved a hot, onetime fling, didn't she?

Her love life didn't need to end because she was staring down the barrel at forty and was divorced. She was still a woman with needs; needs that had been ignored for far too long.

Michael reached behind her back and unsnapped her bra.

Kyson gasped, stared for what felt like eternity before his strong hands roamed up her thighs, up the sides of her hips and then finally over to cup her full breasts.

She gasped, quivered and pulled his head forward so she could ravish his lips in a hungry kiss.

Instead it was he who ravished her.

From the moment his tongue delved into her mouth, she was lost. He tasted like Godiva and was as intoxicating as the strongest brandy. And good Lord, she loved the way the pads of his fingers kept circling her hard nipples.

Delicious.

He was the first to break the kiss, giving her time to drag precious air into her lungs. He lifted one of her breasts and locked his lips around the tip.

Michael's head eased back while her eyes closed so she could concentrate on his soft suckling and she could peel the new robe from his shoulders.

Kyson marveled at how the angel before him tasted even better than he'd ever imagined. He took his time with each marble-size nipple. Her long winding moans drove him wild, and with barely a thought in his head, he dragged her panties off her hips and down her legs and pulled her body to the edge of the machine.

“Open up for me,” he ordered.

Michael eagerly complied, loving how this man took control. It was refreshing.

Though she knew what was coming and even braced for it, she still sighed and melted when his long, strong fingers slid in between her legs and brushed along her clit.

“Damn, you're hot…and wet.” He panted. “You taste wonderful,” he added, seizing her lips and sliding in a second finger.

Michael didn't know how he'd done it, but tears surfaced out of nowhere while her body hummed in sync with the strokes of his fingers. The washing machine rocked beneath her.

Kyson couldn't remember seeing anything more beautiful than when Michael's lips separated from his. Her eyes remained closed while she took in three sharp breaths and trembled with the release of her first orgasm.

Wallet. Wallet. Where was his wallet?

He glanced around and saw the folded leather on the laundry-room floor. He picked it up, untied his belt and allowed the robe to fall.

“Stop,” she said.

He froze and feared that this would be the end.

“I want to see every inch of you,” she said. She was already more than pleased at what she saw. Kyson Dekker was a cop who packed some major heat as she guesstimated nearly double digits in length size. “Turn around.”

A lone chuckle fell from his lips as his eyes rolled skyward. “I'm not a model.”

“Maybe you should be,” she suggested. Her eyes roamed over every ripple of muscle on his dark body. “I swear you look good enough to eat.”