Falling Hard and Fast (23 page)

Jed rubbed his jaw. “You know, I think Cage probably
could
have rearranged your face for you if we'd grown up together.”

Sully was offended. “If he was that good, this would be over already.”

“When this is over, I'll rearrange both your faces.”

The two men knew when to be selectively deaf. They pretended not to hear Zoey's gritted comment.

He put up a damn good fight, Sully thought, as one man was sent flying over Cage's back. But it was easy to see he was tiring, and with three opponents still in the brawl, there were always fresh reserves to rush him. Apparently, the same thought had occurred to them—they fanned out and approached him from all sides, pouncing at the same time, sending Cage crashing across a table. They were on him at once, fists flying.

“Well, shoot,” Jed said finally. “Now they're just piling on.”

“Nothing sporting about that.”

The two brothers looked at each other. Zoey gave a strangled cry and their attention returned to the fray. One of the Rutherfords had picked up a chair.

One second Sully was in front of her, and the next he was tackling the man, knocking the chair to the floor and sending a fist into his face. When a second body landed hard on top of Sully, he was rolled over. His short jab snapped the other man's head back. Jed waded into the fight, evening out the numbers. He focused on the Rutherford doing his best to strangle Cage, and left Sully to ward off the one rushing toward them with a broken bottle.

By the time the sirens in the distance had become uni
forms rushing through the door, the floor was littered with crushed glass and crumpled bodies. Cage, Jed and Sully picked themselves up and leaned against the bar.

“Looks like a bloodbath happened in here.” Deputy Baker flipped over one unconscious Rutherford and handcuffed him. “Want to file the report tonight, Sheriff, or wait?”

Cage put his fingers to his throbbing jaw. “I think I'll wait until tomorrow. You and Morris take some statements, get these guys locked up. They're going to be guests of the parish again.”

He grinned at Sully, but carefully. “I do want you to know, son, I appreciated not having to deal with that chair coming at me.”

Sully touched his right eye, which was rapidly swelling shut. “Well, it was looking kinda unfair by that point.” A tinge of admiration entered his voice. “But that one you sent flying over your back? Pure poetry.”

Cage clapped them both on the shoulders. “Did you see Jed here trip Garrett and send him toppling into Marvin? Looked like human bowling.”

One corner of Jed's mouth curled up. The other side was split and bloody. “You really owe me for the guy with the chokehold on you. I think he had to be knocked unconscious to set you loose.”

A quiet voice laced with latent danger interrupted their laughter. “Well, isn't this a touching picture of male bonding.”

All three of them straightened when Zoey approached them, and shuffled their feet self-consciously.

Her arms were folded across her chest to keep herself from reaching out and knocking their heads together. “If I'd known all it would take was some gratuitous violence to get you three relaxed, I would have beaten you silly earlier this evening.”

She looked ferocious enough to do it, too. Unfortunately,
her stance and words reminded Jed so much of his wife, Julianne, that he smiled again. It was a mistake.

“You!” She approached him. “You're still practically a newlywed! What will your wife have to say when you come home all bruised?”

He cleared his throat and strove for a straight face. “Pretty much what you said, ma'am.”

“You're the oldest of the three Sullivan idiots, aren't you?” Her glare dared him to disagree. He wasn't foolish enough to do so. “It's not too late for you to set an example.”

“And as for you!” When she whirled on Sully, he had to force himself not to take a step back. He wasn't used to wild-eyed outrage and tongue-lashing women. Ellie wouldn't have scolded. Not much, anyway. But her silent disapproval would have had him groveling within minutes. “You're a federal agent! Your superiors might have something to say about you brawling in a roadhouse with a bunch of redneck hillbillies.”

“Well, I think they'd understand once I explained….” The words dried up in his mouth when she pinned him with a look. “I guess you're right, ma'am.”

If the meek tone was meant to pacify, it failed miserably. Her focus on Cage now, she stepped forward, shoved her face close to his. “And
you
are the
sheriff.
” The words were measured. Her temper wasn't. “You are supposed to symbolize law and order in this parish. What are people going to think when they hear about you resorting to violence?”

He'd never seen her look more beautiful. “Isn't she the sweetest thing?” His tone had his brothers exchanging a look. Cage recognized the instant the heat in her eyes turned to flame and he held up his hands placatingly. “Now, honey, remember, violence isn't the ans—” The breath whooshed out of him when her fist rammed into his belly. “Good one,” he said weakly, his breathing strangled. “I think we could have used you in the fight, after all.”

She straightened, slightly more calm. “You three have ten minutes to get to my house so I can clean you up.”

“But I drove,” protested Cage.

She reached into his pocket, withdrew the keys. “I'm riding alone. If you were in the car with me, I'd be tempted to run it into a tree.”

He rubbed at the lingering ache in his stomach as she swung away from them and marched toward the door. His voice was marveling. “She sure is something, isn't she?”

 

By the time she'd sent Sully and Jed back to the motel, bandaged and holding ice packs to their wounds, she'd cooled off a little—enough that she fussed a bit over Cage, made him remove his shirt so she could check his ribs. She wasn't sure what broken ribs looked like, but he didn't flinch under her gentle examination. As a matter of fact, as she watched his face for signs of pain while she trailed her fingers up and down his sides, all she saw was…ill-concealed pleasure.

She scrambled upright and stifled the urge to smack him.

He tapped his lips. “It does hurt here.”

“Not as much as it could,” she threatened meaningfully.

Turning away, she gathered up the boxes of bandages, towels and the container of ice. He was silent as she cleaned up the kitchen, content to watch her for a time. She'd been glorious in her ire, but he'd recently learned the folly of saying so out loud. When there was no longer anything left to put away or scrub he took a risk and spoke. “How mad are you?”

She threw him a look that softened slightly when she saw him holding ice to his jaw. “Very.”

“You can hit me again if it would make you feel better.”

The words, delivered in that teasing tone, summoned a surge of embarrassment. She had never, in her life, hit anybody before, had never contemplated the volcanic emotion it would take to do so. Even when she'd learned the depth of Alan's betrayal, she'd done no more than plot revenge,
made sure he was punished to the maximum extent for his crimes.

Opening the floodgates to emotion, she was finding, could be downright dangerous.

She lifted a shoulder. “I think there's been more than enough violence for one evening, don't you?”

“My position, exactly. I was wondering if you would mind me staying here tonight.” He strove for an innocent expression. “Could be I'm concussed.”

“I'm sure your head is much too hard for that.” But she did wonder about the possibility. “Maybe it wouldn't hurt for Doc Barnes…” The panicked look he gave her had her weakening. “Well, it probably would be better if you had someone to check up on you during the night.”

Better, he agreed in smug silence, for both of them. He got to his feet, swayed a little. Immediately she was at his side.

“Where are you going?”

He set the ice on the table. “I'd like to take a shower. Wash the stench of Rutherfords off me.”

She could understand the sentiment so she helped him up the stairs, her arm placed carefully around his waist. “Careful,” she instructed. “If you feel dizzy, just lean on me a little.”

He did so, for the sheer pleasure of turning his face into her hair and inhaling the gut-wrenching fragrance that always lingered there. She guided him into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then she busied herself bringing out towels and a washcloth.

“Okay.” She set the items down, scanned the room. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Just you.”

Her gaze flew to his and she stood still while he closed the distance between them. Framing her face in both of his hands he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “You're all I need, Zoey. All I want. I guess that should scare me half to death. I know it does you.”

She moistened her lips, unable to look away from his smoky eyes, the intensity of his expression. “This is still new to me.”

He ruthlessly suppressed a surge of disappointment, and nibbled his way along her jawline. “I'm just asking you to give it a chance.”

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind where thought was already dimming, reason fading, she knew what he was asking for, and a familiar panic circled. But she didn't want to combat the fear and paralyzing doubt right now. With his lips cruising her face, his arms tight and strong around her, she wanted to wrap herself in that cocoon of intimacy that wove so quickly between them; to give herself up once more to swamping sensation.

She gave a little gasp as he released the snaps on her dress in one sneaky movement and pushed the straps of the garment down her arms.

“Two seconds.” There was fierce satisfaction in Cage's voice. “I've been wanting to do that all night.”

Staggered and aroused, she pressed her bare breasts to his chest, eyelids closing at the sudden rush of pleasure. Her hands wedged in between their bodies, fighting to release his pants. They broke apart for a second to dispense with their remaining clothing and then he caught her in his arms, guided her backward into the shower.

The stinging needles of spray were hot, sending shivers over her skin before it adjusted to the temperature. Cage's mouth was heated, too, and avid as it roamed her throat, her shoulders, following the tiny rivulets that cascaded down her. He closed his teeth over her nipple then, and drew deeply from her.

Her knees weakening, she leaned more fully into him. The sinews of his neck and shoulders were taut and straining beneath her fingers. She slicked her hands down his wet back to his hips, and kneaded the tightly bunched muscles there. His big body jerked helplessly against hers when she trailed her fingers lower, cupping his masculinity.

He raised his head, one hand shoving the wet hair back from his face. His expression was pagan; possessive. The raw emotion she saw there should have frightened her. Instead, she reveled in the fierceness of his need, a response that was equal to her own.

Lifting her with his hands beneath her bottom, he pressed her against the wall of the shower, wrapping her legs around his waist. She stiffened. The unfamiliar position left her open, exposed, and totally vulnerable. She clasped her arms more tightly around his neck, and their gazes fixed on each other.

He entered her with a slow, sure stroke that had them both moaning. He paused, buried deep inside her, and rested his brow against hers. “This is more, Zoey.” The words she'd used earlier that evening came back to her, took on new meaning. “You and me.”

Withdrawing from her a little, he surged again, his hips slapping against hers. Her vision hazed. She clutched him tighter. There was no room for thought, nothing between them but the pleasure crowding in, the sound of their mating, the feel of wet skin against wet skin. The sensations spiraled wildly, careening and cascading inside her with every thrust.

He worked his hand between their bodies, touched her where she was exposed and throbbing, and her hips twisted, pistoned against his frantically. They crested together, their labored breaths mingling, fingers clutching.

The water cooled long before their passion did.

F
lickers of candlelight waved and danced in the dark room, illuminating the couple in the tub. Zoey sat propped against Cage's chest, her head resting on his shoulder, sipping from a glass of wine. She had no idea what time of night it was; it didn't matter. Time had ceased to exist.

Cage's hand brushed her breasts in an absent caress. “I think I've died and gone to heaven.”

The purely male satisfaction tinging his voice made her lips curve. “Somehow I doubt you'd arrive there without first doing some serious penance.”

He bent forward and nibbled the cord at the side of her neck. “Honey, you're not still harboring a grudge over that little wager we made, are you?”

She pinched his leg, just hard enough to draw a wince. “Next time I'll know better than to be hoaxed into playing a shell game with an accomplished con man. Where'd you learn to bait and switch like that?”

One of his hands slid down her thigh and up again. “Tan
ner and I never missed the carnival in Trumbel Falls. The old guy who ran the game was an expert. I paid attention.”

It had been a combination of curiosity and competitiveness that had drawn her to accept his bet. Since the thought of losing never occurred to her, she hadn't been discouraged by the prize he'd named. In fact, the idea of one of them being a ‘slave' to the other for the rest of the night had been too tantalizing to pass up.

Her neck arched, allowing him better access to the spot behind her ear that had never been sensitive until he'd found it. He'd been an obnoxious winner, of course, insisting first on popcorn and sodas, then, after they'd both been stuffed, suggesting a full-body massage. That had turned out to be an exercise in mutual gratification, since having free rein to concentrate on his body had been as arousing for her as it had for him. And there had been no doubt he'd been aroused. Being a fair-minded man, he'd reciprocated, and their desire had re-ignited.

By the time he'd requested they share a bath, the hot water had recovered, but their bodies hadn't. She felt completely boneless as she relaxed against him, a sensation that had little to do with the wine, and everything to do with Cage.

He took the wineglass from her, sipped, and handed it back. “I'm thinking we can just stay in here indefinitely. As long as the hot water holds out, I don't see a blessed reason why we ever have to move out of this tub.”

She allowed herself a moment to consider the tempting possibilities. “It would take a while for anyone to come looking for me. But how long do you think you can be absent before a search party is sent for you?”

His mouth skimmed her shoulder, his tongue dancing over the curves and hollows. It was a moment before he responded, regret lacing his words. “I'm usually at the office by seven. I'd give them until seven-thirty before they track me down. And of course, the second place they'd look for me is here.”

His words gave her pause. “You think so, do you?”

“I know it. We were seen dining together at Jonesy's, after which we were dancing close while you gazed adoringly into my eyes.” Though she made a rude sound, he went on. “We left together so you could lovingly bandage my wounds…”

“You've got a gift for revising history. The way I remember it, we left separately.”

“But obviously with the same destination in mind.”

“How about the punch in the gut I gave you?” she asked sweetly. “Does that factor into the conclusion at all?”

His voice was dismissive. “Window dressing. Come to think of it, maybe no one will look for me until noon. We were obviously a couple intent on make-up sex. Everyone knows that can take all night and half the next day besides.”

She choked on her wine. “Is there some small-town handbook I should be reading? Something that will clue me in on these mutations of common sense that pass for customs here?”

“Actually, there is.” When she offered him the wineglass, he declined. He enjoyed having his hands free. His fingers slid down her sides, curled around her hips. “I've added a chapter or two myself along the way.”

“I can imagine which ones.” His caressing hands leeched strength from her muscles, and fired a frisson of pleasure along her spine. She no longer marveled at how easily his touch restoked her passion. Her automatic response would have terrified, if she wasn't becoming certain she wielded a similar power over him. For a woman who'd never given much consideration to her own femininity, the knowledge was heady.

“Maybe I'll add an entry to that handbook myself.” He made an interested sound, while nibbling his way down her sensitive throat. “One that dictates a day off for a sheriff who performs heroics in his off-duty hours.”

That had him lifting his head, a smirk sounding in his voice. “Heroics? Well that's a real sweet way to refer to
my love-making, sugar…” The pinch she gave him then had him hissing in his breath. She was dangerously close to a highly sensitive area. “Ah…I guess you meant me taking on the Rutherfords, didn't you? As I recall, you referred to those actions a bit differently earlier tonight.”

She guided his mouth back to the spot he'd abandoned. “Well, it's not my opinion, obviously, but the public might be thankful to have the parish scourged of the Rutherford clan, even for a few days. As a matter of fact,” her voice held a teasing lilt, “when you bring in Donny Ray you'll probably earn another medal to hang on your wall, Gauthier.”

The silence that followed her words was physically palpable. She could feel tension pierce his limbs. It permeated the air, turning it thick with unspoken regrets, none of which she understood. He lifted his head, and the air chilled the area his lips had warmed. An involuntary shiver raced over her skin. “Cage?”

She tried to turn to look in his face, but he looped his arms around her waist, keeping her stationary. It would be easier, he expected, to tell her if he didn't have to look at her while doing so. Easier, because he didn't know if he could bear to watch pity turn to disappointment when she found out just how far from a hero he really was.

“Heroics is a funny word. There were some in New Orleans who applied it to me a couple of years ago. It's never sat right with me.”

She reached for his hands, linked her fingers with his, then pulled their arms more tightly around her. She couldn't have expressed her feelings more eloquently.

He rested his chin on her damp hair. “There was a case I was working for a few months. Young women were turning up missing within a twenty-mile radius within New Orleans. Never found any bodies, but it was plain the disappearances were linked. The kidnapper wasn't particularly clever, just lucky for a time. His luck ran out. We got a description, discovered his identity, and began closing in on
him. Five women had been snatched from their families; it was a high-profile case in the city.” High profile didn't begin to describe the relentlessness with which Cage and his partner had hunted for the man. Concern in the department had risen in accordance with the number of victims. A task force had been assigned and Cage had made it a personal promise that the perpetrator would be caught before he claimed another victim.

He rubbed his thumbs lightly along the soft skin of her palms. The sensation helped center him somehow, pulled him back from the abyss his memory was approaching. “My partner and I tracked him to an abandoned warehouse. We called for backup, but we couldn't wait for the other units to arrive.” They hadn't dared wait when the screaming had started, the bone-chilling, terror-filled shrieks. They'd entered the building and confronted a hellish scene that still revisited in Technicolor reruns in his dreams.

His voice, when he continued, was hoarse. “Colby Neesom was a serial rapist who fancied himself something of a collector. Got the idea of setting up his own personal harem. The women…he kept them naked, bound and gagged when he wasn't savaging them. When we broke in he was attacking Amy Lou Travers at knifepoint.” He stopped for a moment as the crashing waves of memories engulfed him—the wide-eyed shock in the eyes of the women when they'd seen them, the terror and hope warring in the eyes of Amy Lou as the scene unfolded.

As if sensing the horrible brutality that was replaying in his mind, Zoey brought his hands to her lips, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. The sweetness of her action was so at odds with the scene he was immersed in, he felt a moment of vertigo, lost between two worlds. “Neesom pulled Amy Lou in front of him and put the knife to her throat. Kept telling us she'd die before we could get a shot off. But he was a bit taller than she was; part of his forehead was visible behind her. Only a couple of guys in the department could have made that shot. I was one of them.”

She knew, without his saying it, that what had happened that night still haunted Cage. She could hear the regret throbbing in his voice, recognized the unspoken pain that still lingered. “It was a horrible position for you to be placed in.”

He recognized the solace she was trying to offer, but wouldn't,
couldn't
accept it. “More horrible for those women, I expect. Most horrible for Amy Lou. Because I hesitated, only for an instant, although it seemed longer. Tried to weigh whether taking the shot was worth the risk to the victim; to decide if there wasn't some way to bring an end to it without bloodshed. When I saw Neesom's fingers tighten on the knife, I pulled the trigger. He'd plunged the knife into her throat a fraction of a second before the bullet hit him.”

The breath clogged in his lungs as he watched the scene unfurl in a mental movie fixed in slow motion; watched as the impact from the bullet blew away part of Neesom's brain; saw Amy Lou's body crumple; watched himself catch her, hoping that most of the blood on her belonged to her attacker.

And saw, once again, Amy Lou Travers die in his arms; read the condemnation for his hesitation in her lifeless eyes.

Zoey pulled at his arms to free herself, and twisted around in the tub until she was astride him. Both hands slid up to cup his jaw, and her lips brushed his with exquisite gentleness. In contrast, however, her voice was fierce. “Don't you dare blame yourself for her death, Cage. What kind of man would you be if you hadn't weighed her safety when considering that shot? Lay the blame for Amy Lou Travers's death squarely where it belongs—with her killer.”

He rested his forehead against hers, his arms going around her to hold her tightly. “Blame's a funny thing, honey. It doesn't shift around where you'd like to put it. It sticks where the doubt's the strongest.”

“Then that's where you start.” Her lips went to his eyelids, his cheeks, that straight arrogant nose. “You said it
yourself. Few could have made that shot. Yet you did, saving four women. Let it be enough.” The words were whispered against his mouth, her lips a fraction away. “Let go of the doubt, Cage.”

When her mouth settled over his he slid a hand up to her nape, cupped her head in his palm. He returned her kiss with all the emotion that still churned and frothed inside him. Minutes later, his attention focused on the woman taking him slow and deep inside her, he felt a glimmer of peace that had long eluded him.

And if it wasn't accompanied by a marginal lessening of guilt, it was, at least, a celebration of life. He'd accept that much for now.

 

Having decided his shirt was a lost cause, Cage walked downstairs wearing only his chinos. He needed to go home and change before work, anyway. So it was a good thing that he'd awakened in Zoey's bed alone, right? And that he'd soaked away the aches that were naggingly making themselves known this morning, also alone.

But no amount of convincing could make him resent his solitude any less. It hadn't taken him long to get used to the feeling of having Zoey sprawled out beside him. Or over him. Or beneath him. He tucked the erotic thoughts away. For the first time he was uncomfortably aware that there must have been a woman or two in his past who'd felt just as cheated when they'd awakened after he'd left during the night.

His daddy had always said, “What goes around comes around.” His relationship with Zoey proved the phrase true. The first time he'd been the one to want more from a woman, he'd chosen one who was wary about taking it; terrified about giving it. But the connection between them was too real to deny. Last night had only intensified it. It was past time Zoey accepted it, as well.

He heard her voice then in the kitchen, and padded softly in the direction of the sound. At first he thought she was
talking to Oxy, but as he neared, it became apparent she was on the phone.

Planning to swipe a kiss on the way to the refrigerator, he was halted in his tracks by the one-sided conversation floating toward him.

“That's great, Mark. I'm glad you liked it.” There was silence again, then she laughed delightedly. “From your lips to the publisher's ears.” There was another pause. “Just how long a book tour are you planning, anyway? That's a lengthy time to live out of a suitcase. Well, we can iron that out when I get back to Chicago.”

She continued to speak, but Cage stopped listening. Sheets of ice settled over his skin, a layer at a time. She was planning to go back to Chicago. There was no doubt about it. Maybe not for a month or two, but it was definitely on her mind. Leaving Charity.

Leaving him.

The frigid lance of pain that pierced him had the bitter sting of betrayal. He found it wasn't to his liking. It was easier, far easier, to feel anger.

She looked up then, saw him standing in the doorway. “I'll talk to you later, Mark. Let me know how negotiations go.” She hung up the phone and strolled over to Cage, slipping her arms around his waist and kissing his unshaven chin.

“You were sleeping so soundly I thought it best to leave you be while I made coffee.”

“And a phone call.” Unhooking her hands, he set her away from him, went to the cupboard for a glass. “Who's Mark?”