I Think I Love You (21 page)

"I'm entertained." Not to mention on edge.

"I figure this girl thought she was off the hook because the bad guy was locked up. Only now she's starting to have doubts. Maybe the small-town investigation took a few shortcuts to bag the most obvious guy and left a killer walking the streets—"

"That's enough," she cut in, then wiped her mouth and tried to smile. "I mean, murder isn't exactly dinner conversation, is it? I almost prefer you when you're hitting on me." She drained her beer.

He studied her for a few seconds, then smiled to break the tension. "And that was my plan all along."

She pushed away her plate. "Whew, I'm stuffed."

"You barely ate."

"Excuse me; I'm going to the ladies' room." She pushed to her feet too abruptly for the alcohol she'd consumed, but he saved her chair and even stood up when she left the table, damn him. She hurried to the rest room and claimed a stall for pacing. So that's why he'd tracked her down tonight—he'd chained together all the pieces behind her secret. How stupid of her to borrow his laptop and ask questions about the auction site. She'd known him for three lousy days, yet he'd managed to inject himself into the most vulnerable area of her life and psyche.

The man was dangerous, on more than one level.

She washed her hands and dabbed cool water on her neck, then tried to repair her French twist. Her reflection revealed the extent to which Mitchell and the beer had compromised her barriers—pink cheeks, bright eyes, glistening skin. She looked as if she'd already been tumbled. She inhaled and exhaled a few times, telling herself she didn't have to own up to anything the man had said—it was purely conjecture on his part.

At the same time, she acknowledged a smidgen of relief to have heard the words come out of someone else's mouth instead of her own. And even if she didn't acknowledge the truth of his words, the conversation itself had relieved a good amount of tension that she hadn't even realized had built up over the past twenty years.

She returned to the table, feeling much refreshed.

"Better?" he asked.

"I'm ready to go."

He looked surprised but he relented. He tossed a few bills on the table and walked—much to her annoyance—with his hand at her waist until they were at his big van. Night had fallen and the hot summer sky was filled with sparkling stars. Strains of the restaurant beach music carried on the air. In the distance, the top of a lighted Ferris wheel could be seen from the carnival set up in what she guessed was the high school parking lot. Because of her dress, he helped her climb into the passenger seat. It put them on eye level, and she saw that he wanted to kiss her. She wet her lips and waited, her heart pounding like a teenager's. Ten seconds, fifteen. Then he stepped back and closed the door.

Some of the happiest moments in life result from rash decisions. You should try it sometime.

Let people live their lives, and get one for yourself.

While he circled the front of the van, she calmly took off her glasses. He climbed in and closed his door, then did a double take. And before she could analyze the good sense of it, she leaned toward him and kissed him soundly. His initial surprise quickly faded into hungry compliance, and he gathered her closer. His mouth was warm and fragrant and flavorful. His touch was just gentle enough to show restraint, just firm enough to show enthusiasm. His hands slid down her back and pulled her onto his lap. She was a goner.

A knock on the window startled them both. "Hey!" A man was at the next car with his big-eyed family. "Get a room, why don't you?"

They looked at each other and laughed. "Okay by you?" he asked so carefully that she couldn't even pretend to resist. She nodded, and they were at the Russell Motel, Room Number 8, in record time. "It's not fancy," he said, turning on the light "But it's clean and the bed is king-sized."

She blushed down to her knees, Sam was thrilled to see them and gave her his standard greeting.

"In the bathroom with you, pal," Mitchell said, and led him across the room. "I'm not sharing."

When Mitchell returned, he extinguished all but the minimum of lights and looked her up and down with serious brown eyes. "Regina Metcalf, you are one great-looking woman."

She didn't know what to do with her hands. The synopsis of every sexual how-to manual she'd ever edited flashed before her eyes. DO this. DON'T do that. DO this twice—but only if he does
that
first.

Her mind spun with an impossible array of tips and techniques and tactics to guarantee an unforgettable sexual encounter. Caress. Lave. Linger. Tuck, clench, moan—or was it clench, moan, tuck? Too late, she realized it didn't matter—the
Top Ten Types of Men to Avoid
only wanted big breasts anyway. She folded her useless hands over her chest. In the face of impending inadequacy, she felt compelled to offer her own disclaimer. "M-Mitchell, I just want you to know, this isn't the kind of thing I normally do."

"I know." He lifted his T-shirt over his head.

Gaping was not sexy, but she couldn't help it. The man was... wow. Broad shoulders, smooth skin, indented muscle, smattering of dark hair that whorled into the waistband of his jeans. He extended his hand, and she went, acting on pure instinct. To hell with the how-to manuals.

They kissed past the point of her patience, so she started losing clothes. He followed suit but never took his eyes from her. When they were both nude, he caught her by her hands and pulled her down on the bed with him. She was overwhelmed by his blatant want of her, and by her own urgency.

But he slowed their frantic pace with a thorough exploration of her neck, breasts, and navel, then returned to her breasts unapologetically. She arched into his mouth, skimmed her hands over his shoulders, and drew his male scent into her lungs. The hardness against the inside of her thigh triggered a hum low in her stomach, a timeless calling that he answered by sliding his body higher. She unfolded beneath him, shamelessly female in that moment, and their bodies met to the tune of relieved murmurs. They clasped hands overhead, found a rhythm, and rocked with a fluid intensity that tested the limits of the bed. For the span of several long breaths they filled each other again and again. He kissed her feverishly and whispered in her ear, coaxing her to an explosive end of bright lights and involuntary shudders. Then his body was wracked with the spasms of his own release.

She closed her eyes and absorbed the sensation of his relaxed body entwined with hers, reveling in the immediate security of afterglow before the inevitable aftermath set in. As long as neither one of them moved, they could fake it a while longer. But they must have been more vocal than either one of them realized, because Sam's insistent barking from the bathroom invaded their world.

Mitchell laughed and lifted his head. "Sam, that's enough." The dog fell silent. "He thinks you're hurting me," he murmured against her neck, then carefully rolled onto his back. "Although I can't be sure I didn't strain something."

She laughed, relieved at his ease. And why not—it was just sex, after all, a summer fling. Hormones and high temperatures.

He found her hand on the bed between them. "Stay the night."

She closed her eyes in the semidarkness—his offer was soooooo tempting. "No, I should get back so no one will think... I mean, so no one will worry."

He rolled onto his side and picked up a strand of her hair. "I guess I wouldn't want Deputy Pete to get the credit for putting color in your cheeks."

She smiled. "Well, no one said I had to go right away."

His laugh was low and throaty. "I'm not as young as I used to be. Give me about ten minutes." He sighed and pulled her hand onto his stomach. "You were going to tell your story to Pete tonight, weren't you?"

She hesitated, but the cloak of darkness and the touch of his big hand made her feel safe. "Something like that."

"I wondered if you were with him when you saw whatever you saw, but then I remembered when he told you about the hearing. He was completely unaware of your reaction." He squeezed her hand. "You were with your sisters, weren't you?"

She swallowed audibly. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you protect them."

How could a man who made his living in the junk business be so insightful? "Even though my family is in shambles, they mean everything to me."

"I'd just hate to see you compromise your principles for your sisters' sake."

She tried to find shapes in the shadows on the ceiling. "You don't know what it's like to love your siblings so much that you'd give up just about anything for their happiness."

"I have some idea."

He used his thumb to make circles on her palm—why did that strike her as intimate?

"By the way, if you decide you need an attorney, let me know."

She'd forgotten his brother lived near Charlotte. She didn't think the situation would get to that point, but she didn't want to drag out the subject. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He pulled her over to face him. "And your ten minutes are up."

Chapter 17

DON'T trust a man farther than you can blow—er, throw him.

Regina had forgotten what good sex could do for a person's disposition—she winced slightly as she descended the stairs—and for a person's muscle tone. She'd slept in and decided to have breakfast with her sisters before going off to face Mitchell in morning-after mode. She'd waited for regret to settle in for her lapse last night, but truly, the only thing she regretted was that she only had a few more days off work to... exercise.

From her purse she retrieved her cell phone and sat on the bottom step to call her office. Jill answered on the second ring.

"Miss me?" Regina asked.

"Boy, oh boy—it's been dull around here without you. I hope you're having a good time down there."

Regina smiled. "Things are fine."

"Any old flames flickering around?"

She laughed. "No."

"How about new ones?"

Regina twirled a hank of hair at her ear, feeling like a co-ed. "I'll have to get back to you on that one."

"No way—you met someone? What does he look like?"

"Think Brad Pitt meets Harrison Ford."

"I'm going to kill myself. What does he do for a living?"

"He appraises antiques."

Pause. "Oh. That's... different. Maybe he can write a book for us."

"How's my African violet?"

"I've been giving it coffee, just like you said."

"And?"

"And it's not dead. Will you be back in the office Monday?"

"Actually, something has come up that might delay my return by a few days."

"Does this have anything to do with the junk man?"

Only indirectly. She was going to talk to Mitchell today about consulting with his brother regarding the best way for her to divulge the information she had on the Bracken case. She'd say that she alone had witnessed the murder and seen the murder weapon—partial perjury was better than not telling at all, she'd decided. Then she'd explain about the letter opener on the Internet auction site, and she would have done her civic duty.

"Are you there?"

"Yeah. Um, no, it doesn't have anything to do with... him. It's family business."

"Okay, I'll let Gene know. By the way, have you had a chance to talk to your sister about a quote for the Laura Thomas book?"

She winced. "I completely forgot. Actually, Mica is here—a surprise visit. I'll ask her today."

"Great. The Betteringly manuscript came in, and the Jarvis proposal for the next parenting book."

"Good. By the way, I am getting
some
work done—I brought a manuscript from the slush pile with me that might turn out to be something."

"We like to hear that."

"And I need for you to give Gene a heads-up in the staff meeting today. My uncle Lawrence Gilbert is in town—"

"The politician? He's your uncle?"

"Yes. If he wins the North Carolina Senate race this fall, he said he'd consider bypassing offers from other houses to do his memoirs with us if I work on the project." Who knew—the Bracken hearing might turn out to be an interesting footnote.

"Gene will wet his pants."

"And on that note, I'll let you go. I'll check in with you again later in the week, when I know more about my schedule."

Regina disconnected the call and sighed, feeling better just knowing she'd made a decision. She considered talking to her Uncle Lawrence first but held out hope that the leads she provided would turn out to be nothing. If the judge determined that her testimony wouldn't influence the hearing arguments either way, the entire incident could be moot. But at least she could sleep at nights.

She heard laughter from the kitchen, and the sound buoyed her spirits. If there was a silver lining to the black cloud that hovered over the Metcalf family, it was the burgeoning reconciliation of her sisters. She pushed herself up, dusted off her jeans, and walked into the middle of a story Justine was telling.

"—and then Mica said, 'Senior prank, sir.'" Justine doubled over laughing, and Mica and Cissy slapped the table in their mirth.