Sunflower Lane (17 page)

“Chocolates give you peace?” she teased.

“No. You do.” His gaze was steady on hers. “When we went searching for Clay’s kid today and helped him get safely to his mom—that felt a lot like peace to me, too. You know something? I’m beginning to think that being around you brings me the closest I’ve gotten in a while to any semblance of peace.”

A rush of warmth flooded through her. And so did shock. For a moment she couldn’t speak. Silence settled softly over them as they stood in the parking lot facing each other. Dusk finger-painted the sky, drifting down slowly to envelop the town.

“I’m glad,” she heard herself say at last. “I . . . I feel that way when I’m with you, too.”

Slowly, he pulled her into his arms. She couldn’t help melting against him, and everything outside of the two of them floated away.

When he kissed her, the kiss seemed as deep and tender as the Montana night. She loved the feel of his brawny arms holding her close, and the way his warm mouth caressed hers as if they were the only two people in the world.

The kiss went on for a very long time. She breathed in his clean, outdoorsy scent, his warmth and dark male sexiness, as his tongue slipped through her parted lips and his hands slid down her body possessively. Intense pleasure flowed through her as the kiss grew hotter and need built, filling her until she thought she would burst.

He made her want more than a kiss. Much more.
He made her want
all of him. . . .

“Annabelle,” he breathed. “You’ve got to know, I think you’re amazing.” Then he kissed her again, more fiercely.

His mouth sent licks of fire through her as her hands slid down his back, and then he deepened the kiss even more, taking her to a wild, sexy, need-filled place she’d never been before.

“Wes, I . . .” she began, her heart pounding, but suddenly
a car roared into the parking lot, its headlights shining, music blaring, and laughter exploding through open windows.

Annabelle jumped and Wes lifted his head. He frowned at the two couples—twenty-somethings—who piled out of the Ford pickup and with shouts of hilarity raced right past them toward the double doors of the Lucky Punch Saloon.

“Guess we’d better continue this later,” he drawled. “Preferably some place a lot more private.” His lips quirked into a smile as he caught her hand in his. He nodded toward the restaurant. “This place okay with you?”

“Of course. I love the Lucky Punch. This is where we came to celebrate the night Trish and Ron got engaged. It was the happiest evening. Those two were so in love you could feel it in the air. That night they had their whole lives ahead of them.”

“Good memories, then.” Wes squeezed her hand as they crossed the crowded parking lot. “The kind to hang on to.”

“I remember everyone used to say that the steaks here were the best in town—and it seems a little quieter and more sedate than the Double Cross—but, maybe not, with
those
folks inside.” Her eyes danced as she looked toward the two noisy couples who’d spilled into the restaurant ahead of them.

“According to my sister, they also have a better wine list here.” Wes held the door for her.

“You . . . discussed our going out to dinner with your sister?”

“Sure. She called to invite me for supper tonight with the fam. When I told her I had other plans, of course she wanted to know what they were.” He shook his head. “By now, my whole family and half the town probably know we’re having dinner together.”

She flinched. His whole family. She pictured Diana McPhee, elegant and controlled and dignified. And wondered what Wes’s mother thought about this.

On the other hand, maybe she didn’t want to know.

Wine, I need wine.

“Charlotte knows, too,” she murmured. “So I’d lay odds the entire town is probably up to speed.”

“Hey, all or nothing, right? Be prepared for gossip and questions. And more gossip.” Wes grinned as he followed her inside.

Two hours later, after appetizers of mushroom bites and buffalo wings, after a shared bottle of wine, a couple of T-bone steaks, double-baked potatoes, and hot, buttery biscuits, they left the restaurant and drove leisurely back through the center of town.

It was quieter now, peaceful and shadowy, almost magical, Annabelle thought. The streets were mostly empty and silent, lit only by pale streetlights, soft as candlelight. The moon glowed in a deep amethyst sky.

To her surprise, Wes parked outside of the Lickety Split Ice Cream Parlor, just as it was about to close up for the night. The temperature hadn’t yet dropped into the fifties and he strode inside and bought them a couple of ice cream cones. They ambled over to the park, deserted now, quiet and sheltered by trees and shrubs and gardens.

Past the empty picnic tables, past the swings and the slide, there was a low bench, and a garden surrounded by shadowy elm trees.

Sitting on the bench beside Wes in the darkness, Annabelle licked her ice cream cone and gave a sigh.

“Something wrong?”

“Just the opposite. Everything’s right.”

But Wes heard another tiny sigh.

“Out with it. I used the wrong fork with my steak, didn’t I? Or stepped on your toes under the table? Tell me—I can take it.”

She laughed at him. “Wes, this has been an absolutely perfect night.”

“Good to hear. They don’t come along too often.”

And after everything that has happened today,
it’s a shock—a pleasant one—that the day turned out like this.
Connor must be home by now, in Helena with his mother. Clay was out of luck, having only narrowly escaped cooling his heels in a jail cell after losing his temper and shouting obscenities at Sheriff Hodge—not to mention taking an ill-advised swing at Deputy Mueller.

And she and Wes were . . .
here.

Here alone in this little park on a summer evening, sitting close together in the darkness. And for one moment in time, all seemed peaceful and right with the world.

“This evening is a small miracle,” she murmured.

“Actually, it’s a pretty big miracle—one you had a lot to do with.” Leaning back on the bench, he watched her, enjoying the delicate, sexy way she licked her ice cream cone, and wondering with a surge of lust how it would feel to have her tongue and those warm, crazy-lush lips trailing over every inch of his body.

Pure heat and need surged through him. He forced his attention back to the conversation with a supreme effort.

“Today could have ended very differently if you hadn’t thought of tracking down Shannon Gordon.”

“And if you hadn’t been there to explain the situation to Hodge when he showed up,” she pointed out, “it definitely would have ended badly. Especially for Connor. Luckily, Hodge respects you. He listened to you.”

“He’s a solid cop. Good thing he listened to Paige, too, when she finally got there, and he saw how scared the boy was and how happy he was to see his mom.”

Despite several enraged phone calls from Clay Johnson during the course of the search, Sheriff Hodge had arrived outside the closed-down chicken restaurant in time to speak
with Clay’s ex-wife when she came roaring up the road looking for her son. He’d listened to Wes’s quick summary of the situation without interrupting, had observed for himself how desperately the young boy clung to his mother’s waist, and noted how, despite the lines of worry and tension in her face, she had clearly and calmly explained that she had full custody of the boy, including an agreement from the court that he was allowed to visit his father twice a year, subject to her wishes and best judgment.

Clay had no right to keep Connor in Lonesome Way if Paige wanted him to come back home—and she’d guaranteed the sheriff that she’d fax him all of the relevant court documents to prove it in the morning.

Hodge, taking into account the boy running away from his father, then calling his mother in desperation, had determined that he had no real jurisdiction to force the boy to go back to Clay, and that Paige was fully within her parental rights to take him home.

There was no doubt Clay would fight that to the teeth, but he’d have to fight it in court, and that was his problem.

“All in all, today turned into a pretty awesome day.” Annabelle shot Wes a smile as she polished off her ice cream cone. “Because of you.”

“Don’t like to argue with a lady, but I’m pretty sure it was because of you.”

This time when he pulled her close, his kiss was long, slow, and hot as a stoked bonfire. Her heart somersaulted the moment his arms went around her, and then again when he drew her onto his lap. As he took the kiss deeper, his tongue caressing hers, she let out a moan of sheer pleasure. She edged even closer against him as one kiss followed another. She needed to be near him . . . as close as she could get. . . .

“Maybe we should . . .” Wes broke off after trailing warm
kisses down her neck. “Head back to my place. There’s . . . a helluva lot more privacy there.”

“How . . . long will it take . . . to get there?” she gasped as her senses swam and his warm lips scorched the hollow of her throat.

“Too long.” His voice was rough with need. He nibbled her lower lip. “Warn me when those kids are coming home—will that be first thing in the morning?”

“N-no, I packed . . . everything they need . . . and . . . Megan and Michelle are going straight to the community center with . . . Kaley. Mmm . . .” She tangled her hands in his hair and parted her lips as he kissed her like there was no tonight, no tomorrow, just
now
.

“Jimmy’s mom will f-feed the boys breakfast and then drop them at the community center,” she whispered as she traced her fingers lightly down his shirt.

“Now, that sounds like a plan. What the hell are we waiting for?” Grabbing her by the hand, he tugged her off that bench. “I just remembered something I forgot to show you earlier at the cabin.”

“Etchings?”

“Something much better.”

They ran, laughing, like a couple of teenagers toward the spot where he’d parked the truck. Soft night air blew through Annabelle’s hair, and the moon—a world away—looked huge and close enough to touch.

“Why . . . are we running?” she gasped at last. She felt like a schoolgirl, young and carefree and alive—more alive than she’d felt in a long time.

“You’ll see. There actually
was
something I planned to show you this afternoon before we got interrupted.” When they reached the truck, he opened the door for her. His eyes gleamed into hers.

“Tonight, honey—no interruptions. I promise.”

She plopped onto the passenger seat and turned to him with a big smile. “Cowboy, I’m going to hold you to that.”

After the black truck rumbled away from Main Street, a man stepped out of the darkened alley beside the ice cream parlor.

He was tall and lanky slim, in his late forties. He wore jeans and a red-and-black-plaid shirt. He looked no different from most of the other men in town, but he didn’t hail from this puny little nothing of a dump. He wasn’t even from Montana.

He was originally from South Dakota, but he was a citizen of the world. A fugitive with no home, no boundaries, no allegiances—except to the man who paid him. He lived and worked and slept in the shadows.

Blending into them now, he walked swiftly toward a black Silverado and vaulted inside. Keeping a safe distance between his vehicle and the truck he was following, he pulled out a cell phone and placed a call to the man who’d hired him.

“Got him. Nailed everything I need to know. And you’ll like this. Seems he’s got him a woman—she lives down the road from where he’s holed up. Seen them together a few times—yep, they look real cozy.”

He listened a moment, and smiled thinly. “Thought you’d say that. I can take care of them both—you sure you want to trouble yourself coming here? I can always send pictures of what’s left when I’m done.”

He said nothing as the old man on the other end of the line spewed out a dozen epithets that made his intentions clearer than clear. The man in the plaid shirt didn’t flinch.

“All right, then, I’ll wait for you to come. I guarantee you’ll enjoy the show. Got some real special plans for the two of them. When do you think you’ll get here?”