Till I Kissed You (19 page)

“What's in the bag?”

“Arsenic,” he deadpanned.

Her gaze startled back to his. The animosity that crackled around them lost its potency with the small laugh that snuck out of her. She sauntered closer, her movements more relaxed. “You wouldn't poison me. You'd dump me kicking and screaming in the swamps with a bunch of gators.”

He made a scoffing sound. “You'd stumble out weeks later wearing alligator boots. You're a survivor.”

She laughed a full-bellied laugh this time and came close enough to brush his arm as she pulled the bag closer. “Chicken, broth, vegetables. Am I making soup?”

He tugged the bag back toward him. “No.
I'm
making soup. Go lay down.”

“But—”

“Woman, let me do this. I feel bad enough already.”

“Why do you feel bad?”

For a multitude of reasons he couldn't admit to her. Not yet, anyway. “I think the Saints are playing a preseason exhibition game.”

Her gaze probed deeper, but he resisted. “I'm a Cowboys fan, I'm afraid,” she said with faked regret and flopped on the couch.

He sucked in a breath. “So do you want me to go heavy or light on the arsenic?”

Her giggles echoed over the back of the couch, and he smiled as he pulled down a stockpot hanging from the ceiling and found a cutting board and knife.

The TV transmitted the sounds of football as the smell of chicken noodle soup filled the air. He left it simmering. She was lying on the long side of the L-shaped couch under a blanket. He pressed the back of his hand against her cool forehead. Before she could protest or bat it away, he moved to the short end of the couch.

“Diagnosis, doctor?”

“You'll live.”

They watched the game progress in companionable silence. Her feet stuck out of the blanket close to his hip. “How's your foot? All healed up?”

Before he could consider his action or she could protest, he scooted closer and pulled her feet onto his lap. He examined the bottom, the place where the thorn had pierced—still visible but healing. Her toes were painted a mint green today.

He rubbed both thumbs down the sole of her foot and massaged the ball. She flipped to her back, a soft whimper coming from her throat. He looked up, but her eyes were closed, an arm thrown over her head.

He worked his thumbs down her foot again, watching her face. A sigh accompanied a slight smile. Her enjoyment was obvious so he continued, moving back and forth between her feet. The sexy, little sounds and her squirms drove him on. What kind of sounds would she make if he had access to her entire body?

His mind went back to the moment she stepped out of the bathroom. That image spurred him on and with his gaze on her face, he slid his hands up her legs, taking the blanket with him. They were smooth and soft. Her arm had moved to cover her eyes, her breaths coming faster between her parted lips.

He leaned in to kiss the side of her knee as his fingers caressed the delicate skin underneath. Color flushed her cheeks. He stayed attuned to her body's reaction and moved closer, her knees shifting apart as if they were partners in a dance.

He pulled the blanket off and dropped it to the floor at the same time he levered himself on top of her, between her legs, his arms on either side of her head.

“Regan,” he whispered. “Can I kiss you?” After the last time, he needed to ask, not wanting to push himself on her.

Her lashes fluttered open, her eyes as dazed as they'd been the night before in the throes of her fever. “Yes.”

His lips met hers in a gentle caress. The blistering need for her simmered in the background, overtaken by the desire to take care of her, but when her tongue touched his bottom lip, he caved to his baser instincts, slanting his mouth over hers, pressing her into the cushions with his weight.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, and he rocked against her. Their tongues sparred, aggressive yet playful. One of her hands slipped under his T-shirt to graze the skin of his side, inciting a raspy moan from his chest.

He shifted to run his hand up her leg from knee to hip, slipping his fingers under the hem of her shorts to the lacey edge of her panties. Her shirt was already bunched around her torso, exposing a line of skin above her shorts. He pushed it upward, exposing her bare breast.

He stared like a teenager getting his first glimpse of the female mystery. He'd been crazed the other night. Now, he would go slow, savor and explore and appreciate.

He cupped her breast and cursed the calluses along his palm. She didn't seem to mind his rough hands, arching her back. The weight and fullness drew his mouth closer. Her small nipple was peaked and begged for attention. He flicked his thumb over the tip before soothing it with his tongue.

She speared a hand through his hair, her pelvis bucking into his erection. Need superheated his body. He squeezed her breast, shifting so he could pull her shirt up and off.

She grabbed his wrist after he'd exposed her other breast. He stared at the pert nipple, wanting to give it the same attention he'd applied to the first.

“Stop.”

The single whispered word froze him. Confusion was overtaking the desperate need on her face. He waited for her move.

*   *   *

She let go of his wrist and covered her breasts. Friendly teasing had turned into a sensual foot rub that morphed into a full-on make-out session. Her skin prickled, overly sensitive where it rubbed against the cotton of his shirt or the denim of his jeans. Was her fever returning or was it simply desire?

She should push him off, but his weight felt good. No, better than good, he felt incredible. She had to stop herself from wiggling and rocking under him. Her mind and body were both weak from the fever, leaving her vulnerable, physically and emotionally. He was staring as if waiting for a guilty verdict—expectant yet morose.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was raw and cracked.

He cocked his head as if it were a trick question. “Kissing you. Don't you want me to?”

Her body wanted him bad. Her body didn't care if he took her again and walked out. But the rest of her cared. Too much. “I mean, what are
we
doing, Sawyer? If you're here to get your rocks off with an old flame, then leave. I don't need a fuck buddy.”

“I swear I didn't come over here with the intention of … getting my rocks off.” Although his expression stayed serious, humor lilted the words. Anger burned a path through her, incinerating the lingering desire.

She bucked her hips against him. “Get off me.”

He pushed off, and she sat up. The pillow acted as a shield at her chest.

“I don't know what we're doing, but I don't want to go back to the way things have been,” he said.

She squelched the leap of hope at his words. “We both know where this will lead, and it's not pretty.”

“Maybe the past isn't as important as the future.”

God, she wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe they could wipe everything clean and start over. But even if the past wasn't as important, it shaded every future decision. It was how people learned. Past mistakes were not to be repeated.

“I don't trust you, Sawyer.” She stared at the fringe on the pillow as the truth of her past emerged. “I want you to leave.”

His head dropped and his sigh was heavy. Tension grew tight in the stretched silence. He rose. “You've been sick, and I'm sorry I took advantage. I'll go. But sometime, I want to talk to you about that trust problem.”

She stayed on the couch. He'd shown himself in, he could show himself out.

“The soup's ready. Enjoy and rest up.” His voice echoed from the entry. The door snicked closed.

She didn't even have the energy to cry. She flopped back down, pulled the blanket back over her, and slept.

 

Chapter Fifteen

Regan was fully recovered by the time Tuesday's budget vote rolled around. Mr. Neely presented his results of the reassessments. Although Ms. Martha was in attendance and squirming in her seat, she didn't argue. Considering she'd come out the best of any business owner, she had no right to complain. The slight changes to tax income had already been incorporated into the budget, and it was adopted by a seven-to-four margin.

With the budget passed, she could move forward and finalize details of the festival. Most of the vendors were local, but some were from out of town and required a substantial down payment. The festival committee was meeting the next afternoon, and she needed to have her list ready.

Through the relief and the lists scrolling through her head, disappointment lurked. She glanced at the double doors on the side for the umpteenth time. No Sawyer. She exited through the side door and into the cool marble hallway. It was deserted, just like it should be.

A cacophony of voices crested as she turned the corner. The meeting attendees had poured out of the stuffy room to discuss and gossip in the atrium.

Deputy Preston's six-foot-four, former linebacker body scythed through the crowd. Their gazes met and he made a “come-on” gesture with two fingers. He retreated toward the door without looking over his shoulder to confirm her compliance.

The crowd closed the path he'd made, so she skirted around the edges, giving out smiles and sound bites, but not stopping. The deputy wasn't waiting at the door, but she could see the red and blue lights of his cruiser casting bright circles.

He was sitting in the driver's seat with his legs out, talking on his phone. She shifted on her heels and looked to the sky, but the stars hid behind dark clouds tonight.

“She's right here.” The deputy garnered her full attention. He didn't look up, only checked his watch and said, “We'll be there in ten.” He disconnected and slipped the phone into his belt holster.

“What's going on?” Her stomach tumbled and rolled like a rock kicked down an endless hill.

“Your shop's been vandalized.”

She grabbed her throat. “Not set on fire?”

“No. Ransacked. We need you to identify anything that's missing.”

“Of course.” She stumbled to her car in a dream state. While the pavilion fire and the basket cutting had caused damage, neither had been aimed directly at her, but at the festivals in general. Even the man outside of her mother's had been after her tomatoes.

This seemed personal. Her shop was her livelihood. She drove the route on autopilot, passing by so she could prepare herself before going in. A jagged hole marred the plate-glass window in front. The breeze swung the drawn blinds forward and back. The door stood open and light poured out.

She took a spot in front of a black and tan cruiser. She considered going home and crawling under her covers. Deputy Preston rapped on the driver's side window, making her squeak. He chucked his head toward her shop and walked off.

She turned the car off and followed, her ankles wobbly in her heels. Her head circled all the possibilities and problems. How big a loss? Would her insurance cover it? How soon would the security system people be able to hook up her house alarm? Who would do this? Was it the man from the garden? Had Sawyer heard?

Broken glass crunched under her heels. She took in a bracing breath and stepped into her studio. Everything was in disarray. Down feathers covered everything in a layer of white, small pieces floating in the air like snow.

“Try not to touch anything,” the deputy said.

Her gaze darted around the room, taking an inventory from memory. It appeared as if her display of pillows had taken the brunt. She walked a circle around the room. Everyone was quiet. She poked her head into her office.

A woman in plain clothes and wearing gloves sifted through the swatches on the back table. S
TOP THE FESTIVAL OR ELSE
was written across the wall in red spray paint. The irony was not lost on her even though the message contained a threat her stunt with red spray paint on Sawyer's wall back in June didn't.

Her bolted-down safe appeared untouched. Not that there was much to steal inside. Saturday morning was her deposit day. The cabinet drawers hung open, files scattered on the floor. And her whiskey bottle was gone. It had been three-quarters full.

“Can you open the safe? Verify the contents?” Deputy Preston's voice came over her shoulder.

Regan squatted down and opened the safe. Everything was how she remembered it, but she pulled out her petty cash box and counted the money.

“Everything's here. And, it appears most of the damage was superficial. The pillows made a big mess, but they're honestly the cheapest things in the shop. Where's the chair he used to break the window?”

“Why do you assume it was a man?” Suspicion colored his tone.

Regan shot a side-eye toward the deputy. “I assume the chair that went through the window was the oak armchair in the display. It's solid. Not that a woman couldn't lift it, but did you forget about the man I reported out at my mother's? Seems a little too coincidental, don't you think?”

The deputy hummed, not giving away anything. “We found the chair on the sidewalk and moved it out of the way. Beyond the damage, is anything missing?”

Reporting a mostly full bottle of Jack as the only missing item would no doubt be a story for the ages. “The important stuff is still here.”

The deputy herded her toward the door. “We're going to be awhile finishing up. No need for you to stay. You can contact your insurance tomorrow and begin cleaning up.”

She had a niggling feeling the deputy wanted her gone and whirled on him. She was on the sidewalk while he had his hands braced on the doorjambs, blocking her reentry. “I had nothing to do with this. You were in the budget meeting tonight same as me.”

“True.” A sharp nod accompanied the single word.

“So…”

“We're not sure when this happened. I'm not accusing you of anything, Miss Lovell, but I need to stay impartial and keep non-police personnel to a minimum while conducting the investigation.”