With an effort, she pushed the horrid incident to the back of her mind and walked into the den, plopping on the sofa to wait for the lieutenant. Funny how the remaining fifteen minutes suddenly yawned ahead, an eternity. Flipping through the newest
People
magazine to admire George Clooney did nothing to calm her jitters or distract her from trying to picture Howard.
Were the man’s shoulders really wide enough to block for the Tennessee Titans, or had the drama of last night only made her rescuer seem larger-than-life? A strong, capable leader. A gentleman.
“No guy is that perfect. Not even you, George.” She sighed, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table.
In her limited experience, God had a way of evening things out with infinite humor. Howard probably had gingivitis. Bushy nostril hair, flatulence, a pencil penis graced by teensy acorns—
A low rumble interrupted her dire predictions, distant thunder growing louder. She cocked her head, placing the noise. A motorcycle. None of her buttoned-up neighbors drove one. The cyclist in question pulled in to park outside her door, and shut off the engine. Kat’s heart did a funny leap as heavy boots scraped up her walk. Hesitated.
She was on her feet and moving toward the door even before the brisk knock. Squinting through the peephole, she saw nothing but an island of broad, muscular chest, leaving little doubt about who waited on the other side. Steeling herself against a second attack of nerves, she unlocked the door and stepped back. Swung it open.
And forgot to breathe.
Oh. My. Gawd.
Six and a half feet of gorgeous male perfection filled the entire entrance. A black T-shirt stretched over his buff pecs and taut abs, but the denim jacket hid too darned much from view. Her appreciative gaze slid down mile-long legs encased in soft jeans that hugged hard thighs and cupped the bulge of his sex like a glove.
Teensy
wasn’t a word she’d ever entertain in association with Howard Paxton again.
“Can I come in?”
Ohh, that deep voice, whiskey and tangled sheets on a hot summer evening. One more impression that had not been her imagination. Kat blinked up at her guest, who flashed a tentative smile. Embarrassed to be caught ogling the man’s crotch, she stepped aside, trying for a light, friendly greeting.
She waved a hand. “Sure, come inside! Would you like something to drink? Water or soda? Or I’ve got beer—”
“I’m good, thanks. I had coffee before I came over.”
“In the middle of the afternoon? I thought cops had the market cornered on that particular habit,” she teased, shutting the door behind him.
Howard laughed good-naturedly, making her heart ping-pong between her lungs. A huge smile full of straight white teeth lit his ruggedly handsome face. A thin, white scar running from his left temple to his cheekbone and a nose that had been broken more than once saved him from being too perfect. Good thing, because the man had the biggest, most beautiful chocolate brown eyes she’d ever seen, framed by long, thick lashes any woman would kill for. Short, spiky sable hair stuck out in artful disarray all over his skull—the strands bleached blond on the tips.
Lordy, if he weren’t a fireman, she’d think he’d just walked off the set of a testosterone-pumped Vin Diesel movie. Howard was, hands down, the most stunning man she’d ever laid eyes on.
“Not by a long shot. Most people don’t realize we have to respond to many of the same calls as the police. Car accidents, disputes resulting in injuries, rescue situations. You name it, the list goes on forever. After arson and homicide took over the scene last night, we got three more calls. When I went off-shift at seven this morning, my butt was dragging.”
Stand back, ladies. I’ll be the judge of that!
Shaking her head, Kat forced her attention from the state of his butt back to the thread of their conversation. “Thus, the broken sleep and all-consuming need for go-juice.”
“Yeah, the stuff is my worst vice.”
She arched a brow in disbelief. Coffee, the worst vice of a man tailor-made for seven kinds of sin? Right. Before she could form a suitable response, however, she noticed he was holding an arm behind his back.
“What are you hiding there, Lieutenant? A weapon?”
“Naw, nothing so exciting. Just these.” With a flourish, Howard brandished his surprise, holding it out for her.
A pretty spring bouquet bobbed in front of her nose, brimming with daisies, carnations, a couple of roses, and those vibrant, tiny purple flowers resembling baby’s breath. The gift bore clear plastic wrap around the damp stems, and the sticker he’d forgotten to remove boasted seven dollars and ninety-nine cents— from the local Brookshire’s grocery store.
Right then and there, Kat melted into a gooey puddle.
“Oh, Howard.” Taking them, she inhaled the fragrant scent. “I love flowers. Thank you.”
She hadn’t realized he’d been watching for her reaction like an anxious little boy. His tense expression dissolved into a shy, pleased grin as he nodded.
“You’re welcome. You deserve more than a few puny blossoms after what you went through,” he said. “But they seemed appropriate. How are you feeling today?”
He’d actually been concerned about her well-being, wanted to brighten her day in some way. She scoured her brain for the last time someone besides her parents had done that, and came up empty. What a dear, lovely man!
There must be
something
wrong with him.
Shaking off the uncharitable notion, Kat stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his smooth cheek. Mmm, he smelled fantastic. Some sort of understated cologne reminiscent of cedar, fresh air—and 100 percent man. She longed to capture his sensual mouth with hers, nibble and explore, learn whether he tasted as good as he smelled.
Instead, she contented herself with the quick peck. For now. “Throat’s a bit sore, but I’m fine. And flowers are always perfect for what ails a girl, big guy. Why don’t I put these in water? Then we can leave.” Turning, she headed into the adjoining kitchen, laid the bouquet on the counter, and fished under the sink for an old vase. “Where are we going, anyway?”
Howard followed, bracing a brawny shoulder against the arched entry to the kitchen. “If you still need to run by your parents’ house, we can go there first. I don’t want you dropping by alone.” His jaw tightened.
“I’d planned to, but Daddy called back early this morning and said not to bother since it’s Sunday and there’s no mail. Plus, Joan and Greg caught an emergency flight from Puerto Rico when they docked, so they’ll be back tonight and staying at my folks’ house while they straighten out the mess at theirs. I don’t believe that’s Daddy’s real reason for telling me not to drop by, though.”
Grabbing a pair of utility scissors from the junk drawer, she sliced the plastic off the stems. “I didn’t tell him I missed the killer by a hair, but I think he and Mom suspect. The old parental radar on full alert.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Bentley and Georgie have always been superprotective of me. When I was a kid, I couldn’t sneeze without Georgie rushing me to the clinic.”
Puzzled, she threw him a questioning glance. An odd shadow passed across his face, a certain . . . sadness. “They’re your parents?” Arranging the flowers in the vase, she pretended not to notice his sudden discomfort.
“My adoptive parents. I went to live with them when I was four years old. Bentley Mitchell is Sugarland’s fire chief and my boss.”
How strange to hear Howard refer to the people who raised him by their first names. There was a distance between him and his folks, yet she couldn’t mistake his love and pride as he spoke of them. Didn’t most young children grow to call their adoptive parents Mom and Dad, given time to recover from whatever trauma they’d been through? Kat was no expert, but this seemed to be true of her few students who were adopted.
“They must be wonderful people,” she said carefully, filling the vase with water.
“The best.” Blinking, he cleared his throat, then pasted on a cheerful smile. “Are you ready?”
“To go where?” Quickly, she discarded the plastic and dead leaves, and wiped her hands on a small towel.
“It’s a surprise. Afraid of riding a motorcycle?”
“Ha! Remember, I teach six-year-olds. Takes a lot more than a piece of loud machinery to scare me, Lieutenant. ”
His lips turned up, mocha gaze warming with approval. “Woman after my own heart. I’ve got a helmet for you, so get a jacket and we’re off.”
Lifting the vase, she took it to the round oak dining table and placed the arrangement in the middle. Festive, she decided, just what the room needed. Next she snatched her blue windbreaker off the back of a dining chair and shrugged it on, then grabbed her purse and keys.
“Ready.”
“You don’t really need your purse where we’re going.”
Kat’s brows rose. “You don’t date much, do you, hotshot?”
Thumbs hitched in his pockets, he ducked his head briefly, then glanced back up with a sheepish grin. “No, ma’am.”
Good answer, even if it was a bald-faced lie.
Deciding to take his word, she left the purse behind and brought only her spare apartment key. Outside, she locked the door and followed him to the hulking Harley, shoving the key into her front jeans pocket. He strapped on her helmet, making sure it fit snugly before donning his own. Climbing onto the bike, he gestured for her to get on behind him.
“Scoot close and hang on tight, arms around my waist.”
Ohh yeah. Got it covered, sugar.
She climbed on and molded her front to his broad back, the insides of her thighs pressed to the outsides of his.
Never had Kat imagined riding double on a motorcycle would seem like such an intimate act. The heat of his powerful body seared her to the core, brought every female hormone in her system leaping to attention. She wrapped her arms around his middle, suddenly very glad to have a reason to touch him. Any reason.
He pointed down. “Put your feet up on those rests.” When she was positioned, he called, “Here we go!”
Howard backed slowly out of the space, straightened, and started off. He wasn’t going fast, but Kat couldn’t stop the squeal, part fear, part exhilaration, from escaping. She felt the rumble of his laughter as she clung to him for dear life, and knew she was already in deep doo-doo. And not because of the ride.
She didn’t know Howard Paxton at all, but sometimes a girl just
knew.
She was in real danger of losing her heart to a big, sexy teddy bear of a man.
An honest-to-God hero who’d saved her life.
A gentleman who’d brought flowers.
Who loved and respected his parents.
And had secrets haunting his beautiful brown eyes.
Holy craparoni, Katherine Frances. You’re a goner.
4
The woman drove him stark raving mad with lust. If Kat knew what Howard wanted to do to her—and how many different ways he envisioned doing it— she’d probably jump off the bike and head for the hills.
Or maybe not.
The lady hadn’t exactly thrown up any “keep off the grass” signs. Yet. In fact, everything about Kat— her warm welcome, the casual jeans and eye-popping shirt, the way she beamed over the flowers— suggested she was willing to see where things went between them. Positive signals.
Jesus, even in his own mind he sounded like a horny jerk. Just because a woman looked terrific and wanted to get better acquainted didn’t mean he had the right to anticipate a quick roll in the sack. Georgie would smack him upside the head for thinking like that, whether he outweighed her by a hundred and fifty pounds or not. And rightfully so. She’d raised him to be respectful of ladies. . . . Even if she didn’t approve of the type of women he’d been seeing before.
Turning left down Cheatham Dam Road, he decided to be himself with Kat, no pretense. Let things develop naturally, or not. He had nothing to lose that hadn’t already been taken from him.
Closing the last couple of miles to their destination, he relaxed and let himself enjoy the soft, warm woman pressed to his back. The balmy fall air whipping his clothes, the Tennessee hills and valleys rising and falling around them, exploding with red, orange, yellow, and brown. Majestic, ancient forests, much of the timber still untouched, the occasional homestead nestled right among the thick foliage. The people who lived and worked in Cheatham County were part of the land, not the conquerors of it. A man couldn’t hope to tame something so wild and beautiful, and these folks understood that, just like their predecessors.
To feed their families, they labored in the tobacco fields, tended livestock, worked the barges that traveled the Cumberland River for endless weeks. Some held jobs in nearby Sugarland at small businesses like the barber shop, local feed store, or the new shopping center. A few had civic jobs at the police station or the fire department, like Howard and his buddies. Some made the twenty-mile drive to Nashville and back each day, earning their pay in the glittering high-rise buildings downtown, forced to abandon community tradition in the wake of a struggling economy.
Old and new, battling for supremacy. Whatever their profession, they toiled long and hard to make an honest dollar, and to raise a generation of children who believed in doing the same. Oh, this little patch of heaven on earth wasn’t perfect.
But it was pretty darned close.