She waited at the doorway and he reached for some of what she held. “Here, let me take the books.”
“Thanks.” She handed them over. With her arms full, they got a little tangled, and it took him a second to extricate his wrist from her hand.
He opened his mouth to ask if there were any more needed items and closed it. He was ready to get home, damn it.
His phone vibrated along his belt again. He tilted his head toward the front door. “It’s getting late. Let’s get you out of here.”
Her laugh trilled as she picked her way through the dark living room. “It’s barely eight thirty.”
Shit. They’d put Lee down at…aw, he was screwed. Or rather, he wouldn’t be if he didn’t get Allison the hell out of here, fast.
“I should really buy you a coffee or something.” Allison stopped at the bottom of the steps while he secured the house. “I think this counts as above and beyond the call of duty.”
She had no freakin’ idea.
He had to wait for her to unlock the damn car before he could settle the textbooks on the backseat. She tossed the other items on the cluttered passenger seat and turned to look at him, her arm resting along the open door.
“Well, thank you again. You’ll call me, won’t you, when we can come back?”
“Sure.” He flipped through his keys. “Good night.”
“Good night, Tick.”
He made sure her car started and she pulled away before he headed in the other direction. Luckily, he caught all the traffic lights on green and ten minutes later pulled to a stop in the driveway. The back door opened as he climbed from the truck. Caitlin leaned against the porch column.
Tick strode up the brick walkway. “Tell me he’s still asleep.”
“Out like a light.” She shook her head, shivering a little in the cold air. “What took you so long?”
“You don’t want to know.” He bounded up the steps, pausing just long enough to sweep her up into his arms. Inside, he pushed the door closed with his foot.
On a soft laugh, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed closer. “Well hello, Rhett.”
An answering chuckle rumbled in his chest as he carried her through to their bed. “Come on, Scarlett, and I’ll show you just how much I do give a damn.”
Madeline parked next to Ash’s decrepit Ford, nerves she hadn’t felt since she was a fifteen-year-old girl fluttering low in her belly. She was late—the crime scene investigation had dragged way past the end of her shift. She’d called Ash to cancel dinner with a distinct sense of regret. He’d surprised her by telling her to come when she was ready; dinner would wait.
She couldn’t remember the last time a man had been so understanding about the demands of her career.
Um, probably because that had been never?
Sucking in a deep breath, she swung out of the car. It was cold, her exhale coming in a puff of steam, and she tightened her blazer about her as she approached the porch.
With a coat of fresh paint, the old saltbox-style farmhouse gleamed under the bluish mercury light. A couple of rockers sat on the wide porch, a lamp shaped like a lantern shining brightly by the front door. The impression was clean, neat and masculine.
She knocked, shivering a little as a chill wind blew across the yard, slipping in beneath her jacket. Moments passed with no answer, and she lifted her hand to rap again.
The door swung open, and Ash grinned an apology at her. “I’m sorry. Should have told you to come round to the kitchen door.”
He stepped back to let her enter and inside heat wrapped about her.
“Let me get your jacket.” Warm hands descended on her shoulders and she shrugged out of the military-style blazer, glancing around at an equally neat living room. The hardwood floors shone, a couple of couches and a big pine trunk sharing space before the fireplace.
“Nice place. You’ve done a lot with it.”
“Pretty bare, isn’t it?” His rich voice tickled her ears.
“I wouldn’t say bare.” Books packed floor-to-ceiling built-ins. True, the room held little clutter or knick-knacks, but what there was—some pottery pieces, a well-worn guitar leaning against the wall, framed photos and a couple of paintings—hinted at the personality of the man behind her.
And she’d never been able to resist a good mystery.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, finding his pale eyes resting on her and glowing with humor and good old-fashioned male attraction. The tiny flutters took up residence in her belly once more. My God, the man was handsome.
“Something smells good.” She stepped back, aware now of spicy aromas flowing through the house. Beneath her lashes, she swept a look over him. Casual looked good on him—jeans, a bark-brown buttondown shirt that made his eyes seem brighter, loafers.
“Seafood étouffée.” A brash grin lit his face, the awareness she was checking him out passing and crackling between them. “Hungry?”
“Considering lunch was a pack of crackers and a Coke? Yes.”
Laughter glimmered in his gaze and he reached for her hand. “Come on and let’s get you fed, then.”
Her palm tingled at the warm contact of his skin on hers. The sensation moved up her arm in a pleasant wave as he led her through to the large eat-in kitchen.
Like the living room, this area was clean and neat, but bore the unmistakable stamp of a strong male personality and that of someone who liked to cook—bold reds and browns against white subway tiles, gleaming copper and stainless-steel cookware.
A scarred antique table set for two waited by the large window at the end of the room. The spicy smells of tomatoes, onions and peppers filled the air. Her stomach gave a tiny rumble and gnawed on itself. That lunch of peanut butter crackers was seriously a long way behind her.
He pulled out her chair. “I’d planned on opening a bottle of wine, but if you’d rather have something else—”
“Wine sounds heavenly.” She didn’t indulge often, but one glass shouldn’t hurt. She spread her napkin in her lap. Aromatic steam drifted from the rich seafood stew over its bed of rice. “This looks fabulous.”
“Go ahead and start.” He moved to the counter, and she took him at his word. Savoring a bite of the wickedly savory concoction, she watched the muscles move in his back and arms as he uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. Graceful, not awkward as many tall men were. Nice hands, strong with tapered fingers and short, clean nails. Hardworking hands, the bandage a stark white against the tanned skin of his left, a few nicks on the knuckles and a thin white scar on the back of the right.
A picture of those hands sliding over her breasts, cupping and molding, flitted through her mind, and she shifted, tiny darts of desire shooting through her.
He set a glass of wine before her and sank into the chair opposite.
“Good?” He gestured at her bowl.
God, she was fixated on his hands now. She reached for her fork again. “Very.”
They talked over the meal. Madeline found he drew her out easily, asking uncomplicated questions about her day, her time back in Chandler County, without hitting anything that disturbed her slow slide into relaxation. He answered her questions about the farm and what he’d done with the house, making her laugh with stories of his misadventures in renovating.
Afterward, he refused to let her help him clean up, but she lingered in the kitchen as he loaded the dishwasher and stowed the leftovers. He was more than good-looking—nice, smart, funny—and she liked him way too much already.
Being attracted to him was one thing.
Liking him? That was a whole other ballgame.
He dried his hands on a striped towel and picked up his half-full glass. “Why don’t we go in the living room?”
“Ash, I really should go.” Regret pulsed in her at the words. Oh, yes, being with this guy was dangerous on all sorts of levels. “Dinner was wonderful but—”
“But friends spend time getting acquainted.” Another of those engaging smiles lit his face. “And I want to get to know you, Madeline. Half an hour. Deal?”
“All right.”
In the other room, she glanced at the books on the shelves and the photos on the walls while he turned on quiet music. She smiled at the mishmash of titles and genres, everything from classic Fitzgerald and the complete works of Marlowe and Shakespeare to Crichton, Grisham and a plethora of nonfiction books. Images of his life peeked from frames, what looked like a West Point graduation, a group of young men in army fatigues, Ash and Stanton, both several years younger, on a fishing boat with two preteen boys, a lovely young woman with the same pale green eyes as he, and a more recent snapshot of Ash and Tick leaning against an old Massey Ferguson tractor.
Loss shivered through her. She didn’t have photos like this. Somewhere, she had some snapshots from high school shoved in a box, but her life revolved more around crime scene photos than Kodak moments.
She squared her shoulders. There was nothing wrong with that. She simply lived her life with purpose. If being dedicated meant going without a few photographs, big deal. It wasn’t like she’d missed anything major.
On the shelf below, a frame held one of Stanton and Autry’s wedding photos, another one of Gabby’s studio portraits, her funny little chestnut curls fluffing out from her head. Madeline smiled and touched a finger to the toothless grin. At nineteen months, her niece was a character already. Leaning next to the frame was another snapshot, slightly unfocused, one someone had obviously taken on impulse—Caitlin Falconetti seated in a rocking chair and holding her baby but smiling up at Tick as he leaned over them. The baby’s face scrunched as if a wail was imminent.
“That’s right after they brought him home.” Ash tapped the glossy paper. “I was trying to figure out how to use the damn camera.”
He stood close enough that she could see the brown flecks that hovered around his pupils, but not so close that she felt invaded. His clean smell filled her nose—soap and something elusive.
“It’s a nice photo.” It was, the joy and emotion palpable despite the soft fuzziness. She took a step back, putting a little distance between them. “Obviously, you like pictures. And books.”
A self-deprecating sound rumbled from his throat. “I’m not much for television. Give me a book any day. Think it comes from my time in the army, sitting around with nothing to do for hours on end.”
“So you traveled a lot.”
“Yeah.” He bent down and tugged a memory album from a lower shelf. “Come sit down and I’ll show you the worst pictures of Europe ever taken.”
She joined him on the couch, knee bumping his as they paged through the book. She sipped at her wine, laughing softly at his comments on military life when he reached a spread of photographs depicting tents in the sands of Kuwait.
“Talk about sitting around and waiting.” He rapped one of the photographs. “I read
War and Peace
sitting out there, then started on
Anna Karenina
.”
Setting her empty glass aside, she shook back her hair. “How on earth did you end up here, in Chandler County, Georgia of all places?”
“Stanton and Tick.” He flipped the album closed and took the last swallow of his wine. “Stan and I were in the army together. We stayed friends after he went to the FBI. When I got out of the service, I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do. I thought about ranching, back home in Texas, but Tick kept going on about investing in no-waste farming. I came down here with him to look at a couple of operations, and somehow, ended up a chicken farmer.”
“You sound like you love it.”
“I do.” He half-turned, resting an arm along the back of the couch, his gaze on her face. “It’s a challenge and I never could resist one of those.”
“Really.” She needed to look away from those glittering eyes and at the same time needed to keep staring into them, needed to be drawn into the blatant desire suddenly blazing there. She leaned forward, simply to get a closer look at the mesmerizing depths, as clear and green as Lake Blackshear on a quiet spring day.
“Really.” He moved, bending down to cover her mouth with his own. The heat of supple lips warmed hers. A hint of wine lingered on his breath and skin, lending a rich layer to the kiss. Madeline parted her lips just enough to mingle her breath with his and allow her to suck a little at his upper lip. He lifted his mouth, brushed his lips across hers, lowered so they meshed once more.
Madeline folded her arms about his neck and tilted closer. Sparkling pleasure spread through her, fizzing in her bloodstream. A sweet ardency curled between them, fueled by a series of nipping little kisses, mouths exploring, parting, coming together again. She curved a hand around his nape, his short tobacco-gold hair crisp and soft under her fingers.
“Do you kiss all your friends like this?” she murmured against his mouth.
“No.” He rubbed the palm of his uninjured hand over her shoulder, the soft timbre of his words vibrating through her. “I can honestly say I’ve never done this with Stan or Tick.”
She giggled, wanting to press into his touch. “Well, that’s a relief.”
His other arm came around her waist, and he tugged her closer. She went willingly, opening her mouth to him, taking everything he offered as his tongue swept between her lips, giving him in return her own passion.