Addicted to Love (24 page)

“Honey,” Selina said. “You’re getting yourself all worked up over this. Come on, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Maggie could pull the plug on the column.”

“And you wouldn’t be any worse off than before.”

Good point, but Rachael wasn’t in the mood to listen to common sense. She couldn’t explain it, but it felt as if her entire future lay in Maggie Lawford’s manicured hands. She’d given up being a starry-eyed romantic to become an eagle-eyed journalist. She was ready to fully embrace this identity and her newfound philosophy on love. The column was a validation of her progress.

Selina looked at her watch. “It’s almost six o’clock. She’s probably left for the day. I imagine she hasn’t even had a chance to read your article, much less —”

The ringing phone cut off her mother’s words. “Texas Monthly” scrolled across the caller ID screen.

Palms sweating, Rachael snatched up the cordless phone. “Hello?”

“Rachael,” the editor said in her cool, clipped tones. “Maggie Lawford here. Your article . . . ”

“Yes,” she whispered and held her breath. In the space of time it took Maggie to answer, Rachael’s heart skipped two beats.

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. This is exactly what we were looking for from you.”

Relief turned her knees to rubber and she dropped down on the sofa beside her mother. Selina raised a quizzical eyebrow. Rachael covered the mouthpiece with a hand and murmured, “She loves it.”

“Yes!” Selina mouthed silently and showed her support by raising her fisted hands over her head in a triumphant gesture.

“I’ve got to warn you about something, however,” Maggie said.

The mindless fear was back, grabbing at her belly and squeezing hard. “What is it?”

“There’s going to be fallout from this column when it hits the newsstands next month.”

“What do you mean . . . fallout?”

“The Wentworth name carries a lot of clout. Are you sure of your facts?”

“Absolutely. I have a source inside the mayor’s office.”

“Okay, then,” Maggie said. “But I want you to be prepared.”

Rachael ran a hand through her hair. “Prepared for what?”

“This little story is going to set off one hell of a firestorm.”

“You’re serious? The one article?”

“Rachael, don’t you realize what you’ve done?”

Apprehension tickled her bones. “Um, no.”

“Why, honey, you’ve fired the opening salvo in what I predict will become a protracted civil war between cynics and romantics. And not just in your hometown, but all across Texas.”

“W
HAT ARE YOU
going to do about this business?” Kelvin demanded, slapping a slick new copy of
Texas Monthly
on Brody’s desk.

It was more than three weeks until Halloween, but Kelvin looked like he was already gearing up to attend the annual harvest bash as the Incredible Hulk. His blue eyes flashed fire, twin veins at his temples bulged, and his big neck was overflowing the top of his starched white collar.

Brody cocked back on the legs of his chair, interlaced his fingers, cradled his head in his palms, and leveled the mayor with a steady gaze. “Do about what?”

“You haven’t seen this?” Kelvin thumped the magazine with a meaty thumb. “Your little girlfriend is making a mockery of our entire town.”

“First off, Rachael is not my girlfriend,” Brody said evenly. “Second, it seems to me she’s making a mockery of you and your ancestors, not Valentine.”

“It’s the same damn thing,” Kelvin roared.

“Ah, but you see, it’s not. That’s where I think the problem lies, and actually it’s what Rachael’s article is all about.”

“She’s going to cause me to lose the election.”

“
You’re
going to cause you to lose the election. Not Rachael, not Giada Vito. Your own behavior.”

“Listen to this.” Kelvin grabbed up the magazine and flipped the pages until he found what he was searching for. “The Wentworth family has molded the town of Valentine into an image that benefits them financially. Since the nineteen fifties, they’ve perpetuated harmful romantic myths, not out of any real belief in the lasting power of love, but simply to make their fortunes. Valentine isn’t so much a town as it is a tourist trap, with its romantic novelties and a man-made, heart-shaped lake. And Mayor Wentworth, who, by the way, has never been married, is the ringmaster of this romantic circus.”

Kelvin flung the magazine across the room.

“Any part of that untrue?” Brody asked.

“She makes it sound like I don’t care about this town and the people in it. She’s unpatriotic, un-American, un-Valentinian. What’s the matter with her? Everyone believes in true love.”

“Even you?”

Kelvin snorted. “Of course I do.”

“Then why haven’t you ever been married?”

“Because I never found the right woman. You have any idea what it’s like to live in a town saturated with romance? To grow up indoctrinated in the family business of making Valentine’s Day novelties, while all around you people are falling in love, but you never find that special someone?”

“Wow,” Brody said. “You’re sounding dangerously close to believing what you’re saying.”

Kelvin’s eyes flashed in anger. “I have supporters. People in this town loved my father, my family. They love me and everything I’ve done for Valentine. This is going to cause a heap of trouble. Are you prepared for an uprising?”

“There you go being all dramatic again.”

“And there you go, not taking this seriously.”

Truth was, Brody was struggling not to smirk. “I can’t arrest her for having an opinion, Kelvin.”

“It’s Mayor Wentworth,” Kelvin said, pulling rank.

Brody couldn’t resist. A smiled curled his lips. “Enjoy the title while it lasts . . .
Mayor.
”

Kelvin whipped his head around to drill Brody with a glare. “What does that mean?”

“Rachael’s got her supporters, too. And I happen to be one of them. I think the Wentworths have made this town look foolish for too long.”

Kelvin stared at Brody as if he’d kicked him in the family jewels. A pained expression pulled his mouth downward. “I supported you for sheriff.”

“You did.”

“And this is the thanks I get?”

Brody spread his hands. “It’s just an article. It’ll blow over if you don’t make a big deal of it. Show the town you have a sense of humor. Show them that —”

But he didn’t get any farther. Kelvin stormed out the door, flipping Brody the bird as he went.

Brody shook his head and let out a breath of air. From the way things were stacking up, it was going to be a long few weeks until the election.

R
ACHAEL WASN’T HAVING
any better a day than Mayor Wentworth. The phone had been ringing off the wall with citizens calling to read her the riot act over her column in
Texas Monthly.

She’d been called a traitor, a communist, a bitter jilted old maid, and much worse. People she’d known her entire life snubbed her on the streets. Her hairdresser canceled her appointment, saying that under the circumstances she felt it would be hypocritical of her to cut Rachael’s hair when Rachael hated the town so much.

That one really stung.

Maggie had warned her, but she still hadn’t been prepared for the vitriol.

Sure, she had her supporters — the folks from her romanceaholics group, her mother, her father, and her sister, Hannah. Even Delaney, Tish, and Jillian had called to offer moral support. But she really hadn’t expected the onslaught of hatred. Perhaps she was naive, but she’d thought people would appreciate her shedding light on Valentine’s flaws. She’d mistakenly believed they would want to change the things holding the town back.

What had happened to her life?

Unbidden, her gaze slid over to Brody’s house. She saw the patrol car parked in the driveway. He was home. Deana’s car was gone, however.

He was home alone.

Rachael remembered the last time she’d been alone with him and her heart knocked. She saw his gate was open. She could hear the faint sounds of music coming from his backyard. It was a Chris Isaak tune about not wanting to fall in love.

The haunting melody drew her across the street.

Before she could stop herself, her hand was pushing his honeysuckle-covered gate open wider and she was walking into his backyard.

She rounded the corner of the house, his name on her lips, but the word died on her tongue when she saw him standing beside the patio table in his swim trunks, his tanned body glistening wet from a dip in the hot tub.

His back was to her and he was drying off his shoulders with a fluffy white bath towel. Her gaze slid down the well-defined muscles of his shoulder blades to the waistband of his shorts. Her mouth went dry. She could smell the scent of chlorine and redwood decking mingled with the fragrance of honeysuckle flourishing all along the fence, blocking the neighbors’ view of his backyard. She heard the sound of the hot tub jets churning, Chris Isaak’s mournful lyrics, and the soft, brisk, whisking noise of the towel rubbing vigorously against his skin.

He ducked his head, toweled his hair.

Then her gaze dropped from the view of his wet swimsuit cupping his firm butt to his thigh.

Her breath left her body in an exclamation of air as she saw the rounded stump below his knee where his right leg had been. The stab of hurt and sadness that she felt inside her heart for him was so powerful, she took a step backward.

And she bumped into a metal patio chair.

It screeched across the cement.

Brody lifted his head, looked toward her.

Rachael froze, her gaze riveted on his damaged leg.

“What are you doing here,” he demanded, his voice harsh. He dropped the end of the towel to hide his leg. “Get out of here.”

“Brody . . . I . . . I . . . ”

“Go on.” His face was a mask. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling compelled to hold her ground. If she ran away now, he would think it was because the sight of his leg disgusted her. It did not, but she realized he was prepared to believe that.

For the first time, she spied the prosthetic leg propped against the hot tub decking. It looked bionic. Futuristic. Fascinating.

She took a step forward.

“Get out,” he said harshly.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He was throwing daggers at her with his eyes. “You damn well should be.”

“Why?” She raised her chin.

He hardened his jaw, pointed a finger in the direction of her house. “Go.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You’re trespassing.”

“Your gate was open.”

“Maisy must have forgotten to close it.” His dark, damp hair fell across his forehead. He looked so vulnerable standing there trying hard not to look vulnerable. He was embarrassed that she’d caught him in a moment of weakness. Her heartstrings tugged.

“Brody.” Her voice came out lower and softer than she’d intended. The sound of his name hovered between them like the wings of a butterfly, soft and fluttery.

His jaw clenched tighter, as if he were holding back words or emotions he didn’t dare let escape.

“Brody,” she whispered again and crossed the patio between them, until she was directly in front of him, the thin towel the only barrier separating him from her.

Rachael shouldn’t have done what she did next. She knew it as she was doing it, but she couldn’t stop herself, didn’t want to stop. Brody needed to know that he wasn’t repulsive or disgusting or half a man. He needed to know that she found him sexy and virile and very attractive.

Her eyes didn’t leave his face. She stared at him, stared into him, telegraphing with her eyes how much she admired and respected and desired him.

God, how she desired him.

He dropped the towel. She didn’t see it fall because her gaze was transfixed on his, but she felt the terry cloth brush against her ankles as it landed on the cement. She didn’t look down. For her there was nothing to see but his beautiful face.

“Rachael,” he murmured.

His hand — fingertips, actually — brushed her hair from her forehead, then dropped down to feather her cheekbone, his calloused palm curving against her soft skin. She stared into chocolate brown eyes glittering with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Sexual hunger? Yes, lust was certainly a component, but there was much more lurking in the shadowy depths of his gaze. She saw tenderness and concern and worry and apprehension as well.

You’re romanticizing him. Stop romanticizing him.

But damn her, she could not stop.

Inside his manly features she could still see the boy next door who’d been her childhood crush. Older, damaged to be sure, life settled hard onto his broad shoulders. He was tough and scarred and changed, but some small part of him was still the same. The small-town boy who believed in the goodness of humankind, in spite of all the atrocious things he’d experienced. He was a ruggedly handsome man in green-and-orange Hawaiian-print swim trunks, the lingering smell of chlorine clinging to his bare, hard-muscled chest.

Her stomach contracted. She looked at him and she was seven years old again, besotted, silly with adoration.

“Rachael,” he said her name again. It sounded half like a prayer, half like a curse of defeat.

He dipped his head.

She met him halfway, going up on tiptoe, leaning into him.

He cupped her face in his hands.

She slipped her hands around his waist, pressed her body against his. She’d wanted to do this from the moment they’d tumbled from the ladder underneath the Valentine billboard.

His erection was hard and unmistakable beneath his thin, wet swim trunks. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

Joyous blood strummed through her veins as Brody’s lips closed over hers and she felt his power drill straight into her bones.

Her ears sang with the sound of the humming hot tub and murmuring music. Her nose twitched with the sharp, chlorine-tinged smell of his skin. Her arms tingled against the tight skin of his taut muscles. She closed her eyes to deepen the minty taste of him against her tongue.

It was as if an invisible fist reached into her body, curled strong fingers around her heart, and squeezed. Emotions spattered inside her like shed blood. Desire and attraction. Hope and craving. Fear and thrill and nervous energy. Feelings toppled in on her, hard and sudden and scary as hell.