Addicted to Love (28 page)

“Somehow, Kelvin, I don’t see you as much of a knight in shining armor,” another voice from the crowd catcalled. “We’re not your kids and you’re not our savior.”

Kelvin’s face darkened, but he let that comment slide as well. “I have with me Jackson Traynor from Amusement Corp. If you’ll just give him a listen, I think you’ll see why voting yes in the bond election will spell more money in your pockets.”

While some of the citizens of Valentine felt free to razz Kelvin, they were considerate when it came to visitors and they heard Jackson Traynor out when he took the microphone and painted a prosperous picture of how Amusement Corp could put their town on the map in a big way. The man was good at his job. By the time he was done, Brody was halfway convinced Valentine Land was a good thing.

“Now,” Judge Pruitt said after Jackson Traynor had finished his pitch, “it’s Giada’s turn for rebuttal.”

Giada tossed her sleek auburn hair as she stepped up to the microphone and sent Kelvin a dirty look. The mayor grinned at her. Giada glared at him fiercely. “Mayor Went-worth and Mr. Traynor would have you believe that Valentine Land is going to put money in your pockets. Yes, maybe the theme park would generate additional tourist dollars, but at what cost?” Giada fixed the crowd with a steady gaze. “As a wise person in the audience already pointed out, most of these will be minimum-wage jobs.”

“Any job is better than no job,” called out a man whom Brody recognized as an unemployed regular at Leroy’s.

“But a bond election is going to cost you money long before you ever see a return,” Giada pointed out. “And the person who’s really going to be getting rich is sitting right here.” She pointed at Kelvin. “I say Mayor Wentworth is wealthy enough.”

“Yeah!” shouted a small collective near the stage.

“Here’s something else to consider,” she continued. “Valentine Land is going to change the whole flavor of our community. The small-town atmosphere will be gone forever.”

“You can’t stand in the way of progress,” Enid Pope yelled.

“Don’t listen to my sister,” Astrid Pope chimed in. “Enid’s always gone for newfangled ways and look what happened to her when she got a computer. Fell for one of those Internet spam scams and lost twenty grand of our savings to some Nigerian scoundrel.”

“You weren’t supposed to tell anyone about that,” Enid huffed at her sister.

“Yes, well, I told you to buy those cute little Rath sausages for the sauerkraut at the church potluck, but oh, no, you had to go buy those big old thick Polish kielbasas they inject with red dye. No one likes a giant red wiener in their sauerkraut.”

“Speak for yourself,” Enid retorted hotly. “Personally I love big red wieners. With or without sauerkraut.”

Brody edged through the crowd, determined to get to the two elderly sisters before they started pushing and shoving.
It’s come to this. Two old-maid sisters going at it over sausages.

“Thank you, ladies, for your input,” Giada said, “but let’s get back on track. I believe if good-paying jobs are an issue for our town, there’s another, less-destructive industry we can woo to Valentine.”

“What’s that?” someone asked.

“The goat weed that grows wild around Valentine is used in a popular herbal remedy. I’ve already been in talks with companies that manufacture them. We could start farming goat weed and everyone who had a chunk of land could have a piece of the pie, not just Mayor Wentworth and his Amusement Corp cronies.”

That caused a ripple of conversation to run through the group.

“And,” Giada added, pacing back and forth onstage, “my third objection to Valentine Land is just as important as low-paying jobs and changing the complexion of the place we love so much. Rachael Henderson has been instrumental in calling our attention to it. I’m going to let Rachael speak to you about it.”

Giada handed the microphone to Rachael. Brody watched her square her shoulders and take center stage.

“As most of you know,” Rachael said, “I started Roman-ceaholics Anonymous to counter the unrealistic romantic expectations living in this town engenders. Valentine Land will only serve to perpetuate these dangerous values and misguided beliefs.”

“Oh, can it, Rachael. You’re just pissy because you got left at the altar,” a man at the back of the crowd shouted.

“Yeah,” said a woman near the front. “It’s just sour grapes on your part because you can’t hold on to a man.”

Rachael’s face paled and she clenched her jaw.

Anger, unexpected and hot, blasted through Brody. He had an overwhelming urge to track down the hecklers and either punch them or arrest them. Or maybe both.

Whoa.
What the hell was wrong with him?

Rachael.

That was what.

Rachael of the wheat-blonde hair and exotic green eyes that caused his heart to skip beats. Rachael of the fruit-flavored lips that made a man ache to sin. Rachael of the tight, compact body that stirred his flesh.

She wasn’t letting the detractors affect her. She was still talking about how Valentine had impacted her life in a negative way. How she’d made repeated mistakes in love because of the screwy values the town had instilled in her. She talked about how she’d spent her life chasing rainbows and unicorns and the myth of happily-ever-after that promised all would be well if she just found that one right guy, that perfect mate.

As he listened, Brody found his muscles tensing, his mind growing restless. He hated that she’d been hurt, but what he hated even more was that she’d lost her faith in love.

Why should that bother you? You don’t have faith in love.

The thought struck him from out of the blue. While he might not have faith, some small part of him secretly had hoped that he was wrong, that you could find and hold on to great love without it destroying you.

The realization was a total surprise. How long had he been holding on to hope?

And then he realized something else.

He wanted to believe. In her. In love. In happily-ever-after. How ridiculous was that?

Brody was so distracted by his thoughts that it took him a split second longer than it should have to recognize something was going on in the crowd. A ripple in the sea of bodies. A hum that told him the mood was changing. He didn’t know if the change was for Rachael or against her. He just sensed something was about to happen.

Instinctively, his hand went to the gun at his hip. He did not draw it, but his gaze was beaded on the thick of the crowd. Tensed and on alert, he waited.

Just as Rachael was talking about being left at the altar by Trace Hoolihan, a man from the opposite side of the grandstand rushed the stage. He was dressed all in black and held something clutched tightly in his hand.

Was it a weapon? Not a gun. It was too big for that.

However, Brody wasn’t taking any chances. Not when it came to Rachael’s safety. He was on the move, headed for the podium, his pistol drawn.

The crowd gasped, parted.

“Rachael, get down!” he shouted. “Duck!”

But his warning came too late.

“D
UCK
!”

Rachael turned toward the sound of Brody’s voice just in time to see a pie sail through the air.

It caught her full in the face.

The shock of it left her gasping — and tasting rich, chocolaty French Silk.

Her vision was gone, obscured by pudding and Cool Whip and graham cracker crust, but she heard the crowd erupt in a chaos of concerned exclamations, stunned murmurs, and nervous laughter. She reached up with the fingers of both hands, scooped globs of pie filling from her eyes and blinked, but still she could not see. She tried to take a deep breath, but pie went up her nose.

Sputtering, she shook her head. Panic gripped her. She couldn’t breathe. And then she felt strong, calming arms go around her.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Brody.

Immediately, the panic subsided.

He lifted her up, carrying her in his arms, walking down the steps of the grandstand. Barking out orders. Telling Mayor Wentworth to get back up to the microphone and end the rally. Directing Zeke to disperse the crowd. Instructing one of his other deputies to find out who’d thrown the pie.

Rachael wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life.

My hero.

No, no, that was dangerous thinking. She didn’t need a hero. She was perfectly capable of saving herself.

But as she looked up at him, past the blur of French Silk clinging to her eyelashes, she couldn’t deny the crazy emotions squeezing her heart. Safe, protected, cared for. But that wasn’t all. She also felt nervous, giddy, surprised, curious, and underneath it all, a not-so-small dollop of fear.

She was scared, and not because someone had smacked her in the face with a pie. She was terrified, yet secretly thrilled. Where was he taking her? What was going to happen next?

Still cradling her in his arms, he marched across the town square toward the sheriff’s office. And darn her, she didn’t resist. Didn’t tell him to put her down. Didn’t even try to wriggle out of his embrace. Rachael felt rather than saw the crowd jumping aside to let him pass.

Without putting her down, Brody pushed through the door into his office. He didn’t let her go until he’d deposited her in the rolling swivel chair.

“Sit,” he commanded, and she didn’t dare move.

He stepped into the bathroom that adjoined his office and came back with a stack of paper towels. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Injured?”

She shook her head and a blob of pie filling fell from her chin. It hit the floor with a soft plop. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt like crying, but she had no idea why.

Brody knelt beside her and tenderly wiped pie goop from her eyes with the wet paper towel. It was barely discernible, but she realized his hand was shaking.

Reaching out, she grabbed onto his wrist and stared him in the eyes. “Brody, are
you
all right?”

“Hell, Rachael, I thought . . . ” He paused, swallowed.

“Yes?”

“I thought the pie-throwing guy had a weapon. I thought . . . ”

He didn’t finish the thought. He was breathing hard and staring at her.

“It was just a pie,” she said.

“But it could have easily been a weapon. You could have been killed.”

She laughed. “Over my anti-romance politics?”

“It’s not a laughing matter. I’ve seen people killed over a lot less. I’ve seen . . . ”

He had been in the Twin Towers on 9/11 and lost his best friend there. He’d been a soldier in Iraq. She could not even begin to imagine what he’d seen. Her stomach knotted up. “Brody,” she whispered.

“Rachael.”

Their gazes fused.

She let go of his wrist.

He dropped the damp paper towels, doffed his Stetson and sailed it across the room.

They both moved at once. Her arms went around his neck. His hand slipped around her waist. Neither of them cared that pie smeared her face.

He didn’t hesitate. His mouth crushed hers.

Rachael tasted chocolate and whipped cream and graham crackers and delicious, delectable Brody.

The sensible, liberated part of her that had learned the dangers of falling in love indiscriminately wanted to struggle, to resist. But the part of her that was addicted to romance, the weakness that seemed inborn in her, totally capitulated.

He moved his hands up to cradle her head in both his palms, pinning her in place while he ravaged her lips, sweet with pie.

A searing blast of heat burned through her. Blistering her tongue, her throat, her chest and beyond until she was sizzling from the inside out with the power of his kiss.

She’d been kissed a lot in her pursuit of romance. She’d had her fair share of boyfriends. But nothing, no one, compared to this.

Brody was raw and real. He was both primal and patient. An odd combination that escalated her desire. They meshed liked peaches and cream. But what was happening here was far more serious than any sweet indulgence. Uh-oh, she was getting herself in deep all over again.

I should call someone. Mom, Jillian, Delaney, Tish, Deana, Rex, someone, anyone from Romanceaholics.

But his tongue stole all rational thought.

God help her, she was lost.

She whimpered.

He groaned.

The next thing Rachael knew Brody had pulled her out of the chair, rolling her atop him as he curled his back against the floor. Pie filling was between them, on them, everywhere — sweet and sticky and glorious.

She was astride him, legs anchored on either side of his waist, the tile cool against her knees.

He pulled her down to him and planted a series of hot, openmouthed kisses from her cheeks to her chin to her jaw to the vulnerable hollow of her throat.

Heaven.

While she’d always been a romantic, had loved kissing and holding hands and gentle cuddling, Rachael had never considered herself particularly passionate in bed. She liked sex well enough, and always tried to keep her man’s needs in mind, but when it came to orgasms — well, hers were few and far between and generated mostly by battery-operated sex toys. Really, all she’d ever wanted was emotional intimacy. The physical part she could take or leave.

Until now.

Until Brody.

A couple of well-executed kisses from him and she blazed with a craving so hot it hurt. In his arms, she felt so alive. Fluid and free.

This man would never leave her at the altar. Never intentionally break her heart. She knew this about him, even though she could not say why or how. She just knew it as surely as she knew he’d willingly take a bullet for her. And her certainty pushed her headlong into perilous territory.

Greedily, she worked the buttons of his uniform shirt, frantic to get at him, desperate to expose his muscular chest, hungry to lick the salt from his bare skin.

Her breathing came hard and fast as she finally got the last button undone and recklessly stripped his shirttail from the waistband of his pants. She could feel his erection through his trousers. She grinned at his burgeoning hardness.

“Rachael.” The sound of her name, wrenched from his throat in a harsh exhalation, had her muscles tensing tighter. He was as needy as she! His fingers were doing to her dress what she’d just done to his shirt.