Carolina Blues (20 page)

*   *   *

A
FTER DINNER,
L
AUREN
sat with Jack on his boat, leaning against him as the sun went down. “Thank you for taking care of Joel and his mother.”

Jack shrugged, making her head rock against his shoulder. “No big deal. I bought them dinner. You took care of them.”

“I tried.” Had she done enough?

“Hey.” Jack’s arms were warm around her. “You saved that kid.”

She pressed closer, grateful for his reassurance. “Ben saved him. And now he’s saved himself.”

“Because you bought him time to grow up.”

“Joel did all the work.” She tilted her face to smile at him. “You know how many therapists it takes to change a lightbulb?”

Jack arched an eyebrow.

“Only one,” she said, straight-faced. “But the lightbulb has to want to change.”

His lips twitched.

Satisfied, she settled against him, letting herself sink into the solid rightness of the moment. To the west, the sky flamed and the water blazed and the clouds sank down to purple haze. “I heard from my agent today.”

His arms tightened around her, but his voice was as calm as ever. “How’d that go?”

“Good.” She smiled over his arm at the setting sun. “Really good. She likes the chapters.”

“That’s terrific.” He kissed the top of her head. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I need a blockbuster ending, though. A happy one.”

“Well, that’s easy,” Jack said.

She twisted to look at him again.

“Joel,” Jack said. “The story starts with him, right? With him wanting to do the bank job with his uncle.”

She nodded. “And Ben taking his place.” The idea sparked.
Okay, yeah, that could work
. She sat up, wiggling around to face Jack. “And Ben and I bonded because we were both trying to take care of our brothers.”

Jack was watching her, his dark eyes alert. “There you go. So if his brother’s taking care of himself now . . .”

“Then the story comes full circle.” She beamed at him, feeling that dizzy lightness return. “You’re brilliant.”

Another half smile. “I’m not the one writing a book.”

“I’m not writing tonight, either. I’m taking the night off.” She spread her arms wide. “To celebrate.”

“There’s an idea.”

“I have many ideas,” she said grandly.

“Do they involve you getting naked? Because those are the kind of ideas you should share with me.”

She grinned. “You share first.”

“Okay. I think about you naked all the time.”

“No, I meant . . .” She expelled her breath, caught between laughter and lust. “We should talk about you. How was your day?”

“It was a day.”

She waited, giving him space to talk, her heart beating as if she had something at stake here, something more than conversation, something more than sex. Good communication was important for developing intimacy in a relationship. And they were in a relationship, even if she didn’t change her Facebook status anytime soon.

I’m in this thing with you, whether it fits your theories or
not.

She really needed to start leaving a toothbrush here.

And he needed to talk.

“A long day,” she said, to help him out.

“Yeah.”

She narrowed her eyes.

Amusement gleamed in his. But then he said, “I had this kid in with his dad this afternoon. Summer people.”

She nodded encouragingly.
Go on
.

“Turns out there’s not enough for the kid to do on the island, so he decided to make his own excitement. He set off a bunch of alarms around town.”

Lauren thought of the blaring sirens at the bakery and shuddered. “Well, that’s a cry for attention. What did you do?”

“Collected the fines and let him go. You can’t get too tough on tourists’ kids in a resort town. It’s not good for business. But maybe I wasn’t doing him any favors.”

“Would the outcome have been any different if he went to court?”

“Not really. But it might have been a wake-up call for him. Or his folks.”

He was such a good man, she thought. Careful. Conscientious.

“I don’t think there’s one right answer,” she said. “What do you want? What’s the behavior that’s going to get you what you want?”

He smiled faintly.

“What?”

“You sound like a therapist.”

“Is that bad?”

He shook his head. “It’s who you are.”

Which didn’t quite answer her question. “Did you ever see a therapist?” she asked curiously. At thirty-eight, a cop, divorced . . . It was a reasonable assumption.

“I’m looking at one now.”

“To talk to, I mean.”

His dark eyes turned opaque. “The department back home had a shrink on call for intervention, fitness for duty evaluations, stuff like that.”

She waited, but that was apparently as much as he was ready to share. “What about down here?”

“You looking for a job after graduation?”

Answering a question with a question, she thought. Deflecting. No,
dodging.

But she didn’t want to spoil the mood by calling him on it. She wasn’t
his
therapist. Only his . . . girlfriend? Lover? Fuck buddy?

She sighed. The problem with living in the moment was it didn’t help you talk about the future.

“I don’t need my doctorate to work as a therapist,” she said. “Although it would certainly give me more choices. Once I finish my dissertation, I’ll probably look around for a postdoc fellowship—a research position. We say, psychiatrists write prescriptions, psychologists do testing, and counselors talk. But there are a lot of mediocre counselors out there. I don’t want to be mediocre.”

“You’re not mediocre.”

“But people don’t know that.”

“When did you start caring what people think? I thought you just wanted to help.”

“I’d still be helping people. Research on psychological models is necessary to developing effective therapies.”

“But you’re not on the front lines.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I’d be doing important work.”

“If that’s what you want. Is that what you want?”

His words struck at her heart. She hadn’t bothered to ask herself that question in a very long time. She’d been so focused on getting through each day, one task, one step at a time, that she never lifted her head to see where she was going.

Was she lost?

Or had she simply changed direction?

“Now who sounds like a therapist?” she asked breathlessly.
Covering
.

He shrugged. “I’m a cop.”

She arched her eyebrows. “‘We have ways of making you talk’?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“No. No, how could I? I’m the same way.”

He got her meaning immediately. “Cops and shrinks. Both observers.”

She nodded. “Listening for hidden meanings, watching for nonverbal clues.”
Trying to get confessions
.

His eyes were almost black. She could not read his thoughts. “So you’re saying we both play mind games.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” she said. “Exactly. Not as long as we understand each other.”

“And don’t get stuck in our heads.”

She smiled ruefully. “I do have a tendency to overthink things.”

He put his hand on her ankle. Warmth stole upward, traveling along her veins. “I have a cure for that.”

Her pulse fluttered. Her smile spread. “I’m in your hands.”

“That’s the idea.”

Holding her gaze, he slid his hand up her calf to her knee. His palm was warm and calloused, scraping her nerves to life. She opened her mouth to breathe, and he leaned in to kiss her, taking her mouth in soft, greedy bites that raised the fine hair on the back of her neck and tightened the tips of her breasts. She wanted to rub over him like a cat.

She twined her arms around his neck, scooting closer, and he kissed her again, lazy and deep, taking full possession of her mouth as his finger traced tiny circles on the inside of her knee, the curve of her thigh. Sliding under the hem of her skirt, moving higher. Her excitement rose with each small incursion, every warm advance, until she made a sound in her throat, and he reached under her with both hands and gripped her bottom. He half pulled, half lifted her toward him, astride him, her legs straddling his thighs on the padded bench seat. His hands stroked down her back, fitting her curves against his lean, tough body, breasts to chest, sex to sex.

This
. Liquid desire. Here, now, only this. Only him. She shivered, overwhelmed by the delicious contrast between the cool breeze on her bare arms and the solid heat between her thighs, by the scent of salt and man.

“What are you thinking now?” A breath against her lips.

She blinked. “What?”

She felt his chuckle warm against her cheek, deep in her belly. She ground against the hard bulge of his erection, loving the way he felt, the way he made her feel, aching and trembling and hot. He inhaled sharply, his fingers curving, pressing in her flesh, moving down, delving into her ready sex. Her flesh swelled. She trembled, hiding her face against his hot throat, rising on her knees as he thrust one big finger inside her. Two. She gasped.

He released her. She cried out in disappointment, raising her head.

But he was yanking at his buckle, button, zipper, pants, digging in his pocket for a condom.
Yes. This
. She reached for him—stiff and hot—as his hips arched off the seat. He covered himself with quick, jerky movements. She stretched her panties out of the way. Grasping her hips, he positioned her above him. His dark gaze, heavy-lidded and intent, caught hers. He pulled her down and impaled her, filling her in one heavy, upward thrust.
Oh, hell, yes
. Her body closed around him, milking the sensation of him deep inside her, solid and thick inside her.

They were locked and moving together, fused with sweat and heat. She pulsed and steamed. He pumped and thrust, working her with short, strong digs, push and retreat, push and retreat, bringing her to the edge again and again. Her breath sobbed. She labored to rise. Fought to fall. And still he never quite let her go over, holding her off, catching her back, pressing, always pressing.

Until the question he was asking with his body pounded through her, the demand he was making imprinted on her brain, the admission wrung from her flesh.

“I love you.”

And that must have been the confession he wanted, the words he was waiting for.

He slid and held inside her hard, and the echo of her words, the shock of him at the center of her, was enough, was everything. She shuddered and came so hard she saw stars. He held her through the spasms of her release and then took his own while the night tumbled down around them.

L
AUREN WASN’T LOOKING
for commitment. Not after three weeks. But reassurance? Yeah, she could use some of that.

Especially after her blurted admission last night.
I love you
. She winced.

Especially since Jack hadn’t said it back.

That was okay, she told herself the next morning. She was in touch with her emotions. She’d been honest about her feelings. She wouldn’t take the words back if she could.

But she had never before said them to anyone outside her immediate family. She was having enough trouble processing her own feelings.

Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t have to deal with Jack’s.

At least silence was better than some of the things he could have said. Like
Don’t.
Or
Thank you.
Or
I love you, too
.

She sucked in her breath, suddenly light-headed. Her insides churned. Okay, she definitely wasn’t ready to cope with the implications of
I love you, too
.

And Jack had been very solicitous this morning, waking her with a kiss when he got out of the shower, bringing her coffee in bed.

Tiger trotted at his ankles, tail in the air, a bend in the tip making a fuzzy question mark.
What are you doing here? What are you doing?

Jack, already in uniform, handed her a mug.

She seized it gratefully. “Thanks.”

He straightened at the foot of the bed, in the center of the room, the only place he could stand fully upright. Looming over her. Her insides clenched and relaxed helplessly.

It wasn’t just the sex and the sunset, she realized with a tremor. Even in the cold light of morning, she was in love with this guarded, principled, complex man with his sharp-edged face and eyes like knives.

His black gaze sought hers. “How are you doing?”

“Great,” she said heartily. At least they’d reached the stage where she packed an overnight bag. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”

“You could stay.”

She burned her mouth. Gulped. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not due at the bakery until, what, ten? Eleven? Why don’t you take your time this morning? I can swing by later to drive you to work.”

The hot coffee seared its way down. She cleared her throat painfully. “Actually, I asked Jane for the day off so I could work on my book. She’s got one of the catering gals covering for me.”

“You’ve got your laptop with you.”

“Ye-es.” She curled her hands around the warm mug. Where was he going with this?

“So, stay.”

Her heart beat faster. “For how long?”

A corner of his mouth kicked up. “As long as you want.”

She couldn’t read his eyes.
What do you want? Do you want me to stay?

“Okay,” she whispered.

He regarded her solemnly. “You want to go out for dinner tonight or should I bring something home for us?”

“Home sounds wonderful.”

A blush raced over her face. They were not playing house. A day on his boat did not equal an invitation to move in. Still, she was here, wasn’t she? On his boat. In his home. In his space.

“I’ll pick something up, then.”

He leaned forward. Cupping her jaw, he kissed her, a long, sweet, simmering kiss that brought her fully awake. Her blood hummed.

“Is that what you’re bringing home?” she asked breathlessly when he raised his head. “Because, yum.”

His smile kindled deep in his eyes. “It’s on the menu.”

“I can’t wait.”

Enjoy the moment, she told herself after he left. Because, really, the moment was kind of perfect.

She pulled on her clothes and went out on deck with her cup of coffee. Tiger mewed to join her.

She eyed the kitten uncertainly. “Okay, but if you look like you’re making a break for it, it’s the cabin for you,” she warned.

Released into the sunlight, Tiger sniffed around before jumping to curl on the padded bench.

So he’d done this before, Lauren thought, reassured.

But for her, this was all new. The setting. The feelings. She filled her lungs with the ocean-scented air. She loved the Pirates’ Rest, with its glimpses of sea and sound, the deep, wraparound porch, the sheltering garden. But this . . .

A bird, its black-tipped wings as sharp as the angles of a kite, darted over the water, blazing in the sunlight. Atop the dunes, the tall sea grass plumes swayed and bowed like dancers in the breeze. The world around her teemed with life, the sky flushed with promise, the sea sparkling with possibilities as far as the horizon.

She got her laptop and a second cup of coffee, setting up for the day. Settling in.

Bring on the happy ending, she thought, and began to type.

The sound of an engine roused her minutes—hours?—later. A car, low-slung, sleek, and white, purring down the unfinished road.

Lauren raised her head as the car parked at the edge of the dock. A woman got out, greyhound thin and graceful in white jeans and a black T-shirt, her hair caught back in a sleek, dark ponytail, huge sunglasses flashing on her face. She marched toward the dock as if she knew where she was going. As if she had every right to be here.

Maybe she did. But from what Jack had said, this was development property, not yet open to the public.

Lauren slid her laptop to the bench and stood, shading her eyes against the sun. “Can I help you?” she called.

The woman stopped. Angled her head. “I’m looking for Jack Rossi.”

She had a husky, well-modulated voice, with a hint of accent—the swallowed
L
, the long
aw
in place of the
o
—that was somehow familiar.

Lauren’s nerves prickled. “I’m sorry, he’s not here right now,” she said politely. “Can I take a message?”

“Where is he?” Answering a question with another question.

Lauren’s breath caught. “He’s at work. If you give me your name, I can tell him you stopped by.”

“Sure.” The woman pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, revealing eyes like gold coins, hard and bright, in her honey-toned face. Her smile curved, shiny and sharp as a knife. “I’m Renee. His wife.”

*   *   *

J
ACK LEFT HIS
office to pour himself another cup of coffee from Marta’s pot, Lauren’s words replaying in his head like a summer song on the radio.

I love you
, she’d said.

Which was the sort of thing men said before sex and women said after. Even when they were sincere, you couldn’t always trust words said in the heat of the moment.

They were still damn good to hear.

“You are in a good mood this morning,” Marta said.

Probably because he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Nothing makes my day like filling out grant applications,” he joked.

“He’s in a good mood every morning,” Hank said. “Now that he’s getting some.”

Jack gave him a bland stare. He’d figured that once he hired a dispatcher, Hank would spend less time in the office. Especially since he and Marta couldn’t be in the same room without sniping at each other. But it seemed the retired sheriff’s deputy was around more than ever before.

“Then you should try it,” Marta said. “Maybe sex would improve your attitude.”

Hank grinned. “How do you know I’m not getting any?”

“Please.” Marta snapped a file drawer shut. “I know everything.”

“How are you coming with that monthly report?” Jack asked, changing the subject.

“Finished,” Marta said. “I e-mailed it to you for your review. I read her book, you know.”

“Thanks. I’ll take a look at it,” Jack said, preparing to escape into his office.

Marta arched her brows. “You haven’t read her book yet? But you are together.”

Hank snorted. “He doesn’t have to read her book to sleep with her.”

“Okay, we’re done here,” Jack said.

“You should show more respect,” Marta said to Hank. She smiled at Jack. “She seems like a very interesting young woman. I’m sorry she is leaving so soon.”

“Janey said she was staying through the summer,” Hank said.

Marta raised her brows. “Which is how long, another week? Two weeks before the kids go back to school. I talked to Tess Fletcher this morning. Meg is already scheduling Miss Patterson’s next book tour.”

Two weeks?

Jack forced himself to ignore the jolt to his system, the tiny clutch at his gut.

With Renee, he’d been so damn sure he knew where they were going all the time. It wasn’t until she had betrayed him with his partner that he’d finally admitted he didn’t have a clue. He’d been wrong about her, wrong about them, wrong about everything all along.

He didn’t know—he couldn’t know—where this thing with Lauren was heading. But everything suddenly felt all right.

I love you
, she’d said.

Whatever the hell she’d meant by that, wherever they were going, they were together now. At the end of the day, she would be waiting for him on his boat.

It was enough for him. For now. He had a grant application to write. The town council had found the funds for the dispatcher’s position, but they’d balked at buying the dashboard security cams he’d requested for the patrol vehicles. So he was stuck begging for money from the feds.

The outer door opened and a woman walked in.

He almost dropped his mug.

She pushed her sunglasses up and smiled. “Hi, lover.”

Renee
. He waited for a blast of something—gladness, fury, resentment—and couldn’t find anything. “This is a surprise.”

His voice was calm. Good.

“Right? Of all the gin joints in all the world . . .” She grinned, inviting him to smile back, but he couldn’t find that, either.

“What do you want?” he asked evenly.

“Since you won’t talk to me on the phone, I decided to see for myself how you’re doing. What you’re doing with yourself these days.” She propped a hip on the edge of Marta’s desk, angling her body to best advantage. “Why don’t you show me around?”

“I’m busy.”

“Come on, Jack.” She swept a look around. For a moment, he saw the department through her eyes: three desks jammed close together, the cheap veneer door to his office with the premade
POLICE
CHIEF
sign, the narrow hallway that led to the cramped back rooms, the gun closet, and two small holding cells. “It’s not like it will take very long.”

“We only give tours to the kiddies on Tuesdays,” Hank drawled.

Renee glanced in his direction, her smile sharpening. “You must be Barney Fife.”

Jack sighed. Renee didn’t take anybody’s shit. Ever. He used to admire the way she always brought a gun to a knife fight. Now it just made him tired. And wary. “Hank Clark, Marta Lopez, this is Renee Mancuso.”

She angled her chin. “Six months ago, it was Renee Rossi.”

“Except at work,” he said.

Renee had never used his name professionally.
There are too many damn Rossis on the job in this town
, she’d said when they were married.
It’s confusing
.

And he, poor sap, had gone along with whatever she wanted, determined not to act like the knuckle dragger she’d sometimes accused him of being.

His coffee was suddenly bitter in his mouth.
Whoops
. Seemed like he had some lingering resentment after all.

He set down his mug. He couldn’t imagine his family sending his ex-wife to find him. Especially Ma. Still . . . “Everybody okay back home?”

“They’re fine. They miss you.” She laid her perfectly manicured hand on his arm. Looked up into his eyes. “I miss you.”

“Good to know.” He realized how that sounded and winced internally. Not so calm, either.
Shit
. “I mean, I’m glad that everything’s okay. We really have to get back to work here, Renee.”

“Of course.” She stood. “I can wait for you. On your boat?”

Ah, shit. He kept his face impassive.

“Or you could let me buy you a drink. Unless . . .” She widened those big golden eyes at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. Maybe you don’t drink anymore.”

She could have been concerned or testing or digging at him. With Renee, it could be all three.

That had been the last straw, the final incident that cost him his cool and his reputation.

All cops drank, coming off shift at four in the afternoon, at two in the morning, taking the edge off, diluting the stress of the job before they went home to their three-bedroom suburban houses, to their bills and their lawns and their dogs and their wives.

The brass didn’t give a damn if you drank.

But if you looked up from your beer and saw your bastard partner with your cheating wife sitting together at the bar, if you saw her hand move up his thigh and his hand close around her nape, if you hauled off and slugged him in a public place, precipitating a bar fight . . . Yeah, they cared about that.

Particularly if your wife outranked you in the department.

“Not at ten thirty in the morning,” he said dryly.

“Coffee, then. Come on, Jack.” She leaned forward, exposing taut, tanned cleavage, shifting position and strategy with ease. “I drove eight hours to see you. Aren’t you the slightest bit curious to hear why?”

Not particularly, he realized. But it seemed unkind to say so, especially with Hank and Marta listening. In fact, if there was going to be a discussion, he’d rather have it where no one was listening in.

Which ruled out Jane’s.

Gossip traveled fast on the island. If you sneezed before driving the length of the island, somebody at the other end would say “Bless you” as soon as you stepped out of your car.

Maybe the Fish House, where the high-backed booths provided a little privacy. Somewhere quiet, somewhere dark, where Renee could say her piece and be gone.

“I’ll buy you coffee,” he said.

“My treat.” Renee hopped off the desk, her smile almost conciliatory. “Consider it a peace offering.”

*   *   *

M
ATURE ADULTS IN
committed relationships did not freak out when one of their exes drove into town.

She could be mature, Lauren told herself as she closed her laptop, as she fed the cat, as she checked her phone for the twelfth—or was it the twentieth?—time. Onshore, the shadows lengthened. A flock of pelicans sailed by, low against the golden sky.