Carolina Blues (8 page)

He shrugged. “I thought you should know.”

She sat a moment, absorbing that. “How long?”

“Since the divorce? Six months.”

“But you’ve been down here a year.”

He cut the engine. “Yeah. So?”

She took a breath. The rush of oxygen made her light-headed. Her chest expanded with possibilities. “And there hasn’t been anybody since.”

“No. What the hell difference does it make?”

Adrenaline spiked her blood. Not fear. This anticipation was warm and easy. “If I invite you in for a drink, would that violate your professional or personal boundaries?”

He went still, his hand on the keys. The inside of the vehicle heated up. The air felt charged.

Lauren’s face flushed as the silence stretched. She wondered if he could hear the wild beating of her heart. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just think you’re probably ready for a rebound relationship.”

He met her gaze, his dark eyes intent. Predatory. “Let’s find out.”

J
ACK STRODE UP
the flagstone walk, following the movement of Lauren’s smooth, round butt beneath her short, snug skirt. No lines.

She wasn’t his usual type. Before he met her, he didn’t consider himself the kind of guy who was in the market for a casual hookup.

But his dick didn’t care.

The sunlight struck glints in her dark hair like charcoal sparks. She glowed with life and perspiration, warming him in places that had been dead cold a long, long time. She appealed to something dark and animal inside him, a darkness he usually hid, an animal he was doing his damnedest to control.

At least until they got into the house.

Anticipation surged through him, heavy and thick. His skin tightened.

She didn’t use the back door—the family entrance. She led him around to the shaded porch on the side of the house instead, where the inn guests sometimes took breakfast or sat at the end of the day. Inside the French doors was a butler’s pantry with a coffee service and refrigerator for guest use. Through the access on the other end, he could see the Fletchers’ kitchen.

Lauren stretched to open a glass-fronted cabinet above the counter, her little top riding up to expose a narrow band of pale skin and ink, curling lines following the sexy lower curve of her back. A rush of heat slammed into him, blinding him with lust like a teenage boy. He wanted to press his mouth to the base of her spine, to trace her tattoo with his lips.

She turned, holding two glasses. “Drink?”

Hell. He’d figured the drink was just an excuse. A ruse. Like inviting somebody up for coffee after a date. But what did he know? He hadn’t been on a date in years.

She was dehydrated, he reminded himself. And maybe it was better if he didn’t fall on her like a pit bull. He didn’t know if this was a one-off thing for her or if there was going to be a repeat performance. If he wasn’t going to get a second shot, he wanted to make this last.

“Sure.”

She smiled—
right answer
—and turned away again, reaching into the mini fridge. When she bent over, her skirt and top separated again, revealing the vulnerable bumps of her vertebrae and that lick of ink against her skin. He crossed his arms over his chest and settled back, determined to take this at her pace.

She straightened, a bottle of wine in her hands. “White okay? Or would you like a beer?”

“Wine’s fine.”

He wasn’t planning on drinking anyway. He didn’t drink in the afternoon. Not anymore.

She turned back to the counter to open the bottle.

With another woman, he’d figure she’d pulled out the alcohol to relieve her nerves, to ease the awkwardness of sex with a near stranger. But Lauren didn’t look nervous. Maybe the wine put a gloss of civility over the whole thing. Maybe she was making a point to him or to herself that he wasn’t just here for the sex.

He felt a twinge of . . . something. Conscience? Which was stupid. He’d been honest. They both had.

I’m just telling you how it is.

You’re probably ready for a rebound relationship.

They were both going into this with their eyes open. But her hands on the corkscrew weren’t quite steady. So maybe she was a little nervous after all.

Tenderness uncurled inside him.

He came up behind her as she poured the wine and rested his hands at her waist, his thumbs riding that half inch of warm, exposed skin. She jolted, gripping the bottle, and then released it to relax against him, her muscles loosening, yielding. He loved that, that she yielded. To reward her, to indulge himself, he bent his head to her throat. Her hair brushed the side of his face. Her scent was warm and musky like sex. Opening his lips, he pressed his mouth to the soft hollow of her neck. Her shudder rocked them both.

His fingers tightened on her waist. He had enough control to do that, to keep his hands from sliding to her breasts. His erection lodged against her bottom. She made a soft, assenting sound. Turning in his hold, she twined her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for her kiss.

And hello, yeah, she could kiss.

Her mouth was hot and slick and sweet. Her kiss cut into him like a knife into butter, melting him with her response. Well, except for the part of him that definitely wasn’t melting, that jutted, hard and eager, against her stomach.

“Jack.” The interruption dashed over him like a bucket of cold water. “Luke didn’t tell me you were coming by today.”

Tess Fletcher. Luke’s mother.

Reluctantly, Jack raised his head. Lauren stared back up at him, her eyes wide and dark, her lips pink and wet.

His mind blanked. Stumbled.

Lauren was a guest of Tess’s inn. Okay, so the Pirates’ Rest wasn’t the no-tell motel next to the trailer park on the other side of the bridge. But the inn had a goddamn honeymoon suite. Guests probably had sex there all the time. Just because Tess Fletcher found him kissing the shit out of a guest in the pantry was no reason he couldn’t . . . They shouldn’t . . .

Fuck.

Or not.

He turned, sliding his hand to the small of Lauren’s back, shifting her in front of him like a shield to hide his obvious erection.

“Tess.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded husky.

Luke’s mother, Teresa Saltoni Fletcher, was a slim, attractive woman in her fifties with a smile-lined face and dark Italian eyes. Her gaze met Jack’s. Her eyebrows rose, very slightly. A mother’s look. Ah, hell. This woman knew him, had invited him to Christmas dinner at her house. He felt fifteen again, sneaking Amy Wolacek down to the basement rec room to have sex on the gnarly brown couch.

Lauren grinned, unabashed. “It was kind of an impulse thing.”

“I see.” Tess regarded them thoughtfully.

Jack bet she did. The woman was married forty years with two sons. He was pretty sure she didn’t miss a trick.

She smiled. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

Jack’s brain still wasn’t working properly, his dick still focused on getting upstairs and into Lauren. He was determined to keep things compartmentalized, to separate sex and the job,
Lauren here, Dare Island there, no problem
. But Tess’s arrival had blurred his neat divisions.

Before he could formulate a response, he heard quick, firm strides cross the kitchen floor and Luke Fletcher walked in.

“Hey. Hi, Mom.” His sharp blue gaze cut to Jack. “I saw the patrol vehicle outside. Mom acting drunk and disorderly again?”

Tess rolled her eyes, clearly accustomed to her son’s teasing.

But Jack heard the concern beneath the gibe. If he’d been thinking with his big head instead of his little one, he would have realized that a police vehicle parked outside the Pirates’ Rest in the middle of the afternoon would be a red flag to Luke.

But he hadn’t thought at all. And now Tess and Luke were both looking at him, speculation in their eyes.

“Everything’s fine.” Everything but his dick, pressing insistently against his fly. He cleared his throat. “I gave Lauren a ride home.”

“Lauren Patterson.” She offered her hand to Luke, a smile in her voice, like she was delighted to meet him. Like she wasn’t embarrassed at all to be caught tangling tongues with the town’s chief of police.

Maybe she did this all the time, brought men back to her room. Jack realized he was clenching his jaw and relaxed it deliberately. He’d been only too happy to follow her upstairs. He was in no position to judge.

“I’m a client of Meg’s,” she was saying to Luke.

Luke shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Meg’s brother.”

Her smile broadened. “I guessed. You’re getting married soon, right?”

Luke’s pleasure showed in his grin. “Next week.”

“Congratulations,” she said warmly.

“Thanks.” Luke threw a wicked look at Jack. “Are you Jack’s date for the wedding?”

Jack narrowed his eyes. He might have to put up with Tess mucking around in his personal life. He didn’t have to take that shit from his subordinate.

Lauren came unexpectedly to his rescue.
Hostage Girl, taking action in a crisis
. “We’re not thinking that far ahead yet.”

Tess lifted her brows again. “It’s only a week until the wedding.”

“I just meant . . .” She shifted, throwing Jack a laughing, help-me-out-here look over her shoulder.

He let her go reluctantly, keeping his expression impassive.
What
did
she mean?
Maybe he would have invited her. If he’d thought about it. Which he hadn’t. She wasn’t part of his life here. It wasn’t like they were
dating
.

Which was kind of Tess’s point.

Shit
. He was thirty-eight years old. Tess was not
his
mother. His sex life was his own business.

“I’m sure it’s too late to add someone to your guest list,” Lauren said when he didn’t say anything.

“Always room for a plus one,” Tess said blandly.

“What is this, a party?” Meg Fletcher stood in the doorway, surveying the half-filled glasses of wine on the counter. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

Tess waved a hand. “Help yourself.”

“Seems like everybody else is,” Luke said.

Jack made himself stand still. Never let them see you sweat. Or squirm.

Lauren’s gaze met his, her eyes alight with laughter. And the tension that had been part of him for the past year and a half, the coil that was so tightly wound
all the time
, suddenly relaxed. She made things so . . . easy. Because, yeah, okay, the situation was pretty funny. Frustrating as hell, but bearable, as long as Lauren smiled at him with laughter in her eyes.

A corner of his mouth curled in response.

“I was looking for you,” Meg said to Lauren, picking up the wine bottle. “Your agent called.”

The laughter in Lauren’s face died.

Jack fought an absurd impulse to go to her. To comfort her. But he didn’t know if the gesture would be welcome. He had no real place in her life, any more than she had in his. He didn’t know what she wanted from him, besides sex.

“Guess I better get to work, then, huh?” she said in a bright, brittle voice.

Jack frowned.
Was that what she wanted?
“We all should,” he said.

“You okay to drive, Chief?” Luke asked with a glance at the wine.

Jack gritted his teeth. He hadn’t touched the wine. Or anything else. Hardly.

This was why he didn’t have a personal life. It was too damn messy.

“I’m good. We need to talk anyway.” He needed to bring Luke up to speed on the bakery situation.

He glanced at Lauren. She was watching him with those dark, observant eyes, her chin slightly higher than usual.

She would be all right, he thought with relief.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, still pink and swollen-looking, and the ground shifted under his feet just enough to let him know that he was not, in fact,
good
. He was not in control.

And maybe she wasn’t as all right as she pretended, either, because she wasn’t smiling anymore and there was a pucker between her brows.

Hell. He was not kissing her good-bye with an audience. Wasn’t making a date in front of one, either.

“I’ll . . .” What?
I’ll call you
was out. “I’ll see you,” he said.

Her lips firmed. She gave him that look, like she could see right through his excuses to the back of his skull. The look that promised they weren’t done here. “See you.”

He said his good-byes and left with Luke. It wasn’t like he was running away, he told himself. He had things to do. Real things. Paperwork. E-mails. Finding Tillett.

Things he could control.

*   *   *

“S
O, YOU AND
Jack Rossi . . .” Meg’s voice trailed off as she settled into the cushions of the lounger. Sunlight streamed through the jasmine twining over the porch trellis, firing the pollen in the air to floating motes of gold. “Is that a good idea?”

Lauren gulped her wine. She couldn’t believe he’d left her like that. Well, yes, she could.
I don’t have a personal life
, he’d said.

Yeah, because he was running from one as fast as he could. His rejection flicked heat to her face.

Okay, not rejection. What was he supposed to do, say
Excuse me
, throw her over his shoulder, and haul her upstairs so that the entire Fletcher family could listen to her headboard banging against the wall?

The thought made her warm all over for entirely different reasons.

It was just bad luck that Tess had interrupted them before they went upstairs. Just bad timing.

Kind of like everything else in her life.

Lauren knew better than anyone that sometimes things didn’t work out as planned. Fathers died. Educations were put on hold. A simple run to the bank turned into a three-day ordeal in front of television cameras. Life was too uncertain for her to get hung up on some guy. Any guy.

But somehow all the relationships that had come before—the missed connections and botched communications and guys who failed to follow through—had not prepared her for Jack. He was different.

Or maybe she was the one who had changed.

She shifted uneasily on the couch. “Couldn’t we talk about something else? You said Patricia called.” She really had it bad if talking about her agent was preferable to dwelling on Jack Rossi.

“I was leading into that. Gently.”

The idea of Meg approaching any subject gently tickled Lauren’s humor. “Like a dentist starting a root canal.”

Meg grinned. “So tact isn’t one of my strong points.”

“It’s okay,” Lauren said. “I can guess what she wanted anyway.”
The book. It was always the book.

“She just wants to know if you’re on schedule,” Meg said.

“Why didn’t she call me herself?”

“She doesn’t want to pressure you.”

Too late
. The suffocating feeling was back, pressing on Lauren’s chest, squeezing her lungs. She forced herself to inhale. “So she got you to do her dirty work.”

“Only after I plied you with wine.”

Lauren stared down into her glass. “I am writing.”
Trying to write
. “Every day.” Even to her own ears, the words sounded weak. Like an excuse.