Falling for the Enemy (4 page)

Chapter Four

From somewhere over the runaway train of blood pumping in her ears, Ginny heard herself calling Shaun’s name. More than once, and fairly desperately.
Pride goeth before the fall
. But hell’s bells, she hadn’t been prepared for this fall.

Okay, yes, she’d had sex—maybe more than her fair share—for the fun of it, or to relieve the boredom of another predictable Bluelick Friday night, or for the ego-validation of the conquest. Sometimes playful, sometimes sweet, sometimes purely physical, but never anything like this. Shaun’s urgency made her feel as necessary as a heartbeat, as important as oxygen, and the ruthless honesty of his need wrung a response from her she hadn’t dreamed existed. She might as well have been the virgin he’d teased about, because now, in this moment, she found herself grappling with symptoms she didn’t understand, and had no idea how to deal with, and she would have offered him anything, opened up to him in any way he demanded, as long as he delivered the relief his touch promised.

I need more of you. All of you
, he’d said.

She couldn’t fathom what more she had to offer, given he had her bent over a workstation and filled to the bursting point while she danced on the edge of the most crucial orgasm of her entire life, but she’d take it. All of it.

Long, blunt-tipped fingers glided over her jaw. Then he cupped her chin, traced her lips, and slid two fingers inside. A shockingly intimate and inexplicably controlling move—as if he intended to invade and possess every part of her. Even though the notion disturbed her, she couldn’t help tightening her lips to keep him there.

He groaned his approval, then took a deep breath, opened his eyes and met hers in the mirror. “It’s about to get rough.”

Her inner walls spasmed at the prospect. And then he was moving again. Every powerful thrust rocked her forward, forcing the breath out of her lungs, shoving her swollen, aching parts into his waiting palm down below, pushing the fingers of his other hand deeper into her mouth. Every withdrawal pulled her back, gave her a fleeting moment to inhale and try to rub against his hand in her own personal rhythm before he slammed into her again and bounced her around like a small aircraft caught in turbulence.

He surrounded her, filled her so he was all she could taste, all she could breathe. She sweated him out her pores. The ache inside tightened, and twisted, and turned so sharp she couldn’t focus on anything else. Her muscles quivered against the ferocity of what was coming. She heard him grunt, and in some remote part of her mind she knew she was biting his fingers and ought to relax her jaw, but then he thrust again and relaxing any part of her body became impossible. She whimpered and trembled as the world started to crumble and fall away.

Another thrust. A low, groaning curse, and then a shudder shook his rugged frame. She clung to the workstation and raised her head to watch him. Their eyes met just before his went dark and glazed. He whispered, “Come for me, sweet Virginia.”

She did, with a soul-crushing force, and his name on her lips.

…

“Something is definitely wrong when I’m the pace-setter.” Melody’s teasing jibe didn’t hide the hint of concern in her voice. Ginny inwardly grimaced and picked up her speed as they jogged along the magnolia-flanked perimeter of the freshly mowed town square.

“Maybe I’m going easy on you because of your…ahem…condition?”

“Oh, please. A thirty-minute, three-mile jog at lunchtime is perfectly fine for a healthy woman in her first trimester. Besides,” Melody wiped the glow from her forehead and Ginny caught the glint of her friend’s brand new engagement ring. “Ellie cleared it.”

“Good to know.”

“Right, but you’re still going slower than normal.” Mel’s long, blonde ponytail swished as she turned and looked at Ginny. “Are you second-guessing my boss?”

“Who, me? Hell no. I’m just a hairdresser. I’m not going to second-guess Dr. Ellie Swann.”

“Okay then, since we’ve established there’s no need to go slow for me, it must be for you. Why so pokey today?”

Ginny glanced around to see if anyone stood within earshot, but the coast was clear. “Um, because I got poked last night. Repeatedly.”

Melody skidded to a stop. “What?”

Ginny kept running, but slowed to give her friend a chance to catch up. “Now who’s the pokey one?”

“Still you, apparently. Details, please. Who? When? Where? How? And most importantly, why? I thought you were on a sex hiatus.”

“Geez, let’s see. Wolverine. Last night. At the salon, after I closed. Given your condition, I think you know how. I’m a little fuzzy on the
why
part myself other than he’s so damn hot, because I’m not sure I even like the cocky so-and-so. And yes, I think it’s safe to say the sex hiatus ended with a bang. Technically, a series of bangs. More like a fireworks finale.”

“Wow.” Melody’s sky-blue eyes went wide as she absorbed the information. “This is so… I don’t even know where to start. No, wait,” she quickly corrected, “I do. Start with the fireworks finale. Tell me everything. Evvvvrything.”

Ginny didn’t bother holding back a grin. “Those pregnancy hormones are really raging, aren’t they?”

Melody rolled her eyes. “Constantly. You have no idea. Poor Josh practically has to hose me down just to get a food break.”

“Good thing he’s the fire chief. I imagine he’s very proficient with his…hose.”

“Amen. Hallelujah. Sadly, he’s on duty tonight. The only fireworks I can expect for the next twenty-four hours have to come from you. Get to it. What went down, or should I say who?”

“For such an innocent face, you have a very dirty mind. I’m not giving you the blow-by-blow—no pun intended—all I can say is, it was spontaneous and unbelievably hot and—”

“And more than once, right? I believe you promised me multiples.”

“At my workstation, on the reception desk. I’m not even sure what happened under the bonnet dryer. I think I might have lost consciousness around my fourth or fifth orgasm.”

Melody tapered her strides. “Sweet mercy. No wonder you’re running slow today. I’m surprised you can walk.”

“‘Hurts so good’ as the song says.”

“Did you invite him back sometime soon to hurt you some more?”

“No.” She shook her head and fended off the flare of regret her hormones shot toward her brain—the same brain that had abandoned her last night, as soon as Shaun had looked at her with those haunted brown eyes and touched her cheek with unexpected gentleness for such a rough, tough, badass of a guy.

“No? Why no?”

“Last night was a spontaneous, one-time-only type thing. We both agreed.” Right. So why did she sound as if she was trying to convince herself? And worse, why was there a part of her that refused to be convinced? “I have other stuff to focus on. I filed my paperwork and petitions to run for mayor this morning.”

“For real?”

She nodded, feeling a little glow that had nothing to do with working up a sweat in the midday sunshine.

“I’m so proud of you. This town would be lucky to have you as mayor. You care about the community. You have great, workable ideas on how to improve things.” Her friend paused a moment to breathe, and then went on, “So wait. Was running for mayor what inspired your now-doomed sex hiatus?”

“Yes, but it’s not doomed. Admittedly, I got swept away by brooding eyes and a tight ass, and I took one short detour off the straight and narrow, but I’m back on my path.”
Yes, you are, Ginny Boca
, she silently added when some stupid part of her started to weaken. If she had to avoid the man from here on out to ensure she kept her hands off him, so be it.
Or maybe he’ll avoid you?
The depressing thought fluttered through her mind like a moth. He seemed to have mastered the art of keeping a low profile.

“There’s a man wandering around town who can give you four or five orgasms in one night and you’re sticking to the sex hiatus? You’re a strong woman.”

If only.
“I want to win this election, which means I need to keep my reputation clean. Cleaner than Tom Buchanan’s at any rate,” she added when Melody shot her an
are you smoking crack
look, “because our esteemed incumbent is the only other candidate. Behaving better than Tom shouldn’t be difficult, considering he could take lessons in fidelity from a stray dog, but the last thing I should do this point in my life is take on a fuck-buddy. Nothing, I mean nothing, stays secret around here long. Why hand Tom the grounds to accuse me of having my head in my pants instead of on the problems and issues of Bluelick?”

“Yeah.” Melody winced at the idea, and then waved to old Ms. Van Hendler taking her afternoon stroll along the path on the opposite end of the square. “I see your point about guarding your rep. The campaign could get ugly. Tom won’t go down without a fight, and the Buchanans have never been afraid to sling a little mud. It’s a family tradition.”

“Exactly. I haven’t spoken to Tom yet, but when I do, I’m going to tell him I hope we can stick to the issues and avoid personal attacks.”

“Nice strategy, but even if he agrees to your face to keep the campaign professional, you might find you’re the only one taking the high road.”

“I’m aware, and I don’t trust him, which is why I don’t intend to hand him a big, dirty mud-ball to fling my way. He’ll need to dig up his own if that’s how he wants to play things. But if he does, he’ll learn pretty quick I’ve got good aim, too.”

She raised her hand and ticked off her list on her fingers. “Infidelity. A nasty divorce. A hasty marriage to a cocktail waitress half his age. And Justin.” She lowered her hand. “Let’s not forget Justin, who is a complete menace, and will likely stay that way as long as Tom continues to misuse the powers of his office to clean up after the spoiled brat.”

“You’ve got that right,” Melody agreed. “Justin is one of the main reasons Josh wants Tom voted out. Tom and Sheriff Butler are buddies, and Tom gets Butler to intercede whenever an investigation seems likely to implicate Justin in some wrongdoing. Josh wholeheartedly supports your idea of taking the money Bluelick pays to contract with the county sheriff’s department and using it to establish our own local police department. One free from the influence of Tom Buchanan.”

Ginny shrugged. “The funds are there. All it takes is a vote from the city council. If I’m elected, I guarantee we’ll put it to a vote. And when I point out each and every way the services we get from the county are substandard, I know they’ll approve letting the contract lapse and earmarking those funds for a local PD.”

“You’ve got my vote,” Melody said as they jogged across Main and turned to run along the sidewalk. “Though I’m sorry your political ambitions are interfering with your personal affairs, so to speak.”

Me, too.
“It’s for the best.” She pushed aside a wave of disappointment and did an automatic scan of the street…to
avoid
him. “Besides, I didn’t get the sense Shaun was looking for a repeat.”

“Wolverine’s real name is Shaun?”

“Yep.”

“What’s his last name?”

“We didn’t get to last names.”

Ginny kept her eyes trained on the sidewalk in front of them, but she felt Melody’s sharp, blue gaze cut her way. “You got to five orgasms but no last name? Girl, you’re slipping. I used to be able to rely on you for all the local intel. I expected you to know exactly who he is, where he’s from, what he’s doing here, and at least a couple of his deepest, darkest secrets.”

“Look, it’s not like I didn’t ask, but he kept his cards very close to his vest, and then he distracted me with his giant dick, and—”

“And a bunch of orgasms—”

“Right. When I woke up at dawn, naked in my shampoo chair with a cape for a blanket”—
and a note that read, “Thanks for the haircut, sweet Virginia”
—“he wasn’t around to answer my questions.” Except one she shouldn’t have been harboring in the first place, namely,
Want to do this again?
He’d answered that question loud and clear with his stealthy exit and pithy little note.

“Wait.” Melody skidded to a stop. “He left you alone, naked, and asleep in your salon? What an inconsiderate imbecile. Anybody could have walked in.”

“This concerned me at first, too, but it turns out he left me alone, naked, and asleep in my
locked
salon.”

Melody scrunched her brow. “He took your keys?”

“Nope. My keys were in my purse, where I’d left them.”

“But…your door locks from the outside. How’d he do that?”

She’d asked herself the very same question. “I don’t know,” she admitted, then moved closer to Melody to avoid a cluster of people coming out of DeShay’s Diner. “Wolverine’s got skills.”

Chapter Five

The noise and constant movement of people inside the busy diner set Shaun’s nerves on edge, undoing the endorphin rush of last night’s haircut, as well as the positive effects of a rare eight solid hours of dreamless, uninterrupted sleep. Seeking the illusion of escape from the crowded restaurant, he glanced out the window, and nearly did a double take when he caught a flash of red hair in his peripheral vision. Sure enough, sweet Virginia zipped by, looking sleek and sexy in her high-cut jog top and low, snug shorts. A taller blonde woman jogged with her, but he had a hard time registering much else because they passed, and then, inevitably, his eyes fastened on those slim, almost coltish legs, and her truly spectacular ass. All the din of DeShay’s receded to a peaceful hum. He watched until she disappeared from view.

Mr. Sentimental south of his belt buckle immediately sat up and begged for a reunion. Luckily, the table hid the reaction from any onlookers, including the man sitting opposite him in the booth.

He shifted his attention back to his father, who was talking away, oblivious to the fact his audience had tuned out. Aside from Shaun’s future, which Shaun didn’t particularly want to discuss, they had few shared interests and even fewer shared experiences. Conversation didn’t flow naturally and easily between them. Tom was trying though, possibly out of concern for his eldest son’s isolationist tendencies, if the invitation to join him at the busiest lunch spot in town served as any indication. The least he could do was pay attention.

“…when I asked for the divorce, I expected Monica to take it hard, you know, emotionally, but I never dreamed she’d turn into such a calculating bitch.”

Oh yeah, that’s why he’d tuned out. His dad was surprisingly clueless about the women he got involved with. “Monica
never
struck you as calculating? Maybe around the time she started seeing you—a married man? Or when she gave you the home-wrecker ultimatum?”

His dad shrugged. “I couldn’t see past her face. And that body.” He smiled at whatever picture his mind called up. “You’re too young to remember, but Monica, twenty years ago, was a sight to behold. I’m telling you, the things she would do to me, and let me do to her—”

“Hey, look. There’s the line.”

His father’s forehead wrinkled. “What line?”

“The one we shouldn’t cross, as father and son.”

Now Tom laughed. “C’mon. We’re adults here. Didn’t your grandfather and I take you to your first titty bar down in Annapolis when you turned twenty-one?”

“That was different.” Also much closer to his last titty bar than his first, but he didn’t feel the need to share every damn thing. “Sitting in a titty bar didn’t force me to think about you having sex with my stepmother.” Mercifully, he wasn’t thinking of them at all, but rather sweet Virginia, laid out across her reception counter, arm flung over her eyes, heels digging into his chest, praying to God, and Jesus and, if his ears hadn’t deceived him, Wolverine, in each short silence between the sounds of their bodies slapping together.

“Pfft. Stepmother.” Tom waved the word away, and Shaun’s highly entertaining flashback disappeared as well. “Some mother she turned out to be, step or otherwise. Since the divorce, she’s been living it up in Atlanta on the king’s ransom of alimony she demanded, sucking me dry and completely ignoring our son.”

“Justin’s almost eighteen. From what I can tell, he’s not pining for Mommy.”

“No, maybe not.” Tom ran his hand over his still thick, dark hair. “But would it kill her to take him down to Atlanta for the summer? Brandi and Justin do
not
get along. I feel like a damn referee in my own home. Plus Brandi keeps harping on about us having some ‘alone time’. Say…maybe you and Justin could—”

“No.”

“Just for a weekend. He can help you fix up the cabin. Give you two a chance to bond like brothers.”

“No.”

“It would be good for both of you.”

“Only if you consider double homicide good. Send him to attitude adjustment camp, or…fuck…I don’t know…prep school.”

“Even if I could interest him in going, it’s financially impossible. The wedding and honeymoon set me back. Then Brandi got it in her head she needed to redecorate the house, because it ‘reeked of Monica’. Meanwhile, Monica’s alimony is cleaning me out. Everything is compounded by the fact that some of my investments took a bad dip recently. Times are tight. Justin will get access to his trust fund when he turns eighteen, thank God, so I don’t have to fret about how to pay for his college, but the trustee won’t allow me to crack into it early just to send him somewhere for the summer.”

Tom paused for breath, smoothed his hair again, and then glanced around the diner. “And now I’m going to have to spend money I don’t have on a mayoral campaign, because some bimbo decided to run against me.”

“Sorry to hear about your financial problems.” And he was, even if those problems stemmed mostly from his father’s expensive personal choices. Despite the current bind, Tom had offered him the family-owned cabin at the outskirts of town for as long as he wanted, and steadfastly refused any discussion of rent. Shaun’s mother often referred to his father as “the most emotionally selfish, yet ridiculously generous man I ever knew.” Mom had re-married a couple years after the divorce—to a nice, stable guy who adored everything about her—and hadn’t wasted her breath bashing her ex. She simply spoke the truth. Tom equated money with affection, and he’d slowly but surely populated his life with people willing to exploit that tendency—Monica, Brandi, Justin, and the list no doubt went on.

“Let me pay rent for the cabin.”

“No.” His father shook his head. “Family doesn’t charge rent, especially not when you’re putting sweat equity into the place, updating it and whatnot. You need a place to stay while you”—he made a vague gesture—“figure out your next step. The cabin’s available. Done deal.”

“All right. Why don’t I float you a loan? I didn’t use my trust fund for school, so—”

“No, no. You need your funds. Now that you’re done with the SEALs, you may decide to get a graduate degree, or start a business…or volunteer as my campaign manager.”

He had no plans to do any of the above, but saying so would turn the conversation to just what the hell he did plan to do, now that plan A—working for the county sheriffs—had fallen through. Since he didn’t have a fucking clue, he stayed clear of that particular minefield. “Look, I can’t babysit Justin for you. That would never work. But leaving him to kick around Bluelick all summer is a disaster waiting to happen. You’ll end up cracking open his trust fund to make bail, or worse. I can lend you the money to park Justin somewhere productive and character-building for the next little while.”

“Justin’s going through a tough time, at a tough age. We’ll get through it.” Tom’s glance slid away, out the window. “I’ve a couple eggs tucked away in a basket. If everything goes as planned, I expect them to hatch shortly after the election.”

That should have made him feel better, but the crowd and the noise in the diner suddenly seemed oppressive. A weight of apprehension settled in his gut.
Time to go
. He stood and tossed some bills on the table. “Good to hear, but let me know if you change your mind. One thing I learned in the SEALs is that plans go sideways, and eggs have a tendency to break—especially when you tuck them away in one basket.”

Tom blinked at him for a second, and then the corner of his mouth tipped up and he shook his head. “Were you always this smart?”

Shaun picked up the Wildcats ball cap he’d stowed in the booth and put it on his head. “When it comes to learning lessons the hard way, I’m a fucking genius.”

…

You’re a fucking idiot
. This wasn’t the first time tonight the voice in Shaun’s head had chimed in with the helpful opinion, but it hadn’t stopped him from ending up here, walking the dark, empty sidewalks of downtown Bluelick.

A glance at his watch told him it was just shy of nine. Small towns, however, rolled up early, even on a Friday night. There might be a few late diners at DeShay’s, and Rawley’s was probably packed, but he’d been down this road enough to know unless Virginia had a late customer, she closed at six on Fridays. From across the street he looked at the dimly lit storefronts.

Turn around and go home. She won’t be there
.

Then there’s no harm in walking past.

You’re a fucking idiot.

Maybe. Okay, yes, he was, because his pulse kicked up when he saw the salon door swing open. She stepped out, and the light from inside put sparks of amber in her hair. She wore one of those flimsy sundresses with thin shoulder straps and a short, ruffly skirt. A woven leather belt emphasized her tiny waist and black cowboy boots emphasized her slender legs. She hefted her big, black purse onto her shoulder and then turned to lock up.

A dark figure rocketed down the sidewalk, sideswiped her hard enough to send her to the ground, and kept moving.

“Hey!” Shaun leapt off the curb and gave chase, picking up speed as he cut diagonally across the street and closed in on the retreating figure. The guy had something in his hand. Not a gun. Not a knife. Not anything big or heavy, apparently, because the skinny little fucker moved like the wind. He had a lead, and he could haul ass well enough to hold onto it. Meanwhile, Virginia was somewhere behind him, possibly injured. Shaun slowed, turned around at the corner and ran back to the salon.

She was cursing and picking the contents of her purse off the sidewalk, but she looked up when he approached. “Get him?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Couldn’t even swear it was a him. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Pissed, but fine.” She accepted his hand and let him pull her to her feet.

Light from inside the salon poured through the open door. The yellow sundress was actually a lemon print, she wore dangly earrings with a cascade of green stones the exact shade as her eyes, and she had a small scratch on the underside of her chin where it had connected with the sidewalk. Temper burned through him at the sight—a temper he recognized as completely out of proportion to the situation, but was unable to get a leash on. “What the hell were you doing, leaving work all alone, at this time of night?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Are you serious?”

Before he could answer, she shook her head, sending the earrings dancing, and slapped her hand against the center of his chest. “No, you know what? You’re right. What was I thinking, staying late at my place of business to finish up a bunch of paperwork, and then braving the mean streets of Bluelick on my own? Having lived here…oh…all my
life
, I should know better. Back in 1997 some criminal mastermind broke into Dalton’s and stole a six-pack of beer. Shit gets serious around here after dark.”

He knew he owed her an apology, for jumping on her—the victim—because the asshole who deserved his temper had outrun him, but what came out of his mouth instead was, “It could have gotten serious tonight, if I hadn’t been here.”

She rolled her eyes, which lit another charge under his already volatile temper, but then she gingerly touched her fingers to the sore spot on her chin, and the small gesture immediately defused his anger.

“What
are
you doing here?”

“I was walking.”

Those keen green eyes found their way back to him. “Walking?” She looked around at the closed businesses along the street. “Walking where?”

Heat crawled up his neck.
Busted
. “Nowhere. I was just walking, and… Look, it doesn’t matter. What matters is somebody was out here tonight, and he jumped you, and it might not have ended there—”

“He didn’t jump me.” She put air quotes around the phrase. “He bumped into me. I surprised him when I came out the door. He ran, knocked me over, and kept on running. What I’d really like to know is what the hell he was doing hanging around outside my salon.”

With the question hanging in the air, they both looked in the direction he’d come. There, on the whitewashed brick exterior wall, someone had written the word “firecrotch” in red spray-paint.

She marched over, touched the paint with a fingertip, and then kicked the wall with the toe of her boot. “Lovely. Just what I needed.” Shoulders sagging, palm to her forehead, she stood there looking so uncharacteristically small and forlorn, he actually fought a rogue impulse to wrap his arms around her and…comfort her. As if he could comfort anybody.

He could do something, though. “Come on.” He took her arm and tugged her through the door of the salon, and over to one of the two guest chairs set up in the waiting area—one of the few pieces of furniture in the entire place that didn’t hold some memory of him buried deep inside her, letting her body exorcise every ragged frustration, every gnawing anxiety eating at him, hungrily absorbing everything she had to give. And if he kept thinking about last night, he’d never… “Sit.”

“You are all kinds of bossy,” she snapped, but she sat. That’s when he noticed she’d skinned her knee, too, and had a red patch on her arm.

“First aid kit?”

“It’s in the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom. In back. I’ll get it—”

“Stay.” Hands on her shoulders, he re-planted her in the chair.

“This may come as a shock to you, but I’m not a dog,” she called after him.

Jesus, Buchanan, get your shit under control
. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink and almost groaned.
Try to look a little less like you’re on a suicide mission
. Kit in hand, he relaxed his jaw, took a deep breath, and then walked back into the salon. After a quick stop at the shampoo sink to wet a hand towel, he made his way to where she sat, watching him.

He snagged the other chair, positioned it in front of hers, and sat down facing her.

“Dr. Feelgood, I presume?”

“Something like that. You have a phone in your bag?” He gestured to the purse she’d placed beside her chair.

“Yes.”

He opened the first aid kit. “Call the sheriff’s department. Ask them to send someone out to take a report.”