Four Weddings and a Fireman (13 page)

What he wouldn't give for one of Cherie's hot stone massages. He loved the flower essence she used, and the way she kept his body relaxed with warm towels as she worked. He loved the way she started out all business—­using him to practice her techniques—­but then her touch would shift from nurturing to lingering, and her breath would come more quickly, and before he knew it, she was sliding her hand underneath him.

As he'd warned her from the beginning, he wasn't capable of resisting her touch. A stiffie was inevitable. What she wanted to do about it was up to her.

They hadn't once completed a massage without ending up in bed. Or on the floor, or wherever was most convenient.

Did “friends” rate massages? He was drifting into a blissful dream in which a naked Cherie knelt before him, holding a bowl of steaming water, when the sound of his cell phone yanked him awake.

Panic racing through his veins, he fumbled for his phone. Something must have happened to his mother. Why else would anyone call so late?

“Hello? Mom? What's wrong?”

“Is this Vader?” a light, Southern-­tinted voice answered. “Did I get the wrong number?”

“No. This is Vader.” He forced his galloping heart to slow down. “Who is this?” It wasn't Cherie, he knew that much—­he'd know her voice in his deepest sleep. But the rattled pieces of his brain couldn't place her.

“This is Trixie. Cherie's sister. You said to call if I needed help.”

“Yeah.” He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Then, goofily, he drew the sheet over his bare legs, as if she could see him over the phone. “What's up?” He checked his watch. Five in the morning. “Where are you?”

“In a phone booth. My phone's still in the fish tank. I hate to bother you so late at night, but can you come pick me up?”

Vader groaned. “I'm on shift, Trixie. I can't leave. Did you call Cherie?”

“No. She's working too. It's her night at the Hendersons.”

He thought quickly, running through the options, other firefighters who could pick her up. But it was solidly the middle of the night, and he didn't feel right bothering anyone at home.

“I can get off in an hour if one of the early relief guys show up. Brett usually does. What phone booth are you at?”

There were only a few left in San Gabriel.

“It's inside an all-­night coffee shop. I was sorta surprised it even worked.”

He sagged with relief. “Stay there. Hang out, order what you want, I'll be there in an hour.”

“But I don't have any money. I barely had change for the call.”

“I'll take care of it. But you're going to tell me everything. That's my price for bailing you out of trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

His plan had been to volunteer for overtime, not take off at the first sign of an early relief guy. But he didn't have a choice; he couldn't leave Trixie out there on her own. When he burst through the door of the Brite Spot coffee shop, Trixie nearly knocked him over by jumping into his arms.

“Thank you thank you thank you,” she murmured. “I'm so glad to see you, I nearly peed my pants.”

“Didn't need to know that.” He firmly set her back down on the floor, then followed her to the booth where she'd been sitting. He slid in opposite her and signaled the waitress for coffee. With a scowl, he took in her appearance. “You look different.”

Her hair was now somewhere between apricot and peachy yellow, and it hung halfway to her shoulders in a cloud of flyaway wisps.

“You don't like it? Cherie did it.”

It wasn't that he didn't like it. But his job—­keeping her out of trouble—­had just gotten a lot more difficult. She no longer looked like an off-­limits innocent. She looked like a girl who wanted to have some fun.

The waitress appeared with a carafe of steaming coffee. As soon as she was gone, he ordered Trixie to talk. Surprisingly, she did so. Too bad Cherie wasn't a little more like Trixie, at least in that respect.

If anything, Trixie shared too many details during her long, rambling account of a visit to a bookstore, at which she'd met someone who invited her to a dance party, where her new friend had disappeared, leaving her to pick her way through drunken bodies. As Vader listened, he downed his coffee and a ­couple of muffins.

“Did your sister know you were going out?”

“She probably figured it out.”

Vader knew an evasion when he heard one.

“That's why you don't have to say anything.” Trixie's utter confidence was almost amusing, as if she were a baby chick set to dive out of the nest, wings or no. “I got it handled.”

“If you had it handled, you wouldn't have had to call me.”

“That's how I handled it.” She gave him a superior look. “That's what you told me to do, genius.”

He gritted his teeth. “Yes, but now that you've involved me, I get to decide what I tell your sister. And I intend to tell her everything. Unless you want to do it first.”

Storm clouds gathered on her pretty, exhausted face. He headed them off by tossing some bills on the table and rising to his feet. “You can think about it in the truck. But I'm serious. San Gabriel's a small town, but there's crime here like anywhere else. And you don't know how to take care of yourself. You don't even have a cell phone, for Pete's sake!”

“And whose fault is that? Not mine!”

He took her arm and hauled her out of the coffee shop. Normally he might be more patient, but he was running on about three hours of broken sleep, max. Trixie was Cherie's problem, Cherie had said so herself. She'd declared that she didn't need Vader. So he'd take Trixie home and let Cherie take it from there. End of story.

 

Chapter Twelve

C
herie's most lucrative job was watching the Hendersons' kids on the wealthy ­couple's weekly date night. They probably spent nearly a thousand dollars on that one night, between the expensive hotel room, their four-­star dinner, and her hefty fee. They paid her so well she couldn't manage to quit, despite the challenge of dealing with four boisterous kids and their eighty-­odd electronic devices. Besides, she loved those kids.

By the time she drove home around eight-­thirty the next morning, she was completely drained and craved nothing more than a long bubble bath and a nap.

But it was not to be. As soon as she saw Vader's big blue truck parked outside her house, she knew something was wrong. Racing inside, she found her sister planted in a corner of the couch, her thin arms wrapped around her drawn-­up knees. Despite her defensive posture, she held her chin at an angle that spelled big trouble.

Like a guard dog ready to pounce, Vader occupied the nearest armchair, legs spread apart, jaw clenched, tension rippling his strong body. The two of them barely stopped glaring at each other long enough to greet her.

Cherie dropped her tote bag and folded her arms. “What happened?”

Vader shot Trixie a pointed look.

She dropped her head to her knees, then yanked a fluffy blue pillow over her head. A frustrated, mewing sound rose from the couch.

“Don't you even think about lying, Humility,” said Cherie. “ 'Cause I'll know. And I won't put up with it. I mean it.”

All the Harper children were accomplished liars. They'd had to be, to avoid being whipped for insignificant things like forgetting to close the window at night. Over the years they'd developed their own version of the Creed. Rule number one: Lies told to save themselves from a beating didn't count. Rule number two: No Harper child ever told on another.

“My name is Trixie,” muttered Trixie.

Cherie wanted to roll her eyes, but stopped herself. “That's right. You're Trixie now. And Trixie is a grown-­up who takes responsibility for her own actions. Now spill it.”

“Fine.” She dropped the pillow and spoke in a rapid-­fire burst of words. “I went to a party and started talking to a boy but he turned out to be a meanie-­head so I hid from him in someone's closet until it was really late then tiptoed out of the house and walked to a coffee shop where they had a phone. Then I called Vader.” She emphasized that last sentence with a venomous glare at her rescuer.

“And Vader, being the good guy that he is, dragged himself out of bed to pick you up?”

“He took his sweet time.”

Cherie glanced at Vader, whose rugged face looked as if it had been assembled from quarry stone. “I came when I could,” he said.

A horrible thought struck her. “You weren't on shift, were you?”

Though he didn't answer, she realized he must have been. “For shame, Trixie. And stop giving him those poison eyes or you won't be leaving this house for a month.”

Her sister's cheeks went pink. “Sorry, Vader,” she muttered. “And thanks for picking me up.” She unfurled her legs and bounced to her feet. “I really need to catch up on my sleep, y'all.”

“Don't even think about leaving,” Cherie ordered. Trixie plopped back down on the couch. “How'd you get to the party?”

“I went with a girl I met at Starbucks.”

“You've been hanging out at Starbucks? With what money?”

“I had a little bit left.” Cherie folded her arms and summoned the eagle-­eyed stare that Prophesize used to make them all shake in their shoes. Her version didn't work quite as well, but it was enough to make Trixie squirm. “Fine. Soren and Nick paid me to help them pack. And I sold some oatmeal raisin cookies to the neighbors. Lots of them.”

Cherie flopped down on the love seat still shoved up against the wall from the day she'd taught Vader the tango. At the moment, the disorder in her living room felt like one more sign of her pathetic lack of control over her life. “For mercy sakes, I've been blind as a fruit bat. You've been selling cookies behind my back and sneaking out to parties? I ought to just send you back to Arkansas.”

Trixie scrambled off the couch and stomped across the room until she loomed over Cherie. “You know you won't do that, so don't even bother to say it. And you can't expect me to just stay inside like a prisoner. That's not why I left home!”

Equally furious, Cherie surged to her feet. “Why'd you leave home, then? To make my life hell? Hear that? That's
profanity
!”

Trixie poked her in the chest, her face red with passion. “All I want is a little bit of what you have.
You
get to do what you want, and have pretty red hair and sexy clothes and . . . and makeup . . . and . . . and
sex
. You have sex with Vader, don't you? And don't you lie to me, sister!”

Hot humiliation coursed through her body until she wanted to melt into the living room floor like the Wicked Witch of the West. Back home, during Family Circle, Prophesize would list off their misdeeds and assign punishment. But no punishment could compare to the shame of being singled out in front of everyone else. Intense embarrassment rooted her to the floor. She couldn't even look at Vader.

But this was her house, her life. She shouldn't have to feel this way.

“My sex life, whether it exists or not, is none of your business, Trixie.” Her voice shook, but she kept it even.

And then a warm hand settled on her shoulder and she heard Vader's deep voice.

“We're getting off the subject, Trixie. Your sister's just trying to keep you safe from horny guys like the one last night. Take it from me, there's a million more like him.”

Trixie shot him a resentful look. “I just wanted a little fun. You don't know what it's like.”

“
I
know,” Cherie told her. “I know perfectly well what it's like. Look. How about we work out some kind of deal so I know you're safe and you get to have more fun?”

Trixie's exhausted face lit with joy. “Really?”

“Well, we'll see. Why don't you get some sleep now and we'll work it all out later.” Trixie nodded, her gaze shifting from Cherie to Vader, then back again. Cherie wondered if this was what it would be like to have a teenage daughter. With Vader.

But that was out of the question.

With an ache in her heart, she watched Trixie drag her tired self down the hall toward Nick's old bedroom.

Vader watched her go, an ominous frown gathering on his wide forehead. “You sure about that? It seems like you're rewarding her for sneaking around.”

“You're going to be one of those strict daddies, aren't you?” There she went again, imagining Vader as a father. Silly Cherie. Why was it so hard to let that thought go?

Completely exhausted by the long night, topped off by Trixie's drama, she let out an enormous yawn. The next thing she knew, she was being gathered into Vader's strong arms and lifted into the air. “What are you . . . ?”

“Shhh.”

She subsided, her eyes drifting half closed. It felt so delicious to be transported this way, as if she were a bit of dandelion fluff floating on the wind. As a child, she'd loved filling her cheeks with air, then sending the white dandelion spores bursting off the stem. You were supposed to wish on something, and always, always, she'd wished for the same thing.
Freedom
. Was this freedom, this utterly secure, relaxed sensation? Was this freedom, this wonderful ride in Vader's arms up the stairs, into her bedroom, then onto the soft nest of her bed?

It felt like freedom, but also like something more, something infinitely sweeter and better. Vader straightened, looking down at her with a shuttered look. He was leaving, because she'd told him to earlier. But right now, she couldn't bear to watch him walk away. Dark shadows ringed his warm brown eyes. He was probably even more tired than she was. She opened her arms and beckoned him into bed.

He hesitated, but the pull between them was too strong for even a mighty fireman to resist. His long, hard body stretched next to hers, exuding heat like the molten core of a power plant. She snuggled against him and let blissful sleep steal over her senses.

When she rose
through the deepest layers of unconsciousness, into the sunlight of half awareness, she was moving against Vader, or he was moving against her. It didn't matter. They were moving together, their bodies hot and longing. Her sex throbbed with a fierce, pleasurable urgency. She needed this man in her, around her, all over her. Vader braced himself on top of her, his arm muscles rigid as steel cords, his broad chest shielding her from anything outside their precious haven. His muscles strained, his breath rasped.

“If you want me to stop, you'd better knee me in the balls or something,” he muttered.

“I don't.” The word came as a soft gasp. “Don't stop. Oh. Right there.” This, as he put his hand right where the need flared, in that soft place between her legs that wept for him.

“You want me,” he growled.

“Oh yes.”

“Tell me how much.”

“The most. The most ever.” She didn't have words to tell him how much she wanted him, how much he called to her, how much he tempted her, threatened her resolve. In this intimate circle filled with slick skin and hot want, she couldn't hide anything from him. And that meant danger. Real danger.

But before she could panic, he was sliding his thick length into her, driving all other thoughts to the wind. She arched to meet him, drawing him into her heat, into the pulsing core of her being.

She heard his sharp indrawn breath and slitted her eyes open. The strain on his face, the chocolate eyes gone hot, the tensed jaw, the tight lips, thrilled her to the bottom of her feminine soul. She'd done this, made this spectacular man want her this badly. And she craved more. She wanted him to drive himself into her, give her everything he had, all his strength and power and heart.

“Make love to me,” she whispered to him. “Don't hold back.”

As soon as
Cherie said those words, Vader felt as if a dam burst inside him. He'd been trying so hard to restrain himself, to spare her the full force of his need. But now, he let his ferocious passion for her take the reins. She trembled under him as he drove his cock deep, then deeper still. This wasn't just sex. This was a tumble down a waterfall, a shrieking thrill ride that tossed them up and down until he didn't know what was what or where was where.

She came almost immediately, sobbing incoherently against his chest. But there was more, and he knew it, and he wasn't letting it slip away. He flipped her over, piled pillows under her hips, and stroked the creamy globes of her ass. Shivers swept across her flesh. With hungering hands, he roamed the full curves of her hips, tracing the crease between her upper thighs and her buttocks, then finding his way between her legs. She tightened her inner thighs.

“No holding back, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Remember?”

“Yes. No. Yes.” She gave a helpless sob as her thighs relaxed. He used his knees to nudge them further, opening her like the petals of a flower. With a sense of reverence, he searched the delicate folds of her sex, vulnerable and open before him, until he found the swollen nub of her clit. He rubbed it with his thumb, gently until she moaned, then faster, harder, sensing exactly how much pressure she wanted.

When she was right on the edge, quivering, desperate, he laid his body over hers and reached for her breasts with one hand, slipping a pebbled nipple between his fingers.

A long sigh left her lips as his cock joined his other hand. He stoked the fire from inside and out, with powerful, flexing movements of his hips, grinding her sensitized sex against his hand. He wanted more than an orgasm from her. He wanted complete surrender, complete acknowledgment of what existed between them, this insane, maddening, sweet, hot craving, this fever that wouldn't leave him, no matter how many times he spent himself inside her body . . .

And then he was flying apart, growling like a wolf over its prey, exploding inside her while she screamed and shook with the force of her climax.

Sweet Lord above.

When his head cleared, she was sitting bolt upright, a sheet clutched to her gloriously flushed chest. And she was groaning. “I can't even believe we did that. My sister is
right
downstairs.”

He stroked a lazy hand down her back, shaping every curvaceous swell and dip of her flesh. “She's two floors down. And I'm sure she's dead to the world.”

Cherie chewed at the fingernail on her thumb. “You don't know that.”

“What are you so worried about? She knows we have sex. She said so. Even if she heard you making those cute little whimpers, it wouldn't be any big shocker.”

She dropped her head into her hands. “Did I whimper? Tell me I didn't whimper.”