2000 Kisses (15 page)

“Let me try,” she muttered. “Twist sideways onto your back.”

TJ. felt his eyes roll back in his head as she clambered closer and slid one leg over his. He tried not to feel those soft, restless hips grinding into his, every movement tormenting.

Sweat broke out on his brow. He was having serious trouble making his lungs work. “Maybe you can hurry.”

“I've almost got it.” Tess leaned sideways, rising astride him. “Just a little more.”

T.J. tried to distract himself by thinking about the duty schedule for the next month. He would have to switch Tom Martinez, who was heading off for a two-week vacation in Cancun with his wife and children. Grady had asked for Tuesday evenings off so he could play bingo. And the other deputy—

All thoughts of the duty schedule fled as Tess rose, her hips sliding onto his aroused anatomy.

He had to find something that would distract him— something like a cerebral hemorrhage. Biting back an oath, he tried to twist sideways and break the contact.

“Stop moving, will you? I've almost got this stupid badge free.”

“Duchess, if you do much more of what you're doing, I'm going to forget all about my damned badge,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“What are you talking about? I'm not—”

He heard her breath catch, followed by a tiny gasp. She went very still atop him.

T.J. wasn't entirely surprised. He figured the engorged
state of his body was something that would be hard to miss, even in the dark.

“This is probably a bad idea,” she whispered.

“Not much doubt of that.”

She tried to ease away, but her dress was caught even tighter now due to her movements.

T.J. closed his eyes, trying to ignore the soft friction of her hips against his savage erection. If the woman had it in her mind to kill him, she was doing a damned fine job. Much more of this and he'd be pleading for mercy.

Then her breast wedged against his forearm. Could a man actually die of lust, he wondered.

During another flare of lightning, T.J. saw the pale outline of her face. “I have a metal nail file in my bag,” she muttered. “I think I can break off the back of the pin, but I need to get closer.”

Her breath was a warm cloud in his ear. Her body was delicious, an X-rated fantasy of sliding hips and restless thighs. T.J. was fairly certain the top of his brain would lift off if she managed to get any closer.

“I think I've got it.”

“Forget about the damned badge,” he said hoarsely, tugging at the buttons on his shirt. Angrily he summoned all his control to keep from pulling her down and plunging his fingers into her wild hair.

Restraint
, he thought dimly.

Logic
.

He took a harsh breath. “Tess,” he said roughly.

“Uhmmm.”

He tried not to feel the curve of her stomach where it pillowed his erection. He tried not to want the naked friction of her body astride him, welcoming him inside her.

“Tess,” he repeated harshly.

Her breath came in puffy jerks. “What?” Her voice was husky, as if she were dazed.

Her dress was still snagged on his badge, and that left only one option. Grimly, T.J. sheared off his remaining buttons, then peeled off his shirt, letting it fall against her.

In another jagged burst of lightning, he saw her staring at his chest. She pushed awkwardly to her feet, his shirt dangling from the front of her dress like a medieval banner of conquest.

T.J. frowned, finding the symbolism a little too obvious. The painful state of his hardened body made his voice harsh. 'That's one problem solved. Now I'd better look at that blasted door.”

She adjusted her dress awkwardly, then bent to the floor, searching for the flashlight.

T.J. closed his mind to the torture of her perfume. He heard the soft rustling of her hands on the adobe floor and winced as her knee brushed his. God grant him the ability to control his sanity a few minutes longer, he prayed. Just long enough to put a decent amount of space between them.

About half a continent should do it.

“Here's my nail file.” She shoved a cold piece of metal into his hands.

At this point, T.J. was willing to do anything. He might even try sacrificing a goat or two.

He searched the ground in the dim light until he found the flashlight, then bent by the door. As he'd feared, it was locked tight. He could see the bent prongs of Grady's hinge gleaming in the flashlight beam. He brushed one end, only to feel the prong snap off in his fingers.

Tess leaned down beside him. “What do we do now?”

He glared at the hinge. “I could try to beat the thing senseless with your nail file.” He gave a grunt of disgust. “I have training in all kinds of locks and electronic security bypass, but I never expected to get stopped by an antique door hinge.”

“Give me the file,” Tess said.

“Begging your pardon, but I'm not sure this is the right place or time for an amateur.”

“One of my clients owns a high-tech security firm. One night we were talking about how all locks are designed on the same basic principle. After a few drinks, he showed me how a simple nail file or plastic credit card can bypass most of them.”

“Is that a fact?” For some reason T.J. couldn't get past the part about a few drinks. “Just how many drinks did you two have?”

“A few.”

“What happened after he gave you the crash course in breaking and entering?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Because he was irritated as hell at the thought of another man putting the moves on her and making her sigh with pleasure. “Beats me.” He crossed his arms and stood back. “Be my guest, Duchess.”

“So you're going to let the amateur have a shot after all?”

“Hell, if you can spring that hinge, I'll cook you dinner for a week. Make that a month.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Get your apron ready, cowboy.”

Lightning grumbled as she crouched beside the door.
T.J. knelt nearby, flashlight in hand, while she inserted the nail file down through the length of the hinge.

“There's usually a dead space somewhere near the middle. If so, I can—”

She twisted her hands, and metal squeaked.

“Well, I'll be damned.” T.J. stared as the door swung open.

“Probably.” Tess smiled broadly as she strode past him. “What are you grinning about?” she demanded.

“The sight of you with that nail file. I'm going to have to add a new item to my list of suspicious equipment. What other burglary devices do you have hidden in that bag of yours?”

T.J. saw her rummage through her backpack. “Two whole-grain energy bars. Ginseng tincture.”

“What about these?” T.J. muttered, studying two squares of bright plastic. Were they protection for a sexual encounter? It was the right thing for any woman to do in this crazy age, but the thought left T.J. irritated.

“Perfumed bath salts from a cruise I just arranged. This one is raspberry leaf hair balm. Great fragrance.” She dug deeper into the bag. “A half-eaten box of Go-diva chocolates—hands off,” she hissed. “And my trusty nail file, of course.”

She held up a foil survival blanket. “I guess we won't be needing this tonight.”

As they left the old jail, lightning skated over the mountains. Thunder boomed, echoing back and forth over the valley. T.J. saw Tess hug her arms to her chest, caught in awe. It was hard not to be overwhelmed by nature at its fiercest as another streaming bolt broke the sky, stabbing at the mountains. He had watched the magnificent light shows hundreds of times, and they never lost their power to amaze him.

Or their noise, he thought ruefully.

In another jagged flare he saw Tess's arms tighten. Her face was white in the split second of illumination. “Are you okay?”

She didn't answer.

'Tess?” T.J. gripped her shoulder, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes closed as she raised her face to the sky, murmuring words that were impossible to make out over the echoing thunder.

T.J. had seen a lot of things in his life. He'd walked through dusty fields in Tuscany and ancient chateaus in France. He'd rubbed tanning oil on pampered movie stars in Hollywood and walked in a human shield to protect high-voltage politicians who wielded their power like automatic weapons. But nothing came close to the sight of Tess in the stormy darkness, her face a pale oval raised to the night sky.

Electricity crackled in the supercharged air, making the hair on his neck stand on end. There was a dangerous magic in being close to such power when you knew it could slam you off your feet and whip the breath from your body.

Seeing Tess had the same effect, especially when she stood entranced, overwhelmed by the same dark magic.

Against every inclination, his fingers tightened on her shoulder. 'Tess, we should go. It's not safe to be out in this.”

Again there was no answer. But as the wind churned up the street, she opened her eyes. Her gaze locked on his neck, where a thin gold chain held a battered St. Christopher medal, a boyhood gift from his mother.

She reached out slowly, tracing the small oval as if it had deep meaning to her. Heat shot through T.J. at the brush of her fingers, and he ignored the instant hardening
of his muscles. They needed to get moving and into real shelter. There was always a chance that a bolt would snap right over the ground and strike them where they stood beneath the jail's broad adobe porch.

TJ.'s hand circled her wrist. “Tess, what's wrong?”

She shook her head, as if trying to ward off unwanted thoughts. Then she raised the gold metal to her lips, whispering strange, husky words that reminded him of the Apache he'd heard spoken up on the White River reservation in the rugged rim country.

But that was impossible, he knew. So what in the hell was going on here?

The wind moaned, whipping up in circles and raking at TJ.'s hair and face. Even then Tess stood oblivious, shivering, caught in her private world.

'Tess, snap out of it.” T.J. detached his shirt and badge from the front of her dress and worked his shirt around her shoulders.

Then without a word she sank to one knee and brought his hand to her forehead as if in some ancient ritual, all the while murmuring in that same husky voice.

T.J. pulled her to her feet, struck by a wave of uneasiness. Something was very wrong with her, almost as if the storm had triggered some primitive disorientation. Getting her inside was crucial, he thought.

He couldn't help feeling irritated. This was
supposed
to be his first weekend off in six months and he'd been planning a trip into Tucson. After some rowdy music, he'd been looking forward to a lingering night with an old and very companionable friend who'd just come through a nasty divorce.

Instead, he was fighting his way through gale winds with a woman who was acting more than odd.

He bit back an oath as lightning raked the air and
exploded against the weather vane on top of the old courthouse. A hail of sparks lit the air and the explosion knocked TJ. backward, with Tess still caught rigid in his arms.

TJ. felt his heart slam hard as he smelled scorched wood, melted metal, and ozone. He stood frozen, struck with the nearness of his escape. No one could have survived a direct hit from such a bolt. If he and Tess had been crossing the square, they would probably both be dead right now.

His hands weren't quite steady as he pulled Tess against his side and took an awkward step through the darkness.

Lightning arced high overhead from cloud to cloud. In its bluish light, T J. saw a dark figure move across the deserted square in front of the courthouse. He moved neither slowly nor with fear, his steps absolutely silent and regular. If TJ. had been a superstitious man, he might have said the figure had walked right out of the lightning that had raked the courthouse.

But that was impossible, even though this strange storm seemed somehow to have distorted nature's normal rules.

“J. fingered the edge of his holster, glad for the weight of his pistol. Then he caught the glow of silver. He recognized that outline, parttrf a” belt buckle etched with an ancient figure of a humpbacked flute player.

TJ.'s breath hissed out in relief as recognition hit.

“Miguel, is that you?” He squinted, trying to make out the shape moving toward him in the darkness.

An old man moved onto the porch, his teeth the only brightness in his lined, shadowed face. “Of course. Who else would be crazy enough to walk in such a weather?” He wore black from head to foot, the only other color a
heavy silver buckle at his waist. Even his hair seemed to hold the darkness where it hung straight to his stooped shoulders. But in spite of his age, an aura of power clung to the man, almost as if he had pulled down the sky, wrapping its ancient darkness around his body like a cloak.

Some called him a brujo, one of the wild shaman-magicians who walked the barren mountains of Mexico working feats of healing or evil with equal skill, according to their whim. Others said he was a deserter from the Mexican Army hiding out in the hills north of Nogales. T.J. dismissed both stories as pure fantasy. He had crossed paths often with the old man over the last ten years, and T.J. was convinced of the man's love for the land—if for nothing else.

“Even the song dogs have gone to ground in this storm,” the old man said, squinting up at the lightning above the mountains. 'The high canyons are already flooding.”

Not will, but
are.
How would he know that, T.J. wondered.

“So much noise and force is pleasing, is it not?”

“Not if it strikes the courthouse and shorts out all the circuits,” T.J. said grimly. “We can't afford another repair bill right now.”

“It is difficult to have no money,” the old man said gravely. “But there are worse things.” He looked at Tess, and T.J. sensed his curiosity.

“My friend isn't feeling well. Something about this storm has upset her.”

Miguel nodded slowly. “It is not unexpected. Such weather can pull the very soul from one who is unprepared.”

“Don't tell me you're practicing magic without a license,” TJ. said. “If so, I'd have to run you in.”

The old man laughed, a husky sound as dry as scattered sand. “I enjoy the sight of her hair, bright with the colors of the sunrise.”