Addicted to Love (20 page)

“Yeah,” someone called out, “but where’s the fun in that?”

“The fun,” she said, glowering at the group, “is freeing yourself from a toxic pleasure-pain cycle. Peace is what you’re really looking for. You’re using excitement to fill the void. Real love isn’t loud or flashy or grand or hurtful. It’s calm and quiet and tender and honest. Until you can be honest with yourselves, you’ll never find the happiness that keeps eluding you.”

Selina blinked, amazed by her daughter’s strength, courage, and perceptiveness. Rachael was going to be okay. She wasn’t going to end up like her mother and her father — married twenty-seven years without ever really knowing each other.

“Dad,” Rachael said. “Go home. Leave Mom alone. She’s done with the marriage.”

Michael blinked as if he’d been poleaxed.

“And Mom, let go of your anger. There’s no point in staying mad at him. You can’t move on as long as you keep holding on to your anger.”

Selina’s heart sank and she recognized something important. She’d kept fanning the flame of her anger, because she knew if she let it go out, the last shred of her love for Michael would go with it.

B
RODY WAITED FOR
Rachael as the romanceaholics filed out of the library. The flinty gleam in her green eyes was at odds with the soft roundness of her rosy cheeks. She looked like a kitten that had just unleashed her tiny but exceedingly sharp claws.

Brody suppressed a grin. Normally, he wasn’t attracted to cute, cuddly women but from the first moment he’d spied her dangling from the Valentine lips, nothing about his feelings for her had been normal.

Or for that matter even rational.

His gaze drifted over the lush curves of her breasts sexily sheathed in a blue floral blouse. What was it about her that had so captivated him? How did she manage to wield such power with those startling green eyes?

No matter how much he tried to deny the attraction, every evening when he came home from work, he found himself gazing out the living room window hoping for a glimpse of her sitting out on the porch swing in the gathering dusk. Or watering Mrs. Potter’s flower garden.

“Great meeting,” Brody said when the last person had left the room.

Rachael cut him a razor-sharp glance. “I could do without the sarcasm, Carlton.”

“I’m not being sarcastic,” he said. “You did a great job.”

She slumped down into a chair. That’s when he realized her legs were trembling. “It was a nightmare.”

“You didn’t pull any punches. You told your parents exactly what they needed to hear.”

“I wasn’t thinking of them,” she confessed. “I was hurt and mad and lashing out.”

“It didn’t come across that way at all.”

“Really?”

“You sounded calm and sensible and full of wisdom far beyond your years.”

“
Real
-ly?” Rachael asked, putting extra emphasis on the first syllable.

“Really.”

“I was just fed up.” She glowered and crossed her arms over her chest, ruining his view of her terrific cleavage.

“Remind me never to make you mad,” Brody said, resisting the urge to lean over and kiss her frown away. “I loved the way you busted the whole Cinderella, Prince Charming thing.”

“You don’t think I’m turning into one of those bitter, men-hating women, do you?” she asked pensively. “I want to give up my romantic notions, but I don’t want to give up on the opposite sex.”

“Neither do I,” he murmured, his gaze glued to the flutter of pulse at the blue vein in the hollow of her throat.

“You think I was out of line, don’t you? Butting into my parents’ marriage and offering them advice like I knew what I was talking about,” she said.

“You’re projecting your self-doubts onto me,” he said, fascinated by her neck. God, she was gorgeous.

And passionate.

“Be honest. You think I’m an emotional mess.”

“I never said that.”

He didn’t really think she was an emotional mess. A little overly focused on her emotions, but that was part of her charm and he was jealous of her ability to express her feelings. Brody had spent so many years holding himself in check he hadn’t even been able to work up a good head of steam over Belinda. He’d just let her go. No fear of fairy tales in that relationship.

Or of real love, either.

“I know I’m an emotional mess, that’s why I’m here. Doing this.” She swept her hand at the empty room.

“You’re not a mess,” he said, wishing he’d led with that. Compelled by a force he couldn’t explain, Brody stepped closer. “You’re hurting and looking for a way to salve the pain. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re human.”

“It was crazy,” she said. “The way I grew up.”

“Uh-huh.” He made sympathy noises, but his nose was filled with the smell of her watermelon-scented shampoo.

“It was like living in a fantasy land.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“Yes,” she said adamantly. “It doesn’t prepare you for the real world. There’s nothing quite as shocking as when happily-ever-after goes kaput.”

“You’re confusing shattered illusions with real tragedy,” he said, hating that she’d made him think of Iraq. He’d been enjoying the fantasies dancing around in his head, fantasies of Rachael naked in his bed. Now he was thinking of war.

“Why do people do it?” she asked. “Why do they get married? Why do they make promises they have no intention of keeping?”

He thought of his own marriage and winced inwardly. He’d made a mistake with Belinda and he was leery of making another one. “Most people don’t intend to break their promise when they get married. Most people don’t count on divorce.”

“You’re talking about your own marriage.”

“I guess.”

“So what went wrong?”

“My wife said I wasn’t romantic enough. Plus there was the whole cheating on me thing.”

“There you go,” Rachael said.

“There I go where?” He didn’t know if it was her screwy logic confusing him or the sight of her sweet peach-colored lips. Peach lips, watermelon-scented hair, grape green eyes. The woman was a virtual fruit salad and suddenly he wanted a taste of her.

“Romance, messing up a perfectly good relationship.”

“It wasn’t a perfectly good relationship,” he said.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why’d you marry her?”

Brody shifted. He didn’t like talking about his biggest failure. “She thought she was pregnant.”

“You slept with her, even though you didn’t love her?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Not particularly admirable, but there you go.”

“So you know how to separate sex from love.”

He shrugged. “Biology is biology. Love is . . . ”

“What?”

He swallowed, feeling the heat of her inquisitive gaze on his face. “I don’t know what love is.”

She tilted her head. Her gaze warmed his face. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“That separating sex from love thingy.” She wriggled two fingers. “I can’t do it. I fall in love with every guy I sleep with.”

The thought of Rachael sleeping with other guys poked a fist through his gut. “It’s because you romanticize them.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe next time instead of focusing on their good qualities you should focus on their flaws.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” she said, a staunch expression on her face.

“You’re going to stay celibate for the rest of your life? You’re only what? Twenty-five?”

“I’m twenty-six.” Rachael nibbled her bottom lip and looked hesitant. “Okay, clearly I haven’t thought this thing through.”

“You’re the founder of Romanceaholics Anonymous. Maybe it’s something you should think through.” Although, he quite liked the idea that if she wasn’t going to be sleeping with him, at least she wouldn’t be sleeping with anyone else.

What is wrong with you, Carlton? The woman is in emotional upheaval. A smart man would stay as far away from her as possible.

Sound advice, but somehow, he couldn’t seem to take it.

“What I need,” Rachael mused, “is hot sex with no strings attached.”

Sex.

The word was a lightning rod, attracting sparks, zapping their gazes together.

“I need,” she said, the gloss of her lips glistening in the glow from the overhead lamp, “mind-blowing sex.”

Me, too.

She was calling to him with her eyes and with her mouth, but her body stayed rooted to the spot, and she had her arms folded tightly underneath her chest. She wanted him in theory, but in reality she still clung to her dreams of happily-ever-after. Tigers couldn’t change their stripes. And no matter how much she might fight it, Rachael was a dyed-in-the-wool romantic.

Her lips parted, inviting him to kiss her. But she tightened her arms, hugging herself.

He leaned closer.

Her eyes widened.

He gave her his most formidable law enforcement stare, just to see how easily he could scare her off.

Rachael did not drop her gaze. She tilted her chin upward, hardening it stubbornly.

Surprising him.

Brody had expected her to turn and run for the door. He took a step forward, closing the short gap between them. Desire pulsed in his loins. He couldn’t be around her and not want her. But even stronger than the desire was the need to hold her, comfort her, protect her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Not even when he raised his hand and reached out to trace her jaw with his thumb. The smell of books hung in the air, along with her fruit salad fragrance and the aroma of something more — something darker, muskier. It was the intense scent of sexual yearning.

He felt the tremor run through her body, but she held her ground. A corresponding shiver ran through him, down his spine, lodged in his groin.

What in the hell are you doing?

Why was he encroaching on her space? Was he trying to make her run or . . .
or what?
Take a stand?

The intelligent spark in her fascinating green eyes told him she just might be onto him.

He cupped her chin with his palm, tilted her face up even higher. Held her gaze with the power of superglue. He rested his other hand on her waist. Her flesh felt so soft underneath the thin material of her blouse.

She sucked in air at his touch, but she did not back up or look away. She just kept staring up at him, waiting.

The tension built.

Brody grew harder. There was no hiding his desire now. He flicked his gaze down the length of her throat, to her bodice. Her arms were still folded underneath her breasts, accentuating her cleavage. Her nipples were knotted so taut they pointed through the fabric of her bra.

“Rachael,” he murmured and looked back at her face.

Her eyelashes fluttered. Her teeth parted. She wanted this kiss as much as he did.

He was barely breathing.

She swayed closer. “Brody.”

His gaze fixed on her lush little mouth and he wondered what she was going to taste like. The fruit salad? Or the lust? Or a heady, wild combination of both?

Sweat pooled along his collarbone and his groin weighed thick and heavy.

Rachael pressed the tip of her tongue to her upper lip and Brody just about came undone.

The verdant spring in her eyes darkened to deep summer moss. He pushed his palm up the length of her jaw, splaying his fingers until they caught in the tangle of curls at the nape of her neck.

He dipped his head.

She made a hungry noise of approval.

His lips closed softly over hers.

She tasted a hundred times more delicious than he’d imagined. He savored the full flush of fruit salad — raspberries and melon and pineapple and peaches — mingled with the earthiness of longing need. And underneath all those layers of flavors, he tasted a heady dose of bravery and a yearning for experimentation.

A primitive, wholly masculine urge overtook him. He wanted to take her right there on the small stage in the back room of the Valentine Public Library among the smell of binding glue and inked pages and knowledge.

Carnal knowledge.

He wanted to undress her with leisurely fingers, and press burning kisses along the smooth creamy curve of her throat, to partake of her body and give her as much pleasure as he intended on taking.

Rachael molded her body to him. Lifting her arms up, wrapping them around his shoulders, pulling him closer. He cradled the back of her head in his palm and made a low, feral noise of need.

Brody deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue between her parted lips. He’d been aching to do this for weeks.

Chapter Ten

R
achael gasped with pleasure, the strength of her need taking her by surprise.

She drank from Brody’s lips, not caring that they were in a back room of the public library and anyone could walk in on them at any minute. She was as moist for him as a woman could get and growing damper by the minute. Her pulse rate spiked like a motorcycle kick-starting on high throttle and it sent a rush of hot, restless blood spilling into her heated pelvis.

Any doubts she might have had about what they were doing vanished in the hazy magic of his mouth. She forgot that she’d sworn off romance. Forgot that Brody was the very first man to ever break her schoolgirl heart. Forgot everything except the exquisite feel of his tongue against hers.

Rachael was devoured by a need so essential it surpassed everything else. She felt it to her very core, this crippling want. She’d never experienced any kiss quite like this and she’d experienced a lot of kisses.

Uh-oh, watch out, romantic fantasy alert
, whispered the voice at the back of her mind, but his kiss drowned out the sound.

He made her feel so womanly, so desired.

Don’t they all?

Actually, no, they did not. She’d just thought they did. This thing. This was different.

Yeah, right. Have many times have you told yourself that?

A dozen? More?

“Rachael,” he murmured into her mouth. “You taste so damned good.”

Could he be feeling it, too?
she wondered hopefully.

Stop it, stop it, you’re falling for a fantasy. Haven’t you learned one damned thing?