RaeAnne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One: Blackberry Summer\Woodrose Mountain\Sweet Laurel Falls (33 page)

Something in her tone had him looking closely for any sort of double meaning, but she only smiled blandly.

“Yeah, it's definitely a job hazard when you're a cop. Seems like there are always doughnuts available, whether you want them or not.”

“Those, too.” She opened the door. “Angie brought me more than enough rolls. Come in and I'll try to find a container for you to take some home.”

“I've always got room for Angie's cinnamon rolls. They'll make a great breakfast before my shift tomorrow. Thank you.”

She only limped a little as she led the way into the entry and through the hall.

He was struck again by how warm and welcoming she had made her house. It was the sort of place designed for kicking off shoes and settling in. The kitchen smelled delicious, of lemons and spice and roasting meat. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it as Chester headed straight for the water dish and Claire bustled around her kitchen, pulling out a disposable plastic container. Riley leaned against the doorjamb as she moved half of the round pan into the container.

“Something smells good in here.”

She made a face. “Dinner. I know, it's late, but the kids are at Jeff and Holly's, so I've been catching up on work. I marinated chicken all day and forgot to throw it in until I got home an hour ago. So how was your lunch?” she asked, then immediately looked as if she regretted the question, although he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

“Good. Do you know Sharilyn Lundberg? She's a deputy county attorney.”

“I don't think I've met her, no. She seemed lovely.”

He hadn't noticed anything about the woman other than her sharp legal mind and her annoying habit of touching his arm entirely too often whenever she made a point, as if that brush of physical contact would somehow give more credence to whatever she was saying.

“We're working together on the charging documents against Charlie Beaumont and the other teens involved in the crime ring.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Claire's features suddenly seemed a little more rosy than they had a moment earlier. “Where do things stand with the charges?”

All the frustration of the meeting with Sharilyn pushed back onto his shoulders. “Not well. Small-town politics are a bitch.”

“You're in a difficult situation, Charlie being the mayor's son and all.”

“It's tough.” All he wanted was to do the job he'd been hired for, to be a cop. Instead, he had to wade through this frigging minefield. “The mayor, of course, is trying for a deal, trying to plead down the charges, but that's going to be impossible. The county attorney wants to make an example here and try Charlie as an adult because he just turned seventeen. He was drinking. Not much, true, only point-zero-four in his system, well under the legal limit for an adult. But as a minor, he's not supposed to have any alcohol. Layla's dead and Taryn Thorne is still in a coma and may not come out of it.”

“Katherine said there have been encouraging signs the last few weeks.”

“We can hope and pray for that. Either way, though, Charlie won't be able to squeak out of this, no matter how many strings the mayor tries to tug.”

“My heart is sore for the whole family. Mrs. Beaumont comes into my store sometimes. So does Gen, of course. She's very upset by the whole thing. From what I understand, her fiancé has some political aspirations. Gen worries his family will now see her as a liability.”

A timer on the stove went off before he could answer. “That's my chicken,” she said.

He straightened. “I'll leave you to your dinner, then.”

Again, he had the odd sense she was debating something. “Have you eaten?” she finally asked.

“I'm not going to eat your dinner.”

“I made plenty. When the kids are with Jeff, I always make a little extra for leftovers so I don't have to cook for myself. I'll warn you, it's not much. Lemon-rosemary chicken and rice.”

His stomach rumbled again. Even though he knew it wasn't smart, he was tempted—and the food was only part of it. In the past ten minutes here in her kitchen, the stress and tension of his day seemed to have seeped away. He felt more calm than he had in weeks. He wanted to say yes, to sit down and enjoy a meal and conversation with her in this quiet, peaceful kitchen. The ferocity of the desire scared the hell out of him.

“I'd better not. I've got about three hours of paper
work to finish tonight that I've been putting off all week.”

“Of course.” She hid it quickly, but he didn't miss her disappointment. “I understand. You're busy. Let me fix you a plate and you can take it home and eat it while you work.”

She reached into a cupboard and his throat just about closed up. She had been working hard all day, too, struggling with the frustration of double casts, and she still wanted to take care of him.

Oh, he was in deep, deep trouble.

“You know, my paperwork's waited this long. Another half hour or so won't hurt.”

“Great. Let me just toss a quick salad.”

He took the plates from her and set them on the dining nook table in her kitchen and quickly pulled flatware from the drawer. He found it more than a little disconcerting that he was beginning to know where to find things in her kitchen. A few moments later, Riley sat down to what looked like the best meal he'd had in weeks, even counting the always-good food at the diner.

“This is delicious, Claire,” he said after the first bite. “Much better than the cold pizza I probably would have had for dinner.”

“Thank you. Fresh rosemary makes all the difference. Alex taught me that, FYI.”

“Alex gives you cooking lessons, Angie brings you cinnamon rolls. You're more a part of my family than I am.”

“Not true! Your mom and your sisters all adore you.”

Would they still feel the same if he decided to leave Hope's Crossing? He quickly changed the subject. “Is it tough for you when Owen and Macy are at their father's, being alone here in this big house?”

She took her time answering. “The house certainly seems quiet. I usually try to work late on those nights whenever I can. I'm still not crazy about the silence.”

He was so used to silence that he didn't know any different. He'd never lived with a woman and hadn't had a roommate since his freshman year of college.

“I miss them,” she went on, “but it's important for them to spend time with their father and the new family he and Holly are starting. I understand that. Every time I'm tempted to just pack up and go as far away as I can, I remember this is best for the kids.”

He stared. “I thought you loved Hope's Crossing and wouldn't dream of living anywhere else.”

“I dream,” she said simply. “Don't get me wrong, I do love it here. For all the occasional glitz and glam during the ski season, this is a small town at heart, full of good people who care about each other. If I ever wonder again, I only have to remember the overwhelming support we've received for the Giving Hope Day.”

“So why would you even think about leaving?”

“I could come up with a few reasons. Wondering what else is out there. Feeling trapped. My mother. Do I need to go on?”

He laughed. “But you won't leave, will you?”

“Not while the kids are young anyway.”

“Don't you think most people in your situation would rather escape the awkwardness?”

“I'm no saint, Riley. We've established that. My motives are mostly selfish. I love running String Fever, and my friends and support system are here, too. I'm comfortable here.”

“You belong here.”

“So do you.”

“I'd say the jury is so far out on that one that nobody knows where they are anymore.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Why did you come home? Really? Don't tell me it was only because the position of police chief opened up. I'm sure when you decided to leave the Bay Area, you could have found a job in a hundred places.”

“Maybe.” He sighed. “When I found out Chief Coleman had decided to retire, I had just spent months undercover as a pimp and a drug dealer. Before that, I spent nearly a year posing as a white supremacist. I needed to wash the dirt out somehow and the job here just seemed right.”

“You needed to be home,” she said softly.

“I wouldn't have put it that way. But yeah, I guess.”

“You're doing a good job, Riley. J. D. Nyman is an idiot and he always has been. Just give people a little time. When the wounds of the last month aren't so raw, people will see you're exactly right for Hope's Crossing.”

Her staunch defense of him, the faith he knew he didn't deserved, warmed him. He gazed at her, so earnest and lovely. He ached to kiss her, to pull her close and just hold on.

He released a slow breath and pushed away his half-
eaten dinner. “This was delicious, Claire, but it's late. I'd better go.”

She looked a little disconcerted by his abruptness but nodded. “Thank you for staying. It was nice to have company besides Chester.”

He glanced at the dog, now splayed out on the floor. “I'll go check to make sure the gate is latched before I leave so he doesn't escape on you again.”

“Thank you.”

He left through the back door, grateful for an excuse to put a little badly needed distance between them. The high mountain air cooled his face and he filled his lungs with it. He should never have walked into that house. He should have just brought back her grumpy little dog, left him on the porch and headed back to his own space where he could be safe.

He had lived among despicable thugs for months, but he found Claire Bradford far more frightening than any of them.

He took his time walking around the backyard, steeling his will against making a stupid move. Finally he knew he couldn't put it off any longer and he returned to the kitchen to find she'd cleaned up and was closing the dishwasher door.

“You're right, the fence was ajar. I latched it now, so your escapee should have a harder time making his break.”

“Great. Thank you.”

“Good night, then. Thanks again for dinner.”

“You're welcome,” she said as he headed out onto the back porch. “Oh, wait. You forgot the cinnamon rolls.”

Keep them,
he almost said but he knew she would insist on his taking them.

He stepped inside while she walked back to the kitchen for the container, then she returned and held it out for him.

“There you go. Throw in a coffee from Maura's place in the morning and you've got the breakfast of champions.”

He managed to return her smile, although he kept one hand tight on the doorknob and the other gripping the container of cinnamon rolls like it was loaded with C-4 ready to blow.

“This was nice,” she said. “See? We don't have to throw away a perfectly good friendship just because…”

Her voice trailed off and she blushed a little.

He closed his eyes. “Because I can't spend sixty seconds near you without wanting to smear Angie's frosted cinnamon rolls from your head to your toes and then lick it off inch by slow, delicious inch?”

She gulped and her eyes darted to the rolls, then to his mouth, then back to the pastries. With a defeated groan, he threw the box on the counter and grabbed for her, shoving the door closed with his foot.

He devoured her mouth, tasting cinnamon and coffee and a lingering hint of rosemary. Her lips parted and he dipped his tongue inside, sliding along the length of hers. She made a sexy little sound and buried her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, and he lost his grip on the last tangled thread of his shredded calm.

The kiss was wild, heated, tongues and lips and
teeth, full of all the pent-up frustration and longing of the past two weeks.

Somehow through the urgent ache, he held on to one semirational thought, that he couldn't leave her standing here when her leg was in a cast. If he wanted to continue kissing her—and did he!—he would have to move her to a more comfortable position.

Without breaking the connection of their mouths, he scooped her up into his arms. She gasped a little but didn't pull away—instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as he carried her through the kitchen and into the family room.

He lowered her to the sofa, but she didn't release her hold around his neck and he had no choice but to follow her down, careful even in the midst of the wild hunger scorching through him to take care with her injuries.

They kissed for a long time, stretched out side by side on her sofa while the old house shifted and settled around them. He lost track of everything but her softness and heat, the welcome of her mouth, of her body.

“I haven't been able to think about anything else but this for two weeks,” she murmured against his mouth. “I dreamed about you every night and hated waking up alone and aching.”

He closed his eyes while the silky heat of her words slid down his spine like the flick of her finger.

What was he supposed to say to that? She might have dreamed about it for a few weeks, but he'd been thinking about her for
years.

He kissed her, overwhelmed all over again that
Claire Tatum Bradford was here, in his arms, kissing him as if she couldn't get enough.

That sentiment he certainly shared. None of this was enough. He should have known it wouldn't be. He wanted more, he wanted their bodies tangled together, he wanted to lose himself in the sweetness of her skin, every lush curve and angle.

He eased up on one elbow, entranced by the fluttery pulse at the base of her neck. Thinking only to steal a taste, he dipped his head and flicked his tongue there. She gasped and arched her back a little. The cotton of her shirt was soft, warm from her body, as his fingers moved to the first button and worked it free, revealing more of that delectable lace of her bra underneath. Taking a chance, he unbuttoned the next one down, leaving the shirt only fastened by two or three buttons near the bottom.