The Keeper (13 page)

Tightly, he held her so tightly she
couldn't catch a breath. She became aware of the jets of water still pummeling
them. The heat, the steam still surrounded them. He groaned. She heard his soft
sounds, almost whimpering, his hands splayed over her back, fingers twitching,
the hard muscles of his arms like iron bars of a cage.

She'd fallen deeply and surely in
love with Pete Rayne. She had always wanted love but feared she wasn't capable
of it. Not really. Not after living through the succession of her mother's
boyfriends. None of them lasted. It had burned into her mind that nothing ever
lasted. It sure hadn't with her.

The recent return of her father,
her mother's taking him back, had rocked her world. She didn't see it as a
great love match. It was more settling for the devil you knew. She was confused
and vulnerable. But Pete was different. So wonderfully different. She trusted
him. "Pete." Her voice was very quiet in the steamy room. "I
love you."

"Share, I want to do this
forever."

His words spoke over hers.

She took a breath. It hurt.
"Yeah, but we gotta go back home sometime."

"I mean I want to do this for
ever."

His body stiffened. She could feel
the tension. Did he mean what she thought he meant?

"I love you too, Share."
He had to clear his throat after the "I love..."

Joy bloomed—for a second. She tried
to keep the insecure pain from her voice. "Don't say that just because we
have great sex."

He brought his hands up to cup her
head, to tip her face up to his.

His hazel eyes gleamed with warmth
as tears formed in hers.

"Share, I'm saying it because
it's true." Nose to nose, he was completely focused on her. "Ever
since the wedding ceremony. You looked so beautiful in the chapel. The
reflection of the light in the stained glass windows, it washed your face with
the setting sun. I heard the words
honor and peace and joy
. And I wanted
that with you."

"Really?" She was sick
with hope. "That's so beautiful."

"Yeah, really. Share, you
never have to be alone again. I'm not like your father. I'm here to stay. For
the long haul." He kissed her. Soft lips, caressing, gently nibbling,
drawing her into him.

Drawing her into his truth. The
hard thunder of his heart reverberated against her skin, against her heart.
"I do, too. I love you, Pete." Her eyes lost their focus, as if she
were looking inward, and she was shocked at verbalizing her honest
vulnerability. "No one ever put me first before."
God, did that
make her too pitiful?
"I grew up as the lonely, chubby girl. If you
didn't live it, you don't understand it."

"You do realize you completely
changed your own life, don't you?" He traced a fingertip across her cheek.
"I'm so proud of you."

The impact of his statement struck
her breathless. He meant it. She could see the honesty in his golden green
eyes. "No one's ever—."

"Someone has now."

"Oh, Pete, I love you."

He held her again, hard against his
body. "Well, this is a story we can never tell our grandchildren."

The shiver of his chuckle shook
her. This was sensory overload. "What story?"

"We can't tell them I proposed
to Grandma in a whirlpool."

"It'll be our secret." A
teary smile quirked up her lips.

"So does that mean you accept?"

The uncertainty in his voice
surprised and pleased her. It seduced her. That he wasn't sure of her.
"Yes, Grandpa, I accept," she giggled, kissing him, brushing her lips
over his, licking them.

"I'm not Grandpa yet. We have
some work to do before that, my love." He flexed his hips.

He was still inside her. He'd
proposed, and she'd accepted, while they were still joined.

"By the way, darlin', besides
the chocolate body paint, what did you buy at the Pleasure Trove?"

"Mm," she purred.
"Are you ready for this?"

He nipped at her earlobe. "Oh,
yeah."

"Nipple clips."

"Holy shit!"

"Oh, God, LW is hard
again," she giggled in sheer joy at the expression on his face.

"No kidding he's hard,
baby."

She slid her fingers over his
shoulders, up through his hair, and laughed.

"This'll definitely be a labor
of love."

###

Preview of Home to Stay

Chapter One

"Oh my God, someone's outside
my house!"

"What's your name and address,
ma'am?"

"It's…unh…one-zero-zero-nine
Larkin Road," Nickie Grace whispered into her cell phone.
"Hurry!"

"Units in vicinity of
one-zero-zero-nine Larkin Road, respond. Woman reports prowler. Copy?"

"Are you still there?"
Nickie asked the police dispatcher.

"Yes, ma'am. Is anyone else
there with you?"

"No. I'm alone." Her
fingers ached, she held the phone so tightly. In the silence of her kitchen,
she could hear the crackling sounds of the police response.

"…Unit five-seven…in
progress…one-zero-zero-nine Larkin."

"When will they get
here?"

"Unit five-seven, what's your
ETA?"

"Three min…Molly, wh…name?"
It was a man's voice.

"Ma'am, the deputies will be
there in three minutes. What's your name?"

"Nickie Grace. Please, tell
them to hurry!" she entreated from her crouched position in the corner of
the kitchen. She'd taken refuge there, out of sight of the back door and the
window over the sink.

"Nickie, my name is Molly. Is
someone getting into the house?"

"No, I don't think so. Stay on
the line with me."

"I will. Unit five-seven, the
name is Nickie Grace. Nickie, the deputies will be there in a minute."

"Okay…" Calm down…where
the hell are the cops? They said three minutes…I don't hear any sirens.
"Molly?"

"I'm here, Nickie."

"I heard a sound outside. I
just felt creepy like someone was watching me…you know…like little prickles on
your neck," she babbled on, but she knew Molly was still on the other end
of the line. "I'm from Chicago. It so noisy there all the time. It's so
quiet here, so any little noise is magnified, you know? Where the hell are
they?"

"Don't you hear sirens yet,
Nickie?"

She did. Finally past the thumping
in her head of her heartbeat. It was pitch black outside at ten o'clock, and
she could see nothing inside either since she'd flipped off the kitchen light
before calling 911. Back home, sodium vapor streetlamps and fluorescent lights
from high rise office buildings would have lit the night. In the city, the
sometimes explosive sounds of traffic—car horns, motorcycles, buses—were
constant. Now all she could hear in the country were crickets and the swooshing
of twisting leaves in the stormy wind. There had been a prowler a few minutes
ago. She'd heard…something.

The shriek of sirens got louder,
stopped. Tires crunched on the gravel drive, then footsteps pounded on the
wooden floorboards of the front porch.

"Nickie, are you all right?
The deputies are there, aren't they?"

Knock, knock. "Marion County
Sheriff's Department. Are you there, Ms. Grace?"

Relief. She closed her eyes a
moment and shakily pushed herself to her feet.

"Nickie?" Molly repeated.

"Yes, I'm here." Her
voice quavered. Don't fall apart now. The cops're here.

Knock, knock. "Ms. Grace! It's
Deputies Rayne and Crossman of Marion County. Open the door, please."

Creeping toward the front door, she
eyed the bulky shadows shifting outside the tall frosted art glass panes on
either side of the door. "Molly, what are the names of the deputies?"
she whispered even though she knew the men outside couldn't hear.

"Deputies Crossman and Rayne.
You're all right, Nickie, if they're there. It's okay to let them in."

"Thank you. I just wanted to
be sure." Punching OFF, she forced her trembling muscles to move and made
it to the front door to retrieve the baseball bat leaning against the wall.
Maybe it was overkill. Maybe not, but she felt a little safer with the bat
perched on her shoulder. Ready to swing, she flipped the front hall light on,
turned the lock, and drew open the door.

Holy freakin' cow.

Two wide-shouldered giants in khaki
uniforms and black gun belts filled the doorway. For a moment, she forgot about
the bat. Faced with the men, she forgot she only wore panties under her
horrible, shapeless, dingy robe, and even forgot why she'd called 911 in the
first place.

And men they were. Long-legged
hunks of masculinity. They were the good guys but looked wickedly intimidating
with those huge, thick, black belts full of equipment slung around their
middles.

"You don't wear Smokey the
Bear hats." She choked at the first words out of her mouth, appalled at
her inanity.

"We're county, ma'am, not
state."

"Oh?"

"State police wear
those," he said, his lips quirked in amusement. "We're county
deputies. You're out just beyond Parkersburg city limits, so you're in county
territory."

"Okay."

"You reported a prowler?"
the dark-haired deputy deadpanned, joining the conversation. "Can we come
in? We need to look around. I can take the bat now."

"Okay." She handed it
over readily enough. Riightt. The prowler. That's why they're here. Pulling the
robe's sash tighter around her waist, she stood to the side and silently
motioned the deputies in.

They stomped past her, leather gun
belts creaking, boots clomping on the hardwood floors. Everything about them
shouted huge, especially their massive guns.

Now, in the light of the living
room, she got a good look at the dark-haired deputy, all strong jawed and
sculpted lips. Heavy eyebrows, night black like his hair, hovered over melting,
deep brown eyes. A bump on the bridge of his nose only added the slightest bit
of an interesting imperfection. She shifted her gaze when he caught her
staring.

Long-buried hungers seeped from her
hidden heart, and nerve endings that hadn't tingled in quite some time screamed
for attention. She tamped all those feelings down. This was not the time or
place for physical desire to rear its ugly head.

"I'm Pete Rayne." The
blond one cocked his head toward his partner. "And he's Hank
Crossman."

"Um…okay. Hi." Heat
flashed over her skin and roiled up her neck onto her cheeks like little
pinpricks. Pull your wits together. You're acting like a ninny. "Was
anyone out there?" She finally remembered why she'd called for help.
"Did you see anything…uh…Deputy…?"

"Pete Rayne," he reminded
her.

"Nickie Grace." She drew
her fingers along her throat as if that would relieve the tightness.

"Ms. Grace," Deputy Rayne
said. "Are you all right? Did anyone get in?"

Her stomach wrenched. "No, no
one got in."

"Why don't you sit down in the
kitchen. I'd like to ask some questions." The voice of the dark-haired one
rumbled low and seductive even saying the most ordinary things.

Crossman. He's Crossman. She
acquiesced, and Pete Rayne urged her into the kitchen, his hand resting
protectively on the small of her back. He was handsome, too, but his looks
didn't sizzle through her body like the other one's did.

Seated at the kitchen table, she
watched the dark-haired deputy flip open a small notebook, click open a pen,
and poise his hand over the paper. So NYPD Blue.

"Name."

Her heart raced. He already knew
her name. She'd just told them, but this all had to be done professionally.
They did this every day. But she didn't. "Nicole Grace."

He dutifully wrote.
"G-R-A…?"

"C-E," she finished.
"Nickie."

"Nickie," he repeated.
"This your house?"

"Yes. Well, my
great-aunt's."

"Where's she?"

"She died six months
ago."

"Sorry."

His detachment oddly calmed her. A
little. "Thanks." Maybe that was his purpose.

"How long have you lived
here?"

"I moved out here two weeks
ago from Chicago. I'm rehabbing the house."

He finally glanced at her then.
"By yourself?"

His question was unusually intense.
Pete stood back, hands resting on the heavy equipment belt at his waist. He was
doing no investigating, just watching, his head switching back and forth
between them. That pissed her off. She addressed them both. "Can you ask
me this stuff later and look around outside now? The prowler will get away."

"If someone was there, he's
long gone by now," Crossman said.

"What do you mean if? You
don't believe me?" Now she really was full-blown angry. "I'm not in
the habit of imagining things like that."

"I'll go check out back,"
Pete offered.

As soon as Pete banged out the back
screen door, Deputy Crossman continued his interrogation as if he'd never been
interrupted. "Married?"

She paused. "No, but that
doesn't have anything to do with this."

His chocolate gaze heated her. She
forced herself not to lick her lips. Cute didn't begin to describe him. Rugged,
movie star, masculine hunk described him. Feeling slightly flustered, she
qualified, "Well, not anymore." This is none of his business.

"You're from Chicago? What do
you do there?" He asked questions but hadn't written anything down since
he'd asked her name.

"Aren't you even taking
notes?"

He tapped his temple. "Memory,
ma'am."

"Hm."

"So, what do you do in
Chicago?" Now he rested his hands on his hips and dropped all pretense of
official questions, his voice going from bland to interested.

"Not that it has anything to
do with any of this, but I do architectural rehab. Painting, moldings, floor
finishing."

"Convenient."

"How so?" She frowned.