Heat of the Night

Page 19

She sighed. "What if I don't behave?"
Connor stepped aside and gestured toward the foyer. "I won't say no," he warned. "If you're hoping I'll agree to play the gentleman, think again."
"Fine." Stacey led the way to the front door and he opened it, pausing a moment to collect his sword. "But I'm putting you to work, Mr. Big-strong-man-who-can-do-the-chicken-dance."
"Bring it on, sweetheart."
He followed her out the white wooden gate that enclosed Lyssa's flagstone patio. They walked together to the small guest parking area and Stacey hit the remote on her keychain that popped open the trunk of her Nissan Sentra.
Connor tossed her backpack and his scabbard inside, then began whistling as he moved to the passenger door.
"You're too happy about this," she muttered.
"And you're too worried." He paused and stared at her over the roof of her car. "We had sex, Stacey. Great sex." His voice lowered and the brogue thickened. "I've been inside you. If I can't be happy spending time with you after that, what kind of guy would that make me?"
Stacey swallowed hard, blinking. She'd seen this look on his face before. Austerely intent.
Serious. He wore it just as well as he wore amusement. "You're fucking with my head. I don't like it."
"By telling you the truth?"
"By being perfect!" she hissed, glancing around to make sure they weren't being overheard.
"Stop it."
His mouth curved in a tender smile. "You're nuts, you know that?"
"Yeah?" She yanked open her car door and slid behind the wheel. "You don't have to hang out with me."
The passenger door opened and he folded his big body into the suddenly miniscule seat. He grimaced.
"Move the seat back if you won't go away," she said.
He shook his head and looked exasperated. "I'm not going anywhere. Get used to the idea."
Rolling her eyes, Stacey leaned over and reached between his legs to find the manual seat release.
"Don't think you're going to make me feel guilty that you're squished. Push back."
He didn't move.
"Jesus H. Christ!" She smacked his shin. "Why are you so stubborn? Push back."
He still didn't move. Not one muscle.
Turning her head to complain, she found herself eye level with an impressive bulge in the crotch of his jeans. His right hand was on his thigh, the fingers white as they dug into the hard muscle beneath the denim. Stunned for a moment, Stacey didn't move. Comprehension was slow to sink in. Eventually she realized that her breasts were pressed to his left thigh, thrusting rhythmically due to her labored breathing. Her gaze lifted, noting the rapid lift and fall of his chest before coming to rest on his face.
His expression was mocking. "This is supposed to make me more comfortable?"
Stacey glared and straightened. "You did that on purpose."
Connor snorted and moved the seat back himself.
"Let's go, sweetheart."
They pulled out of Lyssa's gated condominium complex and sped down the road to Stacey's part of town. Old town, they called it, but it was presently going through an overhaul. The new police station and town hall were being built in one large complex, and new businesses were filling the once empty plots. Murrieta was a new town with an old history. Within a block of each other, one could find a Starbucks and a farm. The dichotomy was one she relished. Country charm with all the modern conveniences.
"Do you like it here?" Connor asked, surveying the passing landscape with a curious eye.
"I do. It's perfect for me."
"What do you like about it?"
She glanced aside at him. "What's not to like?"
He wrinkled his nose. "It stinks."
"O-kay…" Stacey pondered that a moment.
"We are in a valley." At his raised brows, she explained, "Smog tends to sit in valleys."
"Wonderful."
She shrugged. "If you think it stinks here, don't go to Norco."
"Sounds like a gas station," he said.
She laughed. "I've always thought so, too!
Seriously, though, it's horse country. Plus they have lots of dairy farms out that way. The whole town smells like cow shit."
"Nice." His mouth was curved in that singular smile that made her heart flutter madly.
They turned a corner and entered the part of old Murrieta where there were no sidewalks and there was a good bit of distance between one house and the next. It was far different from the area where Lyssa lived. There you could borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor just by reaching your arm out your window.
Stacey pulled into her gravel drive and came to stop before the little two-bedroom house she called home. It was small, just under a thousand square feet, but it was adorable. If she said so herself. It had a wide covered front porch framed by curving flower beds that she'd designed and planted herself. Painted a soft sage green with bright white trim, the place was cute on the outside and fully modernized on the inside. And it was hers.
Well, as much as a mortgaged house could be.
"Here it is," she said, lifting her chin with pride.
Connor rounded the trunk and drew abreast of her. "I like it."
She glanced at him and found him engrossed in checking out her abode. "It's too small for you,"
she thought aloud, then instantly regretted how that might come across. As if she were imagining him living there.
He canted his body to face her, standing so close she couldn't help but smell him. She didn't know what the scent was. It wasn't any cologne that she could recognize. It was just him, she suspected. Just Connor—brilliant name for a signature cologne and he'd make a fortune off it.
"I like tight places," he purred with mischief in his eyes.
Not for the first time, Stacey wondered what it would be like to live with a man who was so confident. That inner surety enabled him to be such a shameless tease. It also made him different from all the other men she had ever dated. The others had been small men pretending to be big men. She'd always fallen for the shell, the illusion of stability. Until she had Justin. Then she learned to find strength within herself, because someone else depended on her.
She inched by Connor and went to the trunk where she pulled out her backpack. Evading him when he tried to take it from her, Stacey jogged to the porch and cautioned, "Watch out for the second stair. That's the one with the rot."
"Got it."
When she pulled open the wooden-framed screen door, he was right there with her, his hand catching the edge and holding it ajar while she unlocked the two deadbolts and door lock.
"Isn't it safe out here?" he asked, delaying entering the house after her because he was scanning the front yard and the quiet street beyond.
"Yes. But my scaredy-cat sensibilities take over after dark."
He nodded as if he understood. Stacey suspected he sympathized, but she doubted he had ever been scared of anything. He was too steady, too assured. She imagined that resoluteness came from growing up in a family so dedicated to dangerous military service. They all expected to die, so they didn't fear danger in the same way others did.
He stepped into her living room behind her and the screen door swung shut with a loud squeak followed by a louder bang. Connor scowled at it.
"Your door's broken."
"Technically, it's the little arm thingy that doesn't work, not the door."
"Whatever. It's busted."
"Nah, it needs adjustment. Make yourself comfortable." Stacey headed down the hallway to the laundry room, where she pulled her cat hair-covered clothes out of her backpack and tossed them in the washing machine.
A moment later Connor called after her, "Your son is a handsome boy."
Stacey blew out her breath and headed back toward the living room. Connor was half-way down the hall, looking at the multitude of framed pictures that lined the length. It was a small space and he hogged all of it, the top of his head nearly reaching the low ceiling.
"Thanks. I think so." She found him studying a Polaroid of the two of them at the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby. Justin had been nearly of a height with her, and with his medium brown hair and dark eyes he didn't really look related to her at all.
"That was taken a couple years ago," she explained. "He's dropped out of Cub Scouts since then.
Said it was something a boy should do with his dad."
Connor reached over and stroked his hand down the length of her spine. It was a gesture of comfort, much like the kiss he'd given her the night before, and it was a source of consolation, but it was something else, too. And she couldn't let it be something else. She couldn't allow him to become a crutch she looked toward or depended on, because he wasn't going to be around forever.
She'd made the same mistake so many times—
looking for strength outside of herself. She refused to do it again.
"I'll go start on the pie," she said before passing him and heading into the kitchen. It took him a while to join her, and when he did he wore an odd expression.
"You alright?" she asked, turning off the water she had running to wash the apples. "All the family stuff freaking you out? Want me to take you home?"
"Aidan's house isn't home." He leaned against the jamb of the archway that connected the breakfast nook with the kitchen. There was no formal dining room, which worked because she didn't need one.
He watched her intently, a brooding and overwhelming presence in her tiny kitchen. "Am I supposed to freak out because you have a child?"
His arms crossed his chest in a now familiar gesture, emphasizing his mouthwatering biceps.
He dominated her thoughts, making it impossible to avoid being highly aware of him. A larger-than-life personality housed in a larger-than-life body.
It was too much. He was too much.