At Wild Rose Cottage (17 page)

The day was not ending the way it was supposed to. Somebody was going to pay for this, or her name wasn't Emily George.

CHAPTER TWELVE

D
ESPITE
HIS
INTENTION
to leave the fund-raiser as soon as possible, Trent had still been there when Carl called about the break-in at Emily's house.

Soon after the auction ended he had seen Alaina angrily roaming the site, grabbing bits of trash and hurling them into a trash can. When asked what was wrong, she'd grumbled something about boneheaded men and wasting too much time on a jerk.

“Who are you talking about?” he'd demanded.

“None of your business,” she had muttered, adding, “Men,” in a disgusted tone.

That was when his phone had rung. Alaina had immediately stalked away to help in the kitchen.

Trent rigged a covering for the broken window, thinking that if he hadn't given in to the temptation of watching Emily at the auction, he wouldn't be wondering now what she'd said to his folks or about what had upset his sister.

Emily was still talking to Carl, so Trent decided to check the house himself.

It was puzzling. The culprit must have been searching for something, and it was even more obvious on the second floor than on the first. Loose floorboards had been lifted and fitted back in place—he could tell by the dust that had been disturbed. Heat vents had received the same treatment. He instantly recalled Bob Webber's curiosity about the renovations, but Webber had owned the house for over thirty years. There wasn't any reason for him to search it now...however much Trent remained thoroughly in favor of the asshole going to jail for any reason, including being butt-ugly and offensive.

He went down and explained to Carl what he'd found.

The sheriff made a couple of notes. “Thanks. Let me know if you spot anything else. I have a lead from Ms. George I'm going to look into—someone from California—though she seems quite certain the individual isn't involved.”

Carl drove away with his deputy and Trent stood on the curb, debating. He should have told Alaina what had happened. She could have come with him—the other volunteers would have filled in for her at the park—and Emily might appreciate having a friend there. Yet even as the thought formed, he heard a muffled shriek and hurried inside the house.

Emily was stalking back and forth across the floor and she cast him a single searing glance.

“That no-good sniveling creep,” she hissed, shaking a fist at the plywood clamped over the window. “How dare he break into Wild Rose Cottage? The universe has a suitable punishment waiting and I hope it includes a garbage truck filled with rotted fish.”

Trent watched in bemused awe as she paced the length of the living room.

“Who does he think I am?” she fumed. “A patsy who'll roll over and play an extinct T. rex while he sneaks into my house and does God knows what?” She threw a fulminating glare at Trent. “You think I'm faking being nice, while
he
thinks I'm a patsy. I don't know what's worse, but just let him come back while I'm here. He'll learn his lesson from the woman who got top marks in every self-defense class she's ever taken. I'll tie his legs to his ears and make a pretzel out of him. He'll wish he'd gone to Tibet and become a hermit.”

Not once did she curse or swear.

“I know what I'll do,” Emily declared. “One of those tricks the kid used in the
Home Alone
movies. He'll wish he was Daniel Stern or Joe Pesci when I get finished. And I'm not the only one. Wild Rose Cottage won't put up with it, either. The guy will think a gang of Klingons got hold of him and swept him off his feet and severed his manhood with a silver bullet.”

Trent watched the show with increasing enjoyment. Her choice of Klingon weapons was a little off—he didn't think they used silver bullets—but she continued verbally dissecting the intruder's innards with an excellent understanding of human anatomy. He was grateful that her anger was no longer directed at him, at least for the moment.

“You believe I can do it, don't you?” she demanded, coming up to Trent and shaking her fist once more.

“Absolutely,” he breathed.

Unable to resist, he snatched her into his arms for a long, scorching kiss.

* * *

E
MILY
'
S
BLOOD
WAS
boiling and now her temperature surged even higher. Trent's embrace was so tight that it should have been uncomfortable, but instead felt more erotic than anything she could remember.

She strained closer, running her hands over the taut muscles of his back.

The kiss deepened and they shared breaths as his tongue delved between her teeth. A minute later he nibbled a string of kisses down her throat and she felt his lips exploring the skin left bare by her sundress.

His hands had been busy unfastening the buttons on her shoulder straps and now he pulled back, his eyes fastened on her bustline as he eased the fabric downward.

She hadn't found the nerve to go natural and was wearing a strapless bra. Trent grinned when he saw it, and teasingly eased a finger beneath the lacy fabric, slowly pulling it forward until stopped by her nipple, already puckered in excitement.

“I wonder what's obstructing traffic,” he whispered, brushing his finger back and forth against the sensitive nub.

With her knees buckling and afraid she'd move too much and end the delicious torture, Emily grasped his shoulders and held on for dear life. Breathing harder, Trent slipped his other hand in on the other side and Emily thought she'd die of pleasure as both her breasts received the same treatment.

Then he pulled the fabric down, leaving her bare to his gaze.

“That's a beautiful sight,” he said hoarsely.

Her bra dropped to the ground while she unbuckled his belt. At the back of her mind she knew this was a bad idea, but decided to ignore the annoying voice of caution. After tugging the belt free, she quickly dealt with his jeans.

“You're good at that,” he gasped.

“I own a fashion boutique. That makes me an expert at buttons and zips,” she managed to say.

As she tugged his jeans down, he grasped her hands to stop her, reached back and pulled his wallet from a rear pocket, fumbling until he found a condom.

“A man who's always prepared?” she asked as she busily undid the buttons on his black shirt.

“Find me a single man with good sense who
isn't
prepared.”

“True,” she said, baring his muscular chest. It was mostly smooth with only a narrow wedge of dark hair that she carefully ran her fingers through, before drawing them across a jagged scar along his rib cage.

“What happened?”

“Stupidity on the job site,” he groaned, seeming to be aroused by her fingers exploring the ridge of white scar tissue.

His erection jutted out, hard and ready under his boxers.

Bra, shirt, sundress, jeans...a trail of clothing was scattered across the floor to the door of her bedroom. Emily fumbled with the knob, managed to open it, and they succeeded in getting inside to tumble onto the mattress she used for a bed.

She gasped as she bounced.

“Nice-quality mattress,” Trent told her, fastening his mouth upon her right breast, licking, teasing, sucking.

“Local supplier,” she gasped. “I couldn't take the air bed any longer.”

“Good choice,” he said with a grin, lifting his hips, his hands moving in a way where she knew he was donning the condom. Then he nudged her legs apart and lay hard and satisfying against her.

Yeah...quality all the way.

* * *

E
MILY
DROWSILY
LISTENED
to the sound of kids playing and the drone of a lawn mower in the distance. Her neighbors didn't sleep in on Saturday mornings; they got right down to the business of living.

She and Trent lay on their sides, her back against his chest, and his arm curved over her waist. The prior evening had brought the kind of pleasure she'd only imagined in the past. Trent was very,
very
good in bed, and he'd made sure she was completely satisfied. Maybe it was the contrast between him and Dennis that... She stopped herself. No comparisons or thinking of unimportant things.

Part of her believed she was still asleep and had enjoyed a mind-blowing dream. Surely it wasn't possible that they'd spent the night together. He was still the prickly,
impossible
man who thought she'd been trying to manipulate free stuff out of his men.

A cold chill ran down her back. Would he accuse her of sleeping with him in order to get some new folderol on the house?

If he said even one word to that effect he'd find out she could be incredibly
not
nice.

Regardless, now she had to return to reality. Someone had broken into her home and she was convinced it was for the second time. Fortunately, the culprit seemed more interested in Wild Rose Cottage than her. But what about the handgun Trent had taken from the upstairs wall? It seemed unlikely there was a connection, but she couldn't avoid talking to him about it any longer.

She shivered as Trent's body showed hints of waking energy. His muscles tautened, tension gathering in knots. Asleep he was calm and relaxed. Awake he was...Trent Hawkins, the formidable owner of Big Sky Construction—a man people treated as if he was a live grenade, ready to go off if they accidentally pulled the pin.

But a different primal energy seemed to be building as well... The arm around her waist shifted as Trent's hand went traveling. Interesting, her almost rational mind observed, he explored the curve of her hip first before sliding down to delve into the curls at the apex of her legs.

Well, maybe explanations could wait for a few minutes.

* * *

T
RENT
LIFTED
HIMSELF
on his elbows and stared down at Emily. Her light brown hair tumbled across the pillow and her pretty brown eyes were fringed with dark lashes. He was still inside of her and hated to leave, despite being fully sated. But he eased away.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

He could have guessed that was coming. It was why he normally stuck with women whose sole interest was a good time. This was the payment for breaking all of his rules about sex and business relationships.

He sat up, pulling the blanket over his lap, hiding the evidence that he was rapidly becoming aroused again, while Emily found a short silk robe and pulled it on. He found it easier to breathe once her breasts were covered.

“Trent,” she said firmly, “something happened a few weeks ago that we need to discuss.”

He blinked. This wasn't the typical opening to the what-is-our-relationship-and-where-are-we-going-from-here discussion.

“Yes?”

“On the Saturday you worked at the house alone, I came back and you were upstairs, knocking the wall apart for the master bedroom.”

All desire vanished.

“Yeah, I...” He couldn't voice the lie he'd planned—that he'd forgotten she wanted to be there when it was demolished.

“I saw you take a handgun out of the wall. You must have a good reason, but I haven't known if I should say something. Now with the break-in, we have to deal with it. The two probably have nothing to do with each other, but they're both creepy.”

Trent's brain reeled. He'd figured the whole thing was behind him...except for the gun hidden in his private safe.

He'd planned to drop it in several tons of concrete—Big Sky was always pouring a foundation at one site or another—yet something had held him back.

“I'm sure there's no connection,” he said.

“Perhaps not, but I need to know what it's about.”

“It's about the past, which is much better left that way.”

“It might be about the past, but the gun was in
my
house.”

He didn't want to acknowledge she had a point, didn't want to think about the whole mess.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Sorry, I don't care what you want. And I have to point out that since the gun was in my house, technically, you stole it from me.”

Her words were a goad. “Then call the police,” he dared.

“Maybe I will, if I don't get the truth.”

He didn't think she meant it, but couldn't be completely sure.

“It's about a crap-load of unpleasantness, so can't we just leave it?” he demanded.

Her gaze was unwavering. “No. I've never thought you'd done anything bad with it, but the gun was in my house and I have a right to know what it's about. And if you don't explain, I'm going to start asking other people.”

“Damnation,” he swore. “I've never met such a stubborn, obnoxious woman in my life.”

“You can drop the compliments. They won't distract me,” she said, the ironic expression in her eyes telling him she was thinking of his accusations that she'd acted “nice” for a purpose. He didn't know where he stood on that question at the moment, but it was obvious Emily had no intention of moving an inch until he'd explained.

“All right,”
he said through gritted teeth. “I never used that gun to do something illegal, but my father may have.”

“Your father?” she repeated, looking confused. “Everyone says he was a great guy.”

“Everyone is wrong. The truth is... I've always wondered if he was involved in several armed robberies the year before he died.”

Emily's eyes opened wide. “Did he have a split personality?”

“In a way. In public he was charming and charismatic, but no one knew what kind of man he was inside this house. To me he was a drunk who'd beat his wife and son for any reason.”

“Oh, my God,” Emily murmured.

Trent gulped a lungful of air, curiously grateful that he'd been forced into revealing the truth. “I told you it wasn't pleasant. Mom pretended everything was fine, as if we were the perfect family. How could she just let it happen and not try to stop him?”