A_Wanted Man - Alana Matthews (12 page)

She had put her hand in his and leaned her head on his shoulder, and before the night was over, she lay for the first time in his bed, exhilarated by his touch and his complete lack of selfishness. She discovered very quickly that he was both a man
and
a gentleman.

As Callie thought about this, however, the warmth she felt gave way to sadness.

How could she have let that go?

How could she have let any of it go?

“Shall we take your car?” Harlan asked. “Or do you want me to follow you?”

She pulled herself from her thoughts. “I’ll drive,” she said, then climbed in behind the wheel.

Chapter Thirteen

Harlan didn’t quite know what to make of Callie’s invitation. The move was unexpected. But then he thought again about what her grandmother had said.

She’s still in love with you, you know.

Was there any truth to that?

Part of him wanted to believe it, but a bigger part had serious doubts. She was simply being kindhearted, because, beneath it all, that was Callie. She may have had her stubborn streak, and that hair-trigger temper, but the woman he’d known had been a nurturer at heart. Offering up her spare bedroom was just the kind of thing she’d do. So there was no point in reading anything into it.

Besides, why should it matter to him? He and Callie were long done, and he had his own life in Colorado Springs. True, he’d kept his relationships casual since his divorce, but he didn’t often fret over his life as a single man.

He had freedom, could come and go as he pleased. And coming home to an empty apartment was something he’d gotten used to.

But if he was entirely honest with himself, there were nights he’d walk into that apartment and yearn. Not for his ex-wife—that had been a mistake. And not for any of the women he was currently dating.

But for Callie. For that feeling they’d once shared. As if their souls had somehow been connected.

Those were the times he’d root around in his kitchen cupboard until he found a bottle of Jack Daniels. He’d quietly get drunk as he watched the night sky, thinking about all the things he should have said and done back when Treacher was killed. But he’d been too young and stupid—Billy Boy Lyman stupid—and he’d let grief devour him, just as it had devoured Callie.

Harlan sometimes hated Treacher for what he’d done to them, for his irresponsibility. Couldn’t he see how much in love they were? What made him think he had the right to destroy that with his reckless behavior?

But if Harlan got drunk enough, he sometimes wondered if Callie had been right. If he’d been more forceful, if he hadn’t been distracted by a woman—a major bone of contention with Callie—Treacher never would’ve gotten behind the wheel of that car and would probably be alive today.

If, if, if…

Sometimes on those nights Harlan saw his best friend smiling at him from beyond the stars, and all the promise in that youthful, charismatic face. And sure enough, Harlan would find himself crying. Drunken tears, but tears nevertheless. Something he didn’t like to admit to, but he figured you weren’t really a man if you didn’t know how to let it loose now and again.

So he let it loose, mourning his losses like a child who has finally realized that his runaway dog isn’t ever coming home again.

And the hardest part of all was knowing that when he woke up in the morning, his apartment would still be empty.

H
ARLAN WAS THINKING
about these things as they pulled into to Callie’s driveway.

“Home sweet home,” she said, setting the parking brake.

He studied the house, a modest one-story structure with a rustic feel. It
looked
liked home. Comfortable. Aged, but well-tended.

“You were born here, weren’t you?”

“Probably die here, too,” Callie said. “This house and Nana Jean are the only constants in my life.” She paused. “And the job, of course.”

“Of course. The all-consuming beast.”

She smiled. “But in a good way.”

“Tell that to my face,” he said, gesturing to the bruise.

They both laughed as they opened their doors and climbed out, and it was good to hear Callie laughing. There had always been a bright, musical quality to the sound that lifted his spirits. And they needed lifting right now.

Callie jangled her keys and let him in through the front door, then they moved together through a small parlor into a modestly appointed living room, Callie flicking the lights on as they went.

“The spare bedroom is in back,” she said, then gestured to a stone fireplace in a corner of the room. “Or you can start that fire you wanted and sleep on the sofa. Your choice.”

“No contest,” he told her. “Fire it is. As long as I don’t wind up like Jonah Pritchard.”

“Ugh,” Callie said, then pushed him away.

“Bad taste? Too soon?”

“Way too soon.”

“So I suppose if I say I want Rice Crispies for breakfast, you’ll throw me out of your house?”

He could see that she was about to laugh again, which, of course, was what he’d been hoping for. Cops weren’t known for their tasteful humor, and Harlan wasn’t any exception. The kind of job they did, humor was often their only relief. Even if it was a bit morbid.

But before he could say anything more, she seemed to sense he was about to crack another joke, and held up a finger.

“Stop,” she said, stifling the laugh. “Keep your mouth shut and get to work. I’ll grab you some blankets.”

So Harlan did as he was told and moved over to the stack of wood next to the fireplace. Shoving aside the grate, he stacked several pieces inside, turned on the gas, then took a long-nosed utility lighter from a basket next to the wood and lit the fire.

It would be a few minutes before the wood caught and he could turn off the gas, so he moved to a rack on a nearby wall that held several bottles of wine. He found a nice Pinot and held it up as Callie came back into the room carrying two blankets and a pillow.

“Quick drink before bed?” he asked.

One of Callie’s eyebrows went up. “This isn’t a date, Harlan. Don’t take this offer the wrong way.”

“How could I?” he said. “You’re always pretty clear about what you think and feel.”

“Maybe not clear enough. Just because we’ve decided to be cordial doesn’t mean this is anything more than two colleagues—”

“It’s just wine, Callie.”

She caught herself. Smiled. “I guess I’ve always been too serious for my own good. I’ll get the glasses.”

She dropped the pillow and blankets on the sofa, then disappeared into the kitchen as Harlan found a corkscrew and opened the bottle.

A moment later she came back and held out the glasses as he poured, a little more generous with the liquid than he needed to be. Truth was, Harlan was disappointed by her insistence that this meant nothing, even though he’d suspected as much. He couldn’t stop staring at her, thinking about her body, the way she carried herself. Remembering the things they used to do together. Alone. On his bed.

Maybe the wine would dull his senses a bit.

“To tracking down bad guys,” he said, punctuating the words by touching his glass to hers, marveling at how beautiful she looked in the growing firelight.

She stood only inches from him now and he wanted so much to lean forward and kiss her, to taste her lips. But he knew that would be a serious mistake. Instead he drank his wine, nearly downing it in a single gulp.

Callie said, “Slow down, partner, that isn’t grape juice.”

He finished it off and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I guess I needed that more than I thought I did.”

Then he looked into her eyes again and thought he saw a flicker of desire there. A look he’d seen many times before.

But he couldn’t be sure. Especially now that the wine was flowing through his bloodstream. He hadn’t been lying about the transparency of her emotions, so maybe what he saw was only the flicker of the fire playing tricks on him. Or his own desire getting the better of him.

He poured another finger of liquid and downed it, then turned and set the glass and bottle on a nearby end table. The wood in the fireplace had caught now, and he crossed to the gas valve and shut it off.

“Guess we’d better get some sleep,” he said. “Thanks again for putting me up.” He smiled. “And for putting up with me.”

“Not so hard,” she said. “I deal with criminals for a living, remember?”

Then she finished her glass, set in on the table next to his and bid him goodnight as she left the room.

Harlan didn’t think he’d ever been so sorry to see someone go.

I
T WAS CLOSING IN ON THREE
o’clock when Harlan heard the sound.

The sofa was comfortable enough, and although the fire had died down quite a bit, he could feel its warmth. But he’d slept fitfully through the night, still thinking about Callie and his desire to kiss her. To take her in his arms.

He couldn’t decide if what he was feeling was real and immediate, or simply the residue of a past that hadn’t been completely scrubbed away.

Get a grip on yourself, moron. You’re here to do a job and nothing—

The sound came from a hallway on his left—the faint padding of footsteps on wood, and he realized he had dozed off for a moment.

He turned now and saw her silhouetted against what was left of the fire, and in the faint light could see that she was wearing an oversize University of Colorado sweatshirt. Probably the same one she used to wear in the old days. It cut high on her thighs, her smooth bare legs exposed to the night air.

She looked as if she hadn’t aged a day since college, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there were tears in her eyes.

“I can’t sleep,” she said softly.

“Neither can I.”

Without another word she climbed onto the sofa next to him, pressing her warm body against his, leaning in to kiss him.

As she opened her mouth, the faint smell of her breath wafted past him—a uniquely
Callie
scent that he would know with his eyes closed. Their lips touched and he drew her tongue in, the taste as sweet and inviting as he remembered.

And as they kissed, she snaked a hand down past the blankets, sliding her fingers across the fabric of his boxers until she found him and gently squeezed.

There are those who think that sex is just sex for a man, that he’ll sleep with any women he finds remotely attractive. But this wasn’t true for Harlan. He wasn’t a monk, that was certain, but in all the years they’d been apart he had never found a woman who excited him the way Callie did. He instantly grew hard against her hand, the sudden need to be inside her nearly overwhelming in its intensity.

He wanted to feel her heat envelope him, the memory of it quickening his pulse. He rolled her over onto the cushions and pressed himself against her. Pushing her sweatshirt up, he gently took hold of her right breast and ran his thumb across the nipple, feeling it harden at the touch. Then he lowered he lips to it and she arched her back slightly, pressing into him, her hands searching again, reaching past the elastic of his boxers until she found him.

And he knew that she was feeling the very same overwhelming need. The all-consuming desire. It was as if they had been in a constant state of foreplay ever since he walked into that conference room. He wanted to take his time to please her, but she seemed to be well beyond such concerns, the urgency of her breathing telling him that she was ready for him. Now.

Moving her hands to his waistband again, she pushed his shorts down to free him. She was wearing a pair of silky panties, but she didn’t bother to remove them. Instead she pulled them to one side and guided him into her, kissing him, whispering in his ear, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” he said. “It’s my fault. It was all my fault.”

And he thrust forward like man possessed, electric heat radiating through his body as she writhed beneath him, mewing and moaning with each powerful thrust. He scraped his teeth across her shoulder, her neck, then found her mouth and her tongue again, her quickening breaths in perfect counterpoint to his moving hips.

And just as he thought he couldn’t take any more, as if his mind were about to succumb to an explosion of ecstasy, she suddenly looked up at him and said, “Wake up, Harlan. We need to get moving.”

Harlan blinked, opened his eyes. Found himself alone on the sofa, his legs tangled in the blankets.

Callie was standing across the room in the kitchen doorway, dressed and ready for work, a cup of coffee in hand.

“You seemed to be having a heck of a nightmare,” she said. “You want to share?”

Harlan blinked again, trying to get his bearings. “Did we…? Did…”

“What?”

And then the realization that it had all been a dream came crashing in on him.

“Never mind,” he croaked.

“Are you okay?” Callie asked.