Liberating Lacey (7 page)

“More?” His voice sounded foreign in the stillness of her sun porch.

She shook her head, simply looking at him. For the first time in their relationship he flushed under her gaze. He hoped it was hidden in the pale darkness, but he didn’t look away, half-shocked by what he’d done, half-Neanderthal and proud of it. But as the seconds passed he forgot to be embarrassed. Her rosy cheeks, her swollen lips, her glassy, satisfied brown eyes fascinated him. He’d never seen a woman look more satiated, a small, knowing smile on her face, like she knew a secret. A secret about him.

One he didn’t even know.

“What is it about you?”

The words were out, far too telling, before he even formed the thought. He would have given almost anything to take them back.

But she didn’t jump all over them, just shrugged with the same satisfied smile.

“Bed,” she said.

That he could handle. He set the glass down on a side table and hoisted her into his arms.

“I can walk,” she pointed out, the languor in her voice making a lie of her words.

“But I’ll carry you.”

Once upstairs, he set her on her chaise while he pulled back the sheets, then lifted her again and set her in the bed. She snuggled down into the sheets while he slid in and curled up behind her.

Her voice was faint, the muscles in her hip limp under his hand when she asked,

“That’s how you like those?”

Lacey’s quaint euphemisms amused him but tonight, after his prim little society babe turned his skin inside out, he felt a newfound appreciation for “lady in the parlor, whore in the bedroom”.

“Yeah. They’re all good, but…yeah. Next time I’ll make it better for you.” Next time, when he knew what to expect, could steel himself against the onslaught. Jesus. If she even gave him a next time.

“That was fine for me.”

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Anne Calhoun

Her voice was relaxed, easy, no pressure. Balanced. As if she didn’t mind him rough, but didn’t expect it, either. His little experimenter, checking it all out, taking it all in. If she liked to play that way, they could have a hell of a lot of fun.

While it lasted
, the distant voice in his mind reminded him.

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Liberating Lacey

Lacey shouldered her laptop bag and made her way to the front door, digging for her keys in the purse hanging from the crook of her arm as she walked. Her beloved house, built by her grandfather for her grandmother as a wedding present, had only one tiny flaw—a detached single-car garage. She often entered the house through the mudroom across the driveway from the garage, but the landscapers had rather effectively blocked that door with an enormous load of mulch. A few weeds sprouted in the flowerbeds lining the front porch. A lawn care company handled the mowing and tree work, but working in the gardens brought back fond memories of spring planting and fall covering, time spent with her grandmother.

She’d kept the house in the divorce. Once, just once, in a meeting to divide their assets, Davis had talked about going after it, despite the fact that her name and her name only was on the deed. She’d asked their respective lawyers to give them a minute, then spoken to Davis in a very low, very calm tone of voice. Ninety seconds later the lawyers were back and the house was off the table. Her property before the marriage, just like her trust fund. No need to discuss further.

Her heels clacked against the two wooden steps to the wide porch that ran the length of the front of her house. In the porch’s shade the air was cooler than along the sidewalk. A colleague cancelled a late afternoon meeting, ostensibly to pick up his son at school but more likely to get in a round of golf on one of the remaining nice days of the year. Home early for a change, and on a Friday, no less, she’d make herself a glass of lemonade and sit on the porch swing to go through the mail and watch her neighbors come home, rather than being the last person on the street to end her work day. She really needed to think about something for dinner, maybe baking a piece of salmon, or perhaps just a quick tabbouleh salad and some French bread…

“Hey, beautiful.”

The familiar voice startled her in the process of inserting the key into the lock of her solid oak front door. She swung around, her laptop bag dropping from her shoulder to catch in the crook of her arm. “Hunter?”

Her surprise made him pause, one foot on the front porch, the other behind him on the step. Lacey’s jaw dropped. Dressed in full uniform, the male body that seemed sufficiently impressive in jeans and t-shirts simply took her breath away. Tall and imposing, his muscular chest seemed even broader in dark navy blue.

He took her speechlessness for welcome and came to stand beside her. “I figured between the cruiser and me saying your name twice you’d hear me.” She looked toward the street and saw a police car parked on the street in the shade of her oak tree. “Lost in thought. I need to weed and mulch those beds, but it looks like 51

Anne Calhoun

rain so I won’t get to that this weekend. I thought you were working a double shift today,” she said.

He’d called a couple of times and met her for a coffee at La Java when she had a free hour one afternoon, the only time that worked for both of them in the last week and a half. The conversation, casual and easy, had ended with a kiss so thorough she hadn’t dared reapply her lipstick. Her lips were so swollen and pink from the pressure of his mouth that adding anything other than gloss would have broadcast exactly how her coffee meeting ended.

He reached for the bags, dangling uselessly from her arm. “Dinner break,” he said succinctly. “I saw you cross Hanover and took a chance you were coming home early.

Mind that I just showed up?”

She jammed her key into the lock and opened the door, stepping into the cool darkness of her foyer. “Of course not. Come in. I was about to make some lemonade, if you want some,” she said, heading straight for the kitchen, her heels clicking against the polished mahogany flooring, then silenced by the runner, then tapping more softly against the slate floor of her kitchen.

“Sounds good,” he said as he lined her bags up on the granite-topped island.

The words
dinner break
flashed into her head. “Would you rather have something to eat instead?”

He shook his head, his green eyes smiling a pleasure in seeing her that didn’t make it to his mouth. She now knew him well enough to know his eyes were the only real indicator of his emotions, as he kept his face under strict control…unless he was making love. He shrugged a little, the movement automatic as he adjusted the gear on his belt.

The radio hooked to his shoulder crackled faintly and he turned it down. “No, thanks.

I’ll get something later. I wanted to hang with you.” Hang out? Was that some kind of Gen Y code-speak for a late afternoon booty call?

She’d met Claire for coffee over the weekend. Her friend’s opinion about Hunter inviting her out on dates was that it was fine but Lacey needed to keep sex with him happening on her terms, not his. Claire claimed this was simple self-defense against a player. Lacey found it ruthless. If she didn’t feel like having sex with Hunter, she’d say so.

Giving up on decoding what may or may not have been slang, she decided to take him at face value and got out the lemons, the juicer, the cutting board and her best knife. “I hardly recognized you in your uniform,” she said over her shoulder.

“Same here,” he said. “Very classy.”

The compliment earned him a flashing smile over her shoulder as she worked. She wore a black and white houndstooth suit, professional armor with couture style. Her brain might be her best asset, but a feminine cut to her clothes and a nice set of heels helped disarm all but the most rigid opponents. “I wasn’t kidding when said I was a clothes horse.”

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Liberating Lacey

She pressed the exposed meat of several lemons into the spinning juicer and watched as the reservoir fill, adding water and lots of sugar because she liked her lemonade sweetly tart, not tartly sweet, then poured the lemonade into two glasses. She offered him one, but drew it back before he could take it. At his surprised look she tipped her head up to him and pursed her lips just a bit.

“Right,” he said and gave her a quick, warm kiss.

She handed him the glass, took a sip of her own drink and stared unabashedly at the broad-shouldered, uniformed police officer holding a glass of lemonade in her kitchen. Giving in to curiosity, she nodded at his belt. “What exactly is all that stuff?” He downed the lemonade in two swallows and refilled the glass at the fridge before answering. “Hot today,” he said by way of explanation, then gave her a slow, thorough once-over before he lifted his chin toward the laptop bag sitting on the island. “What’s in the bag?”

“The usual,” she said.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said. Then he winked.

Lightening flashed through her and her nipples hardened under layers of silk and lace. She didn’t care if this was a late afternoon booty call or not. The mail could wait.

What could be more
different
than exploring the mystery of a uniformed cop?

“Deal,” she said.

Her bag hefted over his shoulder, he took her hand and led her into the living room. The bag landed at one end of her brown leather sofa and he dropped down on the middle cushion.

“C’mere.”

Apparently this wouldn’t be a Powerpoint presentation with slides and informational diagrams, but rather a hands-on learning experience.

She rucked her skirt up and straddled his lap, the position pushing her skirt to mid-thigh. Rough, thick polyester scudded against her silk stockings as she clasped his hips with her knees and braced her bottom against his thighs. He settled both hands on her bottom, then used his foot to scoot her coffee table back a few inches.

“You first,” she said, but took the initiative and pointed at the holster digging into her left knee.

Without taking his eyes from her face he withdrew his gun from the holster on his hip. “.45 caliber Glock. The clip,” he said offhandedly, manipulating the weapon so what she assumed was the “clip” dropped out. He shoved it back in with a solid thunk and pulled two more rectangular metal objects off his belt. “Spare clips.” He didn’t offer it to her. She didn’t ask.

“The obvious one,” she said, feeling her eyes widen just a bit. “Why did you become a police officer? Your father has more than enough work for you to join him in the business.”

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“I’m not cut out for the same shit, different day,” he said. “No nights are the same. I like being first on a scene, then moving on to whatever’s coming next. We’re usually pretty busy with 9-1-1 calls but if it’s a slower night, there’s always traffic stops. I never know what’s coming when I get in the car. That can be bad, but most of the time it’s good.”

His words rang with a flat honesty she appreciated. “Fair enough,” she said, then reached for her laptop bag. “My MacBook Air. Lightweight and easy to use. I do a lot of presentations, but I’m not very tech savvy.”

He hefted it. “What’s in it?”

“My entire professional career. Every photograph, every presentation, every contract, every bit of research I’ve ever done on every property I’ve ever bought, sold, or investigated.”

“What about data, if it’s stolen?”

“I back it up, twice a day, to both off-site and on-site servers.” He set the laptop down beside him, but before she could pick out another mysterious item from his belt he leaned forward just enough to kiss her. Heat radiated from his lips to hers, softening and opening her mouth. He flicked his tongue just inside her lips, then sat back and held out a leather case.

“Handcuffs,” he said.

Oh.
Her mind went blank as she automatically reached for what he offered, fingering the smooth, worn leather case, turning it over. Her heartbeat rocketed from a slow, heated thump to a rabbit’s pace and a flush crept up her cheeks.

“I wear them behind my back so I can get to them with either hand,” he said, his voice half an octave lower than normal.

She nodded sagely, as if that practical consideration jibed with her own experiences, except none of her experiences included handcuffs. “Pretty sneaky. I thought you wanted to kiss me.”

“I did. I do,” he said. He slid one hand up over the back of her suit to cup the nape of her neck. The proprietary grip of his hand worked in tandem with his mouth to seduce her, the merest hint of pressure of his lips over hers, their quick breaths mingling more than their tongues. She braced both hands on his chest, the fingers of her right hand clasped around the handcuffs case, then pulled back in surprise. Hunter’s chest was muscular and firm, but not rock hard.

“What’s…?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Your turn,” he said, a hint of command in his voice.

“Your stuff’s more interesting,” she said.

“Not to me,” he replied, caressing the exposed length of her leg with one warm hand.

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Liberating Lacey

She tossed the cuffs case next to her briefcase and dug in her purse until she found her BlackBerry. “I’m an addict,” she said as he looked at it then set it on the sofa. “My mother thinks I need a twelve-step program.”

This time he pursed his lips. “You don’t check it when I’m around,” he said as he picked up her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm, then the fleshy base of her thumb.

She didn’t. The weekend she brought him home was the first weekend in months, maybe years, she hadn’t compulsively checked the BlackBerry. She’d forgotten about it.

Not surprisingly, the world did not come to an end. Except it had…in her bed. Again and again. The night he took her out she hadn’t even brought it out of her purse.

Another first.

“Other things on your mind?” he asked when she didn’t respond.

She nodded, the heat in his eyes making her heart thump against her ribcage.

“Good. You work pretty hard, beautiful, but all work and no play makes Lacey a dull girl.”

She didn’t feel dull right now. Pressed up against him, her lips tingling from his brief kisses and aching for more, her nipples hard for his touch, she felt like she was glowing, incandescent with heat and light, as if her outline would be visible in the darkness.

“Your turn,” she said.

He spread his hands palm up, leaving his chest open to her touch. He wore a short-sleeved shirt. She trailed the tips of her fingers along the hard muscles of his forearms, up over the bulge of his biceps, to touch his nametag and badge, then across where she usually felt the firm muscle and satiny skin of his deltoid and pectoral. Instead, raised ridges and the hard edge of something covering his chest stopped her questing hands.

She began to undo the buttons of his dark blue polyester shirt, one by one, down his chest and upper abdomen, the scent of Hunter and clean sweat rising as she opened the shirt. She reached his belt and stopped, spreading the fabric wide to expose a black vest, secured around his torso with wide Velcro straps.

Silence cocooned them but with this item the grandfather clock in her foyer intruded into her consciousness, ticking through five seconds before he spoke. “Bullet resistant vest. They’re hot, they’re heavy, they’re uncomfortable when you’re sitting in the car and no patrol cop in this town goes on duty without one.”

“Resistant?” She thought they were bullet
proof
, not resistant.

“Cop-killers will get through them. Some rifle bullets, too.” Her eyes zipped up to his. “Exactly how safe are you on the job?” He laughed a little, a gleam in his eyes as he slid his hands up and down ever so slightly over her hips, a motion she found both soothing and arousing. She suspected he knew exactly how his touch made her feel. “Not as safe as you are, but we’re trained to handle situations so we go home alive.”

“Really?”

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Anne Calhoun

“Really. Think of the vest as insurance. Probably never need it, but you gotta have it.”

“Good,” she said, then hooked one finger under the Velcro running over his left shoulder. “I want this off.”

Chagrin crossed his face. “Lacey, I’m soaked with sweat. I spent the last hour in ninety-five degree heat at an accident scene.”

“I don’t care, Hunter.” She really didn’t. Assuming he had an hour, about forty minutes remained.