Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (31 page)

The ugly thi
ng inside Sarah grew fangs. 

But because she was a woman of
maturity, and not some jealous, territorial harpy, Sarah resisted the urge to go over there and throw Victoria out on her perfectly sculpted ass.  She’d warned Tucker about her, after all.  If he was too stupid, too
male
to see past her outward appearance, he could just –

Good Lord
.  She sounded like a jealous, territorial harpy.  Even if it was only in her head.

Disgusted with herself, Sarah decided to
simply go home.  Have that meal, and that shower. 

And likely end up stewing in her own juices the rest of the night.

No, she should take Tucker the coffee – which was rapidly growing warm – as a considerate, appreciative gesture.  Throw Victoria out on her ass.  And
then
go home.

Okay, probably she should just take a couple deep breaths, and
…

Fall into the bushes.

“Ow.  Shit.”  Sarah tried to keep her cursing as quiet as possible.  But dammit, she’d scraped her arm, and there was a branch tangled in her hair.  She reached back, groping blindly, trying to free herself so that she could slink away.

“Evening
, Red.” 

Sarah paused. Too bad he wasn’t a T-Rex, or she could just hold still in the hope that he wouldn’t see her.

“Hi.”

“
What the hell are you doing in the bushes?”

“I…” Think, think.  “Was looking for Useless.”

There was a pause.  Then: “Looks to me like he’s sitting on your screened porch.”

Of course he was.  Contrary animal.  Why couldn’t he have picked
this
night to hide beneath the hedge? “Huh.  I guess he must have slipped by me.”  Thank God Tucker couldn’t see her face.  She’d never been able to lie with any kind of conviction.  “Do you think you could unhook my hair?”

Another pause.  “I don’t know.  This view is kind of entertaining.”

“Unhook my hair, Tucker.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I won’t smother you in your sleep.”

He moved, and though
he didn’t say anything else, she could
feel
his amusement.  Jerk.  Sarah reached for dignity even as her eyes watered when he pulled on her hair.

“Sorry.”

“No problem.”  Finally free, she backed out of the bush, smoothed her skirt. 

She chanced a look at his face, and immediately wished she hadn’t.  He
wasn’t even trying to hide his grin.

“Skulking around like that, you’re
fortunate I didn’t mistake you for Linville.”

“I would hope,” she told him evenly “that the dress would give you a clue.”

“Nearly dark,” he answered just as smoothly.  “My eyes are a little gritty from staring at my monitor.  I might have tackled you, knocked you to the ground.  Although” he considered the gardenia “the bush seems to have beaten me to it.”

“Tucker?” The sound of Victoria’s voice was
like a manicured nail on the chalkboard of life.  “Tucker, where are you, sugar?”

Sugar
? Sarah thought darkly.

“I’ll be right there,” he called back, then muttered “Hold your horses.  Are you alright?” he said to Sarah.

“Couldn’t be better.”

He tucked his tongue in his cheek.  “There are leaves in your hair.”

“Just part of my garden motif.  You have a nice night now.”  She turned, on legs that wanted to tremble, only to have Tucker’s hand land on her shoulder.

“You dropped this.”

He extended the coffee.  The ice had melted, but miraculously the contents were intact.

“
Thanks.”  Although she had absolutely no intention of drinking it.  Even if it hadn’t been meant for him, she seemed to have lost her appetite.

BY
the time he’d finally gotten rid of Victoria, night gripped Sweetwater in a close, dark fist.  Rain scented the air from the brief, pop-up storm that had held him hostage with her for the past half hour. He heard the whirr of the fan as he passed Mason’s room, where his friend had retreated with a script when the Hawbaker woman showed up.

Coward.

Of course, he was one to talk.  He’d had the information from his mother’s lock box for several days, but had yet to do more than track down the address of the old library, see if his grandfather still owned the land.  Which, according to public record, he did. 

And
according to Mason – who’d learned to pluck fruit from the town grapevine with an alacrity that was alarming – remained empty, save for the ghost of the dead janitor, who appeared with some regularity to drunken teenagers and eager tourists.

Tucker wasn’t sure what, if anything, that
did to his theory.  Wasn’t sure what, if anything, he could do about his theory, even if it was right.

Confront his grandfather? 
Because that had gone so well for his dad.  Or hey, maybe he could tell Hawbaker he suspected the man’s boss – currently recovering from open heart surgery – may possibly have been complicit in covering up a thirty-year-old crime.  And by the way, here’s a few old newspaper clippings and a note from my dead father as evidence.

As much as Hawbaker seemed to dislike Tucker’s grandfather, Tucker thought that either of those options might get him run out of town on a rail.

He stepped into his bathroom to grab a towel, rubbed it over the hair he’d gotten wet when he’d run out to roll up the windows on his truck.

Tucker started to hang
the towel back on the rack, noticed the sheet over the window had come loose.  He went ahead and yanked it down.  It had served its purpose.  Maybe tomorrow he’d measure, see about installing some actual blinds.  Although he couldn’t say it bothered him any longer if Sarah happened to catch sight of him in the shower.

His thoughts
tracked straight to lust, then swerved toward amusement.

Looking for Useless, his ass. 
He wasn’t exactly sure who she’d thought she was kidding, but she’d looked damn cute all flushed and mussed and indignant.

H
e looked out the window, where a few stray raindrops slid down the glass.  Light flickered in Sarah’s kitchen.  Candles?  He wondered if she’d blown a circuit in the storm. Amusement turned into vague concern.

He
went to his bedroom, picked up his cell phone, and headed toward that window while he dialed.  

“Are your lights not working?” he said when she answered.

“What?  Who is this?”

Insult raised its head.  “You frequently have people with New York a
ccents calling to check if you’ve lost power? Come to your kitchen window.”

“My lights are working just fine.”

“Then you should have no trouble finding your way into the kitchen.”

A
fter a few moments she came into view, and insult circled right back around to lust.  “You showered.”

“As you so astute
ly pointed out, there were leaves in my hair.”

Now her hair hung loose, the damp ends just curling.
  In the candlelight, it glowed like burnished copper.

“Nice pajamas.”

She looked down at the skimpy yellow tank and plaid bottoms she was wearing.  “You like it?”  She eased one of the thin straps down her arm.

“I’ll like it a lot better if you keep going.” 

“Like this?”  The other strap came down to mirror the first.  The fabric clung to her generous breasts just above her nipples.  Tucker remembered vividly what they tasted like in his mouth.

“That’s a start.”

She paused to consider.  “Why don’t you take something off for me?”

“Why don’t you come over here and take it off yourself?”

“I don’t know.  I think I need to see the merchandise again before I go to all that trouble.”

An illicit thrill shot through him.  “You want me to strip?”

“You want me to leave the comfort of my home?”

Feeling stupid, and really turned on, Tucker sat the phone
on the nightstand and put it on speaker. He hesitated.  Then thought
fuck it,
and went back to the window and inched the shirt he’d just donned up his chest.  “How’s this?”

“Not bad.  Maybe you could sing
a little.”

What? 
“Not in a million years.”

“Oh, come on
, Tucker.  We both know you’ve got skills.”

He glared at her.  She raised a brow.

Grinding his teeth, but distracted by the way Sarah had begun to rub her hand across her stomach as she watched him, Tucker reluctantly hummed a few bars as he ripped the shirt over his head.

“Very, very nice,” Sarah breathed into the phone
, biting her lip.  “Now put some hip action into it.”

He stopped
reaching for his zipper.  “I’m not a freakin’ Chippendale, Sarah.”

“No.  You’re sexier.”

Stupid to feel flattered, he told himself.  But h
e eased the denim over his hips.

Sarah’s hand crept up to her breast.

His jeans slid down his legs.

She slipped a finger into her mouth.

Tucker’d never been into the idea of phone sex before, but he was beginning to change his opinion.

“That’s it,” he finally said when he was bare-chested and tenting his boxers.  “You can come over here now.”

Sarah balanced her phone between her chin and her shoulder.  “I don’t think so.”  She pulled a cord, and her blinds came down.  “But thanks for the show.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SARAH
opened her front door, bumping it with her hip when it threatened to stick.  When it flew open, a bag of muffins slid off the laptop she cradled in her arms.  As she examined the banana nut remnants on her floor, she took it as a sign that she should probably stop bringing home leftover baked goods.  Clearly her hips didn’t need the extra calories.  A few more scones and she could hire herself out as a battering ram.

“Useless!” she called, setting her computer on the counter as she stepped around the mess.  “Dinner.”   

A chain creaked on the porch.  Probably her obese varmint rolling back to sleep.  Even given his new diet, she hadn’t really expected him to come running.  Resigned, she headed toward her tiny supply closet for a broom.

The chain creaked again.

Sarah stopped.  She was pretty sure even Useless wasn’t fat enough to make the bed swing like that.  When she took another cautious step, and caught sight of a man’s shoe through the French door, a thrill of fear shot through her.

Jonas.

She snatched up the broom she’d been headed for, and slipped the cell phone she’d taken to carrying with her out of her pocket.  

“I’m dialing nine-one-one as we speak,” she called
out.

“You do that.  I’m sure they’ve missed the sound of your voice.”

Relief rolled over her in a wave, quickly replaced with irritation.  She marched out onto the porch and glared at the man sprawled like bored royalty on her daybed.  Her cat curled against his side.

“Planning on going somewhere?” 

When she frowned, he gestured toward her left hand. 

“You brought your transportation.”

Sarah looked at the broom, and then pointed it toward him.  “I would threaten to turn you into a jackass, but somebody beat me to the punch.”

To her annoyance, he took his time uncoiling from the bed, pausing to scratch Useless under his chin.  When he finally stood, he loomed over her.
  “I thought you didn’t like games.”

“I don’t.”
Her heart pounded.  “You’re trespassing.”

“
You left your screen door unlocked.”

“An oversight I won’t be repeating.”

Tucker appeared calm, but the icy look in his eyes reminded her that this man was not someone to mess with. 

She poked the broom handle into his chest.
  “Get out.”

“No.”
 

Of all the…

“Yes.” 
When she turned with the intention of heading inside, he simply reached around her and closed the door.

Fury swelled to the point that she nearly levitated from the ground.  “Who do you think you are?”

“The man who’s
gallantly
not strangling you.  You want to tell me what that little production last night was about?”

Sarah was tempted to tell him it was his problem if he was too
damn stupid to figure it out, but he was right.  She didn’t like games.  So she’d explain, and then end things between them, like a civilized, rational adult.