Serendipity (Southern Comfort) (18 page)

“I took a course in college,” she said as they both straightened, Jordan rubbing his abused knee.  “I’m a little rusty, but I’m not going to just lie down if someone tries to grab me.”

“Ava, I didn’t mean –”

She held up a placating hand.  “I know you didn’t.  I know it’s your nature to want to protect.  But I’d rather have your respect.”

“You think I don’t respect you?”

His mouth went thin, and she touched his arm.  “As a person, of course I do.  You wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise, no matter how tempting your little bag of vegetables.  But as a woman capable of knowing when she needs help… you’ve got Sheltie tendencies, I’m afraid.  You want me over here, where you think I should be, so you’re doing your best to herd me.”

Jordan stared at her, finally shrugged.  “Okay.  I apologize if I came off as patronizing.”

It had been too pleasant an evening to let it end in discord. “No problem.”  She flashed a smile.  “It gave me a chance to work off some of that lasagna.  Which was wonderful
, by the way.  Kudos to your mother
.”

And moving toward the table, she started to clear their plates.  “Since you cooked, I’ll take care of the dishes.”

“YOU
wash, I’ll dry.”  Jordan had no choice but to drop the subject.  He’d just have to find a way to work around her, that was all.  To hell with being straightforward.  “Then I can get my hands on you again that much sooner.  Though you can keep your elbows to yourself.” 

Ava met his bland smile.  “Do you always expect that sort of payoff for a meal?”

“Absolutely.” He stacked his dishes beside the ones she’d just placed in the sink.  “But I believe in equal opportunity.  Next time you can make dinner, and then expect me to put out.”

Ava grabbed a sponge and dish soap from under the sink.  “And that’s your idea of equal opportunity?”

“Uh-huh.”  Jordan unbuttoned the cuffs on his dress shirt and rolled the sleeves to his elbows.  “As the saying goes, you’ve come a long way, baby.”  He reached over, turned the knob of the art deco radio she kept near the sink.  “You’ve never heard of an iPod?”

“Little do you know.”  She opened a drawer, pulled out the docking station, the wires.  “It’s retrofitted.  There’s just something about an old-fashioned radio in the kitchen.   I like the nostalgia.”

“Nostalgia,” he said, as Elvis proclaimed in that velvet voice that he was All Shook Up.  “Well.  At least The King has the right idea.”

When the last dish had been stowed away, Jordan hung the damp towel over the edge of the sink. Ava dropped the sponge into a dish to dry.  Patsy Cline was Crying, and the air between them crackled. 

AVA
looked for something to do with her hands other than help him out of his clothes.

“Would you like to…”

She turned toward his voice, met his gaze, got lost in that shimmering blue.

“…dance?”

    “Dance?”  She blinked at the hand he extended.

“Mmm-hmm.  Candlelight.  Music.  Seems to call for a little dancing.”

“Here?”  She looked around her tiny kitchen.

“It’s where we happen to be.”  He snagged her hand, gently tugged.  Enfolded her in arms that tightened.  “You’ll just have to hold on real tight so that I don’t knock anything over with my gangly body.”

Gangly, hell.  He was all lean muscle, long lines.  Smooth, smooth moves.  While Fats Domino crooned about finding his thrill, Jordan maneuvered her so skillfully that the full twelve inches difference in their heights didn’t make her feel like a midget. 

Instead she felt relaxed, content.  And very, very sexy.

He eased her into a dip.  

“Jordan.”  She swallowed hard, met the flicker of heat in those striking eyes.  It had been so long since she’d been with a man.  And she so badly wanted to be with this one.  “Do you want to…”

“If you’re about to suggest anything other than me making love to you for the rest of the night, the answer’s no.”

  “Well,” she said after she’d managed to catch her breath.  “I guess it’s lucky for me that I wasn’t.”

He lowered.  Simply sank against her lips.  And when she opened, seeking, danced his tongue toward hers as skillfully as he’d glided her around the room.  The kiss spun out, slow, slower, until Ava wasn’t sure if they were still standing.

“Wow,” she managed when they came up for breath.  He slid his hand under the edge of her shirt, rubbed the small of her back in a gentle circle.  “That was… nice.”

He jerked them both to standing.

“Nice,” he stretched his hand.  Unhooked her bra with a twist of his fingers.  “Isn’t exactly what I’m after.”

He… devoured.  There was simply no other way to describe the press of his body, the crush of his lips.  The clever hands that stroked, then kneaded. 

That quick snap of lust that had her blood humming and wiped her mind clean.

Needs, so long unmet, tangled in her belly.  And when he tipped her head back, closed teeth over her neck, Ava’s mouth turned to dust. 

“Well… Jesus,” she gasped, looking for air like a landed fish.

“That’s more like it.”  He palmed the seat of her jeans, lifted her to her toes. And when he brought her tight against him, laid any question she may have had about his own need effectively to rest.

The man was hard as stone.

One of the candles burned out on a sizzling hiss, and Gary Allan sang about the woman who ran.

Not this woman, Ava thought.  At least, not this night.  She was through with running scared.  So wrapping her legs around his waist, thought it was time to join the tango.

LUST
was a rough and ready jolt when Ava crushed her mouth to his.  Jordan staggered into the counter, righted himself by throwing out a hand.  Found his other arm overflowing with warm, willing woman.  She clung to him like kudzu.  Climbing legs.  Wandering hands.

When one slipped beneath the edge of his shirt, found his flat nipple, his eyes nearly rolled in his head. 

Pleasure slammed into him in a quick, crashing wave.  

No longer trusting his legs to hold them both, Jordan boosted her onto the countertop.  Her breasts, unencumbered by the bra he’d loosened, bounced against his chest.

“Ava.”  The wave broke, and his body shuddered.  What was it about this woman that made him feel like a teen about to round first base for the very first time? 

With a flashback to last night’s pink satin, he yanked her T-shirt over her head.

“Good God.” He wrapped his fingers around the edge of the counter, took a bracing breath.   Red silk.   It shimmered in the light of the remaining candle, liquid rubies against the honey of her skin.

Gliding his fingers along the red, the gold, he freed her from the straps.

When
his mouth closed over her, hungry, hot, Ava felt something inside her tighten.  It wound, a slippery coil of need that had her fisting a hand in his hair.

“Bedroom’s that way.”

Jordan lifted his head to her insistent tug, gave it a second’s consideration.  “Not gonna make it.  Next time.”

WITH
that promise, he reached for the snap of her jeans, fingers slipping as he wrestled the zipper.  Satisfaction twisted along with the need, satisfaction that she’d made this smooth man fumble. 

And because she had, her own fingers steadied as they worked the buttons of his shirt.  Impatient, he snatched them away, and yanked it off himself.

Buttons hit the floor like fat raindrops.    

“Oh.”  Ava had to take a moment to simply appreciate.  It was her duty as a red-blooded woman.  Raking a nail down the line of hair below his navel, she watched gooseflesh pop out on his skin. “That’s some body you’ve got there, Counselor.”

“Same goes. Doc.”  Hooking his hands under her arms, he brought her to her feet.  “Your jeans are in the way.”  And when they slid down her legs, simply lifted her again, and out of them.

When he stood back, stared at her, naked except for a scrap of red silk, Ava had never felt more desirable.

Winding her hands through the weight of her hair, she lifted it, watched his eyes watching her, then dropped it to her shoulders.

“I just lost the power of speech.”

“Quite the casualty for a lawyer.  But at least you still have your feet.”

With a noise between a laugh and a groan he snatched her up, dropped her onto the counter.  And shoving her legs apart, covered her with his mouth.

“Oh.  God.”  The silk rasped, his tongue stroked.  Ava fell back onto her elbows.  The radio went skidding into the sink, cutting off the Flamingos and their famous eyes.

She hadn’t expected the outright assault, but that was damn sure what she was getting.

When he used his teeth, the coil exploded with a thousand springs.

“God.  God.  Give me a minute to catch my breath.”  Head ringing, Ava sprawled on her counter.  “I think I’m blind.  Wait.”  She opened her eyes.  “Damn, these tiles are ugly.  Maybe I’ll have them bronzed.”  

“You’re recovered.” Jordan pulled her up, and she fell against his chest. 

“No.  No, I’m really not.  My head’s still ringing.  Or… shit.”  Pushing him aside, she basically fell off the counter.  And hand to her head, staggered to where she’d stowed her purse.

“What?” Jordan asked, frustration lending the word edge.

“My pager.” She dug through the lip gloss, receipts, gum wrappers and dog treats which constituted the somewhat irregular contents of her purse.  And… whoops, the little pistol she didn’t want to explain to Jordan.  Finally locating the pager, her stomach sank as she studied the number.  “Damn.”

“No.”  That edge of frustration cut through to panic.  “No damn.  Not now. Whatever it is, just pretend you didn’t hear it.”

“I can’t.”  Ava’s voice held true regret.  “It’s Sam Bailey out at Long Branch Farm.  He has a mare that’s ready to foal, and this page means she’s gone into labor.”

“So buy him a cigar tomorrow.”

“Jordan…” She watched the knowledge that she was expected to take part in the delivery sink in, and he stabbed both hands into his hair.

“Are you telling me that I’m going to be the first ever documented case of death by sexual frustration, because you have to go deliver a baby horse?”

“A foal,” she corrected, and scooped her discarded bra off the kitchen floor.  “And as sorry as I am about your condition – and believe me, I’m really very sorry – I’m one of only a handful of licensed equine vets in the area.  And Sam’s a friend.”  She shrugged, a helpless gesture.  “This is his first year of breeding, his first mare to come to term. I promised I’d be on hand for the birth.  Look,” she ran a hand through her own hair before hooking her bra, gathering her jeans.  And where the hell had she left her boots?  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to give me a ride, since my car’s still back at the clinic.  You can just drop me off and then head on home.  I’m not sure how long this will take – sometimes it’s a finger snap, sometimes it’s hours – but I can’t promise we can pick this up again tonight.”  She glanced at the clock on her microwave, saw that it was already past eight.  “I’ll have to make it up to you another time.”

Jordan dropped into a chair.  “You’re killing me here, Ava.”

“I really am sorry.”  She dragged on her T-shirt, met his mournful scowl with a contrite smile.  “If it’s any consolation, that,” she gestured to the counter “was… well.  Wow.”

A smile ghosted.  “Glad to be of service.”

“Okay.”  And wasn’t this awkward?  “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I need to go grab my boots.” 

THERE
was a special circle of hell, Jordan mused as he watched her walk out, reserved for horse breeders who lacked the common courtesy to wait for morning to conduct their reproducing.

With that uncharitable and certainly illogical thought, he pulled on his ruined shirt.

LONG Branch Farm sat almost thirty minutes outside the city, a pastoral area of old traditions and new money.  Homes were large, stately and recently constructed, with carefully manicured grounds and shiny luxury cars sprinkled in the driveways like the colorful decorations on a pretentious cake.

Jordan’s simmering annoyance heated another degree.

Between the hot water he’d found himself in after the meeting that morning and the way frustration – professional and personal – had salted the broth, he figured he’d worked up to a good stew.

The bucolic surroundings were just garnish.  

Looking around, Jordan noted that Sam Bailey – late-thirties, former investment banker abandoning the rat race for the slower pace of country life, according to what he’d managed to pump out of Ava – was doing pretty well for himself.

Backed by the ever-changing natural wonder that was tidal marsh, the farm consisted of a lush twenty-five acres of fertile Lowcountry bottomland enclosed by four-board fence. 

Live oaks crouched like oversized gargoyles along the twisting length of the drive, botanical guardians to Bailey’s kingdom.  In the gathering darkness, their Spanish moss fluttered and swayed in a ghostly gray dance.  The whole fairy tale forest feel irritated him further as his car crunched over the oyster shell drive.