Wildfire (8 page)

So why did Brady treat her like a half-wit, accusing her of not knowing left from right, of being unable to automatically lock the doors at night?
Stop being so touchy,
her practical side advised.
Go to bed. Tomorrow
’
s going to be a long day and you
’
re going to need a clear head.

Of course getting a good night’s rest is sometimes easier said than done. By six forty-five the next morning, Amanda had already been checking the time at five-minute intervals for the last half hour.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, kicking aside her comforter.

She padded across the hall into the bathroom and stood under a refreshing shower. The massaging spray soothed the remaining tension from her neck and upper back. Exactly thirty-six minutes later she was downstairs and fully-dressed. After some initial hesitation she’d decided on a pair of beige chinos and a blue oxford-cloth shirt. The overall effect was a tailored casualness that she found pleasing. Whether Brady found it so, or not, was his problem.

Brady rang the front doorbell just as she was rinsing out her coffee cup and cereal bowl in the kitchen. Even from the hallway, the top of his dark, curly hair was visible through the portal’s diamond-shaped window. Taking a deep breath, she willed her uneven heartbeat to steady itself before opening the door.

“Good morning, Mandy.” He greeted her with that special smile of his. “Are you ready to go?”

“Just about,” she replied.

“Well, hurry it up.”

“What’s the rush?”

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“I don’t know if I can handle another one.”

“What are you muttering about? I haven’t given you any surprises yet.”

“Really? What about taking me to the arcade on Friday?”

Brady hooked his thumbs around the belt loops of his jeans, resting his hands on his lean hips in an attitude of relaxed assurance. “I gave you a hint.”

“That’s right, Tempest, knowing I’d assume it was the play by Shakespeare.”

“Did Shakespeare write a play called Tempest?” he questioned with feigned ignorance, his eyes sparkling with humor.

“Don’t play dumb, Brady. You knew that’s what I’d think.”

“Just like you knew I’d think we were going to a popular concert that first night.”

“Classical music is popular,” Amanda retorted.

“You know what I mean.”

She couldn’t deny it. “If I surprised you, then you got even on Friday night. Can’t we call it quits?”

“Do I look like a quitter?”

“You didn’t play Tempest like a quitter,” she had to admit with a smile.

“Neither did you,” he countered. “I had no idea librarians were so competitive.”

“Are you still upset because I beat you?”

“That was beginner’s luck,” he dismissed.

“You’re asking for it,” Amanda warned, shaking her finger at him.

“I know,” Brady intimately acknowledged. “But you haven’t given it to me yet.”

How could she begin to describe those looks he gave her? They consisted of equal parts of deliberate suggestiveness, sexual awareness, and latent desire. It
made for a
potent combination. And when the play of words was added to the skirmish, Amanda was hard pressed to maintain her distance.

“I thought you were in a hurry to go,” she countered, gathering up her sweater and purse.

“I am.” Brady took her wrap away and held it up invitingly. Amanda slid her arms in, but the knit material of the sweater got caught on the cotton of her oxford shirt. Her face grew warm from her struggles.

“Stop fighting it.” Brady’s suggestion was murmured in her ear, stirring the golden strands of her hair and agitating her even more.

“Fighting what?” Was that breathless voice really hers?

“Your sweater. What else?”

What else indeed?
she thought to herself.

Brady turned Amanda around to face him. “You look great.”

“I wasn’t sure what to wear,” she found herself admitting.

“I can’t imagine your not being sure of anything.” His teasing inflection disguised the fact that he was half serious. “Let’s go.”

Amanda’s first surprise turned out to be the vintage Mustang parked in the driveway. Despite its age, it was in excellent condition. “Is this yours?”

“No,” Brady mocked. “I stole it.”

“Ask a silly question,” she paraphrased under her breath.

“Talking to yourself again, Mandy? That’s a sure sign that you need a break.”

Amanda couldn’t resist a smile of anticipation as Brady shunned the expressway in favor of picturesque country roads. Located equidistant between the Mississippi River and Lake Michigan, Deerfield was surrounded by lush and rolling farmland. Their route twisted over ridges and dipped past hollows adorned with brilliant sugar maples and russet oaks. Entire hillsides were ablaze with color—brilliant yellows, golds, and reds, with just enough evergreens for contrast.

“What are you smiling at?” Brady asked.

“It’s funny how some people think of Wisconsin as a level cow pasture.”

Brady flicked a glance at the passing landscape. “Amazing what a few glaciers can do.”

Brady’s scheduled surprise turned out to be a stop at a roadside stand displaying baskets of ruby, gold, and green apples. Trees laden with fruit lined both sides of the road. The air was, rich with the type of crisp, butter-colored sunlight that was indigenous to fall.

“How do you fancy a toffee apple for a mid-morning snack?” he asked.

Bob would have been horrified had he seen the eagerness with which Amanda accepted. He would never have been caught dead munching on such a sticky childhood delight. But the farther away they got from Deerfield, the more relaxed Amanda became. She forgot how she was supposed to act and simply enjoyed herself. She and Brady settled on a picnic table facing the orchard, enjoying the beautiful day and their treat. The sweet, chewy caramel and the crisp, tart fruit created a flavor that was hard to beat.

“Are you sure you’re not too tired to drive all the way to Milwaukee?” Amanda worried. “You had a long day yesterday, maybe you should’ve stayed in bed.”

“Is that an offer?”

“Brady, I’m serious.”

“I can tell you are. Your forehead is pleated.”

“Pleated?”

“Mmm. Like this.” He frowned ferociously.

“Thanks,” Amanda muttered, suddenly losing her appetite. First he
told her she had a scrunched-up nose and now a pleated forehead. Great. All she needed was a seam around her throat and she could apply to be the bride of Frankenstein.

“I was only kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”

Amanda gave him a dose of his own medicine. “It was obvious that you were kidding, your eyes were creased.”

Brady grinned appreciatively. “I like it when you tease me back, Mandy.”

“You do, do you?”

“Mmm.” He reached out a finger to wipe away the trickle of apple juice that moistened her lips. “I also like the way you kiss.”

Brady jerked his finger back as it was almost included with her next bite of toffee apple. “Hey!”

“Don’t you know that it’s dangerous to get between a woman and her apple?” she mocked.

“No, but I’m learning.”

“Funny, I would’ve said you were a
fast
learner,” Amanda mused.

“Depends on the topic,” Brady countered. “Certain subjects deserve more intense study.” His eloquent gaze made it clear that he considered her such a subject.

“Did you always want to be a policeman?” Amanda asked once they were back on the road. She recognized a kindred inner determination that told her Brady could have been anything he’d wanted, and she was curious about his motivations for staying in Deerfield.

“No.” He reached for a pair of sunglasses hanging from the rearview mirror and slid them on before continuing. “When I was a kid I wanted to be an accountant.”

Amanda cracked up. “Really?”

“What do you think?” he tossed back.

“That you’ve probably always wanted to be a cop.”

“I suppose that might explain why I set up a detective agency in the back of the garage.”

Amanda didn’t notice at the time, but Brady had adroitly succeeded in appearing to answer her question without actually doing so. “You had your own detective agency?”

“Sure did. I must’ve fingerprinted everyone on the block, at least those I could get my hands on.”

“What happened then?”

“When I got my hands on them?”

“No, what happened to the detective agency?”

“My sister appropriated it when I entered high school and I discovered more stimulating things to do with my hands.”

“I can imagine,” she remarked dryly.

“Can you really?” Brady reached out to place a warm hand on the curve of her knee. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” he invited.

“Because I’d rather you kept your mind on your driving and your hands on the wheel.” She lifted his hand and returned it to the steering column.

Several hours, four beers, three bratwurst, and two hot pretzels later, they stood on Milwaukee’s lakeshore, admiring the view.

“Thanks for bringing me.” Amanda’s voice drifted up from Brady’s shoulder, where she was resting her head. It was suddenly impressed upon her how compatible his height was with her’s. The placement of his shoulder was perfect for laying her head on, without having to crane her neck or stand on tiptoe. With a happy sigh she settled herself more comfortably against him and murmured, “I really had a good time.”

“I’m glad.” His voice warmed her inside.

“Did your beer taste as good as mine?” She lifted her head to question Brady with wonder. Her dark eyes reflected the lights along the lake as she stared up at him, awaiting his reply.

Having never been subjected to the full force of her undivided attention, and already feeling besieged by her sexy body, Brady had to clear his throat before agreeing. “The beer was great.” He was beginning to have his doubts about the advisability of allowing her to drink those last two steins. Mandy was hard enough to handle when she was sober, she could be irresistible when tipsy.

“I loved the folk dancers,” she dreamily continued as they turned and strolled back to the car. “And the brass bands. Do you remember the tuba player in that first-band?”

Brady had to laugh at Amanda’s impersonation, puffed-out cheeks and all she was adorable, but definitely tipsy.

They didn’t get back to Deerfield until after midnight. Luckily for Brady’s peace of mind, when Amanda fell asleep on the way home she snuggled against the vinyl upholstery instead of him. His thoughts were chaotic enough as it was. He couldn’t remember a day he’d enjoyed more. Today he’d seen another side of Amanda, a carefree side that he found captivating.

When Brady brought the Mustang to a smooth stop in front of Amanda’s house, his hand reached out to gently shake her shoulder. “Mandy?”

Her lids drowsily rose, and the darkened pools of her eyes blinked at him owlishly.

“We’re home,” he explained.

“Did I fall asleep?”

“Yep. Come on, princess, before this coach turns into a pumpkin.”

“What time is it?” she questioned bemusedly as he guided her to the front door.

“After midnight.” Brady watched her fumble with the key before instructing her. “Here, you’d better let me do that.”

Once the door was unlocked, he pushed it open and ushered her in. Amanda thought she gracefully floated across the threshold, but in reality she tripped over it and nearly stumbled.

“Careful,” Brady cautioned, gripping her shoulders from behind to prevent her from landing flat on her face.

“I’m always careful,” she loftily informed him.

“Usually,” he ruefully amended.

Amanda stifled a yawn. “If I weren’t so tired, I’d be tempted to ask what you meant by that.”

If she weren’t so tired and not quite responsible for her actions, Brady would have been tempted to do a lot more than just ask questions.

Amanda had no idea of the direction of Brady’s thoughts, engrossed as she was in trying to undo the wooden buttons of her sweater. Her normally dexterous fingers had become all thumbs as they struggled with the fastenings. With an exasperated sigh, Brady gently shoved her hands out of the way and unworked the buttons himself.

Amanda looked up, expecting him to be concentrating on his self-appointed task. Instead, she discovered his gaze was fixed on her parted mouth, studying it with incredible hunger. Amanda closed her eyes in order to shut out the disturbing image, but that only made matters worse. Now her senses were free to concentrate on the evocative touch of his hands. Their progressive descent was marked by a whisper-soft passage against the curve of her breasts, the planes of her stomach, until the very last button was undone.

Not a word passed between them; this wasn’t the time to verbalize, it was a time for sensual communication. Her eyes flickered open as Brady brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. One lean index finger trailed down the curve of her face, pausing to trace a series of intricate spirals at the base of her jawline.

Their eyes were inexorably interwoven, Amanda’s holding an element of confusion while Brady’s were warm with desire. His thumb swung to the corner of her mouth and back again, the oscillating caress making her long for his kiss. But it never came.

Brady’s husky “Good night” had barely registered in her ears before he was gone, closing the front door behind him. Amanda stood where he’d left her, gazing in disbelief at the solid wood panels. He’d left without kissing her. Brady had awakened a Pandora’s box of desire in her otherwise sleepy body, only to walk out on the dénouement. Too tired to unravel the events of the day, Amanda locked the door and got ready for bed. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, her dreams picking up where Brady had left off.

Monday morning the main topic of conversation at work was still the weekend’s pyromaniacal display. In their excitement about the latest fire, her coworkers were slow to notice Amanda’s air of dreamy preoccupation. It wasn’t until Helen asked how her weekend went that Amanda came to life.

“It was great!” she exclaimed, repeating Brady’s favorite adjective. “I went to Milwaukee on Sunday, to the Oktoberfest. Have you ever gone?”