Addicted to Love (6 page)

The race was on.

His heart pumped faster than it had pumped in years. His pulse throbbed in his throat. In his ears. In his groin. His gaze was glued to the Jag’s taillights as he slipped into the passing lane.

“Upstart,” he yelled, shooting past the Jag.

On the radio, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” had reached a crescendo. The guitars were wailing and Mick was singing and Michael was driving like he’d never driven before.

He felt utterly, completely alive.

And the Valentine city limits lay just ahead.

His hometown. The place where he’d been born, grown up, married the love of his life, raised two daughters. The place where he would most likely die.

The bleakness of that thought hit him all at once and he suddenly felt like the oldest fool on the planet. What the hell was he doing drag-racing a stranger on the highway? Someone could get hurt. Killed.

He let off the accelerator.

The Jag passed him again.

Michael let it go, his attention snagged by the welcome to valentine, texas, romance capital of the usa sign. The sign that had been erected back in the 1950s after the oil had dried up and the town was desperate for revenue. Turning Valentine into a tourist destination had seemed foolhardy to many at the time, but it had been the brainchild of Kelvin Wentworth II and his scheme had unexpectedly saved the town.

But what socked Michael in the gut was the sight of those bright scarlet lips — they had dominated the Valentine landscape for his entire life — gone all dark and gothic black.

His mouth dangled open in shock. He slowed the Porsche to a crawl. What the hell? During his three-day absence in Houston, someone had vandalized the Valentine sign.

He hadn’t expected to feel personally insulted, but he did.

By the time he drove down Main Street, he’d almost forgotten about the Jag. Until he spied it parked at the Exxon pumps.

He pulled in next to it.

The Jag’s door opened and out stepped Vivian Cole, dressed all in black and looking like she’d walked off the pages of the glossy New York fashion magazine she edited. Still thin, still attractive, still hotter than a firecracker in July, even after twenty-seven years.

Blood pumping, engine running, radio blaring, Michael slung open his door, stood up, and looked over the hood of the Porsche at her.

Vivian slipped off her designer sunglasses and nailed him with a brilliant, seductive smile. “Hello, Michael.”

“V . . . V . . . Vivian,” he stammered. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“Why, didn’t I get a chance to tell you at Rachael’s wedding?” She smiled slyly and shifted her weight so that her breasts thrust out prominently. “The divorce is final. I’m moving back home to Valentine.”

Michael’s heart skipped three beats this time and his mouth went stone-cold dry as one last time Mick Jagger assured him emphatically that while he might not be able to get what he wanted, if he tried hard enough, he just might be able to get what he needed.

B
RODY WATCHED
R
ACHAEL
over the surveillance camera as she sat huddled on the cement bench, arms clasped to her chest. She looked so forlorn.

Stop feeling sorry for her. She got herself into this mess.

That’s what his head told him, but his heart said something else entirely. He knew all too well how losing the person you loved most could make you do crazy things. Hadn’t he volunteered to go to Fallujah for a second tour after he’d learned Belinda had left him? He closed his eyes briefly, remembering how that mistake had ended in a bloody battle where he’d lost his leg.

He shook his head. The past was over. He lived in the now.

It was almost six p.m. and he’d been on the job since six a.m. And because it was Sunday and Judge Pruitt was out of town, Rachael was stuck in jail overnight.

There was no way around it. He couldn’t leave her locked up here alone. He was going to have to spend the night in the jail.

Unless . . .

He took her home with him.

Right. And Kelvin would have his hide if she ran off in the middle of the night.

You could always handcuff her to your bed.

Unexpected erotic images bloomed in his mind. A freeze-frame montage of Rachael splayed out naked across his bed, her wrists cuffed to the headboard, her blonde hair fanned over his white sheets, her almond-shaped green eyes drilling him with a “come hither” gaze.

Ridiculously, Brody felt sweat bead his brow and his groin tightened.

Now this was just plain wrong.

It’s only because you haven’t had sex in going on three years. That’s all. Don’t read any more into it than that.

Maybe he shouldn’t, but the images were disturbing as hell and he couldn’t seem to shake them. It was as if he had X-ray vision and could see right through that wedding gown. In his mind’s eye she had on a lacy white bustier, white lace thong panties, thigh-high stockings ringed with blue flowered garters. He imagined himself undressing her with his teeth.

Dammit. What was it about her that stirred the heaviness in his loins? How was she different from any of the other women he met in the course of his day? Why her? Why now?

As if Rachael Henderson, great-granddaughter of one of Valentine’s founding fathers, daughter of the wealthiest man in town, would have anything to do with a gimp. She’d been engaged to a football player for the Chicago Bears. How was he supposed to compete with that?

Good God, why would you even want to compete for her? The woman is a head case, not to mention a royal pain in the ass.

But a very cute pain in the ass.

He thought about the chinaberry tree incident when they were kids and it brought up a few other memories. He recalled one summer when their families had celebrated the Fourth of July together. They’d shot off bottle rockets together. He and Rachael; his sister, Deana; and her sister, Hannah. As the memory drifted over him he could smell the gunpowdery scent of exploded Black Cats, taste watermelon on his tongue, see Rachael’s face grinning in the glow of the porch light. How innocent and carefree they’d both been, unaware of the twists and turns the future held.

“Make your move, Carlton,” Brody mumbled under his breath. “The past is past. Either take her home with you or call Deana and have her bring over a cot.”

He weighed his options. Smart money said he should just stay here.

As he watched the monitor, Rachael reached up to swipe away a tear sliding down her cheek. His heart knotted up. Damn. He couldn’t leave her in the cell overnight.

What a sap.

He might be a sap but he’d seen too many cruel and hurtful things. After he’d left Iraq he’d sworn to himself he’d do his best to ameliorate suffering whenever he had the chance. Cooling one’s heels in the Jeff Davis County slammer might not be a big deal to him, but it was to her.

And that’s what mattered. Even if he didn’t trust himself around her.

Brody got up and headed back into the holding cell. He’d left her alone most of the afternoon to think things through. The minute he appeared in the doorway, she straightened, sniffled, and blinked hard, trying to hide the fact she’d been crying.

“You ready to go?”

Rachael hopped off the bench, her eyes hopeful, her fingers laced together. “You’re letting me out? What about the mayor? I thought he was pressing charges.”

“He is and I can’t turn you loose until tomorrow when Judge Pruitt arraigns you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t put you under house arrest.”

“You mean wear one of those little tracking monitor thingies on my leg?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary in light of the fact the county doesn’t own one of those devices.”

“Oh,” she said. “Are you just going to let me go home and come back tomorrow? Because in all honesty I’d rather stay here than go to my parents’ house.”

“Really?” He eyed her.

She waved a hand. “Long, miserable story.”

“Actually,” he said, “I was thinking I’d take you home with me. It’s either that or I spend the night here with you.”

“You don’t have to stay with me. I’ll be fine. Go home.”

“Can’t. My deputy’s wife had her baby earlier than planned and both my jailers are off on vacation. I can’t leave you locked up in here alone. What if there’s a fire?”

“Good point.”

“Besides, you look like you could use a home-cooked meal and a change of clothes.”

“You’re going to cook for me?” She sounded skeptical.

“Not that I couldn’t,” he said. “But we’ll leave the cooking to my sister, Deana. She and her six-year-old daughter, Maisy, are living with me for a while.”

“I see. So we won’t be all alone at your house.”

Brody had the strangest feeling Rachael was disappointed by the news, but he had no idea as to why that would be the case.
You’re imagining things. You’re wanting her to want you because you want her.

“No,” he said, denying his thoughts out loud as much as answering her question.

He opened the cell door and Rachael thrust out both arms toward him, wrists pressed together.

“What’s that all about?” he asked.

“Aren’t you going to cuff me?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s not like you wouldn’t be easy to track in that getup and I live just down the block.”

“Like it’s even necessary for you to arrest me in the first place.”

“Seriously, Rachael, did you think you could just waltz into town, deface the most beloved icon in Valentine, and waltz back out again without any consequences?”

She shrugged.

“What does that mean?”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly not.”

“I suppose you’re always rational and in complete control of your actions,” she said.

“I try.”

“Have you ever had your heart broken, Brody Carlton?”

He paused a long moment. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

“Didn’t anger and grief ever make you do something totally stupid?” she asked.

He thought of his ex-wife and swallowed hard. “We’re not talking about me,” he said, shutting the cell door behind her. “I’m not the one who gave the Valentine sign an unflattering makeover.”

“So what did you do?” She tilted her head up at him. “When you got your heart broken?”

“I joined the Army.”

“What was her name?”

“9/11,” he said, not knowing why he was telling her this. He never talked about it. Was it to make her feel better about her life? Or to make himself look like a hero in her eyes? He didn’t like the thought of that last motivation. He needed to get out of this conversation ASAP. He’d made a big mistake bringing it up.

She looked puzzled. “9/11?”

“I was in the Twin Towers that day.”

She gasped. “Oh, no, Brody.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Wh . . . what were you doing there?”

“I was going to school at NYU, working on a degree in political science; my roommate and I were there on a class project.”

“I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been.”

“There’s no words. I lost my best friend.”

“Your roommate died?”

He nodded. “Joe was trapped under a collapsed rafter. I stayed with him until the cops arrived, but his injuries were too great. He didn’t survive.”

Rachael shuddered. “I can’t imagine the horror of it.”

“Be grateful for that. I quit college and joined the Army. My life had changed forever and I knew I would never be the same again.”

The sudden silence was as significant as a gunshot.

“Oh, Brody,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” he said, latching his fingers around her elbow and guiding her toward the front door, turning out lights along the way. “I don’t tell many people. My family hadn’t lived in Valentine for years and my paternal grandparents had already passed away by then.”

She reached up and touched his shoulder. Gently, he shook her off. “Come on, let’s go.”

Rachael must have seen something in his eyes that warned her off because she didn’t press for more details and she injected a teasing note into her voice. “You broke my heart, you know.”

Brody let go of her elbow in the foyer to activate the alarm system, then he ushered her over the threshold and locked the door behind them. “When did I do that?”

“The very first time my heart got broken, you were the culprit.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I was seven, you were twelve. I gave you a Valentine card on Valentine’s Day. Not only did you not give me one in return, but you called me a baby, tore up the card, and told me to go away.”

Her words took him aback. “I did that?”

“You did.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“Of course not. I meant nothing to you.”

He didn’t know why he was feeling guilty for something he didn’t even remember. “For crying out loud, Rachael, cut me some slack. I was a kid. Kids do dumb things.”

“Well, I did make the mistake of giving you the Valentine in front of your buddies,” she admitted. “In retrospect it was thoughtless of me.”

All at once, the memory came rushing at him. He and his buddies had been in his driveway shooting hoops when pigtailed, gap-toothed Rachael had cut across her lawn, clutching a big pink heart-shaped envelope in her hands. He’d barely noticed her until she came to stand underneath the basket, her green-eyed gaze fixed on him, her hand outstretched with her little fingers wrapped around the card. His name was written on it in a childish scrawl of blue crayon.

“Hey, Brody,” one of his buddies had said. “I think you’ve got a secret admirer.”

He didn’t know why that comment had embarrassed him, but he felt it again now as he had then, the blaze of heat rising to his cheeks, the knot of denial that had the same one-two punch as anger.

“For you,” Rachael had said, smiling. “Be my Valentine.”

“Brody’s got a girlfriend,” his other buddy had chanted.

“Brody and Rachael sitting in a tree . . . ” singsonged his first friend. “K . . . I . . . S . . . S . . . I . . . N . . . G . . . ”

Shamefully, he recalled snatching the envelope from her hand, ripping it into two pieces, and handing it back to her. “I don’t take Valentine cards from babies,” he’d said gruffly, even as his guilty heart had nosedived into his stomach at the shattered expression on her face. “Go home.”