Addicted to Love (7 page)

She burst into tears as she turned and ran sobbing back to her house. If Brody listened hard enough to the past, he could still hear the sound of her front door slamming.

“Bet I can shoot a free throw from across the street,” he’d said to his friends, using bragging and action to douse the bad feelings over what he’d said to hurt the sweet little girl next door. The truth was he liked Rachael and he had a Valentine for her up in his room, but he was horrified to think that his friends might discover his secret.

He considered telling her about the Valentine’s Day card he’d made for her. Thought about apologizing for his behavior all those years ago, but what would be the point? Most likely, she wouldn’t believe him anyway.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Where to?”

“White house on the right at the end of the street.”

“You bought the old McClusky place,” she said.

“I did.”

“When was that?”

“Two and a half years ago, when I got back from Iraq.”

“I heard you got injured over there,” she said as he hustled her down the sidewalk. Neighbors were standing on their porches and on their lawns gawking at the sight of Brody escorting a woman decked out in full wedding regalia toward his house.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice full of sympathy. “For all your suffering.”

Her kindness triggered his anger. “Don’t,” he growled.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity.”

Her muscles tensed beneath his fingers and Rachael fell silent.

Brody glanced over. Her head was tossed back, shoulders straight, jaw clenched, gaze beaded straight ahead. But she was blinking rapidly as if trying to hold back tears.

Aw, hell. What was the matter with him? Why was he lashing out at her?

They’d reached his house. The screen door flew open and his niece, Maisy, came barreling headlong down the front steps.

“Unca Brody, Unca Brody,” she cried, but stopped abruptly when she saw he wasn’t alone. She looked at Rachael the way only one female jealous of another could look. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Rachael. What’s yours?” she asked.

Maisy scowled at Rachael then swung her gaze to Brody. “What’s she doing here?”

Rachael winced and he could see the hurt in her eyes. This weekend was clearly not good for her ego. Jilted at the altar, arrested for vandalizing the town’s icon, and disrespected by a six-year-old.

“Rachael’s going to be spending the night with us,” he explained.

Maisy sank her hands onto her hips and glowered at Rachael. “Why?”

“Because I’m your uncle’s prisoner,” Rachael said.

Brody hadn’t planned on telling Maisy that.

“Prisoner?” Maisy’s eyes widened with increased interest. “Did you rob a bank?”

“No.”

“Whadya do?”

“I put black lipstick on the Valentine billboard.”

Maisy turned to Brody. “That’s bad?”

“According to your uncle, it is,” Rachael supplied before he could answer.

“How come you’re wearing a wedding dress?” Maisy looked her up and down. Brody could just see his niece’s little six-year-old brain cogs whirling and turning as she tried to figure this all out.

“I was at a wedding,” Rachael explained.

“Were you the one on top of the cake?”

Rachael smiled. “Something like that.”

Maisy’s gaze shifted to Brody and she looked alarmed. “Is he the boy on top of the cake?”

“No, no,” Rachael assured her. “The boy on top of the cake ran away.”

“How come?”

“He decided he didn’t want to get married after all.”

“He didn’t like you anymore?” Maisy asked.

“Not so much.” Rachael shook her head and the wedding veil bobbed like a field of white butterflies.

“Let’s go inside,” Brody said, out of his element with this conversation. He could feel the pressure of the neighbors’ gazes, knew they were being stared at. “What are we having for dinner?”

“It’s taco night,” Maisy said and slipped her little palm into his to lead him up the porch.

They went inside, Maisy pulling him by the hand, Brody tugging Rachael along by the elbow. The smell of chili powder, garlic, and onions hung in the air. From the kitchen, they could hear Deana humming a Faith Hill tune.

“Dee,” he called out as Maisy escorted them into the kitchen. “We’re here.”

Deana turned from the stove, wiping her hands on a cup towel. She took one look at Rachael and her mouth dropped open.

It was then that Brody realized he should have given his sister a heads-up that he was bringing a prisoner home for dinner. And not just any prisoner, but a wilted bride-that-wasn’t.

“What’s all this, then, baby brother? If you tell me that you eloped, I’ll clobber you.” Menacingly, she waved a spatula.

“Rachael’s in custody,” Brody explained. “Zeke’s with Mia and the baby and my jailers are out of town. I couldn’t leave her locked up alone.”

“You,” Deana said to Rachael. “You’re the one who defaced the Valentine billboard.”

“Guilty as charged,” Rachael said proudly.

“The whole town’s buzzing about it. Some old-timers even want to hang you, but I want to shake your hand.” Deana thrust out her palm to Rachael. “I’ve wanted to take an ax to that damned billboard for years. You go, girl. Down with romance.”

Brody noticed Rachael’s checks flushed pink with pleasure as she shook his sister’s hand.

“Don’t encourage her,” Brody growled to Deana. “She broke the law.”

Deana eyed Rachael’s wedding dress. “I’m guessing there were extenuating circumstances.”

“Dumped at the altar,” Rachael said.

“Hey, consider yourself blessed you narrowly escaped,” Deana said. “I’m going through a wicked divorce and Maisy’s the only good thing to have come out of that mess.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your divorce,” Rachael said. “My parents are getting divorced. After twenty-seven years.”

“You’re Michael and Selina Henderson’s daughter, right? You used to live next door to us on Downey Street,” Deana said. “I babysat you and your sister, Hannah, a time or two before we moved to Midland.”

“Uh-huh.” Rachael nodded.

“You wanna get out of that dress?”

“I don’t have anything else to put on. I left Houston without my bags.”

“Don’t worry,” Deana said. “We’re about the same size. I’ve probably got something you can wear.”

“That’d be wonderful.”

“Here.” Deana shoved the spatula into Brody’s hand. “Don’t let the hamburger meat burn.”

He stepped to the stove to scramble the browning hamburger meat around in the pan as Deana took Rachael’s arm and led her from the kitchen, Maisy trailing in their wake.

Fifteen minutes later, they trooped back downstairs. Brody had already set the taco meat in the middle of the dining room table along with toasted corn tortilla shells, diced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and grated cheese.

He looked up to see Rachael dressed in a pair of his sister’s skintight blue-jean shorts, a skimpy, navel-baring sleeveless T-shirt, and a pair of white mules that showed off her toenails, painted a racy shade of scarlet. He could tell from the way she was tugging at the hem of the shorts that she wasn’t accustomed to wearing the sort of daring clothes Deana preferred. His sister didn’t own anything conservative and Rachael was stuck with the sexy outfit. And right now, Brody was glad. Rachael had also brushed her hair and it lay in smooth, gentle curls around her shoulders.

Wow! His libido lunged like a pit bull on a chain, desperate to be unleashed. Just looking at her was an exquisite form of torment.

She caught his eye and her cheeks pinked. That’s when Brody realized he’d been staring. Openly. Hungrily.

Quickly, she looked away.

He sank down at the head of the dinner table and Rachael sat at the opposite end. He said grace, and everyone ducked their heads, except Brody. He didn’t look down and he didn’t close his eyes. Irreverently, he watched Rachael when his mind should have been on the prayer.

In the wedding dress, she’d been safe, untouchable — a bride on her wedding day. He’d felt the first burst of sexual attraction when she’d ended up straddling him at the bottom of the ladder, but mostly his feelings had alternated between pity, amusement, and minor irritation.

But what he was feeling now was a horse of a different color.

Her arms were bare and her legs were bare, her creamy skin exposed. He saw too much sweet flesh. The blood surging through his body told him this was a dangerous thing.

So was the sudden fire burning inside his groin as he watched her tilt her head, lift a taco to her mouth, and crunch into it with ladylike gusto.

The sight of her sweet, pink tongue unraveled something inside him. Something he’d kept wound up tight for a very long time. Something he feared he might never feel again.

Flaming hot lust.

Brody didn’t like what he was feeling, but it was too damned strong to deny.

Chapter Four

G
iada Vito was taking her evening power walk around Valentine Lake with one-pound dumbbells clutched in her hands when a man stepped out of the shadows of a hundred-year-old pecan tree.

“Aren’t you skinny enough?”

She startled at the sound of the deep, threatening masculine voice that accompanied the hulking figure suddenly looming on the path in front of her. The weights could double as a weapon and she had pepper spray clipped to her belt. She’d lived in Valentine for fifteen years, but she’d been born in Rome, Italy. You’d never catch Giada leaving her doors unlocked or her keys in the car or her pepper spray in a drawer.

Raising her left hand, she cocked the dumbbell, ready to fling it if he gave her cause. Dropping the weight in her right hand, she went for the pepper spray on her hip, like a gunslinger at the O.K. Corral going for his six-gun.

He was the size of a bodybuilder, big and menacing, with an oversized cowboy hat tilted back on his slick, shaved head and a shark’s deadly blue-eyed stare. He was dressed in a blue seersucker suit and he stood with the arrogant air of the privileged.

She recognized him then, but that didn’t make her lower the weight or put the pepper spray back into her belt: Kelvin Wentworth in all his cocky, strutting glory.

“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard. Anyone ever tell you that men like women with a few curves?”

“Anyone ever tell you to go screw yourself?” she replied tartly.

Kelvin laughed.

“What are you doing here?” She sniffed, pretending a courage she didn’t feel. “You don’t look like you’ve taken up power walking.”

“I came to see you.” He smiled and the smile scared her more than a frown.

“What for?” she asked suspiciously.

“Wanna set that weight down? I have a feeling you’re just waiting for an excuse to bean me.”

“My mother always said to trust your instincts,” she replied. “And my instincts are telling me you’re up to something.”

He laughed again. “Sharp cookie. That’s one thing I like about you, Vito.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Too bad that I don’t like anything about you, Wentworth.”

“How did this feud between us ever get started?”

“Feud?” She feigned ignorance.

“Come on. We both know you’re only running for mayor to piss me off. What I don’t know is why.”

“Is it working?” She batted her eyelashes. “Am I pissing you off?”

“I find you . . . ” His gaze raked over her body in a look so intimidating, Giada almost shivered. “Amusing.”

“Would this little visit have anything to do with the fact that I am beating the pants off you in the polls?” She arched an eyebrow and wondered why she was having trouble catching her breath. She could walk a mile in twelve minutes. Her lung capacity was that of a highly trained marathon runner. She had no reason to feel breathless.

“Beating my pants off? Only in your dreams.”

Fury burned her cheeks.

“Come on. Let’s sit down and have a civilized discussion.” Kelvin reached out and took hold of her arm, pulling her toward a wrought-iron picnic bench positioned beneath the pecan tree.

“Hands off,” Giada exclaimed and swung at him with the dumbbell.

But Kelvin ducked and the weight swished harmlessly through the air. The big man was quicker than he looked. He clamped a hand around her wrist and wrenched the dumbbell away from her. “Settle down a minute, Spitfire.”

“Hmph. I show you spitfire,” she said, struggling against him, the English she’d perfected slipping in the heat of the moment.

“I just wanna talk.” He maneuvered her toward the picnic bench. “And if you depress the nozzle on that pepper spray, believe me, you’re going to live to regret it. But be a good girl and maybe you and I can cut a deal.”

She stopped fighting and slid a glance at him from the corner of her eye. Her interest was piqued. This sounded like a man on the ropes and desperate to get back on his feet before the bell rang. Curiosity got the better of her and she followed him to the bench.

He dusted leaves and errant pecan hulls off the seat with a sweep of his hand. She hadn’t expected such a chivalrous gesture, but then he had to go and ruin it all by commanding, “Sit.”

The contrary part of her wanted to argue, but common sense told her to pick her battles. She sat.

“Now isn’t this much better?” he said, plopping down beside her. “Two politicians sitting down for a nice chat.”

“A scenario that strikes terror in the hearts of voters,” Giada observed archly.

He grinned. “Water?” He surprised her by pulling a small bottle of Evian out of his jacket pocket. “It’s important to stay well-hydrated.”

“I have my own,” she said, determined not to take anything from him. She fished an identical bottle of water from her fanny pack.

He held his water bottle up and nodded.

In unison they twisted off the tops of their respective water bottles and drank. It was almost like a perverse toast. She found the idea unsettling.

To be honest, she found Kelvin Wentworth unsettling.

“So Giada . . . ” He paused. “Is it okay if I call you Giada?”

“I prefer Ms. Vito.” She straightened her back. It wouldn’t do to let him get too familiar.