Big Guns Out of Uniform (16 page)

Despite the darkness under her bedcovers, Delia squeezed shut her eyes. “Then tell me,” she whispered.

That caught him off guard. “Umm—
tell
you?”

“Go ahead, big boy,” she whispered, giggling. “Tell me everything.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, then hesitated. “But listen, sugar, something just occurred to me. Are you on a hard line?”

“Mmm,
hard,”
she whispered, mimicking his voice. “I like that.”

Nick laughed a little nervously. “Now, be serious a minute, darlin',” he cautioned. “'Cause frequencies float, and we don't want to give old Bud Basham a coronary here.”

“Oh,” breathed Delia. “Okay.”

“Good. Now, is that a remote phone you're using?”

“No, it's under the covers with me. Cord and all.”

“Lucky phone,” he rasped. “Delia, know what I'd do if I was under there with you?”

“No. What?”

Nick breathed heavily for a moment, and it didn't seem feigned. “Oh, I don't know, baby,” he whispered. “It'd be so hard to choose.”

“Choose.”

“Okay.” The springs squeaked again. “Okay, first, I think I'd slide my hands up your thighs, then just keep going, right under your T-shirt. What color did you say that was?”

“Black,” she whispered wickedly. “It's vintage AC/DC, from the original
Back in Black
tour.”

“Oh, baby, you rock,” he choked, but she could tell he was about to laugh out loud. “I just knew you had a dark side. Okay, so, what I would do is, I would ease my hands along that pretty, pale flesh of yours, right up over your ribs, touching every one of 'em, just enough to make your skin shiver.”

“Mmm.”
It really did sound good.

“Mmm
is right, darlin',” Nick whispered. “And then, I'd brush the very tips of your nipples with my palms. Just to make sure they were nice and hard.”

“Ohh,” said Delia.

“Are they, Delia?”

She hesitated. “A little.”

“Just a little?” Nick sounded crushed.

“A lot,” said Delia. “Hard. Tingly.”

“Jesus, Delia.” His voice was sincere. “Touch them. Tell me for sure.”

“Hard, Nick,” she whispered. “They feel…heavy. Maybe…kind of lonely.”

“Wait.” Nick swallowed hard. “I've changed my mind.”

“Nooo.”

“Oh, yeah, darlin', I think I'd rather take your panties off first.”

“Would you? Why?”

“Because I just can't wait, Delia,” he whispered. “Because I'm about to come all over my couch. And because I'm betting you've got some other pink parts that are prettier than your cheeks, sweetheart.”

Delia giggled. “Maybe.”

“Maybe
my white cracker ass,” he rasped. “So I'd slide those silk panties down your legs, Delia—and I know they'd be silk, darlin', 'cause it'd be a sin for a woman like you to wear any other kind—and I'd slide 'em right down to your ankles. Maybe just rip 'em right off, then, and buy you new ones later.”

“O-okay,” said Delia. “No one ever bought me underwear before.”

“Then you have not lived the life you deserve, sugar.”

“I guess not.”

“Delia?”

“Yes, Nick?”

His voice was dark and steady. “Slip your hand under those pink silk panties,” he commanded, “and tell me what it feels like.”

Delia hesitated. “Oh,
Nick.”

Nick's breath ratcheted up sharply. “Come on, baby,” he begged, his voice thick now. “Do it. Do it for me. Don't stop me now.
Please.
Just slide your palm down your belly and under the elastic, okay? And slip your fingers between your legs. Are you wet, Delia? Are you? Good God, honey, say
yes, '
cause I'm dying here.”

“Yes,” she whispered, the word barely audible. “Yes. Wet.
Dripping.”

Nick swallowed hard again. “God almighty, girl,” he whispered. “I really am gonna come just listening to you.”

“Are you, Nick?” Delia asked, her voice deep and foreign. “Really? Because, you know, I think you have such an incredible butt. I watched it half the afternoon, sticking out of the hood of my car, so tight and perfect. You know, I really am sorry I missed your hot tub.”

“Ah, God, Delia,” he groaned. “Oh, God. Keep talking, baby. Just keep talking. 'Cause, I swear—I
swear—”

“Holy shit!” screamed Delia, leaping from beneath the covers.

“What the hell is that?” he barked. The pounding on Delia's kitchen door was so loud, Nick could hear it through the telephone. “What the hell is that? Delia?
Delia—?”

Someone punched the bell. Six times. “Open the goddamned door, Delia!” bellowed Dr. Neville Sydney. “Open it right now. Don't you dare touch my fucking speedboat, you hear me?”

“Delia?” said Nick. “Delia? Baby, put the phone back to your ear. Put the phone back. Talk to me, sugar. Talk
now
—or I'm coming over there.”

“Holy shit, Nick, it's Neville!” hissed Delia into the phone. “And for this, I
really
ought to kill him.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Nick. “Delia, do
not
answer that door. I'm coming over there. And I mean
now.”

Delia's back floodlights were already on by the time Nick slid into his jeans, shoved his service pistol into his waistband, and started across the yard. He could see a big, black Lincoln Navigator idling outside her garage, its chrome trailer hitch glistening yellow beneath the lights. He could already hear the argument, too. Because Delia, of course, had not listened to him and kept her damned door shut. Instead, she was leaning half out of it, going nose-to-nose with Mr. Rhinoplasty himself.

Delia's ex-husband was waving wildly in the direction of the garage. “You vindictive bitch!” he heard Neville shout. “You've changed the remote codes! You can't hold my boat captive! How dare you?”

“Neville, have you always been such a twit?” snapped Delia. “The damned Liftmaster is broken. Didn't you hear it grinding?”

“Well, howdy, howdy folks,” said Nick, sidling up to Neville.

He wasn't sure who was more taken aback, Delia or her ex-husband. She looked at him, shut her mouth, then opened it again. “Nick, Neville,” she said, waving between them. “Neville, Nick. As in Woodruff. The riffraff behind your pine trees. Remember?”

Neville didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. “Fine. Whatever. Delia, I want my boat.”

“And didn't I tell you, not six hours ago, to come get it?” snapped Delia, still in her vintage T-shirt. “Believe me, Neville, I have lots more stimulating things to do with my evenings than stand here talking to you.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, his voice smooth and smarmy. “This is all about Alicia, isn't it?”

Nick could see Delia had got hold of a big, fancy wineglass, and she was brandishing it now. “Oh! Oh!” she screeched, balling up her empty fist. “News flash, Neville! Everything is
not
about Alicia, okay? Some of this is about you dumping me with this overblown excuse of a house, and then not moving your shit out of it.”

Neville crossed his arms petulantly. “Well, now I've come for the boat.”

“Get
the boat, Neville.
Take
the boat! You think I want it? You think I want
any
of that high-end crap in the garage, Neville? I mean, what kind of self-absorbed, asinine misogynist uses engraved silver golf tees? Or a titanium racing bike? Can you tell me that, Neville? I mean, let's face it, you are so
not
Lance Armstrong.”

Neville smirked. “Jealousy does not become you, Delia.”

“Oh, screw you, Neville! Do you have
any
clue how glad I am to be rid of you?”

Neville seemed to find this impossible to fathom. “My God, Delia, have you been drinking?” He drew back in horror. “And—heaven forfend!—is that the antique Baccarat you're waving?”

“Nope,” said Delia, crowning him with the wineglass. “Not now.” The bowl of the wineglass bounced off Neville's head and hit the concrete driveway, shattering into a spray of diamonds. Delia waved the stem triumphantly.

Nick couldn't remember what a misogynist was, didn't give a shit what a Baccarat was, and was pretty certain real men didn't use the word
forfend.
But he damn sure knew when to step into a fray. “Okay, folks,” he said, calmly elbowing his way between them. “This is the point in our evening's festivities when I introduce Mr. Badge and Mr. Beretta,” he said, withdrawing both.

Delia and Neville turned to stare at him.

Nick smiled his best Southern-boy smile. “Now, this just got official,” he said sweetly. “Y'all shut the hell up before Bud Basham calls the Durham police and this gets written up someplace official, okay? 'Cause, trust me, it won't look good on your résumés.”

Neville really didn't have a clue. “Look, Woodstock, don't piss her off any further,” he said high-handedly. “I've had a long day, I don't need the theatrics, and she obviously is not the nice, mild-mannered college professor she seems.”

“I'd guessed that already, Dr. Snidely.” Nick's drawl was even slower than usual. “In fact, I'd guess old Delia here can get pretty danged hot under the right circumstances. And she has a bad temper, too.”

“It's
Sydney,”
snapped Neville. “Dr. Neville Sydney.”

“No shit?” said Nick, drawing back an inch. “What a coincidence. I'm
Woodruff.
As in Nick why-don't-you-take-your-friggin'-boat-and-get-the-
hell-outta-here Woodruff.”

“Hilarious,” said Neville, turning back to his ex-wife. “Look, Delia, do you think you and Sheriff Taylor here could just put the goddamned garage door up? I'm on call.”

B
y late Sunday afternoon Nick had worked his way deep into the bowels of Delia's station wagon and was fast developing an appreciation for Swedish engineering. The car looked like a piece of shit on wheels, but it was definitely built to last. Maybe her automotive taste wasn't so bad after all, he mused, cracking loose another greasy bolt near the head gasket.

Her taste in men, though, was highly suspect. Bud Basham's description of Neville Sydney had turned out to be a kind one. Sydney adored himself, and it was obvious. But Nick had been relieved to see that Delia
didn't
adore him. Not anymore, at any rate. Maybe she never had? Maybe marrying him had been a career move?

Nick shook his head and went to his tool chest to change sockets. Nope, maybe he didn't know much about Delia, but he was sure she wouldn't do that. Probably she'd just been too young to know better.

Delia still hadn't given Nick the owner's manual for the Volvo, and he was wondering when she'd dredge up the courage to come over. She'd been just a tad tipsy last night. And in the bright light of day, he knew Delia was going to be mortified by her behavior. Just picturing her conking old Neville with that wineglass last night made Nick laugh. And on the phone before that…
whoo boy.
Nothing funny there. The way he'd been feeling about Delia was deadly damned serious.

Scary serious. But the lust he felt—jeez, that was serious, too. And he was going to have to do something about it, or explode. One way or another, he had to get Delia Sydney into his bed. Underneath him. Around him. Inside him. Any way he could take her, he meant to have her. What he felt was worse than an ache or an itch. He didn't even know what it was. Didn't want to think about it, either.

Bedding her was doable, though, he thought. Oh, not long-term. He definitely wasn't Delia's type. He wasn't intellectual enough, or polished enough, and they had nothing at all in common. Besides, he didn't think long-term. His job asked too much of him, and once the internal investigation was finished and his administrative leave was over, work would only get worse. He'd be back on the job and working twice as hard to make up for lost time. Still, there was no reason he and Delia couldn't have a blazing hot affair. Good sex was good sex, no matter your background. And clearly, Delia needed to get laid.

Still, Delia lacked self-confidence where her sexuality was concerned. That was understandable, he supposed, after a divorce. Clinically, as Delia would say, she probably knew it, too. But a woman's psyche was a delicate thing, and it looked like old Neville had stomped all over hers. And all Nick had to do was convince her that he was just the man to bolster her spirits, so to speak.

“Nick?”

Nick jerked his hand back, almost cracking a knuckle on the engine block. He straightened up to see Delia standing by the corner of his shed, two sweaty bottles of Bud in one hand, the Volvo's manual in the other.

Nick forced a casual grin and shoved his wrench in his back pocket. “Well, hey there, Doc,” he said, taking the manual. “I was wondering when you'd roll out of bed and sober up.”

Delia blanched. “I wasn't drunk,” she said softly. “I just…I don't know, had temporary insanity or something. Here, I brought you a beer. I'm sorry about last night.”

Nick tossed the manual aside and took the Bud. “I'm not sorry,” he said, then drank down a healthy gulp. “Best entertainment I've had in years.”

Delia dropped her head. “Gosh, I was terrible to Neville, wasn't I?”

“Neville?”
said Nick. “Hell, who cares about Neville? Delia, that was
not
what I was talking about.”

“Oh, Nick, don't tease me!” Delia sat down in her chair—he thought of it as hers now, anyway—and rocked it back against the railing. “I feel like such a fool, acting like some horny teenager on the phone with you, then hitting—
hitting!
—Neville like that. Just
bam!”
She smacked herself in the forehead with her open palm. “I can't think what got into me. I'm always so…so in control.”

She really did look distressed. So she'd gotten a little tooted and whacked her ex-husband, a man who probably deserved worse. Big deal. But Nick kept forgetting how seriously women, especially women like Delia, took such things. Today she wore red Keds, an old University of Pennsylvania sweatshirt, and a pair of baggy athletic shorts, all of which served to make her look even smaller and younger than before.

He moved his work stool closer to Delia's chair and sat down. “So, Doc, you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

“Talk?” Delia shook her head. “No way. I'd rather just sit here and quietly hate myself. But I do owe you an apology.”

Nick shrugged. “Well, you're obviously holding on to a whole heap of repressed anger in there, darlin',” he said. “Maybe the finality of Neville's carting that boat off bothered you more than you thought it would? Or maybe the boat was—hell, I don't know, some sort of symbol or something?”

Delia waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, come on, Nick,” she said. “Who's the psychologist here? Of course I have repressed anger. But I don't miss Neville, and I don't give a hoot about that boat.”

Nick sipped his beer and shrugged. “Have it your way, sugar,” he agreed. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, right?”

“Oh, right, go Freudian on me.” Her expression soured.

Nick winked at her. “So you're more of a Jungian, huh?” he teased, trying to cajole her into a good mood. “Or an Adlerian, maybe? Now, me, I'm just a good old existentialist myself.”

She looked at him a little skeptically. “Why, Mr. Woodruff, what big words you have.”

Her tone held just enough sarcasm to make something inside him snap. “Hey, all the better to tell you to kiss my ass with,” he retorted, shoving off the stool.

Delia's eyes widened. “What—?” she demanded. “What did I say?”

Nick paced toward the Triumph. “You know, I don't know where you get off pretending like I just fell off the turnip truck, Delia,” he said. “Maybe I don't have a wall full of degrees like you and Mr. Tummy-Tuck, but I don't appreciate your dismissive tone.”

He heard her chair legs hit the concrete, heard her soft footsteps follow him. “Hey, come on, now,” she said, touching him lightly on the arm. “I'm sorry. You surprised me, Nick. That's all.”

Nick wheeled on her. “Just for the record, sweetheart, I've got a couple of master's degrees myself,” he snapped. “Sometimes—say, when I run out of bad guys to randomly gun down—all those big words come in handy. After all, there's always the crossword puzzle in the
TV Guide.”

Delia looked up at him. “Okay, maybe I deserved that,” she said, holding up one hand, palm out. “But sometimes I just need—”

“The only thing you
need,
Delia, is a good fucking,” he interjected, tossing his beer bottle in the trash barrel. “Maybe then you could lighten up a little.”

Delia let her gaze drift over him. “Oh, and you're just the man to give it to me, huh?”

“You're goddamned right I am,” he returned.

Delia put her beer down on the roof of his Triumph and was quiet for a long moment. “You know what?” she said, her voice suddenly lower. “You just might be right, Nick. Lord knows you get under my skin. I just wish I had time for a relationship right now.”

Nick set his hands on her upper arms. “Darlin', I'm not offering you a relationship,” he growled. “I don't want one. What I'm offering you is
sex.”

Delia didn't pull away from him. “Sex?” she echoed. “That no-strings-attached kind, right?”

“Damn, Delia, if you don't drive me crazy,” he said, jerking her closer. “Yeah, the no-strings kind. Why? You holding out for a wedding ring?”

She blushed furiously. “Don't be ridiculous,” she retorted. “I just—I just—”

He was on her before Delia drew her next breath, before he realized what he was doing.

And then he felt Delia's mouth crushed beneath his, felt her struggle just for an instant in his arms. Nick had her trapped against the bumper of the Triumph, the full length of her body pressed to his. Unconsciously he gave a groan of desire and slanted his mouth over hers again.

God, she tasted of cold beer and warm woman, spicy-sweet and awfully tempting. She was a pain in the ass, but he wanted her too much to care. Delia certainly wasn't resisting. She had her hands around his waist, moving them restlessly over the muscles of his back, and when her lips softened, Nick thrust inside her mouth with his tongue and felt his blood surge hot and strong. He sensed Delia yielding to him, melting against him.

With a sound of pleasure in her throat, her arms locked around his neck, and it was like molten testosterone pulsed through the veins in his temples and his cock. Nick moved inside her mouth with firm, deep strokes, claiming her. Together, they slid deeper into the sensual abyss as he swirled his tongue around hers, sucking it and drawing it into his mouth.

It was frightening how fast he fell. Dark, mindless desire clouded his brain. Nick moved his hands over Delia, filling them with her breasts, her face, her slender waist. “God, I have to have you,” he breathed against her cheek as he bent her back. “I want you so bad I'm insane from it. I want you under me, Delia. I want you in my bed, woman, open beneath me, taking me deep. Say
yes,
Delia. For God's sake, say
yes
now.”

“Oh, God, Nick.” The words were faint, breathless.

The
yes
wasn't there yet, but her desire was audible, urging him on. He let his hands slide beneath the elastic waist of her shorts, down and down until he'd grasped her buttocks and lifted her against the bulky length of his erection. In response, Delia's head tipped back, and she arched her body taut as a bowstring.

“Yes,” she finally whispered. “All right.
Do
it. I want it. God, Nick, just—”

He surged inside her mouth again, and forced her back against the hood of the TriumPh. Delia's beer bottle tipped over and hit the concrete floor. Without lifting his mouth from hers, Nick shoved up her sweatshirt, then pushed away her bra. Delia's breasts, warm and small, seemed to swell in his hands, filling them.

A little roughly he thumbed her nipples and felt her shudder beneath him. He knew he should be gentle, knew he should slow down. He couldn't.
Couldn't.
“God,” he said, tearing his mouth from hers and going to her breast. “I have to taste you. Then make love to you.”

Delia felt a jolt of raw lust when Nick's mouth molded over her nipple, hard, hot, and hungry. A torrent of emotions washed over her, fear and need. Doubt. Desire.
Lust.
For long dark moments he sucked, the rough stubble of his beard abrading her flesh. And then Nick drew one nipple into his teeth and bit. The pain was wildly arousing, like nothing she'd ever experienced. She screamed softly, felt her body bow up again, and felt the damp heat of desire between her thighs.

More. She wanted
more.
Her breath came fast and shallow as she tore the tails of his shirt from his jeans, and let her hands roam over him. His chest was layered in muscle, his nipples hard, too. She ached, oh, God, she ached and wanted…wanted him
now.
Wanted what he promised; to be open beneath him, taking him deep. The urge was so primal, Delia scarcely felt him drag her shorts and panties down. Then the metal of the car hood was cold against her back, jolting her at least partway to reality.

“Nick?” she whispered. “Here?”

“Here, Delia,” he ordered, one hand going to his fly. “Now.”

Expertly he loosened the button and slid the zipper down. He dragged Delia's hips down the hood and pushed her thighs wide. His penis sprang free of his briefs, hot and satiny against her belly.

Oh, God,
thought Delia,
what am I doing?

But her mouth couldn't form the word
stop.
Her clitoris had flipped the Disengage Brain switch, and the rest of her body was roaring on. Nick dragged her farther down the car hood, and Delia felt his hand touch her inner thigh, making her jump.

Unhesitatingly he slid his fingers into the folds of her flesh, into the incredible wetness. “Good God, Delia,” he growled. “So hot. So pink and pretty.” With his fingers, he slid back and forth until his hand brushed her clitoris. “Sweet little clit,” he whispered, nipping at the flesh of her neck. “Ah, Delia, I want to taste it. Suck it. But I can't wait.”

“Don't,” she rasped. “Don't wait, Nick. Do it. Oh, God,
do
it before I chicken out.”

Nick leaned over her, snaring one of her wrists in his big hand, and forcing her thighs wide with his body. He watched intently as his shaft probed her and slid inside, spreading her open. She needed it all. Wanted to ride down hard on his cock. Fisting her hand greedily in his hair, she said so, begged him, and began to move.