Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (13 page)

She wished she knew. “I just wanted to see if you were all right.”

She heard a rustle, then saw him rise from the chair. “Aside from a few split knuckles, I am...just...dandy.” His words were clipped.

She stiffened her spine as he stepped closer and came into focus. “What you
are
is darned lucky, Casey. Even though you broke his nose but good, Arlo isn't going to press charges.”

“I don't give a damn what Arlo does or doesn't do. As long as he's not
doing
you.”

“Don't be vulgar.”

“Don't be naive. He was kissing someone else. Doesn't that matter to you?”

She exhaled noisily. “Arlo's free to kiss whoever he wants. We're not involved.”

“That's not what you said the last time we talked.”

She peered into his face. It was too dark to see his expression clearly, though even if they'd been standing beneath a spotlight, his expressions were still a mystery more often than not. “We're not going out. We never really did.”

“That's not what I've been hearing around town. Why has his car been parked at your condo at night?”

“Ohmygod. You're jealous.” The realization hit, and for some reason, she felt utterly incensed. She reached out and pushed his chest. “How
dare
you be jealous!”

He circled her wrists with his fingers, holding them tight. “You didn't answer the question.”

She almost stomped her foot and her voice rose. “Because it doesn't deserve an answer!”

From somewhere nearby, a dog started barking. Across the street, a porch light went on.

She lowered her voice again. “I'm not the only one who lives in that complex,” she reminded him tightly. “Does it occur to you that he might have been visiting someone else?”

“And this is the guy you want to have a kid with?” His voice was just as tight. “You ended a marriage because your husband spent too much time on his career. But you'll contemplate having a child with a guy who cheats on you. Why aren't
you
jealous? Or did good ol' Arlo somehow convince you that he was giving Amber some platonic little peck?”

She knew she had only herself to blame. She'd implied she was more involved with Arlo than she was.

A door had opened beneath the porch light across the street, and an old man wearing a thick robe was peering out. “Can we just go inside and have this conversation with a little more privacy instead of waking up your whole neighborhood?”

“You're the one yelling.”

She jerked on her wrists, but Casey held fast. “I'm not yelling now,” she said through her teeth. “Let me go.”

He released her wrists so quickly she had to take a steadying step backward. “I lied, all right? I am not involved with Arlo,” she repeated. “Not emotionally. Not romantically. Not involved. Period. So if you felt some...some
ridiculous
need to punch him in the face on my behalf, then I'm sorry.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

Her blood pressure rose, right along with her voice. The tips of her tennis shoes butted against his boots. “What did I just say?”

“Not emotionally. Not romantically. Not involved. Period.” He was towering over her and he leaned his head toward her. “Might as well be describing us. Yet
we
were sleeping together right up until you called it quits.”

“That's because I—” She broke off.
Fell in love with you.

“Because you what?”

She shivered. “Hadn't realized I wanted more,” she managed. She backed up a step. Put some breathing room between them, hoping she'd start thinking clearly again.

The man across the street had left his porch and was standing in the middle of his yard, looking right and left. The dog was still barking.

Jane let out a careful breath. “I'm not sleeping with Arlo. Not now. Not ever. I should have learned my lesson back in October. I shouldn't have come here again.”

“But you did.”

She was appalled to find tears burning behind her eyes. “Yup. And I am a world-class idiot for thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was some reason why I should worry about you.” Her nose started running and she swiped it with her sleeve. It was utterly inelegant. She sniffed again, waving her arm out. “But you're Casey Clay. Mr. I'm-Allergic-to-Commitment. No ties. No—”

“Are you crying?”

“No!” She actually did stomp her foot at that. “And I certainly wouldn't cry because of you.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, and slid his palm unerringly behind her neck. “Shut the hell up.”

Then he covered her mouth with his.

Chapter Twelve

J
ane sucked in a sharp breath, absorbing the familiar, familiar taste of him. “This isn't right,” she mumbled against him.

“Feels pretty right to me.” His hand slid down her spine, hauling her closer, until she could feel the heat of him burning through her clothes. Her skin. Warming her deep inside where she'd felt cold since the last time he'd touched her. He caught the back of her head with his other hand, slanting his mouth over hers once more.

It felt as though fireworks were going off inside her. Her hands were caught between them and she worked her palms up his chest, which was hard even through the thick jacket he was wearing. She felt the charging beat of his heart. The rough inhale he took when he dragged his lips away, which she soon felt burning along her jaw. Then the side of her neck.

Her knees turned weak and he must have known it, because he suddenly lifted her off her feet, one arm going under her rear.

The world seemed to dip and sway until she realized he was just swiveling around, fumbling for the door that opened with a loud thud as he practically stumbled through it.

A tiny part of her brain heard the dog still barking. The man across the street calling out, “Who's out there?”

But the rest of her brain just shut down as Casey pulled her into the dark foyer that went even darker when he shoved the door closed again, shutting out the barking and the old man, and pressed her flat against it.

Then it was only them.

The sounds of their breaths, nearly as loud as the pulse pounding inside her head, as the soft clank of his belt buckle when she finally managed to pull it apart.

It was so deeply dark that she couldn't have seen her own hand if she'd waved it in front of her face. But she could feel.

And touch.

The cotton knit of his shirt was soft beneath her fingers when she delved beneath his jacket and dragged it upward, out of his jeans and out of her way so she could plunge downward, shoving denim and cotton aside in favor of hot satin-skinned sinew and muscle. “Hurry,” she breathed.

“I'm trying.” His hands were just as busy, bunching her sweater up and yanking her jeans down her hips. “You've got on too many clothes.” His mouth lowered to the skin he revealed.

She shrugged her shoulders, getting rid of the layered sweaters, and kicked the jeans off, then gasped when he tore her panties right off with a snap of the thin elastic. She cried out when he lifted her again and sank into her.

He pressed his forehead against hers, his heaving chest plastering her against the wooden door. “That fast enough for you?”

She didn't know whether to laugh or to cry but couldn't do either anyway because he was hot and hard and filling her to overflowing, and her own cells didn't seem to belong to her anymore. She wrapped her legs around him, unable to keep from greedily arching against him as much as the immovable door and his weight against her would allow. “Almost.” She twined her arms around his shoulders, sinking her fingers into his thick hair, the strands cool and silky. “Almost.”

His fingers tightened as he hitched her higher, thrusting harder. “Now?”

She nodded, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hold on tight as the fireworks slid from her mind into her bloodstream and exploded in a shower of brilliance, eclipsing everything else except the knowledge that he was right with her every step of the way.

* * *

She was still shuddering, breathing hard, when he finally levered away, letting her legs slowly lower until her feet found the floor.

His hand slid from her thigh to the small of her back and his head found her shoulder while he hauled in a huge, long breath. Let it out slowly. “Seems like we started out this way.”

She had no difficulty at all remembering. Their first time together. In her storeroom at Colbys. After they'd been arguing about her computer.

They'd gone from squabbling to ecstasy in the blink of an eye and for the first time in her life, Jane had understood how wars could be fought over the seemingly simple matter of sex.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. It felt as weak as the rest of her. But she managed not to slither to the floor in a puddle of mush when he straightened and peeled away from her.

Without his shoulders to hold on to, she pressed her hands against the solidness of the door behind her for support. He was moving away and a moment later, bright light assaulted her from the fixture hanging over the foyer.

She blinked, shading her eyes.

His hooded gaze roved over her and she wasn't sure where the energy to blush came from, but she still felt the heat rise up her cheeks. Then he shoved his fingers through his hair and turned away, hitching his jeans back up over his lean hips.

She yanked her turtleneck down over her breasts. Her panties were a lost cause and she pulled on her jeans without them. Then she put on the discarded sweater and buttoned it up, right up to her neck.

Not that it did any good now.

She balled up the torn panties and ducked into the small powder room, then closed and locked the door as if she were in some danger of him busting in on her.

The woman who stared back at her from the mirror was wild-eyed and flushed.

She looked away. Then she used the toilet, washed her hands and splashed water over her face. She left her panties in the bottom of the small round waste basket next to the pedestal-style sink, and when she couldn't linger in there any longer without feeling like a coward, she left the room and followed the hallway into the kitchen.

He was standing by the open refrigerator drinking orange juice straight from the carton.

She looked away from the long sweep of his tanned back.

The broom was still propped against the wall where she'd left it the last time she'd been there and she went still.

Everything
looked the same as it had the last time she'd been there two months ago, she realized.

From the swept-up pile of glass to the upended bookcase. Right down to the broken violin. Only he'd moved that to the middle of the table, where it sat like some sort of macabre centerpiece.

“Casey.”

He didn't look at her. Just put the orange juice carton back and continued staring into the depths of the refrigerator, which even she could see contained very few items on its shelves. “You want something to drink?”

She looked at the violin again. “I want answers.”

“No, you don't. Trust me.”

Feeling shakier inside than ever, she moved around the island and set her hand on his back. She slowly pressed her mouth against the small scar on his shoulder blade. Felt him stiffen.

But he didn't move away.

And she took strength from that.

“If you expect me to believe that everything is fine, that
you
are fine, then you should have cleaned up this mess weeks ago.”

“I didn't figure you'd ever be back to see it.” He pushed the refrigerator door closed and looked down at her. A storm she couldn't understand—one he wouldn't explain—brewed in his gray eyes. “You were right when you said you didn't know who I am.”

She swallowed. Wet her lips. “Are you going to tell me?”

His jaw canted. He looked as if he was going to answer and every fiber of her being felt on edge, waiting.

But then his expression smoothed out and “I'm going to bed” was all he said.

Her shoulders sank and she watched him start to walk out of the room. But after several steps, he stopped. “Do you want to come?” His voice was low. Raw.

Everything inside her tightened.

She nodded, even though he hadn't looked back at her, so had no way of seeing it. “Yes.” The word sounded as strangled as it felt.

He looked over his shoulder at her then.

“Yes,” she repeated. More clearly. More certainly.

His eyes narrowed, black lashes nearly obscuring the thin gleam of gray.

Then he turned and led the way.

Feeling more uncertain than she'd ever felt in her life, Jane followed him up the staircase. When he reached the top, he flipped on another light, illuminating the second-floor hallway and the open doors leading off it. Bedrooms, she could see as she passed them.

He went into the last one straight ahead at the end of the hall.

There was a raw spot on the inside of her cheek from the way she kept chewing at it and she made herself stop as she entered his bedroom. Despite the dim illumination from the hallway light, she could see the bed was king-size. Unmade.

Unlike the mess he'd left unattended downstairs, neither of these facts surprised her.

“Why do you want such a big house when it's just you?”

“I don't want to talk, Janie,” he said wearily.

She swallowed down the words that kept rising nervously inside her.

He didn't bother taking off his clothes, just yanked off his boots before throwing himself down on top of the mattress. “Do you need to take out your contacts or anything?”

Her palms felt sweaty. She swiped them down the seat of her jeans as she shook her head. “They're extended wear.” Just because she didn't usually sleep with them in didn't mean she couldn't.

He bunched one of the pillows under his neck. Then he held out his arm. “Come here.”

She felt like a virgin all over again.

Tugging nervously at the bottom of her sweater, she toed off her tennis shoes before sitting cautiously on the side of the bed.

“Relax,” he muttered, tugging her unceremoniously down beside him. “I just want to sleep.”

She made some sound that was unintelligible even to herself and turned onto her side. He dropped his arm over her waist, flattening his palm against her belly, and pulled her against him.

She exhaled slowly.

“Feels weird, doesn't it?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“You want to leave?”

Her eyes burned again. “No,” she whispered.

His chest rose and fell against her back as he sighed. “You'd be better off if you did.”

She stared hard at the rectangle of light shining through his bedroom door from the hallway. “Why?”

He was silent so long she wasn't sure he'd answer. “Because I'm never gonna be able to be the man who fits your plan.”

“Plans change,” she whispered. Feelings changed. Hopes. Dreams. All were subject to change, able to turn on a dime simply because of one particular man.

Then he sighed again. “Not all plans,” he said quietly.

The gold rectangle of light blurred around the edges. She blinked and a tear leaked out. “Sex is the easy part, isn't it?”

“It's everything else that's hard,” he finished.

She sniffed.

“Are you crying?”

“No,” she lied.

“Yeah. Me either,” he murmured. Then he kissed the top of her head. “Go to sleep, Janie. Morning'll be here soon enough.”

* * *

And it was.

The sun was shining through the unadorned windows right onto her face when Jane woke.

She knew immediately that she was alone in the bed. She stretched and turned onto her back, studying Casey's room in the fresh light of day.

He had a cluster of frames holding pictures of his sisters and their families on top of the old-fashioned dresser across from the bed. An untidy stack of thick books sat on the floor beneath the three windows that lined one wall. Next to them was a baseball bat, a pair of snow skis and a wicker hamper overflowing with wildly colored shirts and blue jeans.

Feeling stiff, she rolled off the bed, then spotted the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand. Horrified at the time, she bolted from the room, only to run back in, sliding a little in her socks, to stuff her feet into her tennis shoes. “Casey?” She called his name loudly as she thumped down the staircase, but there was no answer.

She hadn't really expected one.

The house felt empty.

She might have fallen asleep in his arms, but waking in them was obviously more than he was willing to allow.

And, honestly, it was probably more than she could handle.

She went into the kitchen, yanked open his refrigerator and took a few gulps straight from the very same orange juice container he'd drunk from hours earlier. She quickly replaced it and turned to go.

She had just enough time to drive home and change before she needed to open up Colbys again.

But her gaze landed on the broom. The broken glass.

It wasn't the mess that bothered her anywhere near as much as the mystery of what had caused it. Or why he'd left it to sit there for all this time.

She abandoned the plan to go home and instead found the dustpan in the cupboard where the broom had been and finished the job of sweeping up the debris. She muscled the tall wooden bookcase back into an upright position and inched it back and forth until it was situated flat against the wall. She couldn't do anything about their broken glass, but she arranged the picture frames back on one of the shelves anyway and stacked the books on another.

His choice of reading material was eclectic. Everything from World War I histories to the latest suspense bestsellers to essays on world politics, with a whole bunch of computer textbooks in between.

When she had everything picked up from the floor, she dusted her hands together and turned to go.

But the sight of the violin sitting on the table made her hesitate.

She carefully picked it up, holding it in both hands as she studied the broken neck. What she knew about violins would fit on the head of a pin. But maybe it could be fixed.

Maybe that was why he still had it.

But even as she considered that, she dismissed it. If Casey had wanted it fixed, it would already be done.

Instead, along with the upended bookcase, he'd kept it here like some sort of...reminder. Of what, she had no clue.

She turned the instrument over, studying the back of the warm-looking glossy wood. Hayley's grandmother was still staying with Hayley and had mentioned a familiarity with violins. If nothing else, maybe Vivian would have some advice. She scrounged around his drawers until she found a pen and wrote out a note on a paper towel. Then she tacked it to the front of the refrigerator with the bottle-opener magnet she'd found in the same messy drawer where she'd found the pen.