Here Comes Trouble (15 page)

The sheets hit the floor with one final kick of her feet. The two of them lay naked, Chase smack in the middle of the bed and Lacy curled up on the edge. She took advantage of his sleep and looked at him, without having to see the “I know I’m Turning You On,” expression he always gave her. The man was insufferably arrogant, and unbearably gorgeous. He lay on his stomach with both his arms folded underneath the pillows, and with his fine backside, gleaming with sweat, laid out for her to enjoy. Wide shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, which then curved into those two round, very hard ass cheeks. His long, muscular legs stretched to the end of the bed where his feet hung off the mattress. Lacy smiled at the sight he made, a man too big and too masculine for her girly, double-sized bed.

Unable to sleep for the humid air clinging to her, Lacy slid out of bed and searched for her clothes. They were nowhere to be seen, but Chase’s blue shirt lay in a heap, still where she’d hurriedly thrown it. Not wanting to put that much effort into finding her own clothes, she swiped his shirt off the floor and shrugged into it. Having the cotton material caress her skin should have made her even hotter. On the contrary, the scent of him lingering on the fabric surrounded her in a delicious cloud of manliness that was all Chase. She buttoned the shirt while padding barefoot down the hallway to the living room. Her stomach growled, but Lacy had always read the worst time to eat was the middle of the night. She ignored her demanding hunger and instead curled herself up on the couch and turned on the television.

A frustrated sigh flowed out of her at the lack of good programming at…what did the clock say? Lacy squinted at the mantle-clock. Good Lord, it was three-thirty in the morning? She tossed the remote next to her and settled for watching a rerun of the evening news. An apartment fire in a neighboring town and the night’s lottery numbers hardly made for edge-of-your-seat viewing. The middle-aged woman, with every shade of blond highlighted into her badly-teased mane, droned on in an annoyingly cheerful tone about events in the greater Cheyenne area. Lacy picked up the remote, hoping some new programs had cropped up since her last attempt, when the anchorwoman moved on to her next story.

“In local news, the citizens of Trouble should start double-checking the locks on their front doors. Late last night, a woman called local authorities when she a discovered a man trying to enter her home through a bedroom window. She told the police she beat the man back with a broom, then called 911. The man, apparently spooked, took off running before the police arrived on the scene. Here’s what the woman had to say about the incident.”

The scene then cut to an older woman with a plump face telling the story about how she defended her home from a would-be intruder. The woman, whose identity was only revealed as “the victim,” told her story with an unnatural calm, as though she encountered that sort of thing every day. Her interview was cut off when the anchorwoman returned to the screen and announced they had a sketch from the victim’s detailed description of the perpetrator.

 
Even as she’d listened to the woman retell her story for the six o’clock news, Lacy’s “Dennis Radar” went from dormant to hyperactive in about three seconds. By the time the sketch flashed on the screen, she knew without a doubt the man the police needed to search for was Dennis Taylor. Forensic artists really did have an amazing ability to capture a person’s essence without ever having laid eyes on them. This artist did an impeccable job of angling Dennis’ nose at just the right angle so that it looked like a miniature pelican’s beak. The eyes were the same shape, a little bit on the large side and farther apart than they should be, but they possessed the same dark, not-quite-sane look they always had in real life. His hair, which looked like it was only days away from falling out, was too thin and wiry and hung almost to his shoulders like a bad imitation of Russell Crowe’s. All in all, there really wasn’t anything attractive about Dennis Taylor. He was the sort of man women avoided eye contact with in a bar. His air radiated an “I’m a loose cannon, stay away from me.” Luckily for Lacy, she’d taken after her mother. The only thing she inherited from Dennis was his blond hair.

For the entire ten seconds the sketch remained on the screen, she forced herself to retain eye contact with the black and white illustrated eyes. Even in a drawing, his stare had the same effect as real life. It was as if he were sneering, “I know you’re out there, sweet daughter, so you’d better prepare yourself.” No matter how strong she pretended to be, she couldn’t stop her heart rate from escalating to marathon status or the hairs on her arms shooting to attention like an electrical charge had just coursed through her. Dennis always created this reaction whether he was in her life or not. The impending doom of storm clouds always hovered indefinitely until he crawled back into whatever hole he’d been in before. She reverted to her old nervous habit of wringing her hands until she finally shoved them under her bare legs.

The anchorwoman repeated the age-old mantra of asking anyone to call such-and-such number if they should have any information of the assailant’s whereabouts. Paralyzing nerves kept her rooted to the couch until the number disappeared from the screen. The jumbled numbers made no sense to Lacy and she had no hope of remembering them in her scrambled mind. Her thoughts were too centered on Dennis and the possibility of him showing himself through the front door. She’d never actually asked herself the question of what she’d do if Dennis showed his ugly face. For the past five years, he’d always been someone else’s problem and she’d been happy to let them deal with him. Gracing her with his unpleasant presence was starting to become a real possibility and Lacy didn’t have the slightest clue how to deal with that. In the past, she’d always given him whatever spare cash she had, for no other reason to rid herself of him. Now, she didn’t have any spare cash. Okay, maybe she did. There was the matter of a ten million dollar check; however, Lacy would rather see that burning to ashes than in the hands of the worthless man who’d fathered her.

The news took a brief commercial break, snapping Lacy back to reality. She used the opportunity to rid herself of her overactive nerves and stood from the couch. One advertisement rolled on after another but Lacy paid no attention to such things like how to make millions over the Internet or free financing for the first year on a brand new car. She stepped over Boris’s unconscious form as she walked in circles around the living room, trying to come up with a plan. She’d missed the telephone number the news gave out but she did have the business cards for the two detectives who’d come to see her. They’d said to call them anytime but would he remember that when his phone rang in the middle of the night? Was there anything they could do at three in the morning anyway? Then again, what would they say when she told them she saw the report hours before calling them? Would that make them suspicious? Discredit her character?

She released a long, frustrated breath at the lack of answers her brain generated. The flickering light of the television skittered across the walls, creating uneven, chaotic patterns. Boris yipped in his sleep and his two front paws twitched. The refrigerator hummed a low, comforting sound that would normally lull her to sleep. All the sounds of home that should have calmed her overworked nerves sounded like they came from someplace far and unreachable. Dennis’ face flashing across the screen invaded her privacy and the safe little bubble she’d created for herself, yet another reason for her to resent him. As if she didn’t have enough motive as it was.

She continued on her trip around the living room, stepping over Boris, then walking passed the kitchen. After ten minutes of mindless pacing, Lacy felt as unsettled as she had before. She made her umpteenth trip around the coffee table and came to an abrupt stop when a tall figure standing at the end of the hallway made her heart punch its way through her ribcage.

Chase leaned against the wall in nothing more than his black boxer-briefs and a shadowed, unreadable expression. “Trying to burn off more calories?” His deep, rumbling voice chased away the paranoia that had consumed her for the past ten minutes.

Instead of answering his question, she countered with, “How long have you been standing there?”

The low volume of the television filled the living room for a moment before Chase answered. “Long enough to know something’s on your mind.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you thought you’d wear yourself out by walking in circles around the living room?”

The man paid way more attention to her than she was comfortable with. Dennis was an area of her life that wasn’t easy for her to open up about, especially to Chase. He’d always loathed Dennis, as he rightfully should. The possibility of Dennis being in town wasn’t something Chase would take lightly. No, she needed to deal with this on her own until Dennis was either in jail or in another part of the country.

“I was just feeling restless,” she finally answered.

Chase didn’t move so much as an eyelash. At least she didn’t think he did. The room was so blessedly dark, save what little light the television generated, that his face was in complete shadow. A shame, considering how disgustingly handsome he was.

“You mean our earlier activities didn’t wear you out?”

A warm, tingly feeling started in her cheeks and snaked its way down to the depths of her belly. His words felt like a slow, sensual caress on her skin as though he’d actually touched her with those masterful hands of his. Even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she felt their touch on every part of her, from her hair and all the way down her bare legs. The man was seducing her from across the room. Without a word, he held out his hand.

She clicked the television off and accepted his invitation. Once back in bed, she curled herself around his hard, warm body and let his drifting hands up and down her back melt her into a dreamless sleep.

Eight

Dawn broke entirely too early and brought with it annoyingly cheerful sunshine. Lacy wasn’t ready to face the day yet, so she rolled over with a groan that sounded almost inhuman and slipped back to sleep. A short while later she woke up to the sun’s merciless rays pouring into her room with more force than before. She admitted defeat and swung her sleep-sluggish legs over the edge of the bed. The events of a few hours ago made her feel exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Her eyes felt gritty, her brain mushy and her thighs burned and quivered from her and Chase’s strenuous activities. Last night he’d introduced her to positions she’d never even heard of and twisted her body in ways she didn’t think possible. Lacy didn’t want to think about where he’d learned some of that stuff and how he’d gotten so good at it. Or, how he knew to tell her to rotate her hips in just the right direction in order to heighten her orgasm. But she liked to think he’d read about it somewhere rather than having practiced it on other women. She hadn’t survived this long on her own by being naïve. Chase had a reputation of bedding one woman after another for as long as she’d known him. So long as he wasn’t screwing other women while they were…whatever it was they were.

She remained on the edge of the bed and glanced at him over her shoulder. He lay on his side and faced the window, giving her a view of his back. She took a closer look at the tattoo on the back of his right shoulder. The barbwire-looking thing that circled his left bicep, he’d had since he was about eighteen. Lacy vaguely remembered Brody telling her how upset Martin had been about his son permanently marking his body. All four of the boys had gotten tattoos when they turned eighteen. Lacy never understood why they felt the need to mark themselves, as though they needed visible proof they were becoming men. The one on his back was a lot smaller than the one circling his bicep. The black and white design was small and intricate with some sort of weave pattern. Upon closer scrutiny she saw the tattoo wasn’t some nonsensical twisting weave pattern but actually a cross. She leaned across the bed to study the crisscrossing lines and ran her index finger over hard muscle where the tattoo was located. Before she could touch him further, as she ached to do, Chase stirred and rolled over onto his back to face her.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

He pressed the backs of his hands into his eyes and stretched. “That’s all right. I need to get up anyway.”

She admired his strong muscles as they flexed and moved when he stretched. “When did you get that tattoo on your back?”

“College.”

“I didn’t realize you had more than one.”

His blue eyes dropped down to her bare breasts. “I have three, actually.” He unfolded his hand from behind his head and shoved the sheet past his hips. There, at the very bottom and intimate part of his abdomen were the words:
Twelve Inch Wonder.

Good grief, the man thought highly of himself. Lacy sat back and rolled her eyes. “Twelve inches?” He was big but not
that
big.

One side of his delectable mouth turned up. “It was my nickname in college.”

“And who gave you this nickname?”

“A friend of mine.”

She crossed her arms over her bare breasts. “A girlfriend?” Why in the world did she ask that?

His eyebrows twitched and something dark flashed in his bottomless blue eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Wasn’t that why she’d asked? Lacy knew next to nothing about Chase’s dating history. Granted it was none of her business, but the curiosity was killing her. He’d always been very tight-lipped about it, like he had some deep dark secret he didn’t want anyone to know. To Anyone else in his life, Chase was usually an open book. But this one subject was kept under lock and key.