Just Fooling Around: Darcy's Dark Day/Reg's Rescue\Cam's Catastrophe/Devon's Dilemma (7 page)

With his help, she managed to get back onto the ledge, regain her balance, then cross over to him. Throughout all of that, she kept her composure. But as soon as they were on his landing—as soon as her feet were on solid ground—she clung to him. Not in tears. Not in terror. But in the urgent, desperate need to show him exactly how she felt about him. To demonstrate with her body how she would give everything to him, just like he’d promised everything to her with those five simple words.

“Open the window or break the glass,” she said. “Now.”

Fortunately for the super of Evan’s building, the window was unlocked. And since that was so damn convenient, she didn’t chastise him for what was a really stupid habit. Instead, she slid her hands over his chest,
pushing him backward at the same time onto his bed, gratified to see that the fire escape had opened into the one room she most wanted to be in.

“Thank God,” Evan said, his fingers snared in the cotton of her shirt as he tugged it up and over her head. It stuck there for a moment, and he laughed as she struggled. But those struggles ceased when his hands cupped her breasts, pushing her bra up and freeing her flesh. His hands snaked to her back, and he unfastened the clasp, then tugged her free of the bra. At first she felt only the brush of his thumb over her nipples, each in turn. Then his hands disappeared and she, desperate to know what he was doing, attempted again to pull the shirt off her head.

She paused as she felt his mouth close over her breast, his tongue flicking her nipple even as his hand roamed the flesh of her belly, easing down until his fingers were dancing over the button of her jeans.

She couldn’t move, much less get herself free, and she arched her back, moaning, finally thrust back into action by the desperate desire to touch him the same way he was touching her.

With one solid yank, she tossed the shirt aside. His gaze was focused on her, his face pressed against the soft swell of her body, but he looked up, and his eyes said it all. This time, she watched him as she moaned.

“Evan,” she whispered, then slid her hands over his back. He still wore clothes, and that was unacceptable. With a laugh, she took hold of him by the shoulders, then rolled him over, the motion freeing her breast from his mouth. The air that rushed against her damp flesh made her tremble, not from a chill, but from the promise of what she knew was to come.

“Hey,” he said, as she pushed him flat onto the bed, then eased herself over to straddle him.

“Hey yourself.” His fingers had done their work on her jeans—the button was open and the zipper down. Now those same nimble fingers slid inside, tight between the denim and her crotch and the silk of her panties, moving with deliberate purpose over her soaking wet panties toward her clit.

She eased her hips up, ostensibly part of her movement to kiss him, but also to give him better access, then moaned as his finger slipped over her core, the sensation no less erotic because his hand was outside her panties.

In a bold movement, she pressed her mouth to his, claiming his, her hands on his shirt, her fingers fumbling at the buttons. With her tongue, she explored his mouth, learning the way he tasted, the way he responded, wanting to consume him and be consumed by him.

When she came up for air, she realized she hadn’t made progress on the shirt. “Damn,” she whispered.

“Really?” he said, raising an amused eyebrow.

“How much do you like this shirt?”

“At the moment, I’m feeling less than charitable toward it,” he admitted.

“Good.” She grabbed the sides and ripped it open, sacrificing a decent shirt and the flying buttons for the pleasure of quickly accessing his body.

His chest was warm with a smattering of hair, and she splayed her palms over him, her eyes closed as she explored with her hands and then with her mouth. His own hands were still exploring, and as her tongue flicked over his erect nipple, she shifted her hips, silently urging him to peel off her jeans.

He got the message, and his fingers left her sex long enough to grip the material at her hips and tug.

It wasn’t a maneuver that could be finished with her straddling him, her mouth on his chest, and apparently he realized that. She gasped as he flipped her over, then mimicked her position, with her straddling him, and his hands tugging and pulling until she was free of both jeans and panties.

“You, too,” she demanded, gratified when he nimbly and quickly stripped. “If you say you have no condoms in this apartment, then I’ll admit to my entire family that I believe in the curse of the Franklins.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being the cause of weakening your convictions,” he said with a smile, then leaned to the left and tugged open a bedside table. She mentally applauded, but let him handle the sheathing himself—her fingers were shaking too much in anticipation.

But
oh, sweet heaven
it was worth the wait. His fingers stroked her first, and as he did, she clutched his back, her fingernails digging into his flesh, her mind wiped of any thought except pleasure—giving and receiving.

“No more,” she said, desperate for him to be inside her. “Now, dammit, before I go completely crazy.”

“As you wish,” he said, his eyes twinkling. She was so wet that her body opened easily, accommodating him, and she lifted her hips to urge him further, deeper.

He thrust against her, and she mimicked his motion, their bodies coming together in an ancient, primal, horizontal dance that had her soul coming loose from her body, borne away by the pleasure of it all.

His face was red with effort, and he held tight to the headboard as he ravaged her, causing the bed to rise and
fall with their movements. She watched, meeting the growing pleasure inside her, and saw his jaw clench as his own release drew near. Her breath was shallow now, matching his, and then, as their bodies merged to one, they both went over the edge together, their low cries full of satisfaction.

“Dear Lord,” he said, then collapsed beside her on the bed, which bounced a bit in response, then seemed to shift beneath her.

“Evan?” she asked, startled. “What is that?”

“What?” he asked, dreamily, but she didn’t have to explain herself or ask again. The cause of the shift became clearly apparent when, with a loud
crack
, one side of the bed collapsed, sending them tumbling to the ground.

“W
E BROKE YOUR BED
,”
Darcy said, looking completely mortified as she sat up from where they were now tangled naked on the floor. “Evan, it’s an antique. It’s probably worth something.”

“Not anymore,” he said, then chuckled at the pained expression on her face. He took her hand and squeezed. “I swear, it’s fine. It’s an old bed, but it’s not of great value. I promise. And I’d been thinking about buying a new one anyway. Something bigger, like a king.”

“You don’t need to,” she said, her expression almost shy, which under the circumstances seemed a little strange.

“No? Why not?”

She swallowed, then met his eyes. “Because I’m totally keen on snuggling close when I come into town to see you.”

“Oh.” Her words eased through him like warm brandy, and he fought the urge to lean in and kiss her. Not because he wanted to fight it, but because he knew he had to.

“Evan?” Her voice was quick. Alarmed.

He focused on a point over her shoulder. “This was amazing, Darcy.
You’re
amazing. I’ve thought so for years.” He swallowed, not quite believing what he was actually about to say. “But I don’t think we should…”
He trailed off, not sure of the words. But she just stared at him, her mouth hanging open and her eyes shining with the threat of tears. “Oh, God, Darcy, I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s me.”

That earned him a crooked smile. “Never thought I’d see the day when a reporter pulled out such an old cliché.”

“It’s not a cliché when it’s true,” he said. He took a deep breath for courage. “Darcy, I’m not the man you think I am.”

Her brows rose, and she laughed. “Who do I think you are? Daniel Craig?”

He couldn’t even crack a smile. “I’m not a hero, Darcy. It’s all a lie. A stupid, foolish lie that made everyone think I was a guy that I wasn’t.”

He waited, expecting her to speak, but she didn’t.

“That newspaper article you keep in your bedroom?” he prompted. “It’s a lie. Dammit, Darcy, don’t you get it? You’ve had this fantasy of me for years, but I’m not that guy.”

“Evan—”

He held up a hand. “
No.
I’m not that guy,” he repeated. “I didn’t rescue Cam. Hell, I helped him get into that mess in the first place. But we couldn’t say anything because your mom would have a cow, so we made up the story about him falling off the bridge, and—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is the whole town thought I was a hero, but I hadn’t done a damn thing. I’m not that guy,” he repeated. “But what I am is a guy who has wanted you since the first time I saw you. Who thinks you’re fascinating and smart and funny. A guy who now knows that the reality of having you was even better than the fantasy.” He reached out
and brushed her cheek. “But Darcy, I don’t want fantasy with you, and I damn sure don’t want to
be
a fantasy.”

“You’re not,” she said.

“No, I mean it.”

She laughed. “So do I.” She reached over and took his hand. “I know. I’ve known for years.”

That,
he wasn’t expecting.

“How?”

“Cam, of course. He knew I had a huge crush on you. He said there was no way you’d be interested in a freshman, but after the whole river fiasco, he told me the truth. I guess even though you weren’t interested in a freshman, he figured I still wanted to know everything about you.” She shrugged. “The truth was, it made you even more of a hero to me.”

He lifted his brows. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“You kept a secret. A huge one that was important to Cam. That’s what heroes do, right? Protect their friends.”

His laugh shook through him. “Darcy, sweetheart, you’re amazing.”

She dragged her teeth over her lower lip and cast a playful glance at the crooked mattress. “Want to show me once again just how amazing you can be?”

“You only have to ask,” he said, then drew her close, his body firing again, ready to take her and claim her once and for all, the primal need to make her his almost overwhelming him as much as the heady certainty that she already was.

This time they moved more slowly, though, savoring each other, exploring and teasing, tasting and tempting. He reached blindly up with one hand and groped for a
pillow that had tumbled onto the floor along with them. He put it under her head, then kissed her hard. Then he reached for another pillow and put it under her hips, lifting her to exactly where he wanted her.

“Evan.” Her voice was soft, dreamy, and he heard it despite the rustle of skin against his ears, the soft skin of her inner thigh to be exact, which pressed against him as her body arched up, her moans and cries and soft passionate noises making him even harder than the taste of her already had.

He licked her slickness, then added his finger to the mix, stretching her wide, wanting nothing more than to be inside her, and when he couldn’t stand it anymore, he eased up, kissed her with her own taste still lingering on his lips, and drove himself home.

Heaven,
he thought, and she repeated the thought in words after the storm passed and she lay clinging to him. “It feels like heaven.”

“We can stay here all day,” he said. “Your brother would be happy. After all, I’m keeping you safe.”

A few hours later, he’d made her that much safer, and they both lay exhausted on the carpet. This time, her skin glowed rosy from the setting sun.

“You’d be catching dinner now with Bella,” he said.

“I like this better,” she said, speaking the absolute truth. This had been the most perfect day of her life, which pretty much disproved that whole curse thing as far as she was concerned. “Right now, the only thing I’m hungry for is you. Somehow, I just can’t get enough.”

“But you did miss the play,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. Why don’t we try to get tickets for next weekend?”

She laughed. “I’ll be right here next weekend, but we
won’t be going to the theater.” She pressed a kiss to his bare chest.

The high-pitched tones of her cell phone startled them both, and she grabbed it up, then answered, listening at Bella’s rapid-fire words. “Thanks,” she said with a grin to Evan. “Feel better soon.”

“Bella?”

“She said she hopes we’re having fun, and if we’re not too worn out from our busy day, that we might want to go to the theater tonight.”

“Sorry. Not following you.”

“She remembered that she never even had the tickets,” Darcy explained. “They’re waiting for me right now at the will call window.”

She leaned forward and settled purposefully beside his naked body. “See?” she said, leaning in and brushing her lips over his. “Nothing but good luck today.” She nipped his lower lip. “But frankly, I don’t think I’m in the mood for a show after all.”

April 1, two years earlier

T
HE EAR-SPLITTING NOISE
of the alarm clock was sadistic and cruel, and most hellishly of all—four freaking hours too early. Devon Franklin rolled over again and threw the covers over her head.

Three o’clock in the morning.

For a moment, there was blessed ignorance. The idea that she had accidentally missed the alarm, or that she had suffered a temporary brain spasm. Unfortunately, none of those things were even remotely close to being true.

The digital watch was within easy reach on her bedside table, but she knew the date. The other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year she woke up with a sigh of relief, because it wasn’t…

April 1.

Bone-tired and furious, she succumbed to a fit of juvenile rage, and slammed her hand over the off button, silencing the beep and hopefully killing the clock in the process.

April Fools’. Ha. If she were an average twenty-eight-year-old female, with a life expectancy of 78.1 years, nonsmoker, healthy diet, within ten pounds of
her ideal weight, she could blame the crack-of-dawn buzzer on a no-good-sibling prank, or a moronic friend getting carried away with a holiday that was nobody’s idea of fun.

However, she was a Franklin.

Cursed. People thought curses were cute and funny, and only happened to pretty people. Oh, yeah. If only that were the case.

Being the most rational Franklin, she knew the safest path to a relatively pain-free day. Hibernate in bed until midnight and wait the disasters out. It was what the rest of her family called Devon’s Ostrich Solution.

She hated when they said that. Maybe it wasn’t the most daring (Cam), optimistic (Darcy) or academic (Reg) strategy. However, it remained an undisputed fact that of the four siblings, Devon had a lower incidence of medical traumas. From an early age, as soon as she understood the eventful complications of the Franklin curse, Devon had hunkered down and opted for maximum protection against whatever bad things came on April First. Sure, it meant that her life wasn’t nearly as lively…

Oh, boo hoo hoo.

Now she’d done it. Completely debated herself into wakefulness when she wanted nothing more than to sleep. Devon sunk down farther into the blankets, waiting for the sounds of silence to wash over her and hopefully deliver her back into the sleepy arms of Morpheus, who was the only man who dared come near her on April Fools’. Yes, that was what she was doomed to for her sex life. Imaginary Greek gods.

Instead of sleepy silence, hard rain rapped like coins
on the old roof of her tiny cottage, quaintly set in the middle of Middle America.

Maxbass, North Dakota. Nothing ever happened here. Devon had picked the town three years ago for that reason.

She craved nothingness. She ached for nothingness. A booming blast of thunder scoffed at her nothingness, rattling the double-paned, tornado-proofed, hurricane-secure windows.

Outside, another sound mixed with the rain. An unsettling dragging sound and some sort of howling. Not quite an animal. But it could be an animal. A bear. A lion. A zombie. In Devon’s mind, all were highly probable.

From outside the house, the moaning noises continued, but there was absolutely no way she would investigate. Nope, she would bury her head under the duvet and live out the next twenty-four hours in blissful ostrich-buried-head-in-the-sand-I-know-nothing mode.

But what if it was something bad? asked that incessant voice inside her head.

The doorbell rang, and Devon lifted the comforter away from her face, opening one cautious eye. On the wall opposite her bed, the bank of security monitors showed an empty doorstep, with a dark shadow hovering just beyond the porch. An intruder?

Statistically, in a town with a population of four hundred and thirty-seven, intruders or burglars were unlikely. As her wretched inquisitiveness began to take hold, though, she lowered the covers another inch. Over the years she had learned that no matter how she tried, problems didn’t go away when you ignored them, they merely smashed through windows (April 1, 2000), or
roofs (April 1, 1982), or drove through the living room (April 1, 1993).

But Devon was more determined than most of her family. She’d finally wised up and had pimped out her tidy two-room cottage into a modified nuclear bunker, outfitted with a state-of-the-art monitor and surveillance system, all nooks and crannies visible from every room, and best of all, fashionably accentuated in a cheery yellow.

Each room contained a row of screens that displayed a live feed of all the other rooms in the house, including the exterior perimeter. If disaster was going to strike, Devon wanted to know in advance.

The ordinary citizen would consider the elaborate setup overkill. However, the ordinary citizen would have suffered a psychotic breakdown from the streak of April firsts that she’d had.

Devon, never a dummy, had learned.

The doorbell rang, and this time the shadow was fully visible on the monitor. Not Morpheus, no, this was a man. Human, living, breathing, and looking almost…sane.

His dark T-shirt clung to a brawny chest, and flexing arm muscles were artfully displayed as he leaned on her doorframe.

Thanks to the rain, his dark hair was plastered like a skullcap to a nicely formed head, and in spite of the weather, he seem calm and fairly controlled. The overhang of her porch wasn’t doing much to keep him out of the storm. A wave of drops washed over his face, and he dragged a hand through his slicked hair, pushing it away from his face.

A magnificent face. Chiseled and thin, with a dimpled chin and a mouth that looked as tasty as ice cream, maybe tastier. His eyes were the best feature. Pale underneath black brows and spiked black lashes, they gleamed as if he were actually enjoying himself.

Although it was 3:00 a.m. on April Fools’ Day, Devon’s lady parts were especially wide awake.

For a few dazzling seconds she stared as the rain sluiced over his face, along the broad shelf of his shoulders. It was like watching a guy in one of those soap commercials, those devious marketing ploys where the product was for a male, but the target audience were women who would be goggle-eyed over a bare-chested young man relishing his sensual time alone in the shower.

Her legs twitched and she realized the inherent dangers of this situation.

Aroused or not, she wasn’t stupid enough to actually answer the door.

As if sensing her momentary weakness, the doorbell rang again, the monitor showing a determined bent to the man’s jaw, as if he knew someone was home, and through evil, sexy-man, mind-control powers could lure her to respond to his call.

Not in this lifetime, buddy. Pick another sap.

Devon pulled the duvet over her head because she could be more stubborn than anybody, anytime.

The doorbell rang again.

And again.

And again.

This time, he left his finger on the bell, one long, very annoying ring that echoed behind her eyes like a hang-
over, or tinnitus, or an annoying stranger who thought foolish people should open their doors at 3:00 a.m.

Whatever.

The doorbell rang again, and that was it. Devon threw back the covers, and flipped on the light switch next to her bed. Without missing a beat, she grabbed the flashlight that was strapped to her bedpost, stuffed her feet into her slippers (after first checking for spiders) and then trudged to the front door. Not that she was going to open the door. Yet.

From the bank of monitors in the living room, she could see more. The Air Force squadron insignia on the T-shirt, complete with wings. The base wasn’t that far. The man was a pilot?

Damn it. Did he have to be in the Air Force? Devon could ignore pushy Girl Scouts and their cookies, she could ignore Facebook friend requests for weeks and she shooed away stray animals that might possibly mistake her home for something other than the small pit of hell that it became on April first every year. There’d been one small cat, but that was a tragic story best left alone. After suffering through an endless saga of disasters and hoaxes, Devon was immune to everything.

The man peered into her camera. Correction: Devon was immune to
almost
everything.

In spite of the familiar feelings of foreboding, ignoring a 3:00 a.m. doorbell-wakeup call by a member of the U.S. Armed Services, well, it seemed…un-American.

Or at least that was what her lady parts were telling her.

Cautiously she unlocked the three dead bolts, although the security chain stayed firmly in place. After the door creaked open a scant three inches, Devon
warned, “You should know that my boyfriend is a black-belt instructor, and also a cop, and he’s got a loaded shotgun aimed right at your privates. So make it good and make it fast, because he’s not happy and someday you might want to reproduce, in which case you’ll need your jewels intact.”

“Howdy, ma’am. Sorry to bother you and your boyfriend. I know it’s late, but I need to borrow a phone. You see, there was this bachelor party. I’m ashamed to admit it’s sort of blurry, but I need to call and get a ride back to the base, and I can’t find my cell.”

His drawling voice was rumbly and slurred, an odd combination that spoke of both sexiness and irresponsible drunken stupor, neither of which Devon approved of, but both of which stirred irresponsible sexy shivers inside her.

Knowing the road to high insurance premiums was paved with shivers exactly like this, she managed a mocking laugh.

“Oh, come on. Do you think I’m stupid enough to open my door to a drunken stranger at 3:00 a.m.?”

“Well, of course, if you were alone, I wouldn’t expect you to let me inside. I can hear that clipped no-nonsense tone in your voice. Very sensible and smart, ’cause God knows there’s a lot of kooks in the world. I had a grandmother that sounded a lot like you, and she hailed from West Texas, and could shoot down a coyote and then serve it up in a stew. I have yet to meet anybody more practical than that. Until now. But it seems to me that as long as your boyfriend isn’t itchy on the trigger, I’ll make a quick call, and be home before I drown. Seems to me we’d all come out alive, and you and your man could
content yourself with the knowledge that you helped a forlorn human being in his dark time of trouble.”

Realizing she’d been outfoxed by a tipsy man, Devon rested her forehead against the door. She didn’t want to do this. It just reeked of…Devon ending up with the short end of some pointed and painful stick. Knowing she was doing the smart thing, her hand pushed the door shut.

Right before the door was securely latched once again, the miserable man sighed, a melodramatic exaggeration of both starving orphans and homeless kittens that might have melted a softer heart.

Devon’s fingers hesitated, keeping the door open only a hairbreadth.

“Look, I’m sorry about this,” he explained in that raw voice that stroked down her increasingly wobbly spine. “If it wasn’t raining, I’d wait it out, but I’m soaked and my leg hurts—”

“What did you do to your leg?” Devon asked, flipping on the porch light and then opening the door before stepping back in shock.

No way did the tiny three-inch image on the monitor compare to the sucker punch of the full in-person effect. His hair wasn’t merely black, it was the startling blue-black of stealth bombers, gun barrels and every other doomsday device known to man. Long thick lashes framed silvery gray eyes, which were currently wearing that ah-shit look that she knew well from having two older brothers, who, not being nearly as accepting of their fate as Devon, experienced ah-shit moments on what was a nearly daily basis.

Her mouth went dry from looking at him, and in her mind, she was already calculating the estimated maxi
mum loss if she just did something small, like touch him, like kiss him, like seduce him.

Oh, for Pete’s sake, what was she thinking? Instantly she made a note to get a bigger vibrator.

Devon locked her arms across her chest, determined to remain unmoved, uninvolved, unaroused and alive.

“The leg’s not injured. It’s uh…encumbered,” he answered, those silver eyes widening innocently, which should have been impossible, considering the slightly tipsy tilt to his mouth…and the ball and chain around his leg.

Ball and chain?

Devon slammed the door shut.