Knowing You (5 page)

And as they fell, he heard her whisper, “Paul,” just before he went deaf, dumb, and blind.

*   *   *

“Just bury me here,” Stevie murmured when she was finally able to make her voice work again.

Paul's voice came muffled against her shoulder. “Can't bury you. We're inside.”

“'Kay. Cremate me. Burn down the building.”

“Jesus,” he said, lifting his head to look down at her. “You're real cheery after sex.”

She blinked, then focused those blue eyes of hers on him. Blowing out a breath that ruffled the blond hair hanging across her forehead, she said, “Seriously. I can't move.”

“Could be because I'm pinning you down.” He started to roll off her.

Her hands slapped down on his back. “No. Don't move.”

Paul stopped dead and looked down at her again. He couldn't believe what had just happened. His head was still pounding … could be the damn thunder again. His body was humming with completion and yet rarin' to go. The slightest word from her and he'd have at her again, only this time there'd be more … style.

Stevie smiled and winced as she shifted under him. “If you move right now, I just might splinter.”

“Wouldn't want that.”

“Thanks, me, neither.” Her hands scraped along his back, her fingertips dancing up and down his spine until Paul had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning. “That was…”

He couldn't resist. “Toe-curling?”

She laughed shortly and he felt the slam of it echo inside him. “Hair-curling.” One of her hands dropped to the side of his face and brushed his hair back. Shaking her head, she said, “I gotta say. I'm impressed.”

A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks. But that wasn't my best work.”

“Yeah?”

Her eyes held a speculative gleam that stirred the heat between them back into life. Paul's body tightened inside hers and she moaned, a soft, quiet sound, slipping from her throat and directly into his soul.

He slid one hand up her body, cupping her breast, thumbing the nipple until she twisted beneath him and arched into his touch like a flower turning toward the
sun. “Oh, yeah.” His voice dropped to a notch just a shade lower than the crashing roll of the thunder. “That was just the five-dollar special.”

Stevie laughed, as he'd hoped she would, and he listened to the frothy sound as it danced into the room and settled down around them like soap bubbles, bursting on impact.

“Then I've got to know,” she said.

“What's that?”

She ran the tip of one finger across his bottom lip, tugging, smoothing, playing. Then she met his gaze squarely. “What'll
ten
bucks get me?”

His blood thickened. “Mmm. A big spender.”

“Hey, you get what you pay for.”

“I even offer a money-back guarantee.”

“I'm hard to please.”

“I'll take that as a challenge.”

“Good.”

Then he kissed her, a long, sweet savoring that slowly built until Paul was diving into her depths, exploring every secret that had haunted him for years. She gave as good as she got, making him tremble with need, shaking his world to its foundations.

And as the last of summer died in the onslaught of the first real storm of the season, they rode out the fury, locked in each other's arms.

*   *   *

The alarm went off at four-thirty and Stevie lunged for it. Instantly she moaned as muscles long ignored ached and screamed in protest. She rolled off the bed, swinging her feet to the floor. Bracing her elbows on her knees, she cupped her head in her hands and for one
incredibly stupid moment, wondered why in the hell she was so sore.

In the next instant, though, the night before came rolling back through her mind with the force and strength of a runaway freight train. “Oh God.”

Slowly, hesitantly, she looked over her shoulder at the man in her bed as he stirred, mumbled, and rolled over to look at her.

And just like that, her head exploded.

“Oh God!” She jumped off the bed, realized she was standing there stark naked, and made a mad grab for the afghan at the foot of her bed. Well, actually twisted around the foot post of the bed, but close enough.

“Are you always this noisy when you wake up?” Paul complained, and opened one eye to glare at her.

“Only when I'm horrified.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She clutched the afghan tightly and drew it around her like some half-assed robe. “For God's sake, Paul. What were we thinking?”

“There wasn't a lot of thinking going on as I remember it.”

“That's obvious.” She paced back and forth across the room, just at the end of the bed. Seven steps to the marble-topped dresser, sharp “U-ie,” then seven steps back to the window. She kicked at the tail of the granny square afghan, as if it were the train of an elegant gown. Pushing one hand through her hair, she tried to gather her thoughts, but all that came back to her was the night in Paul's arms. The things he'd done to her. The things
they'd
done to each other.

She looked at him, propped up on one elbow, the
sheet draped low over his belly and his … Stevie looked away. “Oh God.… ”

“Are you praying or what?”

“Would it help?” She shot him another look that said she wanted him to say yes.

“No.”

“That's what I thought.”

“Why are we awake so damn early?” He glanced at the window. “The sun's not even up yet.”

“Baking. I have to start the baking downstairs before my morning regulars show up and—” She broke off, raced to the window, and tripped on the stupid blanket and nearly pitched herself right through the glass. Maybe that would have been better. She swept the lacy curtains aside. “The storm's over. And your car is right outside.”

“That's where I parked it.”

“And it's been there all night.”

“Well, yeah,” Paul said, and sat up, letting the sheet drop to his waist. “It's pretty much trained to stay in one place.”

“That's funny,” she said, and heard her voice lift higher and higher. Deliberately she tried to get a grip. She pulled in one long breath after another, telling herself to remain calm. This wasn't a tragedy.

Hell.

Who was she kidding?

She turned around to face him. “You've gotta get out of here.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

“No shit, Paul.” She turned and walked out of the bedroom.

He heard her moving around the living room, muttering to herself. Easing himself up and out of bed, he walked after her. This was too much. No one should expect a man to be able to think without caffeine in his bloodstream. Although, he thought as he caught a glimpse of Stevie's smooth, tanned bottom through the holey afghan, there were other ways to wake a man up.

“What are you looking at?” she demanded when she turned around, the blanket clutched to her bosom as if she were some Victorian maiden.

He nodded at her. “There's a lot of holes in that thing, Stevie. I can still see your—”

“Well, don't look.”

“Trust me, even if I don't look now, I looked last night and I remember.”

“You just have to forget,” she said with a wild shake of her head. Then she seemed to notice that he was standing there naked, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. She slapped a hand across her eyes. “Oh God.”

“You know, He's probably getting tired of you calling Him.”

“Then why doesn't He answer?” she demanded, defiantly shifting her gaze from him to—heck, anywhere.

“And do what?” Paul wanted to know.

“Hell.” She threw her hands wide, felt the afghan slip, and made a desperate grab for it. “Smite me down! Send frogs, pestilence … frogs. Something.”

“You said frogs twice.”

“They're icky. Worth more than one mention as a plague.”

“Overreacting a little, aren't you?”

She pushed her hair back from her face again and Paul noticed the flash of panic in her eyes.

“Overreacting?” she repeated. “If word gets out that your car was here all night…”

The thought of that impacted in his mind and Paul at last saw her point. Chandler was like any other small town. Always on the hunt for a good piece of gossip. And the old biddies in town would chew on this one for a good long while. He and Stevie would be the topic of conversation for months.

But that wasn't what finally got him moving. He had problems of his own to deal with at the moment. He hadn't expected to sleep with Stevie last night. But now that he had, all he could think about was that he wanted to throw her back onto her bed and make love to her again.

Hell, if this kept up, he'd never get over Stevie and get on with his life.

CHAPTER FOUR

N
ICK
C
ANDELLANO WOKE UP
with a crick in his neck and the sun beating against his eyelids like the fires of hell on Judgment Day.

“Oh, man,” he muttered thickly. “Too many years of Catholic school.” Cautiously he opened one eye, then snapped it closed again.
Way
too bright out there. Reaching up, he rubbed the back of his neck in a futile attempt to ease the aching knot there. And when it didn't help, he gave it up, forced himself to open both eyes, and tried to remember how he'd ended up spending the night in his car.

“Carla's wedding,” he said aloud, prompting what felt like an especially fuzzy memory. His gaze wandered over his surroundings. Idly he noted the twisted strands of lights dangling from the trees like tinsel. Baskets of once-beautiful flowers had been spilled and beaten into the now-muddy field. Tables and chairs lay haphazardly where they'd fallen during the sudden storm last night, and that's when he remembered.

He'd tried to leave when the rain hit. But he hadn't been able to start his car. Blinking, forcing his eyes open wide, as if that would get rid of the blurry sensation in his brain, Nick reached for the ignition and turned the key. Instantly the radio, tuned to a rock station, blasted into the stillness with a wail of guitars and a pounding drum—not to mention a screeching singer—that set off minor explosions in Nick's already-aching head.

“Jesus.” He punched the button, blew out a breath, and took a moment to enjoy the blessed silence. Finally, when he thought he could move without shattering, he turned the key harder.

The engine turned over and cranked. And cranked. And cranked. But it didn't catch.

“Damn it.” He flicked the key off again and slammed one hand down on the steering wheel. What the hell good was a shiny new Vette if it wouldn't start?

There'd been nothing wrong with the car yesterday, though. He was sure of that much, at least. So the only explanation for this was …
Tony
.

Scrubbing one hand across his face, Nick fought down the rising swell of nausea churning his guts and the insistent throbbing in his skull. His older brother, Tony. Town sheriff and professional asshole. Always sticking his nose in where it wasn't wanted.

“Goddamnit, Tony!” It came out as a shout and he instantly regretted it. The grandfather of all hangovers was
not
something to toy with. Keeping one hand clapped to his forehead in case what was left of his brain tried to fall through the hole in his head, Nick
opened the car door and stepped out. His Gucci-clad foot instantly sank into thick black mud.

The stuff oozed over the soft leather and swamped his foot completely. “Damn it.” Sliding unsteadily, he held onto the car door and pulled himself the rest of way out of the Vette. No point in worrying about the mud now. Ankle-deep in the slop, Nick turned a bleary gaze on the surrounding area. The storm had kicked in wild and fierce, then whooshed out again just as quickly. What was left of his sister's wedding reception lay scattered across the empty meadow.

“The place looks like I feel.” Nick shook his head and regretted it. Carefully tipping his head back, he squinted into a clear, brassy sky and snarled at the sun. It didn't help.

He felt like cold shit, no doubt looked like the back end of hell, and his mouth tasted like he'd been grazing on a toxic waste dump. Yeah, the hometown hero was looking real good. His right foot slipped farther into the mud and the cold, wet sludge filled his shoe.

Great.

Slamming the car door shut, he started for town, fighting to pull his feet free of the swamp with every step. The first thing he needed, besides a kick in his own ass, was a jumbo cup of coffee. Or a dozen. Then he'd have to face his older brother and get him to put the Vette back together.

Nick'd worry about putting himself back together later.

*   *   *

“I'm serious; you've gotta get out of here.” Now that she was dressed and feeling just a touch more in
control, Stevie practically ran down the stairs from her loft to the shop and kitchen below. But it didn't matter how fast she ran; her memory kept pace with her. And it seemed determined to keep flashing images of the night before across her still-dazed mind. As if her brain were flipping through a stack of still photos, she saw Paul, naked. Paul, on top of her. Paul, kissing her. Paul. Paul.

Oh God, Paul.

His footsteps sounded out right behind her. But she didn't need to hear him to know he was there. Heck, she
felt
him.

“We didn't do anything illegal, Stevie.”

“Barely,” she murmured, softly enough that she didn't think he'd hear her. His chuckle told her differently. “This isn't funny.”

“Right. It's ridiculous.”

She flicked him a glance over her shoulder as she stepped into the store, made a sharp left, and headed through a swinging door into the kitchen. She pushed it shut behind her and let it slap into Paul as he followed her.

“Ow. That hurt.”

“Then my work here is done.” She ignored him. That was the ticket. The way to sanity. Last night hadn't happened. Nothing was different between them. He was still Pocket Protector. Paul, computer genius. Mr. Safe. Mr. Responsible.