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Authors: Marilyn Pappano

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BOOK: The Sheriff's Surrender
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Reese's gaze caught on the enormous ruby ring on her hand. A widow with a Mercedes implied money. That ring suggested a lot of it. He was hoping his father knew what he was getting in to—hoped the widow knew what
she
was getting in to—when she spoke.

“Hello, Reese. You…you look good. We're a few years late, but…your father and I are finally getting married. We're going to officially be a family now. Isn't that wonderful?”

He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, and wished he hadn't. He looked her over from the top of her perfectly
styled blond hair down to her feet in three-inch heels that matched her suit, and his jaw tightened. “You guys be a family,” he said derisively. “But it'll be a cold day in hell before there will be a place for you in
my
life.”

Chapter 9

N
eely stood at the living-room window, leaning one shoulder against the frame, and stared out though her eyes were gritty and her vision was blurry. It was nearly 2:00 a.m. and she was tired, but too restless by far to sleep.

It had been an interesting evening. A heavy-duty conversation with Reese. An incredible kiss. The surprise visit from his father with his soon-to-be mother.

His mother.

After making his pronouncement, Reese had stormed out of the house. Del had followed, leaving Neely and Lena Harlowe Winchester embarrassedly exchanging chitchat while listening to Reese and Del's shouting match on the deck. After a time, Del had come back in, muttering about hard heads, stubborn mules and tanning hides. He'd grabbed Lena's arm and stomped out. As the front door slammed, so had the back door. Reese had gone straight to his room, changed clothes and was gone before she could think of anything to say.

She'd eaten dinner alone, tried to watch television, tried to read. Finally she'd gotten ready for bed, shut off the lights,
turned on the stereo and sat down to wait. Then paced. Then stood. She was thinking about curling up in the leather chair when headlights creeping up the driveway caught her attention. Her first response was relief that Reese was home. A few minutes later, he came inside the house and she went to the hallway to meet him.

It took a long time for the heavy garage door to close again, and a longer time for Reese to stumble inside. Muttering to himself, he turned on the hall light, then made several efforts to reset the alarm before succeeding. When he saw her, he grinned. “Neely. What are you doing up?”

If the overwhelming odor of alcohol wasn't enough to tell her he was drunk, his unsteady gait, glazed eyes and carefully enunciated words were. He'd never been much of a drinker, but she'd seen him intoxicated a few times and remembered that the tipsier he got, the more precise his speech became.

“I was waiting to see if you made it home in one piece. Since you did, I believe I'll go to bed.”

He stepped forward, blocking her way. “How about picking up where we were when Lucky interrupted us?”

She thought of the kiss—sweet and hot and leading up to oh, so much more—and shook her head. “I don't think so. It's late and I'm tired.”

He caught her arm and pulled her close. “Oh, come on, Neely,” he coaxed. “You can sleep all day tomorrow. Come and play with me.” His hands slid down to her bottom, lifting her against his arousal, and his mouth brushed her ear. “Come and let me play with you.”

She wished she could say the shiver that rocketed through her was born of distaste that their first time together after nine years should be a drunken tumble that would mean nothing more to him than easy gratification—provided he remembered it at all in the morning—but while she might be that noble, her long-deprived-of-any-satisfaction body wasn't.

“Reese, let go.” She tried to wriggle loose but succeeded in only bringing herself into even more intimate contact with him. It would be so easy—remove her shorts, open his jeans,
indulge in the sweetest pleasure she'd ever known. She wanted it, wanted him, even if he didn't remember in the morning. Even if he was only using her. Even if sexy Isabella would do as well—even better.

Even if she would have trouble facing herself in the morning.

“Don't be difficult, darlin'. You know you want it, and the devil knows, I can't hide that I do, too.” He moved suggestively against her, then started backing her toward his bedroom. She tried to hold her ground, but he was bigger, stronger and more determined, and her feet, in thick socks that belonged to him, glided over the wood floor like skates on ice.

There were legitimate reasons why she shouldn't do this, Neely reminded herself when the mattress bumped her knees. Reasons why they would both be filled with regret. But when he released her with one hand to remove his T-shirt, when he unfastened his jeans and, with some effort, kicked them off, then tumbled her down onto the bed and stripped her shirt over her head, when he was naked and she was halfway there… Who cared a damn about reasons?

Pinning her wrists at her sides, he slid down her body, one hard-muscled thigh between hers, and took her nipple in his mouth. She gasped, feeling the erotic tug through her entire body. She should have more pride, more dignity, some part of her demanded. She should be fighting, screaming—should refuse to submit to a meaningless drunken grope. But she'd thought he would never want her again, had thought she would never have him again, and it had been such a long time…such a lonely time…

His hold on her relaxed, then he released her wrists and restrained her in a much more sensual manner—with caresses so gentle, so expert. He stroked her face, her breasts, her ribs, underneath the elastic waist of her shorts, over her belly. He suckled her nipples, made her muscles quiver, her skin ripple, and sent her temperature sky-high. It was so familiar—she swore her body remembered the shape of his fingers, the pres
sure of his touches, recognized the makeup of his very cells—so gentle, so sweet.

It made her cry.

She tried to be quiet, but a sound that was a cross between a hiccup and a sob escaped her. His caresses stopped, and he wrapped his arms around her, kissed away her tears, patted her awkwardly. “It's okay,” he said, his words slurring as exhaustion caught up with drunkenness. “Don't cry, baby. I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep you safe. I swear I will.”

Within moments, he was snoring softly, oblivious to the world. Feeling heartsick and blue, Neely eased out of his embrace, stood, then gazed at him.
I'll keep you safe,
he'd promised.

But who would keep her safe from him?

 

Some mornings it didn't pay to be alive, and today was one of them.

Reese made that realization, along with several others, the instant he tried to roll over. That he was suffering the hangover from hell. That he'd slept sideways on the bed. And that someone's shirt was wrapped around his hand.

Neely's.

In spite of the pain, he lifted his head to squint around the room. Judging by the light outside, he was several hours late for work, and judging by the odors that came from both him and the bedcovers, he'd spent much of last night in a bar. But nothing offered a clue as to how he'd wound up with Neely's nightshirt knotted around his hand.

Unsure whether the queasiness in his stomach came from the hangover or the ugly suspicions her thin little top roused, he worked his way to his feet, swayed unsteadily, then made it to the bathroom in time to empty his stomach. He tried to not look at himself in the mirror while he brushed his teeth because the image was more than a little scary—hair standing on end, badly in need of a shave, bloodshot eyes filled with guilt and fear. If he'd hurt her…

Grimly, he pulled on jeans and a clean shirt and went looking for her. He found her in one of the rockers on the front porch, feet drawn into the seat, skirt tucked around her legs, an afghan from the couch wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl. She looked troubled.

Wounded.

The fear in his gut knotted. Taking the ragged breaths that were all he could manage, he crouched in front of her and off to the side, careful not to block her in.

She looked at him and smiled distantly. “Good morning.”

He couldn't repeat such a benign greeting when he might have… “About…about last night…”

The distance moved from her smile to her eyes. “Don't worry about it.”

He watched her fingers tighten around the afghan until her knuckles turned white and felt a corresponding tightening in his jaw, his chest, his own muscles. “I
am
worried. You—I—” Taking a breath, he blurted out the worst question he could ever imagine asking. “Did I rape you?”

For an instant, she looked as shocked as he felt, then immediately she shook her head. “
No!
Of course not.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Her smile was tinged with regret. “You didn't even have sex with me.”

“Then why did I wake up with the shirt you sleep in in my hand?”

“I didn't say we didn't
start
to have sex. But you'd had a lot to drink, and you were tired.”

“When we…
started
to have sex…were you willing, or did I force you?”

For a long moment she simply looked at him, then she smiled that innocent, wicked smile. “When have I ever been unwilling with you?”

He leaned back against the railing and studied her. He would bet his life that she was being truthful…but he would also bet that she was keeping something back. Something he'd done or said last night, or maybe something she'd said.

As a stiff breeze rustled through the blackjacks, bringing with it the smell of rain, he said, “I'm sorry.”

“For what? Starting something you couldn't finish?”

“Drinking too much. Being too tired. Not remembering. I'm sorry about the argument with my father and going off the way I did.” He managed a poor imitation of a grin. “I'm
very
sorry I don't remember seeing you without that shirt last night.”

She smiled, then gazed past him. “It's hard to believe it was ninety-some degrees yesterday and cool enough for a jacket today.”

“You know what they say about Oklahoma weather. If you don't like it, wait five minutes. It'll change.”

“I thought they said that about Texas.”

“They probably say it about most places, but according to popular myth, Will Rogers said it about Oklahoma first. Of course, that myth can't be proven as fact.” With the muscles in his thighs starting to cramp, he stood, pulled the other rocker close and sat beside her, propping his feet on the railing. “I acted like a jerk yesterday, didn't I?”

“Not really. Your father dropped a pretty big surprise on you. You weren't prepared for it.”

He gave a dismayed shake of his head at the memory of seeing his mother for the first time in twenty years. “Lena was in and out of our lives from the time I was a baby. She wouldn't stay, and she wouldn't stay away. I don't know how many times she broke his heart…but I can tell you exactly how many times she broke mine. Do you know how it feels to know your mother doesn't want you? I called her by her name because she didn't want to be anyone's mom. She treated me like a nephew or the child of a friend—someone she had a connection to, but nothing really significant. She was hardly ever around when I was growing up and needed a mother, and when she was around, it was for him, not me. And now she thinks she can come back and like that—” he snapped his fingers “—we can be a
family?

“You don't have to be a part of her family,” Neely said
quietly. “I don't think anyone would expect that of you, certainly not right away. You may never be able to have that sort of relationship with her. But you do have to show her the respect your father's wife is entitled to.”

“Or I could just pretend she doesn't exist.” That was what he'd done with Neely all those years, and he'd gotten by all right…sort of. More or less.

“You could,” she agreed with a tight, melancholy smile.

Troubled by that smile, Reese freed her hand from the afghan's folds and wrapped his fingers tightly around hers.

“What did I do that makes you so blue?”

Her laughter sounded forced. “You think I don't have enough reasons to be blue without throwing you into the mix?”

“Look at me and swear I didn't do anything to hurt you last night.”

Piercing him with a sharp, defensive gaze, she quietly said, “You didn't hurt me. You were persuasive. Gentle. You touched me the way you used to touch me. You kissed me the way you used to. You did damn near everything just like you used to.”

“And this is a problem because…?”

She pulled away from him—not with anger or frustration, but merely eased her fingers out of his grip—and stood, letting the afghan puddle in the rocker seat. “Because you used to make love to me, and last night was just about sex, and you know what? I couldn't tell the difference.”

Reese's throat went dry. He lowered his feet to the floor and slowly stood. They faced each other as the rain started falling in big fat drops that plopped and splattered. “Are you suggesting that I'm still in love with you?”

“No.”
Her voice quavered, and her eyes turned liquid.

“I'm suggesting that you never were.”

For a long moment they stared at each other. Part of him wanted to argue, to swear on his life that he'd loved her desperately all those years ago. But if that was true—and it was—and if what she said was true… Could he have fallen in love
with her again? Was it possible he'd never stopped loving her in the first place?

Anything was possible. Shay had never stopped loving Easy in the eight years they'd been apart. Apparently his father had never gotten over Lena. And he…he certainly still felt
something
for Neely. He couldn't say it was love—he'd been too angry for too long to even consider the possibility so easily—but it was stronger than the best emotions he'd been able to summon for all the women since her combined.

Surprisingly his hand was steady when he raised it. Not much else about him was. He brushed his fingers gently across her cheek. “Neely…”

For one brief moment she leaned into his touch. Then she took a deep breath, wiped her eyes and stepped back. “I'm sorry. I'm not usually so emotional. It's just…”

“Your life has been turned upside down—again.” His hand tingled where it had touched her, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her close and touch her again. Hold her, kiss her, do all the things they'd done last night and more. By the time they were finished, she wouldn't have the energy to wonder whether they'd made love or had sex. He wouldn't have the energy to care that it was probably both.

BOOK: The Sheriff's Surrender
13.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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