True Vision (38 page)

“Charlie.”

She stopped but didn’t turn, closing her eyes. She wanted him to grab her, whirl her around and tell her he was staying. But, no. No drama, no emotion. Just a soft exhalation of her name. God, she wanted him to touch her so bad. She ached for it. Had missed it like she’d lost a piece of herself. A vital piece.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I’m going to have to work on that.”

She faced him, struck breathless by how gorgeous he was, the sun washing his hair with golden highlights, his green eyes even more intense. She loved this man more than she ever thought possible. Love and want gripped her heart in a tight fist that refused to let go. And she didn’t want them to. Ever. “You’re the one, you know.”

Noah cocked his head. “The one?”

“You want me to spell it out for you?”

A grin teased the corners of his mouth. “That would be nice, yes.”

“T-H-E O-N-E. You’re The One.” She moved toward him, intending to kiss the growing smirk off his face, but he stepped back, raising a put-on-the-brakes hand. “What?” she asked, impatient to get her hands on the pecs so enticingly outlined by his T-shirt, impatient to get her hands on
him
.

“I quit the Chicago PD,” he said.

She blinked up at him. “Wow.”

“I want to help you here, in Lake Avalon.”

“Help me how? Do I need help?”

“Logan and I talked about it before I went back to Chicago. I wanted to get his thoughts on my idea of starting a private detective agency. You and the newspaper are going to need some experienced assistance in that area if you’re going to go around exposing bad guys.”

She pretended to consider that for a moment, while her heart launched into cartwheels. He was staying.
Noah was staying.
“An experienced detective could indeed be helpful.”

“One other thing.”

She couldn’t help but tense, thinking what he was going to say next would swipe the nimble feet out from under her cartwheeling heart. “What’s that?”

“I need a place to live. At least until I can find my own place.”

She casually nodded, thinking she knew enough people in Lake Avalon to ensure he never found a suitable place to live. “It just so happens I have a room for rent.”

“Really?” He tried to suppress his grin but didn’t really succeed. “In your house here?”

“Yes. In fact, it’s the master bedroom.”

“Oh. Does that mean I’d have to share the bed?”

“If you have a problem with that—”

He hooked a hand around her waist and dragged her chest to chest with him. “I don’t have a problem with that at all.” He lowered his head, but paused with his lips an inch above hers. “Did I mention that I love you?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, sliding her hands over his shoulders. God, she loved his shoulders. So strong. “Was it implied?”

He grinned, still not kissing her, driving her crazy with not kissing her. “Just so we’re clear: I love you.”

She smiled up at him, savoring the feel of soft, smooth cotton layered over the bunched muscles in his shoulders and back. “I love you, too.”

“I want to make babies with you.”

She blinked, thrown, but then started to grin. She liked the sound of that. A lot. “Okay. Wow.”

“When it’s time, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And don’t think I came back to you not bearing gifts.”

“You brought me a present? Oh, goody. I hope it’s that you’re not wearing underwear.”

He touched his lips to hers, and reality fell away as a flash of Noah’s pleasure erupted inside her. Her head dropped back on a ragged, involuntary moan, and the voice inside her head, Noah’s voice, chanted three words over and over again.
I love you.

Charlie shifted back into the present, disoriented and feeling oddly weightless. Noah was carrying her across the yard, toward the house. Laughing and breathless, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on. “That was the best present ever,” she murmured, then attacked his ear with her tongue.

His chuckle rumbled his chest against her body. “There’s more where that came from.”

Keep reading for a special preview of

TRUE
COLORS

The second romantic suspense in
Joyce Lamb’s
True
trilogy

 

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

T
he child looked up at her with wide, blue eyes, so young, so innocent, his bottom lip quivering as one tear tracked a dirt-smudged cheek. Her hand trembled, her finger poised on the trigger, her heart racing, pounding in her ears. Sweat trickled into her eyes, and she furiously blinked the stinging away. Focus. You have to focus.

The chaos around her, someone shouting, someone else—another child?—screaming, seemed distant, surreal. All that mattered was the boy staring up at her, pleading with large, terrified eyes. He couldn’t have been more than six. Too thin, scraggly blond hair, dirty face and dirtier clothes. He had a scrape across the bridge of his nose, and he was desperately trying not to blubber, yet unable to stop.

And then, as she helplessly watched, the little boy’s face screwed up, and he began to cry in earnest. “Daddy! Where’s Daddy?”

Her finger jerked on the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening.

Alex bolted up, a scream of denial caught in her throat. Strong hands held her down, and she began to thrash. Let go, let go, let go.

“Hey! Whoa, whoa, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

She struggled, panicking because she didn’t know where she was or who had hold of her. The hands that gripped her arms gave her a firm shake. “Alex, it’s okay. It was a dream.”

The words finally penetrated the lingering shock and revulsion, the overwhelming guilt, and she sagged back into the sofa cushions, blinking against the light blinding her. In the distance, she heard the dogs barking frantically in the backyard.

Logan braced over her, his tanned face pale as he peered anxiously into her face.

She relaxed in slow degrees, her heartbeat still frantic, her lungs fighting for air. Everything was fine. Police Detective John Logan was here.

“Nightmare,” she breathed. “I’m okay. The dogs—”

“I’ll take care of them.”

Before she could protest, he was striding into the kitchen. She heard him stop at the treat cabinet then open the back door and go outside. His voice, low and soothing, assured the animals that Mommy was fine, in words she couldn’t make out.

She sat up from where she’d fallen asleep with her head resting on Logan’s shoulder and put her feet on the floor, dragging a hand through her damp, curling hair. Her whole body felt warm and sticky, her brain fuzzy with sleep.

Dropping her head into her hands, she tried to calm her breathing as frustration, and horror, clutched at her throat. She’d shot a child in her dream. A small, helpless little boy. And it wasn’t the first time. She’d had the nightmare over and over for the past two months. What did it mean?

The first time, she’d written it off as nothing more than a bad, albeit twisted, dream. But then it happened again. And again. Right about the time she’d started weaning herself off the powerful pain medication prescribed after she’d gotten shot in the chest three months ago by a psychopath gunning for her sister.

Logan ambled back into the living room. God, he was stunning. Every time she looked at him lately, she lost her breath. Blue, blue eyes, like a starburst, full of life and vitality. Short, dark brown hair that curled in the Florida humidity. Straight nose. Full lips. Strong chin shaded by razor stubble thanks to a fast-growing beard and a reluctance to shaving more than once a day. And dimples. Honest-to-God
dimples
that deepened, taking her stomach along for the ride, when he smiled.

He handed her a glass of ice water, and she took it with a grateful smile and drank down a refreshing gulp while he sat beside her.

They’d been friends for nearly two years before the shooting, ever since he’d arrived as Lake Avalon’s newest detective. They’d flirted at the scenes of crimes, accidents, fires and other newsworthy events that she’d photographed for the next day’s newspaper while he kept order. She’d always thought he was hot—that’s what caught her eye the first time. Hot guy in a uniform, snapping orders at unruly people. Of
course
she noticed. Hello?

After she got shot, though, he started dropping by, casual as you please. In the early days of healing, when she still needed someone close by, he’d come over with a pizza on nights when her sister had other plans. Then, he’d show up with popcorn and a DVD in the middle of a Saturday afternoon to keep her company during her most restless hours. She suspected Charlie put him up to it at first, her sister’s form of guilt-free bailing on keep-Alex-entertained-while-she-heals duty.

But she’d been able to take care of herself for weeks now, had even returned to her job snapping photos for the newspaper, and still Logan dropped by regularly, always with the excuse of feeding her or bringing a movie that she just had to see or catching the latest episode of
The Amazing Race
or
Seinfeld
reruns or even just channel surfing. Sometimes, like tonight, they’d fall asleep together on the sofa, like an old married couple.

She didn’t mind. She enjoyed being with Logan, loved his comfortable company. But she was definitely wondering where they stood. Were they just BFFs? Or, hell, maybe this was John Logan’s idea of romance. Maybe they’d been dating for weeks, and Alex hadn’t even realized. She was so confused. Or perhaps clueless. Yeah, that would be just like her. She’d already spent the past fifteen years—prime dating years—so wrapped up in which wounded animal needed saving next that when she did get involved in a romance, the man invariably ended up feeling second best to her mutts and split.

Just then Logan scooted closer and put both hands on her shoulders, rolling the tight muscles with his large, gentle fingers. Through the cotton of her T-shirt, she detected a tremor in those strong fingers and turned her head to glance at him again. He looked tense, his jaw set, that something’s-bothering-me muscle flexing at his temple. Well, she couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t the first time she’d awakened screaming in his presence. Poor guy. Lucky him, so far she’d had the nightmare only when he was on the sofa with her.

“Tell me about the dream,” he said.

She shifted her shoulders under his hands, distracted by the heat of those hands through her shirt, distracted further by the heat gathering low in her belly. Just friends, she thought. Just friends.

“Is it about when you were shot?” he prodded.

She shook her head and swallowed. “No.”

“Then what?”

“I . . . don’t think I . . . It’s too . . . horrible.” Her head started to throb like it had the other times she’d had the nightmare.

“Maybe talking about it will make it stop.”

Somehow, she didn’t think so. Nothing would help. And it was too disturbing. Besides, she didn’t want to admit she could even dream such a thing. “So . . . are we a thing?”

She blurted it without thinking. But, well, she wanted to know. And she
really
didn’t want to talk about nightmares. She was far too happy a person for dark shit like that.

His gentle massage paused. “Uh . . .”

Heat flooded up her neck at his flustered reaction. “Never mind. I’m just . . . you know me . . . think before I speak . . . I mean, speak before I think . . .” Oh, God, somebody get her a paper bag to put over her head.

Logan resumed the massage. “Well, I’ve been—”

“It’s okay if we’re just friends. I mean, you’ve been great keeping me company. I’ve really enjoyed it. But, you know, I’m good now. So if you have other things to do . . .” Forget the paper bag. She needed something to clamp her lips shut. One of those giant red chip clips.

The magic fingers stopped, and this time, instead of letting his hands lightly remain on her shoulders, he removed them. “If I have other things to do?”

“Well, I know Charlie kind of dumped babysitting duty on you after I got hurt, and while I appreciate it and all . . .” Crap.

“Are you trying to tell me you want me to leave?”

“No! Of course not.” With a sigh, she closed her eyes and hung her head. That paper bag would now have to be shaped like a dunce’s cap. “Please tell me this is just another bad dream.”

“Wish I could,” he murmured, sounding hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a dolt. In fact, it’s probably low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten since . . .” She checked her watch. “It’s been two hours.” And she sure as hell wasn’t hungry again already. Lame.
So
lame.

Instead of responding, he got up, leaving her on the sofa to watch his amazing backside disappear into her kitchen. Regret stabbed into her as sharp as one of those knives that could cut through a can. She needed to learn to keep her big mouth shut.

The headache that came from the nightmare spread down the back of her neck, sending tendrils of tension into already taut muscles. Pushing to her feet, wishing she had the coordination to actually kick herself, she headed for the kitchen. The six dogs roaming the fenced backyard were no doubt wondering when she planned to give them some chow. At least she had them to keep her company now.

In the kitchen, she froze, surprised to see Logan bent over with his head deep in her fridge, his butt very nicely filling out his faded jeans. She had to resist the urge to reach out and do a firmness check. She bet on a scale of one to ten, that sweet, muscled package would rate at least a fifteen.

Folding her arms, she leaned against the doorjamb and waited for him to resurface, a smile curving her lips. Maybe she hadn’t messed up after all. Maybe they could pretend she’d never said a word. Things could go back to the way they were. Comfortable. Friendly. Relaxed. Though she might need to seek some advice on how to deal with having such a hunky, appealing guy as just a friend.