Christmas In Whitehorn
Susan Mallery
Detective Mark Kincaid was worn to the bone after his years on New York's tough city streets. Upon his return to Whitehorn, all he wanted was peace and quiet–not some sweet, adorable do-gooder messing up the sanctity of his brooding existence. His neighbor Darcy Montague was all sugar and spice, endearing herself with loaves of pumpkin bread and intimate dinners for two.Mark kept up his guard, knowing from experience that he could be hurt beyond repair. Was Darcy Montague too good to be true, or just the woman to make his heart come alive?
This holiday season, Whitehorn has more than its share of troubles: Who’s laundering money through the Hip Hop Café? Why does new Hip Hop waitress Darcy Montague stash thousands of dollars in her music box? And what’s eating Homer Gilmore? Join some new as well as familiar faces for Yuletide excitement and, as always, true love!
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Mark Kincaid: A cop who has worked the beat on New York City’s streets and comes home for some peace and quiet. He’ll never be anyone’s fool again. But is he too tough to fall for his adorable neighbor, Darcy Montague?
Darcy Montague: A baker and waitress, Darcy can’t keep a thought in her head while ogling drop-dead-gorgeous customer Mark Kincaid. When he starts to show interest, can she protect her secret responsibility—or her vulnerable heart?
Homer Gilmore: The man wanders around town in his bathrobe and slippers, lost in his own world—but carries a burden that no one can see. Does he know the person who’s been causing trouble around Whitehorn this holiday season?
Josh Anderson: What is this sexy bachelor doing sniffing around Whitehorn’s cutest new waitress? Nothing, as far as Mark’s concerned!
Melissa North: Can the owner of the Hip Hop Café possibly be involved in the mysterious laundering scheme Mark Kincaid is reluctantly investigating?
Nurse Connie Adams: As Homer’s caregiver, what is she doing letting Homer run loose around town? And why is she making eyes at Melissa’s husband?
Christmas in Whitehorn
Susan Mallery
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Susan Mallery for her contribution to the MONTANA MAVERICKS series.
SUSAN MALLERY
is the bestselling author of over forty-five books for Harlequin Books and Silhouette Books. She makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with her handsome prince of a husband and her two adorable-but-not-bright cats.
Mark Kincaid had no business being there.
“Look, Darcy—”
Mark paused, not sure how to tell her he wouldn’t make it for dinner. He wasn’t very social these days.
Her blue eyes stared at him, while the corners of her full mouth turned up slightly. She had perfect skin. Clear, pale and nearly luminous. But the worst of it was the complete trust in her eyes. He had a bad feeling that she’d never told a white lie, let alone a really soul-threatening one. He felt like he was about to kick a puppy.
His shoulders slumped. “Do you want me to bring anything? Like wine?”
“Wine would be nice,” she said.
He nodded and left without looking at her. He didn’t want to see her smiling at him like he’d just done something amazing. However much he found Darcy attractive, he wasn’t about to go there. As he’d already learned the hard way, getting involved with a woman could be fatal.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
“Western omelette, side of bacon, coffee,” Mark Kincaid said without looking up from his morning paper. He hadn’t slept the night before and he felt like roadkill. Of course he hadn’t been sleeping since the shooting, so he should stop being surprised by the fact. Maybe one day he would get used to staring up at the ceiling for hours on end, trying not to relive the events that had nearly killed him.
“I don’t think so.”
At first he thought he’d imagined the soft voice, that the words were an editorial on his belief he might get used to not sleeping. Then he realized they’d come from the petite blonde standing next to his table.
He looked up at the waitress smiling at him. He didn’t smile in return. “Excuse me?”
“I said no. You can’t order that for breakfast. You get the same thing every day and it’s not healthy. Four eggs, ham, cheese and bacon? It’s enough cholesterol to choke a horse.”
“Fortunately, I’m not a horse.”
Her smile widened. Humor danced in her eyes. “Good point, Detective. Okay, it’s enough cholesterol to clog the arteries of a living human. How about some oatmeal? Studies have proven that regular consumption of oatmeal can actually lower cholesterol levels, sometimes significantly.”
Mark folded his paper and gave the waitress his full attention. She wore a white apron over a pale pink dress. Two butterfly clips held her short blond hair away from her face. She was pretty enough, he supposed, assuming a man was interested in that sort of thing. He was not.
He pushed his coffee cup closer to the edge of the table. She took the hint and filled it. He sipped the black liquid, nearly sighing when he felt it burn its way down his throat. Coffee improved his world view.
“Western omelette,” he said firmly. “Side of bacon.”
Her full lips pressed together. “How about a side of fruit, instead? It’s fresh.”
He stared at her, giving her the same look he’d used on the scum of the earth he’d encountered while he’d been a detective in New York. The waitress—Darcy her name tag read—should have run for cover. Instead she muttered something about some people being too stubborn for their own good and wrote on her pad.
“I have to tell you, I’m giving in against my better judgment,” she told him.
“What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”
“Being right won’t help you if you’re dead.”
She sounded too damn cheerful by half.
“It’s a little early for such a philosophical discussion,” he said. “Why don’t you save it for the lunch crowd?”
She smiled. “Let me guess—you won’t be in for lunch today, right?”
He shrugged. He did have plans elsewhere.
“I’ll put this right in,” she said, waving her pad, then turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen.
Mark returned his attention to his paper, but the words didn’t make sense. Instead he found himself trying to remember what, if anything, he knew about Darcy the waitress. She was new in town. She’d shown up in the eight years he’d been gone. She was young, early twenties, attractive—not that he cared about that—and a born fusser. She bullied all her customers equally, touting the benefits of orange juice with its vitamin C, warning kids about cavities from sticky desserts and pushing salads instead of burgers. Everyone seemed to love the attention. Everyone but him.
Mark shook his head to clear it, then studied the paper in front of him. Gradually the room faded as he reviewed the scores from the previous day’s football games. Maybe this year the Dallas Cowboys were going to go all the way. Maybe—
A small plate appeared in front of him. Three slices of something strange lay nestled against each other.
He glanced at Darcy.
“Don’t bite my head off. It’s compliments of the house,” she said casually. “We’re considering switching suppliers for our baked goods. This is a sample of one of the new products. What do you think?”
The slices had come from a loaf of some kind. But the color was faintly…orange? “What is it?”
“Pumpkin bread.”
He pushed the plate away. “I don’t eat vegetables before noon.”
Darcy glared at him as if he’d just won first prize in a stupid contest. “There are green peppers in your omelette. Besides, pumpkins aren’t vegetables.”
“Want to bet?”
“Okay, technically they are because of the seeds and everything, but we eat them in pie. That makes them an honorary fruit. Try it. It’s really good.”
He had his doubts. “Why pumpkin bread?”
“Because of Thanksgiving. It’s this Thursday. Remember?”
He didn’t remember, mostly because he didn’t do holidays. Not anymore. When it had been only him and Maddie, he’d worked hard to make the holidays special. His sister had just been a kid when they’d lost their folks. But lately…what was the point?
“So the restaurant will be closed,” he said, not asking a question. He’d have to fix his own breakfast. Actually, he’d probably not bother with food. Cooking was too much trouble.
Darcy’s gaze narrowed. “Tell me, Detective, what exactly are your plans for the holiday?”
“Is my order ready yet?”
She nodded her head. “I knew it. You’re the solitary type, aren’t you? You’ll spend the day by yourself, moping.”
He glared at her. “I don’t mope.”
“But you will be alone.”
He waved at the half-full Hip Hop Café. “Don’t you have other customers?”
She glanced around. “Not really, but thanks for asking. My point is, no one should spend the holidays alone. You need to get out.”
He was saved by the bell—literally. The sharp ring cut through the diner and sent Darcy back toward the kitchen. Less than a minute later she appeared with his breakfast.
“I mean it,” she said. “Solitude makes the holidays more difficult than they have to be. Don’t you have any family in town?”
He thought about his sister, who would spend the long weekend traveling. “No.”
“Then come to my place. I’m fixing a turkey with all the trimmings. Everything is homemade. There will be lots of people there. You’ll love it. You won’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Although it wouldn’t hurt you to be a tad more chatty, if you ask me.”
He groaned. The last thing he needed was to fall into the clutches of some health-nut do-gooder. She’d probably use tofu in her stuffing and want to talk about the importance of giving back to the community.
He opened his mouth to refuse her invitation, but she was gone. Seconds later, she reappeared with coffee, pouring quickly, then leaving.
For the next ten minutes, she took care of her other customers, argued about what they were ordering and avoided Mark’s table. He had plenty of time to think up fifteen reasons he would refuse her invitation. Yet when she brought him his bill, he found himself unable to say anything to bring sadness to her bright, expectant smile.
“What time?” he asked, trying to sound gracious and failing miserably.
Her expression turned startled. “You’re accepting?”
“Change your mind already?”
“No. Not at all. Say four? We’ll eat at five.” She hesitated. “Do you know where I live?” Instantly she blushed. “Dumb question.”
For the first time that day, possibly for the first time in several days, Mark smiled. “Yeah, Darcy. I know where you live.”
Darcy Montague leaned her head against the front of her locker and groaned. The good news was she could now nominate herself for idiot of the month. What on earth had she been thinking?
“Please don’t tell me that you’re banging your head against the wall,” Janie Carson Austin, who managed the Hip Hop, said as she stepped into the small storeroom. “You’re one of my most dependable staff members and if I think you’re going off the deep end, it’s going to put a crimp in my holiday spirit.”
Darcy straightened and forced herself to smile at her boss. “No head banging. I promise. Just a reflection on the state of my life.”
“Which is?” Janie asked.
“Great.”
Darcy ignored the voice in her head—even though it was telling her she was incredibly dumb for inviting Mark Kincaid to her house. Mark Kincaid—Whitehorn’s answer to Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise all rolled into one. Argh! Had she actually told him he didn’t have to talk to anyone while he was at her house, only to turn around and complain that he wasn’t chatty enough? She’d babbled. It had been humiliating.
Janie leaned against the door frame. “Your pumpkin bread was a big hit. Maybe we should try something else next week.”
Instantly Darcy’s spirits lifted. “Thanks, Janie. I’ll come up with something special. I really appreciate you giving me this opportunity.”
Janie, a pretty, blond thirty-year-old, shrugged. “I try to be loyal to our longtime vendors, but I also owe our customers the best. If your next offering is as good as this one, and if the price is reasonable, I’m going to recommend we buy our baked goods from you.”
“I won’t let you down,” Darcy promised.
“I have every confidence in you,” Janie said, and left.
Darcy gave a silent cheer as she sat on the skinny bench in front of the lockers. I have every confidence in you. Who would have thought she would ever hear those words? For a long time she hadn’t believed them herself. But now they were true. She was dependable, reliable and all those other lovely “able” words. Not bad for a former flake.
She was nearly as excited about the compliment as about the chance to expand business for Darcy’s Delectables. If she could land a contract with the Hip Hop Café, she would go a long way toward building up her minuscule savings account. Life was definitely taking a turn for the better.
Which meant she could indulge in a back-patting festival if she wanted…or she could deal with her more pressing problem, namely the fact that she’d invited Mark Kincaid over for Thanksgiving.
Her good mood did an instant crash and burn. It wasn’t that she objected to having the man in her house. How could she? He was easy on the eye in a big way. Of course that was also part of the problem. She hadn’t been on a date in five years. To be blunt, the man turned her on. The combination of great body, killer green eyes and sexy, barely there smile was pure temptation. Something she had no time for right now.
To make matters worse, he was completely single. And from what she could tell, he didn’t date. Not that she spied on him or anything, but he did live next door to her. They shared a duplex on the far side of town. He’d moved in a couple of months after she had, and what with him being so very good-looking, he’d been impossible to miss. She didn’t exactly monitor his movements, but she was the tiniest bit aware of his comings and goings.
It was a crush. There—she’d admitted it to herself. She had a crush on him and that’s what had her scared. What if he figured it out? She would be too humiliated to live, and right now she couldn’t afford to die.
“I won’t be alone,” she reminded herself as she rose and headed back to the diner. Eight other people were going to be at her place for dinner on Thanksgiving. She would barely notice Mark’s presence. With a large people-buffer in place, she might even avoid making a fool of herself in front of him.
“I really hate to cancel on such short notice,” Millie Jasper said the following morning. She tried to sound sad, but instead she beamed with pleasure.
“I understand,” Darcy said, because she really did understand. She just didn’t like it very much. “If your parents want you to come home for the holidays, that’s a whole lot better than staying here.”
Millie shifted two-year-old Ronnie to her other hip. “I’m hoping they’re going to ask me to move back home,” she confided. “Ever since Ron ran off with that bimbo of his, I’ve been struggling. So this is like a miracle.”
Darcy knew that miracles didn’t come around very often. She patted her friend’s arm. “Go home. Make peace with your parents and see if you can start over. I’ll miss you on Thanksgiving, but this is better.”
“Thanks for being so sweet.”
Millie gave her a quick hug, which meant Ronnie wanted to plant a sticky kiss on Darcy’s cheek. Then the two of them waved goodbye as they left the café.
“Don’t panic,” Darcy murmured to herself. She reached for a clean cloth and began wiping off the counter. “There are still four other people coming to dinner.”
Four people, plus him. Because she was now refusing to think about Mark Kincaid by name. Her insides had started acting very strange when she pictured him or said his name—her heart thumping when she thought about him, her stomach sort of heaving and swaying. It was scary and gross.
“I’m just doing a good deed,” she reminded herself. “There’s absolutely nothing personal going on.”
It was a darned pitiful excuse for a lie.
Light snow fell Tuesday night as Mark jogged up the driveway toward the duplex. He’d pushed himself too far and felt the resulting pain in his side. With each step, still-healing muscles tugged and pulled, making him ache. He would pay for the extra miles in the morning when he would awaken stiff and sore. Assuming he slept.
At least he could go running and suffer the consequences, he reminded himself as he rounded the bend in the path. There’d been a time when he hadn’t been sure he was even going to survive. Now he knew he would completely heal and—except for a few scars and a slightly more cynical take on the world—life would go on as it had before. Or would it? Could he ever trust a woman again…after what Sylvia had done to him?
He shook his head to clear it of thoughts of her. The driveway widened, circling in front of the single-story duplex. He was about to head to his half when he noticed his neighbor standing by her car, wrestling with something large in the back seat.
He slowed his steps. This wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself. Living next door to someone didn’t obligate him to anything. He stopped about ten feet from her car—her very old car. The compact import had seen better days and too many miles. There were chips in the green paint, a few rust spots and a battered rear fender. But the snow tires were new. At least Darcy knew enough to keep herself safe as winter approached.
She wrapped her arms around whatever was stuck in the back seat and tried to straighten. Instead she staggered back a couple of steps. Mark hurried forward before he could stop himself and grabbed the thing from her. The “it” in question turned out to be a very large, squishy turkey.
Darcy blinked at him.
“Mark. Hi.”
A blue down jacket made her large eyes turn the color of a summer sky. Snow dotted her blond curls, and her ever-present smile widened.
“Thanks for the rescue.” She waved at the turkey he held awkwardly against his chest. “I know it’s too big, but I had to special-order it—you know, to get a fresh one. And it was either some puny thing or something large enough to feed the multitudes. My oven is huge, so I figured I’d just go for it. I know about a million ways to serve leftover turkey, so I don’t mind if we don’t eat it all on Thanksgiving.” She paused to draw breath. “I know fresh turkeys are more expensive, plus this one was open-range raised, but it’s only once a year, you know?”
The chilly bird had to weigh over twenty pounds. He could feel something wet dripping down his leg. Great.
“You want to show me where this goes?” he asked.
“Oh. Sorry.”
She hurried toward the front door, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I could carry that. I mean you don’t have to bring it in if you don’t want to.”
He was nearly a foot taller and had to outweigh her by seventy pounds. Handing over the turkey at this point would be pretty tacky. “I think I can manage.”
She ducked her head. “Of course you can. You’re being really nice and I appreciate it.” She unlocked the door and held it open for him. “I’m guessing you know the way.”
Her place was the reverse of his, he noticed as he moved inside. A small area of linoleum led to a square living room. While his was on the left, hers was on the right. Which meant her kitchen was in the opposite direction. He turned toward the dining room, passed through it and found himself in the middle of her kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and motioned to a shelf containing nothing but an empty roasting pan.
He deposited the bird into the pan, then glanced down at the wet spot on the front of his sweats. She followed his gaze and groaned.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize he was leaking.” She reached for a dish towel, made to approach him, then stopped and handed him the cloth.
Mark found himself wishing she’d offered to clean him up herself. He pushed the thought away as soon as it formed. No way was he going to get involved with another woman. Certainly not a neighbor. Hadn’t he learned his lesson?
He rubbed at the damp spot, then tossed the towel back to her. “How many are you planning to feed with that?”
She unzipped her jacket and hung it on the back of a light oak chair. Her kitchen table was white tile edged in oak, surrounded by four matching wood chairs. He noticed that while her kitchen was physically the mirror image of his, nothing about it looked the same. His battered cabinets were a shade of green somewhere between mold and avocado, while hers were white and looked freshly painted. A blue border print circled the walls just below the ceiling. Plants hung at the sides of the big window where lace curtains had been pulled back to let in the light. As their landlord was a hands-off kind of guy, Mark knew that Darcy had made the improvements herself.
Neither apartment had anything so modern as a dishwasher, which meant he mostly used paper and plastic, when he bothered to eat at home. Darcy had a metal dish drainer placed neatly by the sink. Several pots were stacked together, drying in the late afternoon.
He returned his attention to her only to realize she was avoiding his gaze. She shifted uncomfortably.
“There were supposed to be ten of us, including you,” she muttered, studying the toes of her boots. “It’s actually good news for Millie that she can’t make it. Her husband—soon to be ex-husband—ran off with some young girl. Millie’s been struggling ever since. Her folks invited her home for Thanksgiving. She’s hoping they can reconcile and that her parents will ask her to move home. She’s got three kids and desperately wants to finish her college degree so she can get a decent job. So it’s all for the best.”
He digested the information, wondering if he should ask who Millie was, then decided it didn’t matter. “So how many will there be now?”
She glanced at him. “Six. Millie has three kids.” She offered a bright smile. “I like having a lot of people around for the holidays. I try to find people like you—with nowhere to go, no family around. As I said before, it’s a tough time to be alone.”
Great. A table full of strays.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The movement drew his attention to her soft-looking blond curls and the way her sweater outlined a sweet pair of full breasts. He might have spent the past few months recovering from a couple of bullet wounds, but parts of him had never been injured. They chose that moment to remind him that a man had needs.
Blood flowed south with a speed and intensity that made him grit his teeth. Damn. Why did he have to notice Darcy was attractive? He’d managed to avoid that particular truth for the past couple of months they’d been neighbors.
“Where’s your family?” he asked, determined to ignore the pressure from his body. He willed away his desire.
“My folks died five years ago.”
He didn’t say anything. His parents had died, as well, but he wasn’t about to bond with her over the fact. He didn’t want anything in common with her. Was it just him, or was it hot in here?
“Can I get you something?” Darcy asked. “Tea? Cookies?”
“Made with whole-wheat flour and tofu? No thanks.”
She laughed. “While I do make the cookies myself, I promise I use very normal ingredients.”
“You probably consider tofu normal.”
“Not when I bake. Although I’ve used carob before, if that counts.”
He couldn’t begin to imagine what carob was. “I need to be getting back.”
She followed him to the door. “Thanks for helping me, Mark. I’m sure I could have wrestled Mr. Turkey inside myself but it was nice not have to mess with him.”
The top of her head didn’t even clear his shoulders. She looked innocent and wholesome. He had no business being here.
“Look, Darcy…”
He paused, not sure how to tell her he wouldn’t make it for Thanksgiving dinner. He wasn’t very social these days and he couldn’t imagine anything more torturous than eating with five people he didn’t know and didn’t want to know.
Her blue eyes stared at him, while the corners of her full mouth turned up slightly. She had perfect skin. Clear, pale and nearly luminous. But the worst of it was the complete trust in her eyes. He had a bad feeling that she’d never told a white lie, let alone a really soul-threatening one. He felt as if he was about to kick a puppy.
His shoulders slumped. “Do you want me to bring anything for Thursday? Like wine?”
“Wine would be nice. I know absolutely nothing about it.”
He nodded and left without looking at her. He didn’t want to see her smiling at him as though he’d just done something amazing.
After he entered his own apartment, he stretched his cooling muscles, then headed down the tiny hall. Once in his bathroom, he tugged off his T-shirt and the thermal shirt underneath. Bare chested, he stared into the mirror.
The scar from the bullet wound in his side was still red and thick. He probed at it, remembering how the doctors had told him he’d been lucky. A few millimeters toward the center and he would have lost a major organ or two. Sylvia had been aiming for his heart. As it was, he’d nearly bled to death. He bent down to massage his leg. That bullet wound didn’t give him nearly as much trouble as it had even a month ago.
When he’d been in the hospital, a lot of the guys from the precinct had come by to visit, most of them teasing him that bullet scars were a chick magnet. Somehow he couldn’t see a woman like Darcy cooing over his injuries. She’d probably take one look and pass out. Not that he planned on showing her anything.
He straightened and turned on the water, then pulled off the rest of his clothes. As he stepped into the steaming shower, he reminded himself that, however much he found Darcy attractive, he wasn’t about to go there. As he’d already learned the hard way, getting involved with a woman could be fatal.
Chapter Two
The great room at the Madison School was nearly forty feet square, with a huge rock fireplace in one wall. Half a dozen sofas formed conversation groups, while card tables set up around the perimeter of the room offered places to play different games. The high-beamed ceiling added to the open feel of the space. The smell of wood smoke mingled with the lingering scent of popcorn from last night’s snack.
Darcy sat on a sofa in the corner, her feet tucked under her, listening intently as her brother, Dirk, described everything he’d packed in his suitcase.
“I even remembered my brush and comb,” he said proudly.
Darcy’s heart swelled with love for him as she studied his familiar face. They both had blue eyes and blond hair, but Dirk’s features were more masculine. And as much as it tweaked her ego, she had to admit he was the better looking of the siblings. At fourteen, he should have been suffering from skin troubles and a cracking voice. Instead he appeared to be making the transition into adolescence and manhood with little pain. He was growing steadily, which kept him lean, his skin was clear and she noticed the faint hint of a beard on his chin. Her baby brother was growing up.
“I’m impressed with your packing skills,” she said sincerely. “I have never taken a trip without forgetting something. Remember, when I went off to college and left all my registration stuff at home?”
Dirk laughed. “Mom had to bring it to you and she got real mad. You were in trouble on your first day.”
Darcy smiled at the memory, even as she tried to remember what it had felt like to be so irresponsible. Life had been easy back then—the world had been at her beck and call. Not anymore.
“You’re rarely in trouble,” she said.
Dirk beamed. “I can remember all the rules. Some of them are dumb, but I follow them. I like it here, Darcy. I want to stay.”
“I know.” She leaned forward and took his hand in hers. “You will stay right up until you’re ready to be on your own.”
He looked doubtful at the prospect. Darcy didn’t blame him. Self-sufficiency was years away for him, but the Madison School was one of the best in the country. The well-trained staff specialized in helping developmentally disabled teens become happy, productive adults. The process could take years, but Darcy was prepared to be patient. All the reports so far had been positive. Besides, Dirk was worth it.
“In the meantime,” she continued, “I guess you’re going to travel the world, aren’t you?”
He grinned. “I’m not going to see the world. Just Chicago.”
He made it sound like no big deal, but she saw the excitement brightening his eyes.
“Andrew says it’s cold there, so I’m taking my warmest jacket,” he continued. “You bought it for me last month. Remember?”
Darcy nodded.
“We’re going to sleep on the train. Andrew says the hotel will have a Turkey dinner for us when we get there.”
“I want to hear all about it,” Darcy said. “Will you write in your journal so you can remember everything?”
He nodded. “I have the camera you gave me for my birthday. I’m going to take lots of pictures.”
“Oh. That reminds me.” Darcy bent down and fished through her purse. She pulled out a three-pack of film for his camera. “This is for you.”
Dirk looked at the gift, then at her. “Darcy?”
She knew what he was asking—what worry drew his brows together and made him study her so carefully. Her brother might have the slow, studied air of someone out of step with the mainstream world, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew that money had been tight for them for a long time. While he didn’t know what the school cost her or how many nights she stared into the darkness and prayed she would be able to hold it all together, he guessed that life still wasn’t easy for her.
She gave him a quick hug. “It’s just film, Dirk. I can afford it.”
He still looked worried when she released him. “I have my allowance. I can pay you back.”
“No. That’s your money. Spend it on something for you. Oh, but if you want to bring me back a postcard from Chicago, I wouldn’t say no.”
He nodded. “I’ll bring you two.”
“That would be great.”
He took the film she offered and turned the boxes over in his hands. In his chambray shirt and worn jeans, he looked like any other fourteen-year-old. But he wasn’t. His difficulties had become apparent within the first year of his life. Darcy’s parents had despaired, but Dirk’s uniqueness had only made her love him more.
“I’m going to miss you tomorrow,” she said, changing the subject. “I’ll be thinking about you.”
It was the first Thanksgiving they’d been apart. She tried not to mind.
Happiness poured back into his eyes. “We’re going on the train. I’ve never been on the train.” His smile faded. “I’ll miss you, too, Darcy.”
“Hey, no long faces. Only happy people get to go to Chicago.”
Both Darcy and Dirk glanced up as Andrew, one of the counselors at the school, joined them. He settled on the wing chair next to the sofa.
“How are you doing, Darcy? Keeping busy?”
She thought of her shift at the Hip Hop, followed by hours of baking every afternoon and evening. She had to shop for supplies for her home business and find time to make deliveries. Then there was the small matter of preparing a Thanksgiving dinner on a rare day off.
“I manage to keep myself occupied,” she said ruefully.
“I know you do.” He turned toward Dirk and nodded at the film still in his hands. “You’re going to see a lot of really great things in the city. Darcy’s going to be excited about your pictures.”
Dirk grinned. “I’ll put them in my photo album and write down what they were.”
“I look forward to that,” Darcy said honestly. She wanted to hear every detail of her brother’s first trip without her.
“He’s been getting really good with his photography,” Andrew said. “He’s got several of the other students interested as well. After the first of the year, a local photographer is going to be teaching a class a couple of times a week.”
“That sounds fabulous.”
“We do whatever works,” he said.
Darcy leaned back against the sofa and let the warmth of contentment flow over her. Whenever she questioned her decision to uproot Dirk and herself and move to Montana of all places, she reminded herself that this school was one of the best in the country. Where else would her brother get full-time attention from an excellent staff? Andrew, a Ph.D. in his mid-thirties, lived in the facility with his wife, who was expecting their first child. Most of the staff lived on the extensive grounds in private homes. Experts in various fields were brought in to teach the students. Activities were kept interesting and practical.
The trip to Chicago was one example. The students would have the experience of riding on a train, staying in a hotel and exploring a large city all under the careful supervision of the staff. The school offered two or three such trips each year. By the time Dirk was ready to be on his own, he would know what it was like to travel by train or plane, rent a room, order in a restaurant, go to a museum, ask for directions and find his way home. These were experiences she couldn’t begin to give him.
“Dirk’s doing well,” Andrew said, giving the boy a thumbs-up. “He’s made a lot of friends.”
Yet another thing she couldn’t give him, she thought happily. The opportunity to interact with peers.
“I’m glad,” she said.
Andrew rose. “Stop by my office on your way out. I’ll show you Dirk’s progress report.”
“I’ll do that.”
He winked at them and left.
Darcy patted her brother’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re happy here. This is a good school.”
“I’m learning a lot,” he said. “I try real hard, Darcy. When we go to the grocery store, I can give the lady the right amount and sometimes I even know the change.” He wrinkled his nose. “But I don’t understand fractions. They’re really hard.”
She laughed. “You know what? I don’t get them, either, so it’s not just you.”
He took her hand. “What will you do tomorrow on Thanksgiving?”
“I’ll miss you.” She squeezed his fingers. “And I’ll cook a turkey.”
“Is it big?”
“Twenty-four pounds. Maybe next week I’ll make up a dish of enchiladas and bring them when I visit you.”
“I’d like that.” He leaned close. “Who will be at dinner tomorrow?”
Oh, there was a subject she wasn’t excited about. “The party is shrinking,” she complained, trying to ignore the sense of panic inside. “My friend Millie and her children won’t be there. They’re going home to spend the holiday with her family. And another couple has decided they would rather be alone.” Now it was just two other people, plus Mark. She’d been hoping for more of a crowd. “My next-door neighbor is coming. His name is Mark and he works for the sheriff’s office.”
Dirk looked impressed. “Is he nice?”
“He’s quiet,” she said, not sure she would ever use the word “nice” to describe Mark Kincaid. “He used to live in New York City. He was a detective.”
Dirk frowned. “He must know a lot of bad people. I wouldn’t like that.”
“Me, either.”
Someone at a nearby table called for her and Dirk to join them to play a game. Darcy stayed long enough to eat dinner with her brother and to admire his tidy packing job. She left shortly before eight, promising to come back after his trip so she could hear about everything.
On the drive home to Whitehorn, she played the radio and tried not to think about the following day. She was foolishly nervous at the thought of spending a couple of hours in the presence of Mark Kincaid. If only Dirk was going to be there. Not only would she enjoy spending the time with her brother, he would be a perfect buffer between herself and Mark. Of course, if Mark came to Thanksgiving while her brother was in residence, she wouldn’t have a Mark Kincaid problem. In the past five years she hadn’t met a single man who hadn’t turned tail and run when he’d found out that she was Dirk’s only relative, and therefore physically and financially responsible for him.
So there was no point in getting all hot and bothered about her new neighbor. They didn’t have a relationship and they weren’t going to have one. This, despite her attraction to the man. Besides, it wasn’t as if she even remembered how to do the whole man-woman thing.
The dark highway stretched out in front of her. Past the light of her headlights, she saw nothing but a few stars glittering in the sky. Tonight the emptiness made her feel sad and lonely. Most of the time she was able to keep busy enough not to notice that she didn’t have any close friends, let alone romantic entanglements.
It would be nice to have an understanding with someone who cared about her romantically. Or even sexually. Sometimes her body ached with longing. She hadn’t been on a real date in five years. Not that tomorrow was a date. She’d invited her neighbor over for Thanksgiving dinner. The event didn’t have any emotional significance. If she thought it did, she was only fooling herself.
Unable to think of an excuse not to come, Mark rang Darcy’s doorbell promptly at four. He’d checked his pager three times that day to make sure it was working. Unfortunately, no crime spree had occurred in the sleepy town of Whitehorn and he hadn’t been called in to work. So here he was, carrying a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers. He felt like an idiot.
Darcy opened the door. Her hair was its usual disarray of curls. Color stained her cheeks and she started babbling the second she saw him.
“I’m so sorry, Mark. I didn’t plan this, but I don’t know that you’re going to believe me. It’s just one of those things. Who could have guessed that the Wilsons would rather spend the day alone? Like she can even cook. Oh, but I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean I like her and all, it’s just they’re not here. And I already told you about Millie and her kids. Then Margaret ended up getting called in to work. I mean she’s a nurse, so what could she say but yes, and Betty got a cold and feels awful. Plus she didn’t want to spread around her germs. So I couldn’t exactly force any of them, could I?”
She looked both chagrined and cautiously hopeful. Mark shivered. He’d crossed the distance between the two apartments without bothering to pull on a coat. He wore slacks and a long sleeved shirt and the temperature outside couldn’t be above twenty.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “but could we straighten it out inside?”
“What?” She stared at him. “Oh! You must be freezing. Come on in.”
She held the door open wide, then took the wine and flowers he offered. She gazed at the yellow roses and orange Gerber daises as if she’d never seen them before.
“You brought me flowers,” she murmured, inhaling the scent of the blooms. “Wow. That’s so nice.” She stared at him as if he’d just created fire. “I mean really nice.”
He bit back a statement that he wasn’t the least bit nice. “I thought maybe for the table.”
“Of course. They’re perfect.”
She led the way into the dining room. He noticed the large table had only two place settings. Her incoherent conversation replayed in his brain.
“No one else will be here for dinner?” he asked.
She shook her head as she reached for a vase in the hutch against the far wall. “No. Sorry. I didn’t plan this. I hope you believe me.”
She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting him to explode with rage. Mark thought about the alternative to eating dinner with just Darcy and that was eating dinner with her and half a dozen people he didn’t know. People who would want to ask questions.
“I’m not a real social guy. It doesn’t matter.”
She set the wine on the table, then clutched the flowers and the vase to her chest. “Really? I didn’t want you to think I’d set this up on purpose.”
Her meaning was slow to sink in. Set up as in…synapses fired in his brain. As in a date.
His gaze settled on her as he took in her appearance. Instead of her usual waitress uniform, she wore a bright blue sweater and black slacks. Both emphasized her curves. She might not be tall, but she had all the right parts in the perfect proportions. He avoided staring at her breasts because they’d gotten him into trouble the last time he’d been in her house. Of course, admiring her legs wasn’t much safer. Maybe he should keep his attention on her face.
“I promise not to think the worst of you without more evidence,” he said seriously.
She grinned. “Good. Then would you mind opening the wine? Oh, and I hope you’re hungry, because I expect you to eat your half of the turkey.”
“You first.”
He grabbed the wine and followed her into the kitchen. The scent of cooking turkey mingled with other smells. There were three pots bubbling on the stove and the microwave beeped impatiently.
“Glasses are in there,” she said, pointing to a cupboard by the tile and oak table.
She turned her attention to the stove, lifting covers and stirring, all the while muttering under her breath. He didn’t know if she was talking to herself or the food, then decided it didn’t matter. Women in the kitchen were a mystery he’d never solved. They moved with an easy grace he could never imagine duplicating. Perhaps because he hadn’t seen it a great deal while growing up. His mother had never been much for cooking, and his sister was too busy being queen of the rodeo to bother with meal preparation.
“It all smells good,” he said as he poured the wine.
She took the glass he offered and leaned against the counter. “I’m not expecting a crisis.” Laughter brightened her eyes. “That’s not to say I haven’t had them in the past, before I knew what I was doing. However I’ve learned from my mistakes.”
He put the open bottle on the counter. “What kind of mistakes.”
“Oh, little things like not realizing that a turkey takes several days to thaw. That was before I special-ordered a fresh one. So I tried cooking it while still frozen.” She winced. “Which meant it took hours and all that nasty stuff they put on the inside like the neck and heart cooked with it. You wouldn’t believe the smell. We had to go out that Thanksgiving. And let me tell you, there’s not a whole lot open. Then there was the time I was really in a hurry and accidentally put salt in to thicken the gravy instead of flour. There were some gagging sounds around the table that night!”
“When did you start cooking?”
“About five years ago.”
“What inspired you?”
“We all have to grow up some time.” She shrugged. “Five years ago, I doubt I could have boiled water without instructions. Since then I’ve read and practiced. Working in restaurants allowed me to observe different techniques. I found out I really like baking.” She motioned to the pies cooling on the table. “I made those myself, this morning.”
There were three pies, including one pumpkin. “Do I have to eat half of those, too?”
“Maybe. We’ll see how you do on the turkey.” She put her wine on the counter and returned her attention to the stove. “I’ve started selling my baked goods around town. I might have a shot at a contract with the Hip Hop Café. They’re handing out samples to see if people like my stuff.”
“So that was your pumpkin bread I tried on Monday.”
“Yes. And you liked it. Even though you make such a fuss about eating vegetables at breakfast.”
“It’s not natural.”
“Do we have to have the omelette conversation again?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
She opened the oven and poked at the turkey. “He’s nearly ready.” When she closed the door, she straightened. “You’ll be pleased to know there’s nothing unnatural about our meal this evening.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Why?”
“You’re into health foods. I’m nervous about your choice of ingredients.”
She laughed. “Tofu surprise in the stuffing?”
“Exactly.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “What is it about men and tofu. You’re all deathly afraid women are plotting to get you to eat it.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” she admitted.
Mark found himself chuckling. The action felt awkward and unfamiliar. He’d worried about spending time with Darcy, but she was surprisingly easy to be with. And easy on the eye. When she returned her attention to the stove, he found his gaze lingering on the curve of her rear. He reminded himself that attraction was dangerous. Life was better when he didn’t feel anything. How many times did he have to get shot before he learned his lesson?
“Is it snowing?” she asked.
“Not yet, but it was pretty gray this afternoon. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”
“Good. I like holidays with snow. Oh. Isn’t there a football game on this afternoon. Do you want to go watch it?”
“Contrary to popular opinion, I am capable of going an entire day without viewing a sporting event.”
She looked at him in mock amazement. “Really? How do you do it? Deep breathing exercises?”
“Tremendous willpower.”
“I’m very impressed.” She carried a pot over to the sink and drained it. “While you’re not watching football, would you mind taking our little friend out of the oven. He should be done.”
Mark set down his wine, then carried the turkey over to the table. Darcy wrapped the bird in foil, explaining that it had to rest before carving. He didn’t think it had been especially active before now, but what did he know about turkey cooking?
She had him mash the potatoes while she made the gravy—since when did gravy not come out of a can—then she expertly carved several slices from the impressive bird and quickly put all the dishes on the table.
They sat across from each other. Mark had a moment of awkwardness—the situation was too intimate for his liking. Instinctively he went into detective mode, finding safety in asking questions.
“How long have you lived in Whitehorn?” he asked as she passed him the platter of turkey.
“Since early June,” she said. “Before that I lived in Arizona for a few years and before that, Chicago.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes. I grew up in a wealthy suburb you’ve probably never heard of, where my most complex decision was which invitation to accept to the prom. The boy’s coolness was, of course, the deciding factor.”
She was teasing but also telling the truth, he thought. Funny, she didn’t look like the idle princess type. “You were one of the popular girls?”
“Even a cheerleader. I wince at the memory of my shallow existence.” She passed him a green bean casserole, followed by a dish of yams. “I went off to college without a clue as to what I wanted to be when I grew up. Of course, I don’t think I actually wanted to be an adult. I kept switching majors and playing rather than studying. I nearly accepted a marriage proposal rather than choose a direction for my studies.”
Her blue eyes darkened with the memories. “Not my finest hour.”
He had a hard time reconciling her story with the woman in front of him. “What happened?”
She took a bite of turkey and chewed. When she’d swallowed, she said, “My parents died in a car crash. I was unprepared, to say the least.” She hesitated, as if there was more she was going to say.
Mark waited. The detective in him wanted to push for information, but he reminded himself that he was a guest in her home and it was a holiday.
“This is really good,” he said when he’d tasted the turkey.
“Thanks.”
“How old were you when your parents died?”
“Twenty, but ignorant, if you know what I mean. In addition to dealing with the shock of losing them at once, I had the horror of getting calls from their attorney, who wanted to explain things to me.”
She sighed softly at the memory. “My parents left a pile of bills. Apparently they’d been separated for a couple of years but hadn’t wanted me to know. My dad had a penthouse in the city, we all had new cars. By the time everything was paid off, there wasn’t much left. I had to drop out of school.” She stabbed at her mashed potatoes.
“The sad part is, I could have handled the news of their pending divorce if they’d bothered to tell me. At least we could have had an honest conversation before they died. Plus it turned out most of my friends were more interested in my lack of social standing and financial resources than in staying loyal. I grew up fast. By the time the dust settled, I was ready to take care of myself.”
She had an open face, he thought, watching her. Every emotion flashed across her eyes. She would be a lousy poker player.
“You seem to have done a good job,” he said.
“Thanks. I tried.”
He touched the dining room table. “This looks old. Is it a family antique you managed to salvage?”
She laughed. “I’m sure it’s someone’s but not mine. I bought it a couple of years ago at a garage sale. The hutch came with it.” She grinned. “These days, I live for a good bargain. You should see me at the half-yearly sales. I’m formidable.”
“Sounds like it. Do you miss being rich?”
“Who wouldn’t?” She scooped up a forkful of stuffing. “But I like who I am now a whole lot more than I liked who I was before. I consider that a plus.”
She was a pint-size bundle of trouble, he thought grimly. Pretty, sexy, single and appealing. Why had he ever accepted her invitation?
“What brings you to Whitehorn?” he asked. “It’s a long way from Arizona.”
For the first time that evening, she avoided his gaze. “I wanted to experience ‘big sky country,”’ she said breezily. “You know—the myth of the Old West. I just sort of found my way here.”
Mark’s chest tightened. She was lying. He would bet his life on it. Which meant there was something she didn’t want him to know. Like Sylvia, she was a woman with secrets—and off-limits to him.
Chapter Three
After dinner, they cleared the table, then Darcy led the way into the small living room. Mark followed, sitting at the opposite end of the sofa.
“That was great,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.” She patted her stomach. “I’m full but don’t feel as if I’m about to explode. I consider that a positive statement after a Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I didn’t get through my half of the turkey.”
She laughed. “That’s right. You were supposed to eat your whole twelve pounds’ worth. Maybe I should pack it up and you can take it home. I have a great recipe for turkey enchiladas. I could write it down for you.”
“I don’t cook much.”
She pretended surprise. “I thought all New York City detectives were incredibly domestic.”
“I missed that class.” He studied her. “So you know I lived in New York. Am I a regular topic for gossip or is it just a sometime thing?”
Darcy refused to give in to the embarrassment she could feel growing inside her. “Everyone has his or her fifteen minutes of fame at the Hip Hop Café,” she said casually. “You were a hot topic when you moved back, but things have calmed down some since then.”
“Good to know.”
Darcy sipped her wine and regarded her guest over the rim of her glass. He was a good-looking man. Too good-looking for her long-celibate state. Tall, strong, with compelling green eyes. She liked that his dark brown hair was a tad too long and that his tailored slacks showed off his perfect butt nearly as much as his jeans did.
She took another quick sip to keep herself from grinning. She couldn’t believe she was sitting here thinking about Mark’s butt. She had no right—nor was it her style. Even back in the dark ages when she’d actually dated, she’d never been overly interested in sex. She’d given in because it had been expected, but most of the time, she’d been faintly bored by the experience. In the past five years she’d missed the emotional closeness of male-female relationships more than the physical intimacy…right up until she’d laid eyes on Mark.
Something about the man set her body to humming. She sort of enjoyed the sensation of being faintly aroused without him actually doing anything. At least it was a change from her usual worry and exhaustion.
He’d surprised her by being a pleasant guest. She’d thought he might not talk at all, which had made the thought of just the two of them at the table fairly horrifying. For a few minutes he’d seemed to withdraw into himself, but he’d recovered and had continued with his questions. Speaking of which…
“I think it’s my turn to play detective,” she said teasingly. “You learned everything about me at dinner, so now I should learn about you.”
“Ask away.”
She shifted so that she was facing him. “How did a man born and bred in Montana end up in New York? As a detective, no less?”
“It’s something I wanted from the time I was a kid. I never got the rodeo bug, so I wasn’t interested in steer wrestling or bronc riding. I spent my time reading police procedurals. When I graduated from college, I headed for New York where I got a job on the police force. I worked my way up from there.”
His expression didn’t change as he spoke and Darcy had a difficult time figuring out if the memories made him sad.
“What brought you back?” she asked.
“I was shot.”
She nearly spilled her wine. “In the line of duty?”
“A murder suspect didn’t like the way the investigation was going. She took out her temper on me.”
Darcy stared at him in shock. “She? A woman shot you?”
“Women can be killers, too.”
“I suppose.” She studied him, looking for healing scars or hints that he’d been hurt. There weren’t any—nothing was visible and he didn’t walk with a limp. She’d seen him out jogging so he must be doing better. She thought about asking where he’d been wounded, but the question felt too intimate. “I don’t think of the average woman as being a violent person.”
“She isn’t. But there are always exceptions.”
“Do you miss the work?”
He shifted uncomfortably, as if he didn’t want to answer the question. “Some.”
“Do you miss the city?”
“It sure ain’t Whitehorn.”
She laughed. “You have that right. I remember growing up in Chicago. We were always going into the city on weekends to different restaurants and plays. Or to the museums.”
“There’s a great western museum not too far from here.”
“Gee, thanks. Next you’ll be telling me that the Hip Hop Café serves international cuisine.”
“They do offer an Oriental chicken salad on the menu.”
She took another sip of wine. “I actually knew that.”
He picked up his glass from the coffee table. “Okay, so Whitehorn doesn’t exactly have the same amenities. I’ll admit I do miss New York. The ethnic foods were great, as was the idea that I could get anything I wanted at any time of the day or night. Detective work isn’t nine-to-five, so we appreciated the late hours the restaurants were open.” He drank from his glass. “I was never much of a museum guy, but I did enjoy theater.” He frowned slightly. “I don’t think I ever saw the end of a play. I nearly always got called to a crime scene.”
She leaned her head against the sofa back. “I can’t begin to relate to your experiences.”
“I wouldn’t want you to. Sometimes they make it hard to sleep at night.”
She waited, but he didn’t say more. Did he have trouble sleeping? Did he pace long into the night? Lamplight highlighted the strength of his jaw. He had a well-shaped mouth, she thought dreamily. She would bet ten bucks that Detective Mark Kincaid was one fine kisser. Not that she was going to find out, but a girl could dream. She smiled at the thought of telling him kissing might make sleeping easier…or not.
“You’re not married,” she said before she could stop herself.
His eyebrows rose slightly. “No. Never have been.”
“Me, either.”
“No surprise there. You’re barely old enough to be legal.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“A baby.”
She straightened. “You’re hardly in your dotage.”
“It’s not the miles, it’s the wear and tear.”
He smiled as he spoke. A teasing curve of lips that made her heart stutter against her ribs and her hands suddenly go damp. She had to be extra careful when she put down her glass so that it didn’t slip.
“You should smile more,” she said.
His good humor faded. “I don’t find life especially funny.”
“Maybe not, but there are still pleasant surprises. Tonight, for example. I was worried and nervous about you coming over to dinner, but it’s turned out fine. We’ve chatted more easily than I would have thought.”
“I’ll give you that,” he said. “I didn’t want to come. The way you badger me about what I eat, I was sure you were going to put tofu in something.”
“You didn’t even taste it.”
His eyes widened. “Darcy.”
He growled her name more than said it. Shivers trickled down her spine. She found herself wanting to lean toward him, press against him to see what would happen. Dangerous thoughts, she told herself. She must make sure to keep them to herself.
“It was in the mashed potatoes,” she whispered. “I would never put tofu in the stuffing.”
He laughed. She’d never heard him laugh before—not that they’d spent all that much time together. Most of their conversations had been abbreviated exchanges with her arguing about his breakfast choice.
“I’ll bet you don’t even have tofu in the house,” he said, then finished his wine.
“You’re right, but I will admit to the pleasure of watching a grown man tremble at the thought.” She rose and stretched. “There’s probably one more glass of wine in the bottle,” she said. “As you’re not driving, why don’t you finish it?”
He nodded his agreement and she walked into the dining room. The wine bottle stood on the table. She grabbed it. As she approached the sofa, she fought against the urge to slide down next to him. What would the detective say if she suddenly plopped herself down close, maybe even on his lap. She giggled as she pictured him leaping up in horror. The wine would spill on her sofa and she would be humiliated. It was probably best if she kept her feelings to herself.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Just my own twisted sense of humor.”
He held out his glass. She bent toward him to pour, but instead of focusing on what she was doing, she found herself staring into his green eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever known a man with green eyes before. They were actually beautiful—well shaped and fringed with long, dark lashes.
“Darcy?”
She heard him speak her name, but she couldn’t respond. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest. There was a pressure, as well, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. She felt unbearably warm, yet her legs were trembling. If not from cold, then from what?
Mark took the wine bottle from her. She glanced down and saw she hadn’t poured any of the pale liquid. He set his glass on the table, next to the bottle, all the while keeping his gaze firmly locked with hers.
“We can’t do this,” he said.
She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Do what?”
He swore. She realized she was still bent over him. Like an idiot, she thought, starting to straighten. But then his hand was on her arm, tugging her closer. She didn’t know which way to move. Her center of balance shifted and suddenly she was falling.
Before she could stop herself, she landed on his lap—exactly where she’d imagined herself not thirty seconds before. His arms came around her, drawing her closer.
“You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about it,” he said quietly, right before his mouth settled over hers.
For several seconds Darcy couldn’t respond. She was afraid she was imagining all this. That the wine had gone to her head—so much so that on another plane of reality, she and Mark were actually having a rational conversation while her imagination created this romantic scenario.
Yet he felt very real as he pulled her against him. She wasn’t sure her fantasizing could have created such an amazing combination of heat and desire.
As she’d thought, Mark Kincaid kissed like a dream. Soft yet firm, warm and tempting. He didn’t take, didn’t hold back, didn’t give her time to think, which was all exactly how she wanted it. His lips brushed against hers in a sensual greeting that made her toes curl. His scent, the feel of his body against hers, the way his arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him were all delightfully unfamiliar, but oh, so welcome.
He kept the kiss light, yet despite the delicate pressure, she found herself overwhelmed by need. Heat poured through her with an intensity she’d never experienced. She knew however unexpected the turn of events, they were very real.
Every cell in her body cried out for her to have her way with this man. She tried to tell herself that she had to be careful not to scare him off, that she needed to be the tiniest bit sensible and that it had been at least five years since she’d been with a man and she’d probably forgotten how to do it. None of that mattered. Not when his mouth moved over hers, back and forth, slowly, so slowly.
He tilted his head to improve the angle of their contact. Instinctively she parted for him, wanting him to kiss her deeply, needing that intimacy more than she’d ever needed anything. But he made her wait. First he nibbled on her lower lip, the pull of his teeth nearly making her cry out with pleasure. Her breasts swelled and began to ache. Without meaning to, she found herself moving her hands up his shoulders to his neck, then burying her fingers in his hair.
Finally, amazingly, he swept his tongue against the inside of her lower lip. Desire shot through her, making her cling to him. Something hard and masculine bumped up against her hip. The proof of his arousal made her brush her tongue against his, taking rather than waiting.
It was as if she’d set fire to dynamite. Passion exploded through her. Through Mark, as well, if his actions told the truth. Even as they leaned into each other, trying to kiss more deeply, to explore every aspect of their sensual connection, their hands reached for each other.
He grabbed her hips, lifting her. She shifted around until she straddled him. Instantly her hot, ready feminine center pressed against his hardness. The perfect pleasure of the contact nearly made her scream. She couldn’t stop the pulsating movement of her hips, or the catch in her breath when she found a rhythm that nearly sent her over the edge. Mark only made it worse—and better—by urging her on. The hands holding her hips eased her back and forth until they both moaned.
He pulled away enough to kiss her cheeks, her chin, then to nibble along her throat. He moved his hands from her hips to her waist, then around to her ribs. From there it was a short journey to her breasts.
She was too stunned to protest…at least that’s what she tried telling herself in the tiny part of her brain that was still coherent. This wasn’t her fault. Except she’d wanted it to happen, had imagined what it would be like. Instead of stopping him, she arched her back, pushing her full curves into his hands. He squeezed gently, then explored her. When his fingers brushed against her nipples, she cried out, exhaling his name.
When he tugged on the hem of her sweater, she helped him pull off the garment. He unfastened her bra without a single fumble, leaving her bare to the waist. Before she could even think about being embarrassed or stopping him, he straightened and leaned forward, then took her right nipple in his mouth.
The sensation was nearly more than she could stand. As his lips closed around her and his tongue flicked against her taut peak, he used his fingers to tease her other breast. She clutched at him, feeling the silk of his hair. Powerful muscles bunched as he shuddered.
The voice whispering this had to stop began to fade as desire pulsed in time with her rapid heartbeat. Tears burned in her eyes—brought on by skin long deprived of human touch. Every brush of his fingers was exquisite. When he stood her on her feet and reached for the button at her waistband, she didn’t have the will to stop him. Especially when his fingers trembled slightly. She looked at his face. The raw need in his green eyes reassured her more than words.
He unfastened her slacks. Before tugging them down, he paused to shrug out of his shirt. She had a brief impression of strong muscles and a still-red scar, but then he urged her out of her shoes and she couldn’t think about anything except him pulling off the rest of her clothes.
He settled back on the sofa, then ran his hands up and down her legs, pausing at the top of her thighs. The pulsing desire had only increased and when he swept close to the blond hair protecting her most private place, she began to quiver. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her down next to him on the cushion. They kissed. A deep, stirring sharing of souls that made her shake even more.
Long fingers rested on her thigh. She parted slightly, so ready she knew that it wouldn’t take but a touch to bring her to climax.
“Mark, I—”
He touched her there. Through the slick folds of skin, the dampness, he found the one spot designed to bring her to her knees. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but silently beg him to never stop.
He read her mind.
With agonizing slowness, he circled the sensitive place, then returned to brush over the swollen nerve center. Twice more he repeated the process and, on the third lap, she lost herself.
Her climax shuddered through her with the intensity of a volcano. He deepened the kiss, swallowing her cries as pleasure rippled through her, making her shake and cling to him. He touched her lightly until the last tremor faded.
He drew back slightly and stroked her cheek. When she finally gathered the courage to open her eyes, she found him smiling at her. The slow, easy, masculine smile of a man who has just pleased a woman.
“Yes, well.” She cleared her throat. “It’s been some time since I’ve, ah…”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Liar.”
His smile widened. “All right. Maybe I noticed a little. It happened so quickly, it was hard to tell.”
She swatted at his arm, but without any great force. He slipped off the sofa, then turned her so she was half sitting, half lying against the back. She tried not to think about the fact that she was completely naked and that they were in her living room. Not to mention that she barely knew the man. But when she would have protested, he bent down and nibbled the skin at the inside of her knee.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she asked breathlessly because she already had a good idea of where he was heading.
“If it’s been a long time, you probably need a little more excitement in your life. If you don’t like this, just tell me to stop.”
Yeah right, she thought hazily as the nibbling moved up higher. She parted her legs to make things easier for him and closed her eyes when he reached the inside of her thighs. So much for her not thinking sex was all that special. Obviously, until now, she’d been doing it wrong.
At the exact moment he gave her the most intimate kiss possible, he pressed his hand against her breast. The combination of sensations nearly made her scream. He teased her nipple in perfect counterpart to the movements of his tongue between her legs. All those needs returned, as if she hadn’t just found her release. Pressure built with a speed that left her breathless.
More. She needed more. She brought her feet up to the sofa, parting her legs even wider. He licked her most sensitive place, tasting all of her. He removed his hand from her breast, but before she could protest, a single finger entered her. He slipped in and out slowly, then faster and faster, all the while kissing and licking and nibbling until she thought she might die from the glory of it all.
She clutched at the sofa cushions. Perspiration broke out on her body. Pressure built then released in an unexpected shudder that left her unable to hold back her cry of delight. It was more than she’d ever experienced, and seemed to go on forever. He touched her gently, drawing every possible shiver of wonder from her starving body.
When she was finally back on earth, she sighed with contentment. Then something thick and hard pressed against her. She shifted so that she could wrap her legs around him, drawing him in.
“Yes,” she breathed, opening her eyes.
Passion tightened Mark’s features. He pushed inside her, filling her until she gasped.
“I want you,” he growled.
“Please.”
Mark told himself this was a mistake, but it was a little late now. As he pushed into Darcy’s tight body, he groaned. She felt too good—hot, slick, ready. If only she hadn’t looked at him as if she’d never before seen a man she wanted. If only he hadn’t noticed the swell of her breasts earlier that afternoon. If only she hadn’t responded like a starving person enjoying her first meal in weeks.
Remember what happened last time, he told himself, as he continued to push inside her. But this was different, he argued silently. No, she was a woman with secrets. He knew better.
Damn. She pulled him close and kissed him. As their tongues circled and danced, he felt himself losing control. She kissed better than anyone he’d ever been with. It’s just sex, he told himself as he slipped toward the edge.
“Mark,” she breathed, then gasped.
He felt the shudder of her release. It was more than he could resist. With a gasp of his own, he went over the cliff and began his journey to paradise.
Chapter Four
Darcy didn’t have the luxury of waiting until the morning after to feel like an idiot. No, she got to feel stupid the second Mark straightened, pulling out of her body. There she was, naked as the day she was born, half sitting, half lying on her sofa while a strange man pulled up his trousers and zipped them. He hadn’t even taken off his clothes.
Color flooded her face. She wanted to run and hide, but there was no easy way to extricate herself from the sofa. Plus there was the whole naked thing.
Frantically she looked around for something with which to cover herself. The sofa didn’t offer many ideas. Mark must have noticed her distress, because he picked up his shirt and draped it over her, then rose to his feet. Something very like chagrin darkened his green eyes.
“Darcy, I—” He broke off and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t do this sort of thing enough to know what to say.”
“Me, either,” she said, pulling on the shirt and buttoning it. She assumed they were discussing the suddenness of the encounter, and not the fact that they’d made love. Somehow Mark didn’t strike her as sexually inexperienced. Could the situation be more awkward?
“I don’t usually…that is I’ve never—” She pressed her lips together and wished she could simply fade into the fabric of the sofa.
He crouched in front of her and brushed the hair from her eyes. “I know. This isn’t your style. Mine either. I guess we were both caught up in the moment.” One corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. “Must have been all the tofu in the potatoes.”
“Must have been.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “Are you okay?”
No!
She held in the word. “I’m not upset, well, not that much. It’s just, I don’t know. Too weird, I guess. I barely know you. We’re not even dating.” She swallowed and wanted to die. “Not that I’m hinting we should date, it’s just…”
She looked away, hating what he must think of her. That she was cheap and easy. She wasn’t—she’d never been that way. If she tried to explain about her life, he might start to ask questions and what was she supposed to say about Dirk? Talking about her brother was hardly post-lovemaking material.
He stood, then bent over and grabbed her clothes. Darcy took them gratefully. She pulled on her panties, then rose and quickly pulled on her slacks. There was a really awkward moment when she had to hand him back his shirt, then slip on her bra and sweater all while trying to keep from thinking about him watching her. Which was crazy. The man had just touched about every significant body part she owned. Modesty was coming a little late to help.
When she was dressed, she forced herself to look at him. He stood with his hands shoved into his slacks pockets. Tension filled his body—a body that she had touched, that had entered hers. The memory of what they’d done to each other made her study the carpet again.
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.
“Do you want me to apologize?”
She stared at him and wished she knew what he was thinking. “Are you sorry?”
“No.”
“Then don’t apologize.”
“Fair enough.” He shifted his weight. “I’m guessing it’s probably time for me to go.”
She winced. “Of course.” She headed for the door.
He followed her, then surprised her by bending down and kissing her cheek. “Thank you. That was an amazing experience.”
“Um, yes well, for me, too.” Despite her embarrassment and lingering horror at her impulsiveness, she couldn’t complain about the physical aspects of their lovemaking. Mark had been amazing.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“Don’t say that.” She forced herself to smile at him. “It’s kind of a button for me. You don’t have to call.”
“What if I want to?”
“Then just do it, but don’t tell me you’re going to. If you do, I’ll obsess about it and when you don’t call, I’ll try to figure out what I did wrong. Two weeks later I’ll finally remember that it’s not my problem, it’s yours. But I don’t need the emotional down time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said earnestly. “You’re an incredibly attractive, sexy woman.”
“As true as that may be, your gender can be stupid. So don’t tell me you’re going to call. Okay?”
“Deal.”
He stared at her. She gazed into his green eyes, trying to memorize everything about him. Because she didn’t have a doubt in her mind that except for incredibly stilted conversations at the diner, she wasn’t going to see him again.
“Bye, Darcy. Thanks for the dinner.”
She opened the door and he stepped into the night. She gave a quick wave as he hurried toward his own apartment. She got the door closed and was halfway to the kitchen when reality slammed into her with all the subtlety of a runaway dish tray hitting the floor.
She and Mark had just had sex. Unprotected sex.
Darcy leaned against the dining room wall. No. That couldn’t have happened. She wasn’t that stupid, was she? After five years of trying to get it right, she couldn’t possibly have blown it. And for what? Thirty minutes of hot, wild, incredible sex? If she had a craving, couldn’t she just stick to chocolate?
Still calling herself fifteen different kinds of moron, she crossed to the calendar and counted days. Okay, the pregnancy issue didn’t seem to be a problem, but there were other considerations. For one thing, where exactly had Mark Kincaid been putting his handsome self? For another, even if her body got through this unscathed, what about her emotional well-being? One-night stands went against everything she believed in. She prided herself on being a thoughtful, intelligent, organized woman who made informed choices. She hadn’t gotten through all the hell of the past few years by jumping into bed with every pretty face who asked.
Why had she allowed a juvenile crush on her good-looking neighbor to overwhelm her good sense? And what was she supposed to say to him the next time she saw him?
Darcy turned off the alarm two minutes before it was scheduled to go off. She stared at the time. Four fifty-eight. She figured she’d gotten maybe two hours of sleep the whole night. Worry and self-recrimination had kept her awake most of the time. When she had finally dozed off, she’d found herself dreaming about her close encounter with her sexy neighbor. The sensation of him kissing his way up her thighs had been enough to jerk her into consciousness.
Her eyes burned, her eyelids felt swollen and even her hair hurt. She groaned as she forced herself into a sitting position. It was going to be a long day.
Cold water on her face and a vigorous teethbrushing didn’t make her feel any better. Normally she waited until she was at the Hip Hop to have coffee, but this morning she needed an emergency infusion. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would jump-start her body. She pulled on her ratty terry-cloth robe and stumbled into the kitchen.
After flipping on lights and hunting up the coffeemaker, she dug out a filter and coffee, then set about making magic. She’d just turned on the machine when there was a soft tap at her back door.
Darcy froze. She knew she hadn’t imagined the sound. She also had a really good idea of who would come calling at five in the morning, although she couldn’t figure out why. Then she pictured herself—her hair sticking out at odd angles, her skin pale as chalk, her shabby blue robe that would have disappeared instantly into the throw-out pile should she ever try to give it to charity.
Perfect. This was so exactly how she wanted to start her day.
Trying—and failing—to find humor in the situation, she walked to the back door and cautiously peeked outside. Sure enough Detective Mark Kincaid stood there, his handsome self dressed in sweats that should have looked horrible but instead made her mouth water. She opened the door.
“Did you have an appointment?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He smiled. Instantly her heart jumped into her throat and her ability to form whole sentences dove for her toes. It was not a pleasant sensation.
“I’ve been watching your house, waiting for you to wake up,” he said, sliding past her and entering the kitchen. “I figured you’d have to get up early.”
She closed the door and pulled her robe more tightly around herself. “Okay. I’m up and you’re here. Why?”
Instead of answering, he pulled her against him. She had absolutely no warning and no way to stop his mouth from settling against hers. She told herself to protest, or at the very least, not to melt. Her body didn’t listen. Instead of pushing him away, her arms wrapped around him and held on as tightly as his. Instead of yelling out a complaint, her mouth simply softened, then parted to admit him. She went from numb to alive in .8 seconds. He was better than a double latte.
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