Get a Clue (11 page)

“Why?”

“Well, you're not exactly a barrel of laughs.”

“No—I mean, why would Shelly mention me having a sense of humor?”

Because she wants to jump your bones
. “Maybe because she thinks about you.”

“Thinks of me?”

Were all men so innately dense? “You know,
thinks
of you.”

At that he smiled, and Breanne blinked. Well, look at that . . . quite a transformation from scary punk to hunk, with those dark, dark eyes, tough body, and rugged face. She supposed if she'd been into the whole urban thing, she could see what about him might draw a woman.

If she hadn't given up men.

She really needed to remember that. Maybe she ought to have it tattooed to the inside of her eyelids. But Shelly
hadn't
given up men, and Breanne had decided to be a better person. Here came good deed number one. “At the risk of sounding like we're in high school, do you think about Shelly as well?”

He didn't answer.

“Okay, let's try this,” she said, determined. “She's the sweetest, kindest thing I've ever met and she has a crush on you, and if you're at all interested, you'd better be good to her.”

He just stood there, maybe breathing, maybe not. “Hello, anyone home?”

“I don't answer trick questions.”

“Trick questions?”

“Like when a woman asks ‘does that skirt make my butt look big?'”

She clamped a hand on her butt and tried to crane her neck to see it. “I knew it! It's Lariana's, and—”

“It was a rhetorical question,” he said, his lips twitching as if he were biting back another smile.

“Rhetorical question?” She stopped trying to see her own behind and looked at him, exasperated. “You know, for a man who seems to enjoy perpetuating a ghetto image, you sure don't talk like a thug.”

He merely shrugged and began walking away.

“Right,” she muttered. “Mind my own business. Got it.” She pulled her cell phone out of her bag. Time to work on her own life. “Uh, Dante?”

He glanced back. “What, are we late for history class?”

“Ha, ha. Do you know if there's anywhere I can get reception on this thing?”

“Out the double French doors from the library. There's a deck there, facing west. It's the only place in the house where cell phones sometimes work.”

Sometimes? “Point me in the right direction.” She wanted to get her messages, mostly because she wanted to know if Dean had been hit by a bus—the only explanation she'd accept with grace.

“Shelly made breakfast.”

“Okay.”

“She's hoping everyone comes.”

“Ah,” she said smugly. “So you're not immune to her, after all.”

His eyes narrowed. “It's my job to tell you about breakfast.”

“Uh-huh.” That this big, edgy, dangerous-looking man
did
care about Shelly's feelings made her take a good, long second look at him. And a third. In fact, something deep inside her niggled, something that said,
See? Maybe not all men are bad
. She squelched it. “Where's the library?”

He sighed. “That hallway there, third door on the right.”

Grateful for the daylight, dull as it was, she moved along the beautiful hardwood floor past the curved staircase, past the great room, counting doors until she came to a large room with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. In awe, she stepped in. There were overstuffed chairs and ottomans, bigger, cushier sofas, and beneath the huge windows, beautiful benches filled with pillows. A book-lover's delight. She was most definitely a book lover. She moved close to a shelf—all the Dickens classics. Another held Shakespeare. Yet another had five full rows of contemporary and historical romances by some of her favorite authors.

She could spend all week in this room and never regret spending her honeymoon alone. She picked up a personal favorite, an old historical classic. When she'd been thirteen she'd sneaked it home from the library, reading every dog-eared page beneath her blankets with a flashlight. The story had blistered her sheets.

“Breanne.”

With a startled squeak, the book went flying out of her fingers. She turned around and faced the one man whose voice could make her quiver, make her ache.

Cooper looked at her from the bluest, sexiest eyes she'd ever seen. “Dante said you were around, talking to yourself about mysterious hotties. You did mean me, right?”

She rolled her eyes, but his had locked on her body. “Wow,” he said huskily. “More honeymoon attire?”

“No. I borrowed some clothes.”

“Hmmm.” Wearing worn cargo jeans and a long-sleeved Henley the exact color of his eyes, he picked up the book she'd sent flying and looked at the cover—a nearly naked man, pulling a dress off a nearly naked woman. “Oh, goody,” he said. “A bedtime story. You can read it out loud to me tonight.”

“We are not sharing a bed tonight.”

“Feel free to skip straight to the good spots.” He opened the book to somewhere in the middle. “Right here, for example.” He cleared his throat and read out loud: “‘Elizabeth tingled at the thought of putting her mouth to his throbbing manhood.'” He lifted his head, sending her a lopsided grin. “Hey,
I
have a throbbing manhood.”

Breanne crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to admit she felt his smile from her roots to her toes, and in every single erogenous zone between, of which she apparently had more than she remembered, damn him. “Get out.”

“Sorry, Princess, there's nowhere to go. Come eat breakfast with me.”

“Why? So you can turn that into something dirty as well?”

His grin went positively wicked. “You think sex is dirty?”

“Go. Away.”

Of course, he didn't budge.

“You know what?” she asked, tossing up her hands. “Never mind.
I'll
go.”

“You can run, but you can't hide.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means we're still stuck, baby. Snowed in. With no cable services and nothing to do except—”

“Don't say it.”

“Okay. I'll just think it.”

She sent him daggers, refusing to allow him to see how much his thoughts were affecting her. “I'm going outside to make a call on my cell.” Whirling away from him, she stepped to the French doors. Beyond them was a view that, under any other circumstances, would have made her sigh with pleasure. Surrounded by awe-inspiring, majestic peaks, they were nestled in a valley that lay under a glistening blanket. The snow was still falling in dinnerplate-sized flakes, coating everything in sight.

It boggled her mind.

Determined to check her messages, she bravely opened the doors and was immediately assaulted by the cold. Protected by a small covered deck, she stood a foot from where the snow came down in thick, blurry lines, falling eerily without a sound, piling into drifts. If she took a step off the deck she'd have sunk, vanishing from view.

Behind her she let the door shut so she wouldn't have to hear Cooper moving around the library. God only knew what the Neanderthal would find in there to read. She didn't care. Shivering, she kept her eyes locked on her phone display as she turned it on and waited with bated breath.

Two bars! And then the familiar beep, beep, beep, signaling that she had messages. Quickly she accessed them and laughed weakly when she heard “You have thirty-seven messages.” A bunch were from her parents and siblings, and all were in a similar vein along the lines of
“Where the hell are you?”
There were more from friends, wondering if she was okay. The answer was a big, resounding
no
.

And then came Dean's voice, unusually subdued, and sounding as if he was in a vacuum. “Hi, Breanne—I realize you probably hate me by now.”

“Give me a reason not to,” she muttered.

“—and I know this will sound like some kind of joke to you,” he said, “but believe me, it's not. I'm . . . in prison.”

Breanne pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it in shock before listening to the rest.

“I was arrested for identity theft and fraud, and they say I'm looking at five to ten. Oh, and you should probably toss your Palm Pilot in the nearest ocean because I once used it for some illegal downloading.” Then the sound of him hanging up. That was it, nothing more.

No good-bye, no I'm so sorry, no words of everlasting love.

There were more messages but she lost her signal. Hands shaking with the chill, she turned off her cell and tried to go back inside.

The doors wouldn't budge. She'd locked herself out.

Her mind went numb as she stood there and looked at the handle. Her vision wavered. Dean was a criminal. That meant this engagement had been nothing more than a sham. Of course it'd been. Hell, her entire life had been a sham.

Damn, she was done being a screwup, done just moving through life, going through the motions.

Things were going to change!

She tried the door again, but apparently her epiphany didn't have any impact on the fact that she'd locked herself out. Already frozen, she tipped her head upward in frustration, but there was no divine help to be had.

There was nothing but more bad luck as her eyes focused on the eave of the house, and the shockingly huge web there. And sitting in it was the largest, fattest spider she'd ever seen. “Oh, God.”

She really hated spiders. She'd hated them since she'd been five, when one of her brothers had put his pet tarantula in her bed. Frantic, she reached for the handle again, imagining she felt the spider drop to her head. Her breath clogged in her throat. “Oh, no.
No
.”

The doors were still locked.

She banged on the glass, and Cooper, at home in a large easy chair, reading the historical romance, lifted his head and smiled at her.

Waved.

“I'm locked out!” she yelled, banging on the door. “Let me in.”

“Sorry.” He shook his head regretfully. “Can't do that.”

She would have sworn she felt the spider crawling in her hair and shuddered.
“Why not?”

“You wanted to be alone, remember?”

Cooper waved again at a furious-looking Breanne standing out there in the snow. She was glowering at him through the glass in that outfit which made him extremely hot. Surprised to find himself aroused at just the sight of her, he set down the book and came to a slow stand.

She banged on the glass yet again, her extremely kissable lips wide open in an O of vexation. Earlier he'd had them soft and wet and open to his, and it had been shockingly good, but now they were turning a lovely shade of blue. He felt bad about that, but playing with her had proven to be more fun than he'd had in far too long, and he couldn't seem to resist.

“Open up!” she yelled. “Can't you hear me?”

“Oh, I hear you. In fact, I think the people in China hear you.” He had no idea where she'd gotten that siren-red top that glittered, or the tight, tight black skirt that hugged her hips and showed off her legs, or those fuck-me boots, but he was betting it was Lariana.

God bless Lariana.

“Open the door,” she said through her chattering teeth, craning her head upward, searching the roof uneasily. “
Please
.”

He moved to the glass. “What's the sudden rush?”

“There's a spider the size of my fist hanging over my head, and it's going to get me. Just let me in before I start screaming and never stop.” She looked up and let out a horrified squeak. “Ohmigod, it's gone!” Frenzied, she danced around in a circle, lifting her hands to her head, running her fingers through her hair. “It's on me, I just know it! Omigod, get it!
Get it!”

Opening the door, he brushed her hands away and patted her down himself, enjoying the process immensely.

“Don't kill it,” she cried. “Just get it off me.”

“Hang on. I'm looking.” He shifted his fingers through her hair, over her arms, her waist, brushing her breasts before streaking down her legs and back up again, briefly cupping between. “Spider-free,” he promised.

“Are you sure?”

“Well . . .” Tongue in cheek, he searched her again, taking longer this time, noticing that when he stroked over her arms and neck, her breathing changed and her nipples went hard. So did he. But when he brought his hands up her legs and then between, she stopped dancing around and shoved at him, blowing a strand of hair from her face, looking furious and quite adorable with it. “You're just using this as an excuse to feel me up.”

“And down,” he said agreeably.

She growled, but he lifted his hands. “You really are spider-free.”

“Thank you,” she said through her teeth.

He cocked his head. “That didn't sound quite sincere.”

Her jaw was so tight it looked as if it could shatter. “Look, it's freezing, all right? I don't suppose you could move your big, damn, hulking frame out of the way. I want inside.”

“Maybe.” He waited until she looked at him. “The truth is, I want something, too, Breanne.”

She crossed her hands over her chest in an attempt to warm her body up, something he'd be happy to help her with. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “In order to let me into the house, you
want
something.”

“That's right.”

A gust of wind blew in, topping her off with a layer of white powdery snow. Not him, though, because she'd been his wind barrier.

She shook the snow off. “Damn it,
what?”

He didn't suppose she'd let him lick the snow off her body one flake at a time, which was a shame because he knew how good she would taste. Playing it safe—for now—he went for his second choice. “You have to smile.”

She stared at him as if he'd grown a second head.
If she only knew
. “Are you insane?” she asked. “Just let me in.”

“Smile first.”

“I have nothing to smile about.”

“This morning.”

“Huh?”

“This morning,” he repeated. “It was pretty damn fine. You could smile about that.”

“Cooper—”

“Look, if smiling is too difficult, you can kiss me.”

She practically had an aneurism on the spot.
“Kiss you?”

“As a thank-you.”

“For
what?”

“For rescuing you.”

“You
are
insane,” she decided, tossing up her hands. “I'm trapped inside a house with an insane man.”

“Actually, you're trapped outside,” he pointed out helpfully.

“Forget it! I opt to freeze to death.” Turning her back on him, she hunched her shoulders against the chill.

Ah, hell. He reached for her and put his hands on her arms, rubbing them up and down her chilled skin. “All right, Custer, you win. Come on, come inside.” Stepping backward over the threshold, he pulled her with him, then reached around her to shut the door. Because she had goose bumps—his fault for playing with her the way he had—he put his hands back on her arms. He didn't know what it was, but he loved having his hands on her.

Lifting her head, she looked deep into his eyes, her own filled with a sadness that tugged at him. “You ever think that life just plain sucks?”

“Yeah.” He cupped her cold face in his warm hands. “But right now isn't one of those times.”

A shuddery sigh escaped her, but he took it as a good sign when she let him slowly pull her against him. Tucking her frozen nose up into the crook of his neck, she sighed again as he ran his hands up and down her back. And then, because he was a very weak man, he let his hand fall lower with each stroke.

She didn't object. In fact, she let out another breath, a hum of pleasure this time, and just like that, the embrace changed. Shifted. He was still holding her, touching her, but no longer for comfort. “Breanne,” he said very softly.

“I know.” Her lips moved against his throat. “God, this is crazy. I'm crazy.”

“No.” Another stroke of his hand down her back, slowly, curving his palm over the curve of her ass.
Ah, man
.

“Cooper?”

Don't say stop. Please don't
. “Yeah?”

“I'm sorry you have to keep saving the stupid chick.”

“You're not stupid.” He let his fingers curl over the edge of her skirt, his knuckles brushing the back of her thigh now. Christ, she had soft skin. Her hair was damp against his cheek. The scent of the shampoo she'd used made him want to bury his face in it, or better yet, have the long strands teasing his bare chest as she rode him. Yeah,
that
would work—

“I went outside to get my messages.”

He wondered if she knew that her entire heart was in her voice, defeated and sad, and with a breath of regret, he hugged her tight. “You heard from the missing groom?”

Still pressing her face to his throat, she nodded.

Something about the sudden tension in her body told him that whatever she'd learned had reinforced her no-more-men thing.

“He's in jail,” she said. “For identity theft and fraud, and God knows what else.”

“You were going to marry a helluva guy.”

She let out a laugh that might have been half sob, and buried her face closer to him. “I didn't know he was a thief.” She lifted her head, her eyes full of things, with anger and humiliation leading the way. “I would never have been with him if I'd known.”

He stroked her cheek. “I know.”

“How?” she asked, seeming surprised. “You don't even know me.”

“I know you wouldn't kill a spider, even though it terrified you. I know you rushed to help Shelly feel better last night when she couldn't cook for us. I know that despite the whole kick-ass attitude, you're afraid of the dark.”

“Those things don't have anything to do with dating a thief.”

“You wouldn't,” he said again.

She just stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I don't suppose you could call everyone I know and tell them that.”

“Sure.”

She laughed again, with a little more true humor this time. “You would, wouldn't you?”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head, dropping her forehead to his chest. “It's my greatest fantasy to wake up and find myself in my own bed at home, this whole thing just a bad dream.”

“Want to hear
my
fantasy?”

“No!”

He stroked her hair. “I'm sorry your week has sucked so badly.”

“Thanks.” Her fists had a death grip on his shirt. Slowly she loosened her fingers, and wound her arms around his neck. “That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

“Don't take this the wrong way, Princess, but if that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to you, I don't think I like the people in your life.”

“No, I don't think you would,” she said solemnly. “And chances are, they wouldn't like you, either.” Her fingers tunneled into his hair. “Cooper?”

She was looking at him with those whiskey eyes, and they'd filled with heat and desire. It took his breath.
She
took his breath. “Yeah?”

“Hang on for this one.” She tugged his head down and captured his mouth with hers. It was his dream all over again, this morning all over again, and with a low groan, he hauled her up against him and dug in. She was right. On paper they didn't know each other from Adam and Eve, but in the flesh, their bodies knew enough. They stood there, straining together, dark sounds of neediness escaping each of them, and when she tangled her tongue with his, sucking him into her mouth, he nearly lost it. Her heart was slamming against her ribs, or maybe that was his, he didn't know and it didn't matter.

As long as it never stopped.

He clamped her head between his palms, inhaling her breathy murmur of pleasure as he changed the angle of the kiss to suit him. Only when air became required did he pull back a fraction, staring down at her. “I thought you were on a no-more-men kick.”

“I am.”

“Then what was that for?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. I just needed to.” Her voice was satisfyingly thick, her eyes glazed over.

“Well, I need more.” And he came at her again, settling his mouth more firmly over hers, moaning when her soft lips clung and her fingers gripped his face as if afraid he'd pull back.

Fat chance.

He had no idea how long he lost himself in the taste of her before he backed her to a set of shelves, slid his hands from her hair, down her body to her hips, which he squeezed, before gliding them both up, cupping her breasts. Her nipples were hard, pressing against the material of that eye-popping top, begging for attention, attention he was more than willing to give.

Breanne gasped when he dragged his thumbs over them, that same sexy little gasp she'd given him this morning when he'd bared one to the morning air and his own hungry gaze. Tearing his mouth from hers, he dragged kisses along her jaw to her ear. Touching the lobe with his tongue, he sucked it into his mouth in a desperate imitation of what he wanted to do to the rest of her.

Panting raggedly against his throat, she gripped him tighter, holding onto his chest in a way that would surely tear out each hair there, one by painful one, and he didn't care. He hadn't gotten enough this morning, and logically he knew he couldn't possibly get enough here, in the light of day, in the library, where anyone could walk in on them.

But she slid her hands beneath his shirt and stroked his bare back in a restless, desperate sort of gesture, and in the coup de grace . . . sighed his name, just a tiny whisper of a sound, but it was so endlessly, outrageously erotic he fisted his fingers in the stretchy, flashy red material at her shoulders and tugged. The top slid to her elbows, and her breasts popped free, exposing her for his viewing and tasting pleasure.

She wasn't wearing a bra.

“Lariana was still washing my clothes,” she whispered, resting her head back against the shelving unit. “And I didn't fit into one of her bras—”

“Breanne.” He stared down at her freed, bared breasts, at the way the nipples were tightening into two little buds right before his eyes, making his mouth water. “Are you somehow trying to apologize for not wearing a bra?”

“Yes, I—”

“Don't.” This came out slightly more harsh than he intended, and panting for breath, he put his forehead to hers. “God, Breanne. You take my breath.”

She shot him a tremulous smile, and with a ragged moan, he dipped his head and very gently rubbed his jaw along the heavy curve of her breast.

Her head thunked back against the shelf. A few books rained down over them. Not caring, he slid his hands down to the backs of her thighs and lifted her up, supporting her between the shelf and his body as he wrapped her legs around him. Her tight skirt got in the way, and impatient, he shoved that up, giving her the freedom of movement to hug his hips with her thighs.

He looked down, at her bared breasts, at the skirt gathered around her waist, which exposed the smallest pair of black lace panties he'd ever seen.

Wet lace.

Holding a warm, rounded cheek in each hand, he rocked against her, letting her opened thighs and the hot, damp spot between them cradle his aching sex. Then he bent and kissed her nipple, kissing, sucking, before nipping lightly with his teeth, gently tugging.

A sweet sound escaped her, rough and desperate, reaching out and grabbing him by the throat as he rocked against her again, moving in a tight circle, ripping more of those erotic murmurs from her as her breasts jiggled and made him so hard he was surprised the zipper on his jeans didn't split. She'd slid her fingers into his hair, doing her best to make him bald before he hit thirty-five as she brought his face back to hers to kiss him, her hips mindlessly thrusting to his.