Love Bites (12 page)

“Yes, that one.”

“Well, after going to all that trouble, I hope your brother likes me.”

He chuckled. “Doesn’t matter. I like you. After our phone talk the first night, when you came apart while I was talking to you, I knew then that you had to be one of the most sensuous women I’ve ever met.”

She grinned. “How do you know I wasn’t faking it? I am an actress, you know.”

“Yeah, I thought about that possibility, but dismissed the idea after replaying everything in my mind. And then, after that second time, I knew without a doubt you were for real. You weren’t acting. And that kiss today in the park cinched it.”

No, she hadn’t been playacting. She had gotten into their phone talks so much that she’d actually thought she could feel him in the room with her, touching her, tasting her. And when he had kissed her today at the park, she had gotten an erotic glimpse of just how it would be between them if they ever took things further. Now she knew and couldn’t help wondering if this was one and done, a one-night stand.

As if he’d read her mind, he reached out, touched her chin and lifted it for their gazes to meet. “We’re still on for this weekend, right?”

She nodded. “If you want.”

He smiled. “Yes, I want. And you know what else I want?”

“No.”

“I want more dates with you. We’re practically family anyway.”

She lifted a brow. “We are?”

“Yes. Your Smookie is having my Bandit’s babies.”

She chuckled. “Yes, we can’t forget that. After all, that’s how we officially met.”

He pulled her closer into his arms and kissed her hard and, at that moment, their pooches became the last things on her mind. Raquel had a feeling that tonight would be the start of something very special.

“Are you sure she’s okay, Quest?”

Raquel continued to stroke Smookie as she glanced up at Quest when he knelt beside her. It was time and Smookie would be delivering her puppies any minute. Dad Bandit was across the room, stretched out on the floor as if he preferred not being a part of the excitement. Typical male. Poor Smookie was doing all the work. At least Quest had gotten Bandit neutered, so he wouldn’t be responsible for any other female dog going through this.

A couple of days ago, they had made Smookie a delivery nest in an empty closet in one of the guest bedrooms, with plenty of towels and blankets. Her temperature had dropped to 98 degrees that morning, which according to the vet meant she would deliver within twenty-four hours.

Raquel was trying to make Smookie as comfortable as possible. Due to the amount of weight Smookie had gained, the vet had warned them to expect a full litter of four puppies.

“She’s fine, sweetheart. Things are progressing just as the vet said they would,” Quest said.

Raquel nodded. She was glad Quest was here with her. But then, over the past four weeks he hadn’t been too far away. After the night they’d spent together it had become a foregone conclusion they were dating exclusively. He no longer called the hot wire; he received special treatment whenever he showed up at her place.

She had met his family at a Fourth of July barbecue at his parents’ home and thought everyone was extremely kind. They had made her feel right at home. His twin brother was a riot, and she thought his wife Kandi was superfriendly. She and Kandi had formed a friendship and gone shopping together a number of times. And his brother Brett, who had come in from Atlanta, was definitely a hottie. She admired the close relationship among Quest, his brothers and parents.

“Have you taken her temperature lately?” Quest asked her, reclaiming her attention. He was shirtless, in his bare feet and wearing jeans riding low on his hips. He looked sexy and so much at home. It was no surprise he was now spending more time over at her place than his own. But then, she had stayed over at his place a number of nights as well.

“Yes and it’s still holding at ninety-eight.”

Raquel’s gaze dropped back to the little dog that meant so much to her, and she nervously bit on her bottom lip. She glanced back over at Quest. “What if she can’t do this on her own? What if something goes wrong? What if—”

Quest reached out and placed a finger to trembling lips. “Shh, she’ll be fine, babe. And if there is trouble, Dr. Martin is just a phone call away. We’ve made Smookie comfortable and it’s up to her to do the rest…with our help if needed.”

He chuckled and glanced over at Bandit. Calling out to his dog, he said, “You better get a good look at this, Bandit, because this will be the only time you’ll have any offspring, now that you’ve been fixed.”

Bandit lifted his ears as if he was listening and then, deciding he didn’t want to hear what Quest had to say any longer, he lowered his ears and yawned before looking away.

Raquel had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. “I think he’s still upset with you about it.”

Quest grinned back at her. “Trust me, I felt his pain.”

When Smookie let out a doggy moan, they looked at her and Raquel threw her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Quest, the babies are coming. Look!”

“I see.”

It took less than fifteen minutes for Smookie to deliver all four puppies. Quest and Raquel helped by using a nasal aspirator to eliminate secretions in the puppies’ mouths and noses so it would be easier for them to breathe on their own.

“They’re so tiny and beautiful,” Raquel said in awe, placing the puppies next to Smookie’s belly and watching as they grabbed their mother’s nipples.

“Yes, they are, and they are ours,” he said, hugging her close.

Raquel nodded and smiled. “Yes, they are.” They had decided to keep one and give the other three away. One would go to Quest’s twin brother, another to Whitney and another to the family of four who lived downstairs. Only good homes for Smookie’s babies.

Quest stood and reached out to help Raquel to her feet. “I think it’s time to leave Mom and babies alone. It’s bonding time.”

Bandit had the decency to move from his spot to stroll over to see Smookie and the puppies. Then he went back to his spot on the other side of the room.

Taking Raquel’s hand, Quest led her toward the living room and to the sofa. He sat down and pulled her down into his lap. “We’ve been dating seriously for a while, and with our growing family, I think we should make some decisions.”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she asked, “Decisions about what?”

“Us.”

Raquel’s heart nearly stopped. Yes, they had been dating exclusively longer than a month, and yes, their time together had been wonderful, fantastic, totally unbelievable. But she’d never allowed herself to hope that maybe, quite possibly, they were an “us”. And now…

She swallowed. “Us?”

He chuckled. “Yes, us. Me, you, Smookie, Bandit and the puppy yet to be named.”

She nervously licked her lips. “So what do you have in mind?”

“An engagement that I hope will lead to marriage before the end of the year. So, Raquel Capers, will you marry me?”

She felt the tears flowing down her cheeks. There was no way she had known, when she had decided to go over to Quest’s place to confront him about Bandit that day, that things would lead to this. He was everything Derrick hadn’t been. He was sweet, kind, giving, attentive and a fabulous lover. Everything she could want in a man.

“Yes, I’ll marry you. Does that mean you won’t be calling the hot wire anymore?” she asked, leaning down and placing kisses around his mouth.

“I’ll have my own personal hot wire.”

She smiled. “Good. And I’ve been thinking about giving up my career as a phone actress to finish up the hours I need for my MBA. What do you think of that?”

He smiled. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.” A serious expression touched his lips. “I love you.”

She returned his smile. “And I love you, too.”

She leaned down to his mouth and he crushed hers in a kiss that had her moaning upon impact. And she knew without any doubt that their love affair was one dreams and fantasies were made of, and had come about because of Smookie and the Bandit.

New York Times
and
USA TODAY
bestselling author
BRENDA JACKSON
lives in the city where she was born—Jacksonville, Florida. She has a bachelor of science degree in business administration from Jacksonville University.

Brenda is a retiree who worked for thirty-seven years in management at a major insurance company. She divides her time between family, writing and traveling. She loves writing connecting stories and happily admits that she is a die “heart” romantic who married her childhood sweetheart, and still wears the ring he gave her when she was fifteen. Brenda and Gerald have been married forty years and are the proud parents of two sons, Gerald Jr. and Brandon.

Brenda has more than ninety novels in print. You can visit her at www.brendajackson.net. And look for her newest novel,
Courting Justice
, available now from Harlequin Kimani!

by Virna DePaul

I'm so thrilled to be included in this anthology. My deepest thanks to Lori Foster, whose incredible talent inspired me to become a writer; to Margo Lipschultz, who's helping me become a better one, and to Cyndi Faria, Amy King, Susan Hatler, and Karin Tabke, dear friends who helped bring Wade, Molly, and Gator together.

“Go ahead.”

Crisis counselor Molly Peterson smiled at the words that drifted from the small room behind her. She waited two beats for the punch line.

Sure enough, the strident voice immediately continued, “Make my day.”
Squawk
. “Make my day.”

“I’ll sure try, buddy,” she called. “As soon as our shift’s over, I’ll get you home and set you up with your favorite things, okay? I just need a few more hours. Nick will be here at midnight to relieve us.”

Gator, the green macaw Molly had inherited from her grandparents—along with their little carriage house in downtown Charleston—didn’t answer her. She bet if she peeked under his cage cover she’d find the parrot asleep, his little head tucked into his wing feathers. It wasn’t unusual for Gator to channel Clint Eastwood while awake, but in the past two months, his sleep talking had become more frequent.

In fact, that was the whole reason he was now at work with her. Gator’s increased sleep chatter appeared to be a traumatic side effect of losing his owners. Understandable, as she was still feeling the loss of her grandparents, too. As a counselor, she couldn’t help wondering if a grieving parrot could benefit from some type of therapy, and she wasn’t taking any chances with the mental health of her grandparents’ beloved pet.

Molly had actually been on her way to the vet with Gator when Jenny, her supervisor, had called her cell, begging her to sub in for another shift on the hotline. Forget the fact that she’d just finished her own twelve-hour shift. But Jenny had been desperate and no one else had been available. The hotline calls didn’t come often, but when they did, it was imperative that a trained professional be there to answer. Still, after almost twenty-four hours of isolation in the quiet medical office, Molly was happy to have Gator’s company—even if that included his sleep talking.

"You asleep, Gator?" she crooned.

Sure enough, the office remained eerily quiet except for the low music she was playing on the radio and the occasional click of the minute hand on the ancient analog clock. When the phone finally rang about thirty minutes later and Molly answered, the first words she heard were,

“I’m naked.”

Molly smiled. Despite the importance of her job and the heartache often associated with it, it was vital she keep her sense of humor. Eventually, she’d probably burn out. Until then, calls like this made it easier to keep going. They kept things manageable but interesting. Zero to sixty in under two seconds.

Without missing a beat, she picked up her pen and jotted down the phone number on the caller-ID screen. It was purely precautionary. Barring illegality or imminent danger to human life, the people who called the clinic hotline were guaranteed anonymity, but because a call could turn urgent on a dime, the smallest details could be needed to stop a crime or a suicide in progress. As a result, Molly always took notes. Most of the time, she just ended up shredding the notes at the end of her shift, but it was always best to be prepared.

Since she’d immediately recognized the caller’s voice, she wrote
Boyd
in neat block print. “Hi, Boyd,” she said as she jotted down more notes.
Recurring caller
.
Likes to shock or titillate to begin conversation.

“Hi, is this Molly? I’m naked.”

Boyd was generally naked whenever he called, so Molly merely said, “Is that so?”

“I’m naked and I’m standing on my porch.”

“Are you sure you should be doing that, Boyd? Your neighbors might not want to see you naked.” In her mind, Boyd was rather pasty-skinned and spindly legged, with freckles and a gap between his two front teeth. A grown-up version of Opie Griffith, awkward yet endearing. Well, except, she assumed, when he was nude on the front porch.

“Nah. They don’t mind. But I’ve been having thoughts.”

“What kind of thoughts, Boyd?” she asked, even though she already knew.

For the next hour she listened to him and offered what help she could. Boyd had been depressed ever since his young wife had died four years ago. Since Molly had started working at the clinic, he’d called a handful of times to discuss how lonely he was. And how he wasn’t sure he wanted to go on.

Molly stayed on the phone with him until he abruptly said, “Thanks. I’m gonna get dressed now. Bye, Molly.”

“Bye, Boyd,” she replied and gently hung up the phone. A feeling of satisfaction thrummed through her. An hour of her time and Boyd was feeling better. More optimistic about life. She didn’t care what her father said—she might not be raking in the bucks or seeing her name in the paper, but she made a difference, and that's what kept her working at the hotline despite the times she felt weighed down by the urgency and desperation of the crisis calls.

She tapped her pen against the desk, then moved the sheet of paper with Boyd’s information to the pile of notes she’d made earlier. When she heard what sounded like flapping coming from the other room, she rose to check on Gator.

But then the phone rang again. Molly resettled in her seat before picking up. “Charleston Mental Health Hotline. How can I help you?”

“This is Officer Wade King with the Charleston Police Department.”

This time, Molly’s response to hearing a male voice on the other end of the line was far from blasé or amused. Warmth infused her and her insides literally clenched. It was as surprising as it was electrifying. And completely inappropriate.

Given her reaction to the man’s smooth, husky voice, he might as well have been smoking-hot, ripped and gorgeous, standing in front of her, and whispering, “I want to cover you with honey and then lap it all up.”

Clearly, two years of celibacy had finally taken their toll.

Despite the fact that she was alone, Molly’s face heated with embarrassment. Straightening in her chair, she struggled for the right professional response. She routinely talked to cops as part of her job. This cop, the one she immediately dubbed Officer Hottie, had called for a reason, and it wasn’t to turn her on.

“What have you got for me this evening, Officer King?”

“A possible 1096,” he said, referring to the police code for a citizen exhibiting mental-health issues. “And your name?” he asked in that way cops had, polite but clearly expecting deference.

“Molly Peterson.”

“Well, Molly, here's the thing. I've responded to a domestic situation and now I have a twenty-two-year-old suspect in custody. Dispatch received several 911 calls from the suspect’s father requesting assistance with his son, who was acting ‘crazy.’ But upon my arrival, the suspect seemed calm. Able to follow directions.”

“Did you talk to his father?” Molly asked.

“I did. And to a neighbor. The father thought his son was drunk but smelled no alcohol on him. I’ve confirmed no outward signs of intoxication. The neighbor said he saw the suspect sitting outside on the curb before he got up, walked onto the lawn, collapsed to his knees and started crying. Then he’d laugh and dance. Then cry again.”

“Has the neighbor seen the suspect exhibit this kind of behavior before?”

“Not specifically, but he’s witnessed other behavior that’s made him think he suffers from a mental illness. Only I’m not seeing signs of it myself right now, which is why I’m calling.”

“Is this your first 1096 call?” she guessed, figuring he was new since they’d never talked before.

“The first one that doesn’t present an obvious answer. I’ve been in patrol for a couple of years, but I’m new to the tactical response squad.”

She nodded, liking the fact he didn’t try to hide his relative inexperience. Liking even more that he’d called for a second opinion. Many cops wouldn’t have called on the off chance it made them look weak. “Just the fact you’re entertaining a doubt is enough. Given the neighbor’s statement and previous observations, bring the suspect to an E.R. It’s not uncommon for someone to slip into and out of visible psychosis, and that unpredictability is actually quite dangerous. You did the right thing by calling, Officer.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, his voice losing some of its professional edge. “Uh, great. We’re pulling up to the E.R. now.” He laughed softly, his voice sheepish. Endearing. “I just wanted to double-check before I actually walked him in.”

“Wonderful,” Molly said, then hesitated. He didn’t hang up. Neither did she. For some reason, she was reluctant to end the call. It had been completely routine. Two colleagues discussing a case. She received several such check-ins on any given night. Yet this was the first time she’d ever been tempted to turn a routine crisis call into something more—something personal—-even if it was only to ask how long Officer King had been a cop. Or why he’d become one. Or whether he looked anything like he sounded, and if he did, how he could possibly function with women doubtlessly following him around all day and throwing themselves at his feet.

“Are you still there, Molly?”

Molly jerked at the low male voice in her ear. “Uh, yes, Officer King, I am.” She picked up her pen again. “Did you have another question?”

“Please, call me Wade. And actually, yes, I do have another question. But I need to escort my in-custody into the E.R. first. Can I call you right back? Will someone else answer the phone or will you…?”

“No, I’m the only one manning the hotline. There’s twenty-four-hour medical staff here, but they’re on the other side of the building. If you call this number again, you’ll get me.” Her unintentionally provocative words made her blush. “I mean-—”

“Good. Because you’re the one I want. That is—I like the sound of your voice. I’ll call back in a few.”

She hung up. Good, he’d said. And he’d definitely sounded pleased at the prospect of talking to her again.
Her
in particular. But that couldn’t be, could it?

It wasn’t the celibacy that was getting to her, it was the double shifts and lack of sleep. Why else was she responding so foolishly to a routine call?

Nonetheless, several minutes later, when the phone rang again and she picked it up, the caller seemed to breathe a sigh of relief before saying, “Hi, Molly. It’s Officer King—
Wade
.”

Amazing how she almost breathed a sigh of relief herself. “Hi again.”

“Hi.” He cleared his throat, as if gathering his courage. “I wanted to pose a hypothetical question. Is that all right?”

“The phone lines are clear, so sure.” She bit her lip, curious and slightly apprehensive. Hypothetical questions almost always came from someone seeking advice for himself or herself.

“Say I know someone who’s acting… Oh, how should I say it…a little off. Like…let’s say this hypothetical someone has taken a sudden liking to hunting ducks.”

An odd sense of disappointment filled her. Okay, so this was just another crisis call, albeit one more personal to him. Unless “hunting ducks” was a euphemism for something kinky, which she seriously doubted.

Rolling her eyes, she shook her head.
Concentrate, Molly
. “Go ahead,” she said softly. “Is it this hypothetical person, the ducks or someone else you’re worried about?” The part about the ducks just popped out. She wasn’t a hunter. Didn’t understand people who were. But even her grandfather had hunted game when he was younger, which, considering how close he’d been to Gator, seemed quite ironic.

Officer King remained silent for several seconds before saying, “You a yank, darlin’?”

Pure sex, she thought again. That slow southern drawl was tinged with humor. Low and deep. Masculine with a hint of sweetness and spice. After several months in Charleston, she should be immune to the unique strains of southern dialect, both male and female, but this man’s voice was different. Mesmerizing.

“I’m a yank through and through,” she confirmed. “But I’m here to help. Who is it you’re concerned about?”

“Actually, it’s my grandfather,” he said, and she felt an immediate rush of relief. Far better to reconcile that virile, tempting voice with a concerned grandson rather than with a man—and a cop, at that—personally on the emotional or mental edge. Either way, she was suddenly glad she’d been asked to extend her shift and was here to answer this man’s call.

It wasn’t simply that he had a sexy voice. Somehow she knew the voice belonged to someone who didn’t ask for help, at least of the personal variety, very often. She didn’t know how she knew it, she just did. Her desire to heal and nurture welled inside her. Her job was about helping others get their emotional bearings back, but too often she only encountered people when they were in pain, whether it was personal or the pain of witnessing someone they loved suffering, and then she mostly evaluated them and referred them elsewhere. Despite this man’s attempts at humor—an obvious defense mechanism—he sounded genuinely concerned for his elderly relative. It reminded her of the close relationship she’d had with her own grandparents. It made her miss them even more. And it made her feel less alone in her mission to aid others.

“So why is it you’re worried about your grandfather, and what does duck hunting have to do with it?”

He laughed, the sound both amused and frustrated, and it shivered through her, traveling straight to every erogenous zone in her body. Lord, the man’s voice was lethal.

“You haven’t been in the south very long, have you?”

“What makes you say that?” Her muscles relaxed slightly and she sank a little deeper into her chair. The situation clearly wasn’t an emergency, given Officer King’s casual questions. Still, she needed to get the conversation back on track.

“Any self-respecting southerner knows that duck-hunting season ended over a month ago.”

Ah, she thought. Right. “So how does his desire to go duck hunting equate to a psychiatric problem? I’m not sure I follow.”

“Well, it just so happens my grandfather hates duck hunting. And he hasn’t been any kind of hunting in over thirty years. Plus, now he has two ticked-off neighbors who no longer have mailboxes.”

“Sorry, but again, I’m not sure I follow. Did he leave to go duck hunting and mow down the mailboxes? Does he still have his driver’s license?”

“Molly, I don’t think you’re understanding me. He didn’t take out the mailboxes by sideswiping them with his fifty-seven Buick. He used a Smith and Wesson.”