Soul Rest, Page 4

  "Nothing to be scared of, darlin'. Except my microwave causing a power overload on the outdated wiring and catching the house on fire."

  She smiled. "I assume you know some firemen who'll come to our rescue."

  "Maybe. If they don't have a card game going. They tend to think cops are too full of themselves."

  "Well, that's true." She tucked her tongue in her cheek. "But you and I both know firemen love the chance to rescue a cop, rub his nose in it. They'd be here almost as soon as you placed the 911 call."

  "You're right. I'm likely to put pride first, so we'll sit on the front lawn and watch it burn. I'll salvage the nachos so we can snack by the bonfire."

  She chuckled. When he dropped his hand to her hip, giving her a nudge toward the interior, she took a breath and hoped for the best. As she stepped over the threshold, she had to turn her body to navigate between him and the doorframe. He curved his hand over her lower back, an incidental embrace. Her thigh brushed his knee where he had his shoe braced on the threshold, his leg slightly bent. He had a scent like the house. Old wood, lemon and coffee, with an intriguing ripple of peppermint. She avoided meeting his gaze as she stepped inside, putting some space between them. She saw a large recliner, braided area rug, flat screen, two-seater couch and a sturdy rocking chair. The living room was so small the furniture formed an unbroken circle except for the space between the couch and rocking chair.

  "If you want to change while I heat up the food, the bathroom's in the hallway there," he said.

  "Excuse me?"

  He pointed to her go-bag. "I assume that's carrying a change of clothes, since you were playing dress-up tonight. But go ahead and take off the boots here. Give your feet a break. Test my control."

  Shooting her a quick grin at that, he went into the kitchen to put their food down on the counter. That didn't take him very far from her. She told herself to go into the bathroom to change all of it, but instead she put her go-bag in the rocking chair and gripped the top of the chair to steady herself. She didn't look up as she unzipped the first ankle boot. Tick, tick, tick. She wasn't trying to be provocative, not consciously, but the boots had some age on them and were from a secondhand store. She didn't want the teeth to stick, so she had to lower the zipper gradually.

  When the bags stopped rattling, she kept her head down as if she didn't notice, but she was keenly aware he was giving her his full attention. She was leaning over, which meant the snug jeans would be straining over her ass. If he took two steps, he could be behind her. He could put his hands on her hips, put the sizable erection that her brain conjured for him against her buttocks, against the thudding pulse between her legs, thin denim doing little to separate the heat of their two bodies.

  The arch of her foot screamed in joy as she slipped the boot off her heel. It made a whisper against the knee high sheer stocking she'd worn beneath the pants. She straightened, one foot on the floor, her other knee bent since that foot was still propped up on a stiletto. When she dared a quick look over her shoulder, Leland had his arms crossed over his powerful chest, heel hooked around his ankle as he leaned in the kitchen doorway. In that position, his biceps were as big as the jumbo turkey legs they sold at festivals.

  She'd learned those were mostly ham when she'd had to do a freelance piece on the horrors of fair food. The article was pointless in her opinion, since people didn't eat fair food to be healthy, any more than they went to McDonald's to eat a salad. But it had paid that month's light bill.

  The kitchen light was also the entryway light, so it illuminated her but turned his face and body into a formidable silhouette. She wet her lips, intending to say something casual, but he spoke before she could.

  "Now the other one."

  She told herself to say something flippant to alter the mood. Or collect her boot and hobble to the bathroom. She'd change clothes, gulp down her entree and then head out after fifteen minutes of mindless TV watching. Instead she obeyed. She didn't acknowledge to herself that she was doing it purposefully. It was a weird subconscious, conscious thing. Leaning down, she unzipped the other boot. When she straightened he was there, reaching over her shoulder to take it from her hand. He picked up the other boot, placing them tidily by the door. She pivoted to face him and blanched.

  "Holy God, you're tall."

  Humor crossed his expression. "I'm not tall. You're short."

  "It's a good thing you said we're not ever going to have sex. I'm not sure all our parts could align without circus contortions."

  "I'm pretty flexible," he said, unperturbed. "And for a reporter, you don't have a good recollection of detail. I said we're not going to have sex tonight. For sex to be an impossibility between us, the world would have to end tomorrow. Which, if you have some inside knowledge about that, let me know and I'll change the rules. If the world ends tomorrow, everyone should have sex tonight. Including us."

  She laughed, she couldn't help it. Had he sensed she needed that, that things were already too intense? Either way, it emphasized what was unsettling about him as much as it was attracting her. He seemed to be in control of things.

  "Typical male." She picked up her go-bag and moved toward the bathroom. The top of the hallway opening was arched, a pleasing architectural feature for the modest house. As she closed the bathroom door, she heard Leland start the microwave.

  The walls and floor of the bathroom had tiny golden tile likely dating from the sixties, but the space had been updated with current fixtures. Though they had been chosen to accommodate the smaller space, they were efficient and the silver gleamed. Leland Keller kept a clean house, which explained why he hadn't hesitated to invite a woman back to it. It supported her theory that he'd been in the military, and long enough that keeping his surroundings in order had taken permanent root. Former inmates from mental institutions had that tendency as well.

  There was a print on the wall, the title penciled into the matting. "Sunset Over a Wake County Tobacco Field," by artist Micah Mullen. The colors were bright, the shapes geometric, the tobacco plants outlined in black. It was a vivid piece of color against the white walls and seemed to fit the man.

  She washed her face. She had makeup in her go-bag, but her skin was so happy to breathe again she left it that way. She brushed her hair to release it from the brittle hold of the mousse she'd used to tease it up for a clubbing look, then feathered the long top strands over her brow. They fell in a softer framing arc along the right side of her face, the furthest tips reaching her cheekbone. Her hair would be more pleasing to the touch now, and the style enhanced her large hazel eyes, the decently thick lashes.

  She wasn't a great beauty by any means, but she knew how to enhance what she had. Which she shouldn't be doing, because she shouldn't be encouraging things between them. With that thought in mind, she changed into a drawstring skirt, put a long-sleeved, cream-colored tee over it and decided to stick with bare feet, carrying her canvas sneakers in one hand and putting everything else in the go-bag. There. She didn't look sexy anymore. Just Esther Celestial Lewis, the average-looking girl whose only extraordinary feature was her middle name.

  Maybe there was a time she'd felt sorry for herself and yeah, maybe she still had some dysfunctions to work out here and there, but embracing a goal and working her ass off to make it happen had gone a long way to curing the crybaby oh-woe-is-me syndrome. That and working crime stories, where she saw far worse situations, like the Stiles's today. LucyLou, the teen prostitute who'd ended up in a morgue with nothing but a teddy bear bracelet and a race track of needle marks up her arms, would trade lives with Esther Celestial Lewis in a heartbeat. More than that, she'd think herself blessed with good fortune.

  Such thoughts put things in perspective, even if they didn't make her any less of a disaster when it came to relationships, or help free the things inside her she longed to offer someone. The chasm she had between desire and trust made it far more likely she'd wake up a fairy princess than in a decent relationship with a good man.

>   The smell of pasta and tomato sauce cooking made her stomach growl. As she left the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of the bedroom. How he'd managed to squeeze a king-sized mattress through that door was a mystery, but he had a tan quilt over it with a brace of brown, tan and green pillows. It was a bachelor's house, but her female preferences were pleased by the comfortable touches of color. Leland Keller noticed his space and liked making it home. Given what he saw every day in his job, it made sense. Ever since working in deeper, darker places on the streets, she'd paid more attention to her own home environment as well. For him, it was a colorful print on a white wall in a bathroom, or a few earth-toned throw pillows. For her, it was a patio garden of various cheerful flowers she could see from her living area, and a whimsical collection of thimble-sized glass figurines lined up on the window ledge in her kitchen.

  She was tempted to step into his bedroom, see what might be out of view that would tell her more about the man, but she restrained herself. While everyone had a story, not everything in the world was put there for her to tell that story. Even so, she could see the cracked door of his closet, so she let herself imagine what was there. Uniforms, pressed with sharp creases. If she touched them, the fabric would release more of that peppermint scent. His shoes would be lined up on the floor, shiny and ready to go. He'd have a belt or two, and she'd let them slide over her palm. She'd think about him threading one through the loops of his trousers, his long fingers deftly fastening the buckle. When he donned the heavier belt with his weapon over it, he'd likely hook his thumb in the strap, bracing his hand there as he drank his morning coffee and looked down at the day's paper, spread out on the kitchen counter.

  Wondering at herself, she moved back into the living room. The bedroom and bathroom seemed austere, uncluttered, but the crowded furniture in the living area still made sense. A man who enjoyed his sports wasn't going to be deterred by room dimensions when he wanted to stretch out on a recliner or couch and watch the game. She found a bowl of red-and-white mints on the coffee table. A glance into the kitchen showed he had a much larger jar of them in there. So now she knew the source of the peppermint.

  The sofa did look pretty comfortable, as he'd said, with deep cushions on the back and seat. She curled up on the end of it that gave her the best view of the male enigma in the kitchen. He'd put her lasagna on a plate and her salad in a clear glass bowl and was cutting up the tomato over both. "Turn on the TV. It's already set for the sports channel. Beer, ice water or sweet tea?"

  "Homemade tea?"

  "Made by my neighbor, Gilly. Yeah."

  "Is she sweet on you, Sergeant Keller?"

  He chuckled. "You have no current competition, darlin'. She's ninety-two. She keeps threatening me with her granddaughters, but since they don't come check on her anywhere as often as they should, they don't make my A-list."

  "Harsh. Just so you know, I killed my grandmother for her giant inheritance. That way I got the money and didn't have to visit the old bat. A win-win."

  "Efficient."

  "I thought so." She turned on the TV as he brought in the food, set it on the coffee table. Crunchy red peppers and dressing were aligned in their packets on a plate beneath the salad bowl. The Hershey bar was next to the plate. "Gotta say, the service at this restaurant is better than most, Sergeant Keller."

  "Don't forget to tip the waiter."

  She decided to slide onto the floor and tuck her legs under the table to eat, whereas he sat down on the couch. As he dug into the nachos and she started on the lasagna, she noticed his knee was so close that when she leaned forward to take bites of her food, her shoulder touched it. He didn't move away. Neither did she.

  As dates went--if she was calling this a date--she found it was the most pleasant she'd had in quite a while. They swapped comments about play footage, traded opinions about teams and coaching tactics. From the flare of approval in his face, she knew she earned points for showing she not only understood the basics of the game but enjoyed its nuances.

  "Christ. They lost to that fucking bunch of losers? Nobody loses to them. I'll be old as Gilly before the Carolina Panthers have a decent quarterback and coach at the same time."

  Except for LSU, it was the strongest reaction he'd had to any of the pro or college teams. That, and the picture in the bathroom, helped her make an educated guess on his accent. "You're from North Carolina."

  "Yeah. Came from rural tobacco country. Attended NC State after I served in the Marines." Getting up, he disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a BRPD sweatshirt. "Here you go. Gets drafty in these little old houses."

  The cold had just started to penetrate the thin knit she was wearing, so his timing was pleasantly impressive. She put it on, rolling back the sleeves since the garment dwarfed her. When she tackled her food again, she was amused to see he'd put a small handful of loaded nachos on the corner of her plate. She put a forkful of salad on his and laughed at his expression.

  "Those are called vegetables," she said, pointing to the carrots and broccoli. "Tomatoes don't count. They're like ketchup. All food is not meat, cheese or chip."

  "Doesn't mean it shouldn't be. I'd rather have half that candy bar."

  She stuck her tongue out at him but gracefully relinquished half of her dessert to him. He had cooked, after all. When she finished eating, she took her dishes back to the kitchen, then came back to the other end of the couch, curling her feet up under her again and resting her head on one of the throw pillows there. She watched him finish off the nachos and then sit back with his beer, bracing his feet on the scarred coffee table.

  "You can move to your recliner," she said. "I won't think you're rude. Remember, this isn't a date. Just a meal and sports between people with overlapping career choices."

  "Mmm. I like where I am, but thanks." As he lifted his beer to his lips, he curled his other hand over her toes, warmed them with his grip. His thumb passed over her arches, began to knead. She held her breath at the sensation, wondered if she should tell him to stop.

  "I assume a foot massage between people with overlapping career choices is okay," he said.

  "I think it's a gray area. Keep doing it until I decide."

  He smiled around the mouth of the bottle, took another swallow. The scent of the beer was pleasant, a good mix. She was watching the screen, but the food, the time of night and being off her feet were quickly having an effect. Her eyes were getting heavier. She needed to get up, thank him for a place to eat her dinner, and head home. She'd just close her eyes a second, absorb the sensations his stroking and kneading were causing.

  "So what's your experience level, Celeste?" He spoke casually. "Was it too much or not enough of it that had you spooked on the steps?"

  She stilled, but his fingers moved from her foot to her ankle, stroked there. Then along her calf, easy passes like a feather gliding along her skin, just the tips of his fingers. He took his time with it, not seeming to mind that she hadn't yet answered him. He moved to the front, following the line of her shin back to her ankle with his index finger. The skirt was ankle length, but it seemed acutely intimate that he had his hand underneath it. Back up to her calf again, this time going far enough to caress behind her knee, send a thrill of sensation through her thigh, tingling across her buttock. The man had long arms. He could decide to reach up further. Her legs trembled, wanting to shift, to make herself more accessible to him.

  "Celeste? I'd like an answer to my question."

  "I'm not sure I want to talk about that." Yet. Now. Ever. She was caught up in how he was touching her, the way her body was reacting to him. It had been so long since she'd responded to foreplay with anything more than a mix of mild interest and irritation. Her latest hookup, which had been quite some time ago, was only a lukewarm memory. She'd almost been able to hear her body sighing in resignation. Oh, this again. Maybe I won't have to show him how to do everything. Even then it wasn't any more earth-shattering than fantasizing with a vibrator.

  They weren't all
bad lovers. But she hadn't trusted any of them enough to let them be good ones. In contrast, when Leland touched her, it was as if something inside her was waiting with bated breath, immersed in what he was doing, instead of anticipating when she'd have to take control, make it work for both of them.

  He'd said no sex. She needed to remind herself of that, as well as him. But he had such a confident touch. She thought of how he'd looked at her from the kitchen when he'd commanded her to take off the other boot. As well as the way he'd spoken to her in Jai's parking lot and handled things on the porch.

  Plenty of good-looking men were skilled players. Self-assured, they knew how to throw out the alpha card to impress a woman. There wasn't much below the surface of that, though. An in-the-moment strategy to get between a girl's legs couldn't compare to a display of dominance that captured a woman's interest at a far deeper level.

  "Still awake?"

  Her lips curved at the absurdity of that, but she didn't open her eyes. His fingers slid back up her calf, past her knee, to the back of her thigh once more. He kept that easy pace as he continued to caress her legs from feet to mid-thigh and all the terrain in between, learning that part of her body. The more he ignored more intimate places, the more those places woke up, aching and throbbing for touch. She wouldn't ask for that.

  "Your fingers are tight as a baby's fists. Open them up, Celeste."

  She did, slowly, and was rewarded with another stroke from foot to thigh. His thumb slid down the seam between her thighs, to her knees, to her calves. He'd done nothing more than touch her legs, but she could feel the dampness between her legs against the crotch of her panties. She licked her lips and realized her breath was shortening.