Addicted to Love Read online

  “Rachael’s in custody,” Brody explained. “Zeke’s with Mia and the baby and my jailers are out of town. I couldn’t leave her locked up alone.”

  “You,” Deana said to Rachael. “You’re the one who defaced the Valentine billboard.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Rachael said proudly.

  “The whole town’s buzzing about it. Some old-timers even want to hang you, but I want to shake your hand.” Deana thrust out her palm to Rachael. “I’ve wanted to take an ax to that damned billboard for years. You go, girl. Down with romance.”

  Brody noticed Rachael’s checks flushed pink with pleasure as she shook his sister’s hand.

  “Don’t encourage her,” Brody growled to Deana. “She broke the law.”

  Deana eyed Rachael’s wedding dress. “I’m guessing there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Dumped at the altar,” Rachael said.

  “Hey, consider yourself blessed you narrowly escaped,” Deana said. “I’m going through a wicked divorce and Maisy’s the only good thing to have come out of that mess.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your divorce,” Rachael said. “My parents are getting divorced. After twenty-seven years.”

  “You’re Michael and Selina Henderson’s daughter, right? You used to live next door to us on Downey Street,” Deana said. “I babysat you and your sister, Hannah, a time or two before we moved to Midland.”

  “Uh-huh.” Rachael nodded.

  “You wanna get out of that dress?”

  “I don’t have anything else to put on. I left Houston without my bags.”

  “Don’t worry,” Deana said. “We’re about the same size. I’ve probably got something you can wear.”

  “That’d be wonderful.”

  “Here.” Deana shoved the spatula into Brody’s hand. “Don’t let the hamburger meat burn.”

  He stepped to the stove to scramble the browning hamburger meat around in the pan as Deana took Rachael’s arm and led her from the kitchen, Maisy trailing in their wake.

  Fifteen minutes later, they trooped back downstairs. Brody had already set the taco meat in the middle of the dining room table along with toasted corn tortilla shells, diced tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and grated cheese.

  He looked up to see Rachael dressed in a pair of his sister’s skintight blue-jean shorts, a skimpy, navel-baring sleeveless T-shirt, and a pair of white mules that showed off her toenails, painted a racy shade of scarlet. He could tell from the way she was tugging at the hem of the shorts that she wasn’t accustomed to wearing the sort of daring clothes Deana preferred. His sister didn’t own anything conservative and Rachael was stuck with the sexy outfit. And right now, Brody was glad. Rachael had also brushed her hair and it lay in smooth, gentle curls around her shoulders.

  Wow! His libido lunged like a pit bull on a chain, desperate to be unleashed. Just looking at her was an exquisite form of torment.

  She caught his eye and her cheeks pinked. That’s when Brody realized he’d been staring. Openly. Hungrily.

  Quickly, she looked away.

  He sank down at the head of the dinner table and Rachael sat at the opposite end. He said grace, and everyone ducked their heads, except Brody. He didn’t look down and he didn’t close his eyes. Irreverently, he watched Rachael when his mind should have been on the prayer.

  In the wedding dress, she’d been safe, untouchable — a bride on her wedding day. He’d felt the first burst of sexual attraction when she’d ended up straddling him at the bottom of the ladder, but mostly his feelings had alternated between pity, amusement, and minor irritation.

  But what he was feeling now was a horse of a different color.

  Her arms were bare and her legs were bare, her creamy skin exposed. He saw too much sweet flesh. The blood surging through his body told him this was a dangerous thing.

  So was the sudden fire burning inside his groin as he watched her tilt her head, lift a taco to her mouth, and crunch into it with ladylike gusto.

  The sight of her sweet, pink tongue unraveled something inside him. Something he’d kept wound up tight for a very long time. Something he feared he might never feel again.

  Flaming hot lust.

  Brody didn’t like what he was feeling, but it was too damned strong to deny.

  Chapter Four

  Giada Vito was taking her evening power walk around Valentine Lake with one-pound dumbbells clutched in her hands when a man stepped out of the shadows of a hundred-year-old pecan tree.

  “Aren’t you skinny enough?”

  She startled at the sound of the deep, threatening masculine voice that accompanied the hulking figure suddenly looming on the path in front of her. The weights could double as a weapon and she had pepper spray clipped to her belt. She’d lived in Valentine for fifteen years, but she’d been born in Rome, Italy. You’d never catch Giada leaving her doors unlocked or her keys in the car or her pepper spray in a drawer.

  Raising her left hand, she cocked the dumbbell, ready to fling it if he gave her cause. Dropping the weight in her right hand, she went for the pepper spray on her hip, like a gunslinger at the O.K. Corral going for his six-gun.

  He was the size of a bodybuilder, big and menacing, with an oversized cowboy hat tilted back on his slick, shaved head and a shark’s deadly blue-eyed stare. He was dressed in a blue seersucker suit and he stood with the arrogant air of the privileged.

  She recognized him then, but that didn’t make her lower the weight or put the pepper spray back into her belt: Kelvin Wentworth in all his cocky, strutting glory.

  “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard. Anyone ever tell you that men like women with a few curves?”

  “Anyone ever tell you to go screw yourself?” she replied tartly.

  Kelvin laughed.

  “What are you doing here?” She sniffed, pretending a courage she didn’t feel. “You don’t look like you’ve taken up power walking.”

  “I came to see you.” He smiled and the smile scared her more than a frown.

  “What for?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Wanna set that weight down? I have a feeling you’re just waiting for an excuse to bean me.”

  “My mother always said to trust your instincts,” she replied. “And my instincts are telling me you’re up to something.”

  He laughed again. “Sharp cookie. That’s one thing I like about you, Vito.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Too bad that I don’t like anything about you, Wentworth.”

  “How did this feud between us ever get started?”

  “Feud?” She feigned ignorance.

  “Come on. We both know you’re only running for mayor to piss me off. What I don’t know is why.”

  “Is it working?” She batted her eyelashes. “Am I pissing you off?”

  “I find you . . . ” His gaze raked over her body in a look so intimidating, Giada almost shivered. “Amusing.”

  “Would this little visit have anything to do with the fact that I am beating the pants off you in the polls?” She arched an eyebrow and wondered why she was having trouble catching her breath. She could walk a mile in twelve minutes. Her lung capacity was that of a highly trained marathon runner. She had no reason to feel breathless.

  “Beating my pants off? Only in your dreams.”

  Fury burned her cheeks.

  “Come on. Let’s sit down and have a civilized discussion.” Kelvin reached out and took hold of her arm, pulling her toward a wrought-iron picnic bench positioned beneath the pecan tree.

  “Hands off,” Giada exclaimed and swung at him with the dumbbell.

  But Kelvin ducked and the weight swished harmlessly through the air. The big man was quicker than he looked. He clamped a hand around her wrist and wrenched the dumbbell away from her. “Settle down a minute, Spitfire.”

  “Hmph. I show you spitfire,” she said, struggling against him, the English she’d perfected slipping in the heat of the moment.

  “I just wanna talk.” He maneuvered
her toward the picnic bench. “And if you depress the nozzle on that pepper spray, believe me, you’re going to live to regret it. But be a good girl and maybe you and I can cut a deal.”

  She stopped fighting and slid a glance at him from the corner of her eye. Her interest was piqued. This sounded like a man on the ropes and desperate to get back on his feet before the bell rang. Curiosity got the better of her and she followed him to the bench.

  He dusted leaves and errant pecan hulls off the seat with a sweep of his hand. She hadn’t expected such a chivalrous gesture, but then he had to go and ruin it all by commanding, “Sit.”

  The contrary part of her wanted to argue, but common sense told her to pick her battles. She sat.

  “Now isn’t this much better?” he said, plopping down beside her. “Two politicians sitting down for a nice chat.”

  “A scenario that strikes terror in the hearts of voters,” Giada observed archly.

  He grinned. “Water?” He surprised her by pulling a small bottle of Evian out of his jacket pocket. “It’s important to stay well-hydrated.”

  “I have my own,” she said, determined not to take anything from him. She fished an identical bottle of water from her fanny pack.

  He held his water bottle up and nodded.

  In unison they twisted off the tops of their respective water bottles and drank. It was almost like a perverse toast. She found the idea unsettling.

  To be honest, she found Kelvin Wentworth unsettling.

  “So Giada . . . ” He paused. “Is it okay if I call you Giada?”

  “I prefer Ms. Vito.” She straightened her back. It wouldn’t do to let him get too familiar.

  “Of course you do, Giada,” he continued, his eyes narrowing. “Just what in the hell is your beef with me?”

  “Other than the fact you’re a narcissistic drama king who thinks the entire town revolves around him?”

  “That wounds me deeply,” he said, and splayed a hand over his chest, but the expression on his face told her he had the hide of a rhino. “Everything I do is for the benefit of this town.”

  “Ah,” she said. “A self-delusional, narcissistic drama king.”

  Kelvin surprised her by throwing back his head and letting out a roar of laughter.

  “What’s so damned funny?” She glared.

  “You,” he said. “You look so feisty with your hands cocked and your knees bent like you’re gonna take a swing at me.”

  “That’s funny?”

  “I’m more than twice your size.”

  “And that’s something to brag about? You should look into Lean Cuisine. The baked chicken is quite tasty.”

  “I’m big all over.” He wriggled his eyebrows, his innuendo clear.

  Refusing to rise to the bait, Giada bit down on her tongue.

  “You know,” he said, “you and I could become friends.”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  “Or we could skip the friendship and go straight to lovers.” His eyes drilled into hers. There was no missing the sexual interest.

  “I’d rather poke my eyes out with a rusty knife.”

  “You say that now,” he said, getting to his feet, “but that’s only because I haven’t kissed you yet.”

  He moved toward her.

  Giada reached for the pepper spray again but was dismayed to find it was not housed in the clip at her waist.

  “Looking for this?” He waggled the small spray can in front of her.

  “Bastard,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that if you’re hoping to rile me up,” he said.

  Giada glared and tried to stare him down, but he wasn’t going along with it. Instead, he was grinning at her like one of her unruly students. His gaze slid over her warm as hot fudge over homemade vanilla ice cream.

  An edgy warm sensation, thrilling and unexpected, rolled through her. She snatched the pepper spray from his hand, stuffed it into the clip, grabbed up her dumbbells, and walked away as fast as she could, while the sound of his wickedly sexual chuckle rang in her ears.

  FOLLOWING A DINNER filled with an undercurrent of sexual tension that Rachael hoped no one else could detect, she helped Deana wash dishes. Brody was a handsome man, no doubt. But she wasn’t in any position to be thinking romantic thoughts. In fact, ridiculous romantic thoughts were the very things that had landed her in this mess.

  Once she and Deana had finished cleaning the kitchen, Maisy begged the three adults to play Chutes and Ladders with her at the dining room table.

  When she had been Maisy’s age, Chutes and Ladders had been Rachael’s favorite board game. Her parents had dubbed Sunday family game night when she and her sister, Hannah, were growing up. It was a tradition she’d hoped to continue with her own children. The children she’d dreamed of having with Trace.

  Dreams died hard.

  Misery pushed into Rachael’s throat and she swallowed back the bitter taste of it as her game piece ended up on a chute and she slid all the way down, landing at the beginning square.

  “Ha!” Maisy gloated. “Start over!”

  “Maisy,” her mother chided. “Don’t be rude.”

  “What?” The child shrugged and tried to look innocent, but ultimately, she was unable to hide her mischievous grin.

  “It’s not nice to take joy in the misfortune of others, Missy. Next turn you might be right at the bottom of the chute alongside Rachael.”

  That’s me, bottom of the chute. Starting over yet again.

  Roll the dice. Take a chance. End up right back where you started. Story of her life. From now on she was finished with rolling the dice, taking chances, starting over. She was tired, discouraged, and fed up with romance.

  “Your turn,” Brody said.

  “Huh?” She was so wrapped up in thinking about how sexy his forearms looked with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up she hadn’t heard what he said.

  She felt the heat of his gaze on her face and her cheeks heated. She rolled the dice without looking over at him, but her cheeks stayed strangely warm. One thing you could say about being back at the beginning, you couldn’t fall down any more chutes. Not until you ventured out from home base, put your heart on the line all over again.

  But she was done with putting her heart on the line. It hurt too damned much to have your hopes dashed again and again.

  Maisy ended up winning the game. Brody came in second, Deana third, and Rachael a distant fourth. But of course. She’d landed on twice as many chutes as ladders.

  Maisy interlaced her fingers, raised her arms, and walked around the room shaking her clasped hands over her head like a cocky, triumphant prizefighter.

  Deana rolled her eyes. “Sorry for the poor sportsmanlike conduct,” she apologized to Rachael. “When it comes to competition, Maisy takes after her father.”

  “No need to apologize. She’s just passionate about the game,” Rachael said.

  “Let’s play again.” Maisy hopped up and down beside the table.

  “No way,” her mother replied and tickled her under the rib cage. “The competition is too stiff.”

  Maisy giggled.

  “Come on, Muffin.” Deana ruffled her daughter’s hair. “It’s time for bed.”

  “Aw, Mom, can we please play just one more game?” Maisy pleaded.

  “Well,” Brody said and stretched out his long arms. “I’ve had enough ladder climbing for one day.”

  Rachael raised her head.

  He caught her eye and winked. An inside joke. He was sharing an inside joke with her. A clutch of something dangerous hooked somewhere in the general vicinity of her heart.

  Stop it.

  But no matter how much she scolded herself, Rachael couldn’t prevent her gaze from taking him in. Brody Carlton wasn’t a man you could easily ignore. She was so busy staring at him, in fact, she barely noticed when Maisy said good night as Deana led her upstairs for her bedtime rituals.

  Brody was still
dressed in his sheriff’s uniform, looking every inch the public servant, except for the turned-up sleeves. He watched her. She could see him sizing her up in that calculating, sheriff-y way of his.

  A shaft of light slanting in from the kitchen threw a shadow over his profile. His hair was the color of maple syrup, his eyes equally as dark. He looked serious, dutiful, manly. On alert, forever on guard.

  Rachael’s heart fluttered and she had to dig her fingernails into her palms to remind herself where she was and how she’d gotten here.

  He consulted his watch. “It’s nine-thirty. You ready for bed?”

  Those words, spoken in his rich, deep, masculine voice, sent perilous mental pictures clicking through her brain. She imagined him leading her upstairs to his bedroom and kissing her with those hot, firm lips as his nimble fingers undressed her. She thought about peeling his shirt over his head, exposing his bare chest, running her fingers along the taut muscular ridges.

  “Who, me?” she squeaked.

  “It’s a little early, I know,” he said. “But I get up at five every morning.”

  “So go on to bed.” She waved a hand. “I’m a night owl.”

  “That’s not going to work. You’re my prisoner.”

  “And that means . . . ”

  “You sleep when I sleep, wake up when I wake up.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep.” He gave her a look that sent all the blood rushing to her pelvis.

  “Where will I be sleeping?”

  “In my bed.”

  “What?” The word flew out of Rachael’s mouth in a breathless gasp.

  “Don’t look so panic-stricken.” An amused smile curled his lips. He was enjoying teasing her. “I’ll be sleeping on the floor.”

  She felt her heart slip and slide right down into her shoes. “No. No way.”

  “Those are the rules,” he said. “You’re in my custody. Unless you’d rather go back to the jail.”

  “I can’t let you sleep on the floor in your own home,” she said. “I’ll take the floor.”

  “Hey, when I was in Iraq I dreamed of sleeping on my own floor. It’s a privilege.”