Addicted to Love Read online

  Was he teasing her again?

  Part of her — the stupid, starry-eyed part — almost told him they could share the bed It Happened One Night–style. Just the thought of reenacting the classic movie made her heart race with romantic notions. Rachael pressed a hand to her forehead. God, she was a hard case. Totally brainwashed by fairy tales and lippy billboards and the fanciful mush of moonlight and violins and grand gestures.

  Lies. It was all a pack of lies.

  And yet, she yearned for those fairy tales.

  What she needed was a support group. Like alcoholics had. Or overeaters or gamblers. She needed help to talk herself out of these crazy romantic cravings.

  Brody got up from the table, moving a little stiffly. “My bedroom’s downstairs. You can use the adjoining bathroom. I’ll put out one of my T-shirts for you to sleep in and I keep a new toothbrush in the middle drawer, just in case of unexpected visitors.”

  Rachael wondered what that meant. Did he have a lot of unexpected, overnight guests?

  What do you care?

  Right. She didn’t care. His overnight guests were none of her business.

  Thirty minutes later, she emerged from his bathroom, scrubbed clean after her unsavory day in jail. Tomorrow was a new day, an opportunity for a fresh start.

  While she’d been in the shower, Brody had made a pallet on the floor near the door, boxing her in. If she had the urge to make an escape, she’d have to do it through the window. But she had no inclination to run. She might as well be here as anywhere. She’d vandalized the sign. She’d take whatever lumps the judge dished out when she was arraigned. She just hoped Jillian would get to Valentine in time to stand in as her lawyer. She didn’t mind facing the music. She just didn’t want to do it alone.

  Brody was sitting up with his back against the door. Apparently he’d used another bathroom. His hair looked slightly damp from his shower and he had on a pair of pajamas that thankfully revealed very little of the hard body she knew lurked beneath. Knew because she’d felt his muscles when she’d straddled him after they’d fallen off the ladder together.

  She was standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom wearing his University of Texas T-shirt, the hem skimming just above her knees. She watched his gaze drift slowly over her and she realized the light from the bathroom was shining through the material of the thin cotton shirt. He could see straight through it to the outline of her body beneath.

  He moistened his lips.

  Rachael gulped. Quickly, she reached back and flipped off the bathroom light. Brody let out an audible breath.

  The bedcovers were turned back. He’d done that.

  For her.

  The thought made her go all soft and squishy inside.

  Stop it!

  She slid into bed, pulled the sheets up to her neck. Listened to the blood strumming through her ears.

  “Lights out,” he said and flicked off the overhead lamp, dousing them in darkness. In the silence, in the inky black of night, she could hear him breathing. It was a rough, deliciously masculine sound that sent chill bumps up her spine.

  The bedside clock ticked, counting off the seconds until dawn. The pillow smelled of fabric softener, Egyptian cotton, and Brody. The mattress was neither too soft nor too firm. It was just right. She rolled over onto her side. The box springs squeaked.

  Brody coughed.

  Was he as aware of her as she was of him?

  The silence elongated. Awareness stretched from her to him and back again. Then quietly, unexpectedly, he said, “I have a question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  She couldn’t help wondering if he was going to ask her about Trace. Why she’d been foolish enough to get engaged to a man who obviously did not love her. She hoped he didn’t ask that. She didn’t have an answer for it other than she’d been swept away on fairy-tale promises and foolish romantic ideals.

  “How’d you get on top of the billboard?”

  “Oh, that.” Rachael laughed, relieved he hadn’t asked her about Trace. “I climbed on top of the boxcar.”

  “How’d you get on top of the boxcar?”

  “I climbed on the roof of my VW.”

  “The boxcar is parked that close to the sign?”

  “I had to do a bit of jumping,” she admitted.

  “In a wedding dress?”

  “I was pretty determined,” she said.

  “Carrying a can of black paint?”

  “The paint can was on the ground attached to a rope. I had the other end of the rope in my hand. When I got to the billboard, I just hauled the paint up.”

  “You’d thought it out.”

  “I had a four-hundred-mile drive to put it all together.”

  “You were determined.” Was that admiration she heard in his voice?

  “That sign represents all that’s wrong with Valentine.” She rolled onto her back again, tucked her palms underneath her head, and stared up at the ceiling. “It symbolizes the wreck I’ve made of my life due to all the wrong values and starry-eyed beliefs this town instilled in me.”

  “You sure this isn’t just a stress reaction to getting dumped and finding out your parents are getting divorced?”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “How are you feeling about your parents’ divorce?”

  Rachael took a deep breath. Good question. What was she feeling? She lay there letting the emotions flow over her—betrayal, sadness, guilt. Yes, guilt. She couldn’t help thinking that somehow this was all her fault. She should have recognized that all was not right in her parents’ marriage. She should have done something, said something. She should have been more aware of what was going on, not been so self-absorbed.

  “Don’t you think you’re throwing the baby out with the bathwater?” Brody asked. “Romance is what kept this town alive after the oil dried up. There wouldn’t be a Valentine without it.”

  “It might have been a bit rash,” she admitted. “But a bold statement needed to be made. Someone has to take a stand. A balance must be struck.”

  “Is this the argument you’re going to present to Judge Pruitt in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Judge Pruitt is as much in love with Valentine as Kelvin Wentworth. She’s going to throw the book at you.”

  That provoked a knot of worry inside her. “Exactly what does having the book thrown at you entail?”

  “Hours of community service.”

  “Seriously?” The thought panicked her. “How am I going to do hours of community service? I live in Houston. Or at least I did. Before I gave up my apartment to move in with Trace.”

  “Plus you’ll be expected to repair the damage you did to the sign. And there will probably be a hefty fine.”

  “How hefty?” Maybe she should have given a bit more thought to her vandalism spree.

  “Depends on what kind of mood the judge is in. You better hope she had a good vacation.”

  Rachael blew out her breath in relief. “I’ve got a sharp lawyer on the way.”

  “That’s good.”

  They fell silent again.

  “Brody,” she said after a long moment.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “This.”

  “This what?”

  “Bringing me home with you. Not leaving me in jail. I know you’re probably violating all kinds of rules and regulations.”

  “Not too many. Besides, I’m the sheriff. Up to a point I can bend the rules,” he said.

  “I had fun tonight, eating tacos and playing Chutes and Ladders with you and Deana and Maisy.”

  She’d forgotten how much fun it was, spending time with a loving family. She thought of her parents and bit down on her bottom lip. She still couldn’t believe they were getting divorced. Were all the memories of her happy childhood really such a lie? Had sh
e romanticized even that?

  “Hey,” Brody said, interrupting her thoughts. “Don’t thank me. My motives were purely selfish. I didn’t want to sleep on a cot in the jail.”

  “It couldn’t be any worse than the floor.”

  “The floor’s not so bad.”

  “You could get up on the bed. It’s king-sized and I don’t thrash around much.” She didn’t make the offer out of some movieland fantasy. She simply asked because he’d been so nice and she hated the thought of him waking up in the morning all stiff and achy simply because of her.

  “I’m good right here,” he said.

  “Well,” she said, “just in case you wake up in the middle of the night and change your mind, the offer stands. I trust you to be a gentleman.”

  Then Brody said something that took her totally by surprise. “Rachael, you’ve got to stop trusting people so easily.”

  BRODY LAY ON the pallet for hours, listening to the sound of her soft breathing and imagining himself doing all kinds of unprofessional things. Talk about breaking rules and regulations. If a man could be locked up for his sexy thoughts, he’d be in prison for the rest of his life.

  Finally, just when he’d managed to stop thinking about how damned much he wanted to kiss her, touch her, make love to her, and was almost asleep, Rachael bolted upright in bed.

  “Brody, get up!”

  His soldier’s training kicked in and he was instantly alert. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He grappled for his bionic leg in the dark, feeling intensely vulnerable without it on.

  “You have to take me back to the jail right this minute.”

  He fumbled with the leg attachment. All he could see of her in the dark bedroom was the pale glow of the white T-shirt she wore. He wanted to get the leg back on before she turned on the light. “What for?”

  “This can’t be happening.”

  “Tell me what’s happening so I can fix it.”

  “You can’t fix it. You’re what’s happening.”

  Was she talking in her sleep? Puzzled, Brody got his Power Knee in place and hoisted himself to his feet. “Rachael, are you awake?”

  “Wide awake. I haven’t been asleep.”

  Me, either.

  The clock on the bedside table read 11:57. Almost midnight.

  He snapped on the lamp next to the clock and sat down on the mattress beside her. It was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. What was with this illogical protectiveness? Sure, his natural male instinct prompted him to take care of a woman in need. But this was something different. Something more.

  He was a sheriff; she’d been booked on vandalism. He could not allow himself to touch her in any way except in the course of duty. Cradling her to vanquish night terrors didn’t come under that heading.

  But dammit, he wanted to touch her. He wanted her to rest her head on his shoulder. He longed to trace his fingers over her throat, then trail lower to the curve of her breast and the flat of her belly and that soft, sweet spot between her legs.

  Silently, he cursed himself. Good old-fashioned chemistry had knocked the wind out of him with this one.

  She stared at him.

  Brody saw panic in her eyes.

  “I gotta get out of here,” she said, throwing back the covers.

  “Shh, settle down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You. You’re what’s wrong.”

  “I’m not following your reasoning.”

  “You. Me. This.”

  “Is it that meeting cute thing again?”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “This is much worse. This is the romantic equation.”

  “Romantic equation?” Could people talk in their sleep with their eyes open?

  “You know. It’s like in Sleepless in Seattle where Sam has lost his beloved wife and he believes lightning doesn’t strike twice. That he’ll never love again. Meanwhile Annie is looking for lightning. It’s the romantic equation between the two of them. They both lack something that only the other can provide. They balance each other out. Meg Ryan’s character can give Tom Hanks’s character back his belief in love and Tom can give Meg the lightning she’s been searching for.”

  “I didn’t see the movie.”

  Rachael looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second nose. “You never saw Sleepless in Seattle?”

  “Is that a sin?”

  “It’s just the best romantic movie ever made. I’ve seen it twenty-seven times,” she said.

  He struggled not to notice that her nipples were poking right through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Or how much she smelled like his sandalwood soap and minty toothpaste. “I can tell.”

  “Omigod.” She splayed a palm to her forehead. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Acting as if movie romances are real.”

  “Yep.”

  She took a deep breath and met his eyes. “I’m sorry I panicked and woke you up over something as silly as a romantic equation. You’re right. We don’t have a romantic equation. How could we? That’s the movies, this is real life. Right?”

  “You’re thinking we have one of these romantic equations?”

  “No. Not anymore. You set me straight. Thanks.”

  “So theoretically, if we were in a movie and we did have one of these romantic equations, what would ours be?” It was a dumb thing to ask, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  “I’m lacking a hero in my life and you’re a real hero. While you, on the other hand, are lacking a romantic soul and I’m romantic clean through to my bones.”

  “I suppose you had a romantic equation with those other guys who left you at the altar.” It bothered Brody to think about those other guys.

  “Actually, no. Maybe that’s what was wrong with my other relationships. Maybe they were Bellamys.”

  “What are Bellamys?”

  “In the romantic comedies of the forties and fifties there was an actor named Ralph Bellamy. He seemed like the right guy for the heroine. At least on the surface. But really he wasn’t a match for her and she couldn’t see it until the hero came into her life.”

  “You’re doing it again,” he said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Mixing up movies with real life.”

  Rachael looked chagrined. “I am, aren’t I.”

  “You have no worries where I’m concerned,” Brody said. “I’m not your man. I’m a complete cynic when it comes to love. Now go back to sleep. You’ve got a judge to face in the morning.”

  Then just as he had settled back down on his pallet, he heard her whisper, “But Brody, what if being a cynic is your half of our romantic equation?”

  Chapter Five

  By six the next morning, Rachael was back in her jail cell and in her paint-stained wedding gown waiting for her audience with the judge. Brody had cooked them fried-egg sandwiches for breakfast while Deana and Maisy slept.

  He never brought up what they’d discussed in the middle of the night. For that, she was grateful and she prayed he hadn’t heard that extra little bit she’d whispered to him in the dark.

  The wedding veil lay folded neatly on the cement-slab bench beside her. Lightly, she picked up the fragile veil and fingered it, remembering the day she and her three friends had found it in that strange little consignment shop in Houston.

  It was a floor-length mantilla style made of delicate rose pointe lace that had captivated Delaney. She’d been on the verge of marrying the wrong man when she found it. Both Tish and Jillian had been skeptical of the veil. But Rachael had been as enraptured by its romantic legend as Delaney.

  According to the lore, long ago in Ireland there had lived a beautiful young witch named Morag who possessed a great talent for tatting incredible lace. People came from far and wide to buy the lovely wedding veils she created, but there were other women in the community who were envious of Morag’s beauty and talent.

  These women lied and told the magistrate that Morag was casting spells on the men of the village. The magistrate
arrested Morag, but found himself falling madly in love with her. Convinced that she must have cast a spell upon him as well, he moved to have her tried for practicing witchcraft. If found guilty, she would be burned at the stake. But in the end, the magistrate could not resist the power of true love.

  On the eve before Morag was to stand trial, he kidnapped her from the jail in the dead of night and spirited her away to America, giving up everything he knew for her. To prove that she had not cast a spell over him, Morag promised never to use magic again. As her final act of witchcraft, she made one last wedding veil, investing it with the power to grant the deepest wish of the wearer’s soul. She wore the veil on her own wedding day, wishing for true and lasting love. Morag and the magistrate were blessed with many children and much happiness. They lived to a ripe old age and died in each other’s arms.

  “Baloney, rubbish, crap,” Rachael muttered underneath her breath, although her heart still ached to believe in the magic of the wedding veil.

  Delaney had wished on the veil to get out of marrying the wrong man and in the end, she’d found her heart’s desire in her soul mate, Nick Vinetti.

  Then Delaney had passed the veil on to Tish.

  Tish wished to get out of debt, and the granting of that wish had brought her back together with the husband she’d lost but had never stopped loving.

  And Tish had passed the veil on to Rachael.

  And there, the fairy tales had ended.

  On Saturday, the day she was to marry Trace Hoolihan, Rachael hadn’t wished on the veil because she thought she didn’t need it. Everything was already perfect. She’d been such an idiot.

  She snorted and glared at the veil. Look how things had turned out. The very opposite of perfection. A punch of sorrow and regret pummeled her stomach and she drew her knees up to her chest. Not only had the day been horrible, but her life had gone distinctly downhill ever since.

  Now, here she was, all alone, awaiting criminal mischief charges, and she was guilty as sin.

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She dropped her forehead in her hands. She would not cry. She refused to cry. Trace was not worth her tears.

  Her fingers tingled against the lace. What if she were to wish on the veil? Would anything happen?