Текст книги "Busted"

Автор книги: Shiloh Walker

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter One

Week One

The first time Trey Barnes saw her it caught him by surprise.

Not because he knew her.

Not because of anything she did.

But because it had been almost six years since a woman had caused this kind of reaction in him.

Six years.

So it was a punch in the gut when he walked into the main branch of the Norfolk library for the kid’s reading program and saw her. His tongue all but glued itself to the roof of his mouth and his brain threatened to do a slow meltdown.

The woman was kneeling down in the middle of a circle of kids, a smile on her face. Her mouth was slicked wine red, and he suddenly found himself dying of thirst.

It had also been almost six years since he’d touched a drop of alcohol, but in that moment, he found himself imagining a glass of wine. Wine . . . wine red lips, wine red sheets and the two of them stretched out on a bed as he ran his hands over that warm, lovely brown skin.

“Come on, Daddy!” Clayton jerked on his hand. “Let’s go! I want to go play.”

His son’s voice dragged him out of the fantasy, rich and lush as it was, and he shook his head a little to clear it. A heavy fullness lingered in his loins and he was glad he’d gotten used to looking like a bum. The untucked shirt had fit him well enough when he bought it years ago, but the weight he’d lost after Aliesha’s death had stayed off, so the shirt hung loose on his rangy frame. Loose enough that he figured it would hide the hard-on that had yet to subside.

A few minutes surrounded by chattering preschoolers ought to do it.

Clayton let go of his hand as he got closer and Trey reached up, nudging his sunglasses firmly into place. As he’d retreated further and further into hermit mode, fewer people recognized him, but he rarely went anywhere without something to hide his face. Between the hair he rarely remembered to cut and the sunglasses, people often looked right past him these days.

A shrill shriek split the air as two kids started to fight over a book.

That’s going to do it, he mused. Blood that had burned so hot a minute before dropped back into the normal zone.

Only to jump right back up into the danger zone.

Miz Sexy Librarian had crossed to the kids and now stood in front of them, her back to him.

And fuck . . . her voice was a wet dream.

“Now I know you two weren’t raised to treat books that way. Do you do that at home?”

Two pint-sized little blond heads tipped back to stare up at her. Trey barely noticed them, because his gaze was riveted on the plump, round curve of her ass. How could he not notice that ass? She wore a long, skinny skirt that went down a few inches below her knees and her stockings were the kind with a seam that ran up the back of her legs.

He passed a hand over his mouth.

Hell of a way to realize he could still get aroused—in the middle of the children’s section of the very public, very busy, Norfolk library. Gritting his teeth, he focused on the ceiling. Would counting sheep help?

“Hello.”

That whiskey-smooth drawl was like a silken hand stroking down his back . . . or other things. He cleared his throat. Speak, dumb-ass.

“Hi!”

Saved by the Clayton-meister.

Mentally blowing out a breath, he watched as his son rocked back and forth on his heels, smiling up at the woman.

“Are you here for the program?” she asked.

“I am!” Clayton stuck out his hand. “I’m Clay. I love books. My dad tells me stories. All the time. Sometimes he even makes them up. He gets paid to do that, too.”

Despite the total insanity of the moment, Trey found himself biting back a laugh.

That boy, in so many ways, had been a bright and strong light in what would have been nothing but a pit of misery for far too long.

*   *   *

Oh, honey . . . come to Mama.

Ressa Bliss would have been licking her chops if she had been anywhere remotely private.

Long, almost too lean, with a heavy growth of stubble and a mouth made for kissing, biting . . . other things . . .

He wore a dark pair of glasses that hid too much of his face and she wanted to reach up, pull them off.

Because she wanted so much to do that, she focused on the boy instead.

She shook his hand, much of what he’d just said running together in her head. She’d caught his name, though. “Well, hello, Clay. It’s lovely to meet you.”

He grinned at her, displaying a tooth that looked like it might fall out at any second—literally—she thought it might be hanging in there by luck alone.

Clay caught the man’s hand in his and leaned against him. “This is my daddy.”

She slid Mr. Beautiful a look. “Hello, Clay’s daddy.”

He gave her a one-sided smile. “Hi.” Then he crouched in front of his son. “So. Program lasts for fifty minutes. I’ll be over in the grown-ups area if you need me.”

“That area is boring.” Clay wrinkled up his nose.

“Well, if I stay here, I’ll just play.” A real grin covered his face now and Ressa felt her heart melt. Since he was distracted, she shot a look at his hands—ring? Did he have one?

Crap. Some sort of gloves covered his hands from knuckle to well up over his wrists. No way to tell.

Clay leaned in and wrapped his arms around his father’s neck. “Love you.”

And her heart melted even more as he turned his face into his son’s neck. “Love you, too, buddy. Have fun.”

A man like that was most certainly not unattached.

But she still stole one last, quick glance as he walked away.

The back was every bit as fine as the front.

Chapter Two

Week Eleven

Just breathe, man.

That had become his mantra any time he was even in the general area of the library.

Trey sometimes felt like Pavlov’s dog or something, but instead of salivating every time he heard a damn bell, he got hard every time he was close to the library. Didn’t matter if he went inside, didn’t matter if he knew she was here.

Because he was used to seeing her here.

Which was why he was now in the condition he was in. He’d gone for a run, but not anywhere around home. No. He’d come downtown. Close to the library and as he crossed onto Ocean View, he caught sight of the sun shining off the glass and, right on cue, his gaze locked in on the second floor, the children’s library, where she worked.

And predictably, his blood started to pump harder and hotter. It didn’t have jack to do with the fact that he was two miles into his run, or that it was barely ten o’clock and it was already pushing up on ninety degrees out.

He found his feet slowing down, an idea spinning through his mind.

He could go inside.

The air conditioning would feel good.

No, he didn’t have Clayton with him, but he could wander around. Maybe wander upstairs, say hi . . . let one thing lead to another.

If the opportunity presented itself, would it hurt to ask her out for coffee sometime? Maybe dinner?

If he had an hour or so alone with her, maybe he could take a chance and see if he could do the one thing he’d been dying to do for almost three months now.

Take that lush, sexy mouth with his, tug that amazing body close—

Feel her moving against him . . .

And then the same thing will happen that happens whenever a woman touches you. Your brain is going to lock down and your dick is going to play dead, just like always.

Closing his eyes, he turned away.

Yeah.

Better to just keep things in fantasy land.

But hey, at least he had fantasy land back.

That was better than nothing . . . right?

*   *   *

“That is him, right?”

All but pressing her nose to the glass, Ressa jabbed her elbow into Farrah’s . . . err . . . boob? That’s what happened when your best friend kept jabbering on in your ear and stood about four inches shorter than you. “Hush,” she said irritably, watching as the muscled back, barely covered by a threadbare, heather gray tank top started to pound down the sidewalk, the runner moving at a sharp angle—away from the library.

“Ress!”

Heaving out a sigh, she looked over at her best friend.

“I couldn’t see his face.”

“Nobody can ever see his face. The man seems to have two looks. Either his hair is in his face or he’s hiding behind those glasses.” Farrah pursed her lips. “Maybe he’s a criminal.”

“Get out.” Annoyed, Ressa nibbled on her lower lip and went back to looking out the window. Not that she could see him any longer. But man, what she wouldn’t give for another few minutes to stare.

That man had a body on him, for real. Skin stretched tight over long, rangy muscles, and while she had a weird need to feed him a sandwich—or ten, that long and lean look fit him. And the tattoo . . . She hadn’t been able to make out what it was, but it was something dark and dense and it appeared to cover his entire back.

Echoing her thoughts, Farrah murmured, “You saw the tattoo, right? I wonder what it is.”

“Hmmm.” Out of habit, Ressa traced the triquetra inked on her chest between her breasts. “Oh, yeah. I saw it.”

Farrah snorted. “So, let me guess, you still haven’t gotten his name, have you?”

Ressa moved away from the window. “Don’t you work? You’re the big gun around here. You should be doing whatever they pay you the big bucks for, not bugging me.”

“How is it possible that you still haven’t gotten his name?” Farrah ignored her completely.

“I don’t know!” She winced as several of the kids in the area looked up at her. Lowering her voice, she shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like he . . . he . . . he’s tormenting me. I’ve tried every way other than just outright saying, Buddy, just what is your name? Nothing subtle works.”

“Why don’t you ask him outright?”

Ressa moved to the cart. “You know, even if you don’t have work to do, I do. I like my job.” She sniffed. It was summer and that meant more kids in the library, more kids reading . . . the summer reading program . . . man, if she survived another summer of it, she considered herself lucky.

“Obviously. That’s the only reason you’re here,” Farrah said, lifting a brow. “It’s not like you have to be.”

Ressa ignored that comment.

“You didn’t answer me. Why don’t you ask him? And hey . . . just bite the bullet and ask him out on a date?”

It’s too obvious. She kept that answer behind her teeth. Then, with a sidelong look at her boss, she lifted a shoulder. “I just . . .” She grabbed a couple of books and went to shelve them, pausing as she studied one. “I can’t explain it. He’s crazy hot. He’s crazy sexy. But something is holding me back.”

“You’re not a timid woman, Ressa. What gives?”

Unable to explain, she displayed the book to Farrah. “Did you read these as a kid?”

“Boxcar Children.” Farrah smiled. “Oh, yeah. That was more my speed than the crazy psycho bunny you love so much.”

“I’ll have you know that the psycho bunny is very popular with a lot of readers.”

“Yeah.” Farrah picked up a few books. “The weird ones. And you’re in dodge-mode, girl.”

“No. I’m in I don’t know what’s up mode. There’s a difference. But since I haven’t been able to find it in me to make a move, then I’m not going to push it.” She slid the first two books in the series up on the shelf. They were probably only going to go out another few times before they had to be replaced. They were getting pretty worn. “If it ever feels right, I’ll know.”

“If you say so.” Farrah heaved out a sigh. “I’ve been wondering . . . Mr. Hot and Sexy—”

“Mr. Hot and Sexy?” Ressa cut in, amused.

“He’s gotta have a name,” Farrah said, a smile curving her lips. She wore bronze lipstick today—a bronze that almost perfectly matched her silk shirt, and the color glowed warmly against toffee brown skin. “Tell me, does he look at all familiar to you?”

Ressa stopped and stared at Farrah. “You, too?”

Arching a black brow, Farrah pursed her lips. Then she nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yeah. That’s a yes.” She huffed out a breath and grabbed another book, slid it on the shelf below the Boxcar books. “I just can’t figure out why. You?”

“Nope. I was kind of hoping you’d tell me he reminded you of some hot football player or something.”

“As if.” Ressa snorted out a laugh. “Like I know the Cowboys from the Orioles.”

“You moron.” Farrah bumped her with her hip. “The Orioles play baseball.”

“See? That’s just what I mean!”

“Hopeless. You’re hopeless.” Farrah sighed. Then she pushed away from the cart. “So . . . anyway. The main reason I came here?”

Ressa glanced over at her and then turned, recognizing that glint in her friend’s eyes. “Yeah?”

“I just got this, right when I was getting ready to head to lunch.” Farrah brandished her phone.

The name practically leaped from the screen. It was a book cover—she knew that because she recognized the author’s name.

The cover was pale green. The woman on it was mostly naked, save for the miniscule panties that covered the important bits, and her breasts were covered by her arm.

She also wore a tie. One incongruously patterned with bright pink smile faces that matched the bright pink font of the author’s name.

Exposing the Geek Billionaire.

Muffling a squeal, she tapped on it.

Nothing.

“What?”

Farrah chortled as she nabbed the phone back.

“It’s just the cover . . . there was a big reveal on one of the romance blogs, Ress. It’s due out in early fall. But I thought you’d wanna know. So you have something to check out on your lunch break. Maybe it will distract you from Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed.”

Ressa barely acknowledged the change in names, just giving Farrah a cursory scowl. Mr. Hot, Sexy, and Tattooed might work.

“You gotta call him something.”

Ressa already did call him something. But she wasn’t sharing her mental nickname for him with her boss.

Chapter Three

Week Twenty-six

“You look tired.”

Trey jerked up his head, realizing he’d been this close to falling sleep. With his laptop open in his lap. In the middle of the children’s area.

Ressa Bliss stood in front of him, Clayton holding her hand and swinging it back and forth.

“Did you bring it in, Dad? Did you bring it in?” He let go of her hand to launch himself toward Trey.

Habit had him catching the boy easily even as he looked up at Ressa through dark lenses. “Yeah,” he said, wishing he had about a gallon of coffee to guzzle. “Have had a few late nights . . . trying to catch up on work before we fly out to California later this week.”

“We’re gonna see Grandma for Mother’s Day!” Clayton chirped. Then he grabbed Trey’s messenger bag and hauled it up, dumping it onto the low table. “Where is it, Dad? Where is it?”

It was a gift.

Mother’s Day was on Sunday. It had been one rough week.

She said we were making presents for our moms . . . Daddy, I don’t have a mommy anymore and I was making it for Grandma and she said I wasn’t listening, but I didn’t want to tell her what happened and she kept trying to make me start all over . . .

Well, she sure as hell had listened to Trey. Sometimes he wondered what was wrong with people. It was very clearly marked in Clayton’s records that his mother had passed away—if they weren’t going to look at those records, why did they ask?

They’d finished up their crafts with Clayton working on his project that he’d give to Denise, his grandmother. He’d been so pleased with it, they’d hit one of the local craft stores and bought kits to make little clay paperweights for all of his grandparents, but he’d wanted to make something special for Ressa, too.

When Trey had pushed him on why, Clayton had just shrugged.

Everybody has a mommy who smells good and is pretty and tells them stories . . .

I tell you stories, man. Are you saying I stink?

Clayton had laughed. But then that sad look came back into his eyes. Miss Ressa read a book about a little girl who’d lost her mama. There was a lady who lived next door who the girl was friends with. Miss Ressa told us that sometimes people don’t have mamas . . . or daddies . . . but they still have people who love them. Maybe . . . You think maybe she loves me?

The kid could cut his heart out sometimes.

So there was another clay paperweight.

Trey rubbed the back of his neck as Clayton turned, clutching it in small hands as he looked up at Ressa. He opened his mouth, nervous, then shut it. Then he shoved it out at her. “Here!” he blurted. “I made it for you. I . . . I wanted you to have it.”

Ressa looked down, puzzled.

And then, as her face softened, Trey felt something wrench inside his heart.

“Oh . . .”

She sank to her knees. A smile curved up her lips and he was struck, straight to the heart, by how beautiful she was. Something came over him and it wasn’t that gut-twisting lust. It wasn’t that blood-boiling need that would never end in anything but frustration and humiliation.

It was something . . . more.

Something maybe even better.

A weight he hadn’t realized he still carried lifted inside him and he found he was smiling himself as she reached out, but instead of taking it from Clayton, she cupped her hands under his, steadying the oddly shaped heart the child had molded himself. “Wow,” she said, her voice husky. “You made this, didn’t you, handsome?”

Clayton nodded, chin tucked.

“My goodness.” She bit her lip and then leaned in, angling her head until she caught Clayton’s gaze. “Can I maybe hold it?”

“It’s yours.” Clayton dumped it into her hands and she caught it, handling it with the same care she might have shown had he just presented her with a Waterford crystal vase.

Judging by the light in her eyes, he might as well have done just that. “Clayton, that was really sweet of you,” she said, stroking her thumb over the overly bright, glass “jewels” they’d found to push into the clay. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a paperweight quite so beautiful in my life. But . . .” She looked up at him. “It’s not my birthday or anything. Why’d you give me something so nice?”

“Cuz . . .” Clayton shrugged his skinny shoulders. “You are nice. And I can’t give nothing to my mama.”

He didn’t say anything else, just turned and flung himself toward Trey, his face jammed against his thigh. “I wanna go. Daddy, can we go now?”

“Clayton—”

Trey looked at her and shook his head. “It’s okay. He’s okay.” Or he would be. Scooping Clayton up, he went to scoop his laptop into his bag.

“Here.” Ressa moved in. “Let me help.”

He got a headful of her scent, felt her curls brush his cheek. All the while Clayton clung to his neck like a monkey. “Thanks,” he said, his voice brusque. Things were coming to attention now—of course, and here he was juggling his son, her concerned gaze, his bag.

“I’m sorry if I—”

“You didn’t.” Trey shot her a look, almost explained then, but the last thing Clayton needed was to hear the blunt hard facts laid out just then. He lived with them every day of his life. “He’s just had a rough week, haven’t you, buddy?”

He gave her a smile—the practiced one he’d used when reporters had hunted him down over the years, whether it was because of his writing, his wife’s death, or his connection to two famous actors. It was a blank smile, one that could say everything and nothing, one that could hide a million secrets or be as open as one could hope. “He needs a nap and maybe some pizza. In a few days, we hop on a plane and he’ll be seeing all his cousins and his uncles. He’s been looking forward to that. Don’t worry, he’s fine, aren’t you, buddy?”

Voice muffled against his neck, Clayton said, “I’m gonna see ’Bastian this time, Daddy?”

“You bet.” He rubbed his cheek against Clayton’s curls. “Uncle Sebastian wouldn’t dare miss Mother’s Day.”

“Is Aunt Abby making cake?”

Chuckling, he said, “I certainly hope so.” Giving Clayton a light squeeze, Trey murmured, “Why don’t you tell Miss Ressa bye? I think she’s upset and thinks she hurt your feelings?”

Clayton rolled his head on his shoulders. “Bye, Miss Ressa.”

*   *   *

The memory of Clayton’s smile lingered, hours after he’d left.

It lingered even after they closed up and she was sitting at the computer, debating.

Debating hard, because she was about to do something she had no right to do.

Or she was tempted. She wasn’t really about to do it, but she was closer to it than she was comfortable. Shit. How often did she get pissed when people tried to—or did—meddle in her background? She had plenty of things that she’d rather not have dragged out right in the open.

Actually, pissed didn’t even touch on how she felt when people started meddling. There were some secrets she had that she’d just as soon take to her grave.

Besides, what was she going to do—general search for kids with the name Clayton . . . five years old . . . hey, she knew he had a birthday in September. That would really narrow the focus.

“What’s up?”

Guiltily, she jerked her hands away.

One of her coworkers, Alex, stood on the other side of the desk, eying her.

“Nothing.” Guiltily, she powered down the computer. “Is everybody pretty much done?”

“A few more wrapping up downstairs.”

With a nod, Ressa picked up the little paperweight, carefully cradling it in her hand.

“Did somebody bring you a gift?”

“Yep.” She displayed it, feeling as pleased as if she’d received chocolate and flowers.

“Who is it from?” Alex eyed it, his head cocked.

With a smile, she said, “Clayton . . . the little doll who shows up at reading hour.”

“Ahhh . . . your shadow.” He grinned knowingly. “That kid has a major crush on you, Ressa.”

She grimaced. “Geez. That’s great to hear.”

“You’re going to break his heart when you transfer out this summer.” He tsked and shook his head. “You might want to break the news sooner, rather than later.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Not much you can do about it.” Alex gave her a sympathetic look. “You need the transfer so you can be closer to school—these are the chores of being a parent . . . or a guardian as it were. Your cousin needs you.”

Ressa nodded, her thoughts drifting to the child she’d been taking care of for so many years. “I know. Neeci is why I’m doing it.”

Still, a heavy ache settled in her chest as she looked down at the molded heart she held. Funny . . . she was just now realizing how fragile it was.