Chapter Six

Anne-Marie lowered the brush and stared at her reflection. Dark green eyes, troubled and confused, stared back at her. Why was she even bothering? she wondered, flicking the make-up on the dresser top a disinterested glance.

What was the point in getting dressed up, putting on her make-up, and going into town to sit on a barstool and watch other people dance, other people kiss, other people in love?

Or just in lust.

Lust.

Pressing one hand against her flat belly, she closed her eyes. Oh, yes. She was familiar with lust, had been since she had awoken sweaty and panting in her bed the night of her sixteenth birthday. It hadn’t been the sloppy, badly aimed kiss from Dex Embry that had done it.

It had been from a dream about Jazz.

In her dream, they’d been dancing on the deck by the lake. At the time, he’d already been gone from her life but not a day went by that she didn’t think of him. She’d written him letters, one a week, faithfully, hoping that somebody would hear from him and she’d get an address where she could mail the letters.

But nobody ever heard a word. On her eighteenth birthday, she had written the last one and then tucked them all in a box. That box was stored in the top of her closet and every spring when she cleaned from top to bottom, she told herself she was going to throw them away.

She never did.

Even after she stopped writing the letters, she dreamed of him. Anne-Marie couldn’t even count how many dreams she had about him. Hundreds. Some bare wisps in her memory, others so potent, so real, she had awoken in tears to discover he wasn’t there with her.

God, it had always been him.

Could a person be born loving another? It seemed she had loved and needed him her whole life. But she was twenty-three before she accepted the fact that he was gone and he wasn’t coming back. Eleven years after he walked out of her life, Anne-Marie finally stopped waiting. She accepted a date from the third-year medical student and after four more dates, she went to bed with him. For all the wrong reasons and Anne-Marie wouldn’t deny it.

Rick Monohan had been good-looking, funny and considerate but when he touched her, Anne-Marie felt next to nothing. The thunder and lightning bolts she had been hoping for never happened and when he called to ask her out a few days later, she refused.

For the past sixteen years, she had tried to fill a hole inside of her, a hole Jazz left when he walked out of her life and for sixteen years, she had failed. She was damn tired of feeling so damned empty, too.

So why are you going into town instead of out to his place?

A frown darkened her face and she glanced around the room. The voice seemed too strong, too certain, too real to have come from her. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that somebody was in the room with her.

But she was alone. As always. Alone or not, though, Anne-Marie decided it was a very good question.

Why, indeed.

 

 

Jazz smiled at Mabel and asked, “Are you sure this is okay?”

“Boy, if I didn’t want that sweet girl here, she wouldn’t be here.” Her big voice rang in his ears and echoed on the porch as he knelt to hug Mariah against him one more time. Her first sleepover.

Her newest best friend, Tabby Winslow, Mabel’s youngest grandchild, stood by, hugging Mariah’s overnight case to her chest. “We’re gonna have so much fun,” Tabby whispered, her dark eyes gleaming brightly out of her ebony face. “Gonna eat popcorn and stay up until nine, right, Grandma?”

“That’s right, sugar. And it’s for girls only, so get on with you,” she said, shooing Jazz down the steps. “And you keep those appointments next month. I gotta eat, don’t I?” As she spoke, she slapped her rounded belly with a ringed hand.

“God knows, Mabel, if you miss any meals, you’d just wither away,” Jazz replied drolly, grinning when she cackled out a laugh that scared the birds from the trees.

“Big talk for such a skinny boy,” Mabel said, shaking her head at him as the laughter faded from her voice. “Boy, you need to get some rest, some good food in you and a good woman by your side.”

As Tabby and Mariah raced around the porch and yard, Jazz said, “I’ve had a good woman. I had to bury her; I don’t want another one.”

“Want, maybe not. But you need somebody, Jasper Jr. I never seen a body who needed another the way you do. The way you’ve always needed.” Her wide, deep red mouth compressed into a straight line, her round, cheerful face uncharacteristically somber, Mabel said, “Jazz, honey, some people are meant to go young. Alex, now, God knows he was a wonderful boy, but it was his time. That’s just the way of it.

“And some people are meant to go the distance alone. Me, I buried two husbands. Good men, and I loved them both dearly. And as happy as I was with each one of them, I’d never do it again. And then there are folks like you, so sad, so locked up inside, they’re almost dead from it.” Her round face softened with sympathy and she reached out, patting his cheek with a gentle hand. “Don’t let tragedy ruin your life. That’d be another one. God knows you don’t need that. You’ve had too many already,” she finished. She heaved a sigh

Shaking his head, he headed for the Escalade after hugging Mariah one last time. Five years old, already. Her first sleepover. And if he didn’t get the hell away now, he was going to change his mind and Mariah wouldn’t ever forgive him. Jazz also didn’t think Mabel would be too happy if he decided to sleep outside in her driveway, just to make sure everything went okay. So instead of going back to Mariah for one last hug, he climbed into the car and started it up.

It took less than a minute for it to hit him. He had an entire night to himself. One entire night. With the wind blowing through the open window, Jazz took the turn off to his house at a brisk forty miles an hour. With pleasure, he watched in his rearview as gravel dust filled the air.

An entire night to himself. And he didn’t have a clue as to what he was gonna do with it.

How long had it been since he’d had a night to himself? Right before Sheri got sick, Jazz realized. That last weekend Mariah had spent with Sheri’s folks while he and Sheri went out for dinner. The following Monday Sheri had gone to her doctor and learned she had a brain tumor. Such a bright light, put out so fast, just like Alex. He could still hear her laughter, that loud, bawdy laugh, that low raspy voice. How could that fast-living, fast-talking woman possibly be dead?

With a sigh, he ran his hand over his face. She had gone so quickly, in under six months. Jazz was going to miss her until the day he died. Sheri, God rest her soul, had given him his salvation. Rounding the final curve to his house, he decided he’d go home, dig out his wedding album and take a little walk down memory lane, pay his respects to his wife’s memory.

But as he crested the hill, he realized that he wouldn’t be doing that tonight. There in his drive sat a shiny, little Mustang convertible, fire-engine red, the ragtop down. Perched on the hood was Anne-Marie Kincaid. One look at her hit him like a punch right in the solar plexus and all thoughts of Sheri faded away, lost in the fog of need that took over as he stared at Anne-Marie.

Her thick, black hair was falling around her shoulders, shoulders left bare by a simple, white camisole-styled top. Long legs were revealed by a pair of neatly cuffed, black shorts and her small feet were shod in a simple pair of canvas tennis shoes.

She didn’t look like a doctor; nope, she looked like a high school coed, too young and too damn innocent. Until she turned her head and met his eyes. The look in those misty, green eyes was pure woman and Jazz could literally feel it as the blood drained out of his head, straight down to his cock.

His breath caught in his chest as her gaze locked with his, a small, mysterious smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Sweet God, how had she grown up to be so beautiful?

A soft breeze fluttered her hair around her face, framing it in dense black. She slid off the car and moved towards him, that mysterious, teasing smile still on her lips. “Hey,” she said softly, coming to a stop a few feet away. Cocking her head, she studied him in the fading light. “You had your hair cut.”

A soft, illusive scent floated to him on the air and an insane desire to bury his face against her neck seized him. Gruffly, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Her shoulders lifted and fell and she said, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged, her smooth shoulders lifting and falling. “So here I am.”

Looking at her, he saw Alex. Though they looked nothing alike, he saw his old friend in the arrogant lift of her chin, in the confident way she held herself. The way she offered no explanation for her actions. She was so alive, as Alex had been. So damned alive, and Jazz had felt dead inside for too damn long. He didn’t think he could keep his hands off her if she stayed so close.

“Did you forget who I am, Annie?” he asked, moving closer, until his toes nudged hers.

She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “I know who you are, Jazz. I’ve always known you.”

Shaking his head, he scoffed at her, “You don’t know me any more than I know you. Hell, you haven’t seen me in sixteen years and the last time you did see me, I was laid in a hospital bed after I killed your brother.”

He wanted to scare her away, and for a second, she paled and her eyes darkened with pain but then her features smoothed out and she shook her head. “Nice try, Jazz.”

“Leave, Annie.”

Instead, she cocked a brow at him. “What’s my favorite color?” she asked.

Blue, he thought, even opened his mouth to answer before he clamped his lips shut.

“My favorite food?”

Strawberry shortcake. “How in hell am I supposed to know? I haven’t seen you in years, sugar.”

She smiled serenely. “Why do I like rainy days?”

So you can curl up with a book and munch on popcorn. Brows lowered, he stared at her.

She shrugged and said, “You like the color green.” Green, like her eyes. “You love steak and potatoes, sour cream only. You don’t like butter. Rainy days don’t bother you but you always liked the sun better. When it rained, you were supposed to stay in out of the rain. And that made it easier for Beau to find you.”

Shame slid through him, hot and greasy. He’d always done his best to hide from her whenever he took a pounding. It was humiliating looking at anybody, but it had been so much worse with her. All the years since then hadn’t done a damn thing to lessen that shame, either. She caught his shoulder as he turned away. “You think I don’t know what he did to you? To your mama? I was young, Jazz. Not blind. I knew. I’m the one who saw you go into the barn that first time after Beau nearly beat the life out of you. I told Alex about it because I didn’t think you would want Daddy to know.”

Whirling around, he shrugged off her hand. “I don’t need sympathy, Annie.”

“I haven’t any for you,” she replied evenly. “If my heart breaks for the little boy who was beaten black and blue, so be it. But what I felt about that little boy has nothing to do with why I am here now.

“I do know you,” she whispered, reaching out, laying one small, neatly manicured hand on his rigid arm. “You were my hero, Jazz. And I wanted to talk to you; we were friends, of a sort.”

“We were never friends, angel. I was friends with your rich brother and you were the nosy, little brat who had a crush on me,” he snapped. “Go home to Daddy, Annie. You want to talk to somebody, go talk to him.”

In the fading light, he saw the delicate color wash out of her cheeks and hurt bloom in those green eyes. And then she blinked, and as easily as that, a mask fell. She shrugged, carelessly. “Your loss, Jasper,” she told him, turning on her heel and heading for her car. The denim drew tight across her hips as she dug into the hip pocket for her keys.

Before Anne-Marie could reach for the handle, hard hands closed over her elbows, twirled her, pinned her against a heavy, male body. Against her back, she felt the cool, smooth glass of the window and the heat of the metal door against her legs. She raised her head, looked into those deep brown eyes that had haunted her dreams for years on end.

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” he whispered as he lowered his head to hers.

Oh.

Oh, my.

There really could be thunder and lightning bolts…

The ground seemed to open up beneath her feet, leaving her clinging to Jazz for balance. He nipped her lip and when her mouth opened, his tongue swept inside, tasting her, savoring, diving deep for more. His hands slid down the length of her body, plastering her against him. Against her belly, she could feel the thick, hard length of his erection. The feel of it did something to her insides, turning her all molten and soft—empty. Too damned empty.

Anne-Marie rose on her toes, pressed against him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Desperate to get closer, she arched up against him, feeling the heat and power of his body against the softness of her own.

“Damn it, Annie. We shouldn’t do this.” Dragging his mouth away, Jazz stared down at her. What in the hell am I doing? he thought, dazed. He jerked his arms away from her, staring down at her. She raised one hand to her lips, touched them lightly. When her tongue darted out, slid over first her lower lip and then her upper, Jazz groaned.

What in the hell was he doing?

Alex would have killed him for even thinking what he was thinking, much less putting his thoughts into action. Desmond would have laid into him with a dull scalpel. By touching her, he betrayed both of them more than he already had.

Awkwardly, he opened his mouth to apologize but then the words froze when she took a single step toward him. And then another, and one more until she was close enough for him to see the wild pulse beating a tattoo under the thin skin of her neck. She pressed one finger to his lips, wrapped the arm around his neck, and leaned forward, pressing her mouth to the vee of skin bared by his simple, cotton button-down.

His eyes closed and his hands came up to cup the back of her neck, holding her against him. Sweet Anne-Marie. God, I love you. He had dreamed of her over the years, dreamed of a woman who had been just a child when he had left. Dreams that had kept him company at night, even after he’d married Sheri. Guilty dreams that he had denied having, dreams that felt so real, waking from them was almost painful.

Some people didn’t believe in love at first sight, but Jazz always had. He’d fallen for her as a boy and those feelings had only strengthened in their years apart. Now, she stood in his arms, pressing herself against him. Totally and completely willing—and eager. He could see an answering hunger in her eyes, feel it in the way she leaned into him when he touched her. It was every dream he had ever had, and every nightmare. Because finally he could have her, but only for a while.

Jazz would never be able to hold her. He would never deserve her. But damned if he wouldn’t take whatever he could get before she walked away. He held her pressed tightly against him as she trailed a line of butterfly kisses up his neck.

“Why shouldn’t we do this, Jazz?” she asked, reveling in his taste. He tasted hot, erotic, forbidden. Like whiskey and chocolate. Her hands itched to touch him until with a sigh, she gave in, running her hands down his arms, up his sides, learning the long, lean body by touch.

She hadn’t come out here for this. Not intentionally.

But Anne-Marie had fallen in love with Jazz McNeil the first time she laid eyes on him at the tender age of ten. And she had always known there would be no other for her. The one time she had tried to use another man to forget about Jazz had ended in miserable failure and she never once again tried.

Nothing had changed that, not the sixteen years of separation, not the knowledge that he had been driving the night Alex had died. Jazz was it for her and he always had been.

Rigidly, Jazz stood in her arms and tried to think of the reasons they shouldn’t do this. There were reasons. He just couldn’t, for the life of him, think of them as she pressed another kiss to his collarbone, going up on her toes and pressing another whisper-soft kiss to his jawbone. It was torture, the satin soft feel of her mouth on his skin. He wanted to cradle her head between his hands and kiss her again, taste her, hold her open while he gorged on her.

Then he wanted to lean back and watch as she used that pretty rosebud mouth in other ways. Even the thought was enough to make him go cross-eyed with lust and when he lifted his hands to her waist, they were shaking.

She’s so tiny, Jazz thought. Her waist was slender, so narrow he could nearly span it with his hands. Slender, almost delicate, like some kind of fairy princess and yet so strong. He could feel the strength in her hands as she clasped his shoulders, reaching up against him.

“Take me inside,” she whispered, lifting her head so she could stare at him.

“Anne-Marie…”

“Don’t tell me we shouldn’t do this. Don’t tell me anything. Just take me inside, Jazz. This is what I want.”

Hell. How could he argue with that? Especially not since it was something he’d been waiting half of his life for. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he boosted her up. She weighed less than nothing, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking them over his hips. Through the layers of the clothes, he felt the heat of her sex and he groaned. Jazz made one last attempt at sanity, pressing his lips to her neck as he whispered, “Anne-Marie, this is not a good idea.”

Brushing her lips against his, she replied, “I think it’s a great idea. And I’m always right, didn’t Alex tell you that?” Then she covered his mouth with her own, burying her hands in his hair so she could hold him close.

His mind went blank and he couldn’t think. There were reasons why they shouldn’t do this, he knew there were. But for the life of him, he couldn’t think of a single one. Thoughts of the betrayal he was committing fled his mind, chased out by the wonder of a dream come true.

She was here, with him, wrapped around him. With quick, light hands she touched him. With a soft, sweet mouth, she tasted him. No. No, he couldn’t let her go, not tonight.

With a groan, he fisted a hand in her hair and tugged her head back, covering her mouth completely. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, seeking out her sweet, addictive taste. She met him without hesitation, kissing him as deeply as he kissed her.

He started up the stairs to the front door, taking them by memory as he lost himself in her. She tasted of home, of cool nights, of long lazy summer days, of innocence and youth.

The bedroom up the stairs was too far away, too many steps. Instead, he wheeled to the right and took her to the couch, sitting on the couch with her in his lap. Molding the back of her skull in his hands, Jazz tore his mouth from hers, angling her head back, exposing her neck, pressing his lips to the pulse beating wildly there. The scent of her rose to haunt him as he lifted his head to stare at her. She smelled like honeysuckle. Jazz found himself craving a deeper taste. He wanted to press his lips to her skin and seek out the pulse points, find out if that teasing scent was stronger there. Perfume? Or was it just her?

His hands were shaking as he pulled her shirt from the waistband of her shorts. Slowly, he pulled the top off of her. She shook her hair back as he threw the shirt across the room. The lacy confection under the simple top made him smile. The white lace was so sheer, he could see her nipples through it. He stroked one and watched it stiffen under the lace. “I knew you weren’t as practical as you always pretended to be,” he whispered, running a finger along the edge of her bra. The smooth flesh roughed with goosebumps and her nipples strained against the lace.

Hands resting on the tops of her thighs, staring at him out of calm eyes, Anne-Marie smiled and let her head fall back as he cupped her breast in his hand. Delicate, soft, smooth. The rose of her nipples pushed against the lace of her bra and with a groan, he lowered his head and nipped gently at her through the webbing.

She shuddered, her hands reaching up to curve over his shoulders while his raced over her. He settled them on the couch, shifting Anne-Marie around so that he could undress her without completely letting go. In under a minute, she was sprawled across his lap wearing nothing more than a lacy bikini that matched the bra he had tossed over the back of the couch.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, rubbing his knuckles against the underside of her breast.

Smiling up at him, Anne-Marie murmured, “Thank you.” Running a hand through his heavy black hair, as she had always wanted to do, she told him, “You’re not too bad yourself.” Her head fell back, a tiny hum of pleasure inside her throat as his hands cupped her breasts.

“Anne-Marie…”

Through slitted eyes, she watched as the hesitancy once again entered his eyes. Slowly, she shifted until she was able to stand. And just as slowly, she rose to her feet, her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, mouth swollen. Her tongue darted out to lick at her lips as she knelt in front of him.

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be with you, in some way.” She reached for the button of his fly, smiling as his belly jumped under the light brush of her hands. “I didn’t come here for this. But I know that I would have, sooner or later.” With her head tipped back, she looked at him and traced the length of him through his boxer-style briefs. “I don’t believe in wasting time.”

His breath whistling between his teeth, Jazz let his head fall back as her small, quick hands raced over him. He jolted when she pressed her lips to his belly and damn near vaulted off the couch when she slid her hands into the back of his jeans. She tugged his jeans and boxers down as far as she could and then she bent over him.

Jazz swore as Anne-Marie took him in her mouth. His field of vision narrowed down as she slid her mouth down and then back up, lifting up just enough to lick the head of his cock. Then she closed her lips back over him and Jazz almost whimpered at the sight as she started to take him in and out of her mouth, smooth, shallow strokes that sent him hurdling towards the edge. She wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, holding him steady. Her mouth, red and swollen, stretched around his flesh and she took him deeper and deeper until the head of his cock nudged the back of her throat.

She hummed a little and the vibration of it had him jerking in reaction. She lifted up just a little and Jazz sagged back against the cushions, trying to catch his breath. Before he had a chance, though, she slid back down and when his cock bumped the back of her throat again—she swallowed.

He arched up with a shout, fisting his hands in her hair. He shuddered, sweat forming on his body and the urge to come burning down his spine and settling in his balls with a heated fury. “Stop, Annie,” he groaned when she lifted up and started that same slow glide all over again.

Anne-Marie lifted her head up and smiled at him. Voice husky, she murmured, “No.”

This was power. Anne-Marie might not have taken any other lovers since her failed attempt in college, but that didn’t mean she was a scared, shy near-virgin. Near-virgin, maybe, but there was no way she would let fear or shyness intrude, not here, not with Jazz. The length of his sex throbbed. Under her hands and mouth, he felt both hard and silky smooth. Iron covered with silk. She scraped her teeth over the tip of his penis and then took him back into her mouth, taking him deeper and deeper. When she lifted back up, her eyes were watering, her mouth felt bruised, and she was riding high on the fact that she was making him shake.

“Witch,” he muttered as he looked at her, his eyes dazed. She grinned at him and he growled. He reached for her and Annie didn’t pull away fast enough. He growled against her mouth and the sound of it echoed through her entire body. With a pivot, he tumbled her down on the couch, slid his hand inside the waist of her panties and jerked. If she hadn’t already been shaking with hunger, that desperate, greedy gesture would have done it.

“Why waste time, you little witch?” Jazz muttered against her mouth. Witch—definitely a witch, Jazz decided as she stared up at him, a sexy, confident smile on her swollen lips and her eyes hot and wild. Looping his hands under her head, he held her still as he covered her mouth with his, as he pinned her hips against the cushion with his own.

Her thighs parted and she shifted slightly under him, staring up at him with a sly little smile. As he pressed slowly against her, her eyes drifted closed and she moaned softly in the back of her throat. The wet warmth enveloped him tightly, snugly as he eased forward.

Snug. Too snug. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he muttered.

She lifted her hips up, taking him deeper as he tried to pull back. “Been a while,” she whispered. Then she smiled. “Waiting for you.”

Even if she didn’t mean that, it was humbling to hear her say it. “Damnation, Annie,” he muttered. “Annie, you, oh, hell…” His words trailed off into a groan as she rolled her hips under his. “Would you slow down?”

Lids rising slowly, Anne-Marie stared up at him, her wicked, green eyes glinting up at him. “Why should I slow down? I’ve been waiting for this for half my life, Jazz. Don’t make me wait any more.”

She smiled up at him, a sexy invitation of a smile, as she reached up and cupped his face, urging him to meet her eyes. That confident female smile had every nerve in his body humming; his nerves broke into a chorus when she trailed her fingers up his sides, then slid her hands down, gripped his hips, lifted hers to meet him.

“Jazz,” she whispered, her husky, soft voice caressing his ears like silk. “Make love to me. I’ve been wanting this for as long as I can remember.”

With a groan, he lowered his head, buried his face in the smooth, softly scented skin of her neck and thrust deep, planting his length within her body.

Distantly, Anne-Marie realized there was a little more pain than she’d expected. It had definitely been a while but the pain of taking him inside was well worth it and she was in too much wonder to dwell on it. Having him inside her felt like coming home.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him back to her when he withdrew, rising to meet his hips with every thrust. “Annie…” When he breathed her name against her skin, goosebumps went rushing down her body. How many times? she wondered. How many times had she imagined this?

As vivid as her imagination was, it could never compare to the reality of having him next to her, having him buried inside her, whispering her name while he rained kisses over her face. His length throbbed inside, rubbed against nerve endings so sensitive, that each stroke was an exquisite pain. Blood pounded in her ears and the sound of it almost drowned out Jazz’s rumbling groan. Lights flashed behind her closed lids when he slid a hand between them and circled his fingers around her clit.

The first mini-climax hit her hard and fast and her head was still spinning a minute later when he started to move inside her once more. Thunder and lightning, Anne-Marie thought, just a little dazed. A lot dazed.

Jazz propped himself on his elbows, dragging air into his lungs. Her flesh, soft, slick and tight, caressed the length of him, pulsing around his cock with every beat of her heart. They fit together perfectly, he realized with some wonder. Slowly, he pulled out and eased back into her. The scent of her filled his head, honeysuckle-scented flesh and sweet, hungry woman. Innocent and seductress combined.

Her inner muscles clenched around him and he gritted his teeth against the urge to take her, mark her and brand her as his own. By God, this may be the only night he ever had.

He would make it last.

He pulled back, resting his weight on his knees. Sliding his hands up the sides of her legs, he cupped the firm flesh of her bottom in his hands and pulled her against him. The shudder that rippled through her drew him deeper inside. “Look at me, Anne-Marie,” he demanded, pulling her harder against him.

Her eyes opened, dazed and smoky with need. Every breath she took burned, every pulse of her heart sent fire coursing through her veins. Her skin, super sensitive, felt hot and tight, as though her body was trying to turn inside out on her. An explosion was building within her and when it finally broke free, it was going to make that little, mini-orgasm seem like raindrops in the ocean.

She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t focus or think. His cock throbbed inside her and instinct had her tensing her inner muscles, tightening around him. That made the ache inside all that much worse. But she couldn’t stop herself from doing it again and again. His hands came up, stroking up her thighs and capturing her knees. He pushed them up against her chest and his eyes burned into hers as he rolled his hips against her.

He was so deep inside her she hurt. The way he watched her had her flushing consciously and then he touched her, rubbing his thumb around and around her clit until she bucked and cried out his name. She tried to rub herself against him, but he kept her pinned down so that she couldn’t. The loss of control was terrifyingly erotic and Anne-Marie wasn’t sure what was going to win out, the terror or the hunger.

“Jazz, please,” she gasped out, her torso twisting, arching off the couch. He fell forward, pinning her body to the couch, his shoulders wedged between her knees.

Her muscles were squeezing him tight, clamping around him, holding him. Staring blindly up at him, her face flushed, lips red and swollen, hands seeking. “Come with me, Annie,” he whispered. He watched her face as he drove deep within her.

She shook her head, trying to pull away from the storm that was brewing within her. “Yes,” he demanded gutturally. “Yes.” He surged forward, burying himself in her body over and over, lifting her to him. “Yes.”

At his words, she plummeted, falling headfirst inside a seething volcano. There was more lightning—more thunder, more of everything. She felt caught in a maelstrom of pleasure, with heat suffusing her body in waves, washing against her, within her. The pleasure seemed to batter her, going on and on. His cock jerked inside her and she felt the heat of it as he came inside her.

A choked cry tore from her lips and she strained up against him, everything within reach. He pulled out, drove deep within her one more time. She fell apart underneath him, shattered into a million tiny pieces.

And when he pressed a soothing kiss to her temple, he put the pieces back together again. The low moan that rumbled through his chest vibrated throughout her body and she held him close. She smiled slightly, knowing that she had been right about him all along. He made her whole.

With his heart pounding against hers, she slept.

 

 

“What did you end up doing with yourself, Jazz?” Anne asked softly, later that night. Her hand traced an absent pattern on his chest, her head tucked against his shoulder. “You never told me what happened after you left here. What you’ve been doing.”

“Whatever I could, for the longest time. I had to delay going into the Marines until I healed up but I ended up only serving a year.” A faint, bitter grin tugged at his lips. “Training op went bad and my leg was messed up six different ways to Sunday.”

With a frown, Anne pushed up onto her elbow so she could look at his leg. “Damn,” she whispered as she studied the jagged, twisted scar. His kneecap looked a little off center and judging by the numerous neat surgical scars, he’d gone under the knife for corrective surgery a time or two. “Does it bother you?”

He shook his head, not even glancing down. He held a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “No. Aches some if it gets too cold, but other than that?” He just shrugged.

“So you had to leave the Marines?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine with that.” Finally, a real smile appeared as he glanced up and said, “I was told I had issues with authority.”

Anne-Marie widened her eyes. “Really. You don’t say,” she said, her voice deadpan. Lying back down beside him, she curled up against him with her hand on his chest. “So after that, where did you end up? Where have you been living all this time?” she asked.

“Around,” he murmured. But she wasn’t going to let it go at that. She heard the reluctance to talk that lingered under his voice, but Anne-Marie paid it no attention. She was so hungry for everything that had to do with Jazz, had so much time to make up for.

And so many empty days ahead for which she had to prepare.

Jazz wouldn’t stay around, and Anne-Marie knew, certain as she knew her own name, he wouldn’t let her go with him when he left.

“Buffalo,” he finally said on a sigh. “I’ve lived in Buffalo, New York, the past nine years.”

“And what do you do in Buffalo? Are you an arm breaker?” Anne-Marie guessed, smiling against his bare skin. “A professional hockey player? A male dancer?”

Gripping a lock of silky hair in his hand, Jazz gave it a good sharp yank, smiling when she yelped. “You are still every bit as nosy as you ever were, Annie.”

Pulling up, rubbing at her scalp, she scowled at him. “Pardon me, but I wasn’t aware it was rude to inquire about your bedmate’s life.”

With a hoot of laughter, Jazz asked, “How do you do it? How can you sit there, naked as a jaybird, and act as regal as the Queen of frigging England?”

Pursing her lips, she primly replied, “It’s a gift. And you are trying to change the subject.”

Flopping onto his stomach, staring out at the dark sky, Jazz groaned. “I write, Annie. Okay?”

Her lips fell apart in a surprised gasp and she rubbed at her ear. “Excuse me, Jazz. I’m sorry, but it sounded to me like you just said that you write. You mean write as in, writing for a living.”

“It hasn’t always been for a living. Started out as something to keep my sanity while I was in rehab for my leg. Then for a while, it was to keep food in my mouth and gas in the tank while I wandered around the Bible Belt.” He flopped over onto his back and met her eyes, a little reluctantly, it seemed. “My pen name is J.C. McCoy and I write for AdventPub.”

“AdventPub. McCoy,” Anne murmured. “McCoy. Wait a second, you write that guy, uh, Vince?”

“Vance,” he corrected wearily, waiting for the censure.

“Daddy reads those sometimes,” she whispered, a frown sitting on her face. With a wrinkle of her pert nose, she added, “Not exactly my taste, though.”

“Your dad reads them?” he repeated dumbly.

“Yeah. Every once in a while, he gets tired of medical journals. We both do. He picks up one of those and I pick up a romance.” Reaching up, Anne rubbed her temple with her forefinger, still frowning. “I can’t believe this. You write?”

Where was the disapproval?

Didn’t she know what kind of trash it was?

But Desmond read them. Confused, Jazz sat up, turning to look at her in the soft moonlight. “Yeah, I write. Not exactly Nobel prize winning stuff, though.”

“Nobody calls romance Nobel material, either. But I love to pick one up whenever I have time,” Anne said with a casual shrug. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she studied him. “I don’t quite believe it, Jazz, but I think you are embarrassed.”

That confused, vaguely blank look still on his face, Jazz asked, “Your dad really reads them?”

“Uh-huh. So does my business partner, Jake. I believe he keeps one on his desk all the time.” A smile lighting her face, Anne-Marie sat up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Imagine that. Jazz McNeil, a big-time author.”

“I wouldn’t call writing Vance Marrone big time, Anne. You’d hate him. He’s a jerk, a bastard and a user,” Jazz said in a flat voice. shaking his head.

“He’s also just a figment of your imagination, Jazz. One you created and gave life. Not everybody can do that,” Anne-Marie said. “I certainly can’t. I couldn’t tell a story to save my life.”

Stroking his stiff shoulders, Anne said, “You oughta be proud of yourself, Jazz. Most wannabe writers would kill to say they have as many published books as you do.”

With a snort, he said, “They’re welcome to him. I don’t want him any more.”

“If you don’t like him, then write about something else,” Anne-Marie suggested with a casual shrug of her shoulders. “I’m certain you can write anything you want to. A writer. Hot damn, Jazz. That’s unbelievable.”

Lowering them back to the bed, his arms holding her tight against him, Jazz let the dazed wonder wash over him. She wasn’t unhappy about it, didn’t disapprove.

Hell, she actually seemed proud of him.

Imagine that.

 

 

Desmond sat in front of his computer, doggedly working to complete an article for the AMA. Why in hell had he agreed to this article anyway?

When the door whispered open, he didn’t even hear.

I am supposed to be slowing things down, getting ready to retire. He sat back, flexing his hands, unaware as a shadow moved around the corner of the room to stand behind him. Staring at his hands, he hardly even recognized them anymore. They were getting stiff, and every now and then, shaky. It only happened when he was worn-out and he was careful to make sure he got enough rest, that he ate right, and did everything else required to keep his energy level up, but there was no denying the inevitable.

Desmond was getting old. No surgeon in his right mind operated with shaky hands. If he couldn’t do surgery, then it was time to shut down the business. Or sell it out. With hope, I’ll find some young version of myself. They needed his skills here in central Kentucky, needed them badly. They were only a half hour out outside of Lexington but the small, rural county had many patients that wouldn’t make that trip into the city to see a specialist for their ticker. Many of his colleagues had questioned his decision to return home and set up his practice. While dedicated physicians, they were caught up in the business of being a highly regarded doctor with their business luncheons, weekends spent golfing, skiing or a thousand other things that didn’t interest Desmond in the least.

He wanted to be a doctor and he wanted to help people. In Lexington, good physicians were a dime a dozen, but here…here he did some actual good. It was time to let it go, though. He knew that and he could even accept it. Mostly. Once more, he opened his fingers and spread them wide before resting them back on the keyboard.

But just as he started tapping at keys, he paused. Something white drifted at the edge of his line of vision. Desmond was turning his head to look when a click sounded right behind his head. Slowly, he turned his head but before he could see behind him, his world exploded right before his eyes.

And he felt nothing else.

 

Hours later, at nearly dawn, Jazz lay awake with her curled against his side, sleeping soundly. What in the hell have I done?

As if life hadn’t been complicated enough. He turned his head, studying her profile in the pale moonlight. He had spent the better part of his life holding himself responsible for the death of her older brother, a brother she had adored, and rightly so.

Alex had been a golden child, smart, kind, compassionate. He’d had a quicksilver temper and a heart of pure gold. He had died his eighteenth summer, right before he would have started college. There was no sense to it.

Jazz was tired of trying to make sense of it, had spent too much time trying to do just that. But some years ago, it had dawned on him how very little the puzzle fit. He remembered only fragments of that night after leaving Maribeth’s, but there was one thing that stood out in his mind.

Jazz hadn’t lingered around town long after he’d been released from the hospital and all he knew about the accident was what little he heard in whispered tones—and what Larry had crowed about. Jazz, driving drunk, had killed Alex.

But it didn’t make sense. Although the backseat had been littered with empty cans of Miller beer, Jazz hated the taste of beer and wouldn’t drink it. Period.

 

 

Pleasantly sore and content, Anne-Marie opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. Jazz lay in bed beside her, face buried against a pillow. His shoulders rose and fell rhythmically with every breath he took. Reaching out, she traced her hand against the mellow gold of his skin, marveling at how smooth it felt, how firm the muscles beneath it.

She was a medical doctor. Damn it, she could name every muscle that made up those wonderful shoulders, that long, elegant back, and what purposed they served. But all the knowledge meant nothing, not when she was able to simply lie there and admire him. The human body in itself might well be a miracle, but the miracle of Jazz’s body was something else entirely.

Mmmm, one thing was certain, if the females in school could use him during anatomy, the dropout rate probably wouldn’t go sky-high before they even made medical school.

Anne-Marie sighed and settled more comfortably against him. This was going to complicate things. That was a fact.

But she didn’t regret it, not for one instant.

Closing her eyes, she said silently, You would have wanted this, Alex. You would have wanted me to be happy. And Jazz can do that. I know it.

She rolled onto her side, just watching him while he slept, while the sun slowly edged up over the horizon. Once the sun’s rays were pouring into the room, she sat, studying the long form under the simple, white sheet. It followed the dips and rises of his body, clinging to one particular rise.

With a cat’s smile, she threw the sheet to the foot of the bed. For a minute, she sat there and just admired him. The length of his sex jutted upright against his belly, hard and firm. His body gleamed like gold against the white sheets, all sleek, sexy muscle and long limbs. His belly wasn’t a perfect six-pack, but it was flat and as he stretched a little, the muscles there rippled, drawing her eye and tempting her to reach out and touch.

She did, but she didn’t settle for the smooth, practically hairless expanse of his chest or abdomen. Instead, she straddled him and wrapped her hand around his cock, holding him steady as she took him inside. He was buried deep within her before his eyes opened. She rolled her hips slowly, from side to side, back and forth, until she found the rhythm she wanted. Hands braced against his chest for balance, she rode him slowly, watching his face.

She was just starting to shudder with climax when his eyes locked on her face. “Annie,” he muttered. Then he grabbed her hips, flipped and twisted, burying her underneath him, and driving deep inside her. He pressed his lips to her mouth and muttered, “That’s one hell of a wake-up call.”

She might have laughed but he pushed his tongue inside her mouth, kissing her like he had been starving for the taste of her. Anne-Marie wrapped her arms around his neck, arching up into him. One big, rough hand palmed her ass, lifting her up and holding her steady for each deep, hard thrust. “Scream for me, Annie,” he whispered roughly. “Come for me. I want to feel it again.”

Like she had been waiting for just that, she climaxed, clenching around his length, hard and fast. Distantly, she heard his hoarse groan as he followed her into oblivion.

 

 

“I like the way you wake up,” he said appreciatively, gliding his hand over the curve of her bare hip.

“Hmm,” she murmured sleepily, her mouth curving up in a smile. “I’m hungry.”

With a bark of laughter, he raised his head and looked at her. “Now that is one romantic lady I ended up making love with, Annie—did they teach you that in med school, Doc?”

“Nope. I always wake up hungry. I learned that in the cradle,” she replied. “Got food?”

Why wasn’t this awkward? he wondered moments later as he headed downstairs to fix breakfast. Why had it felt so right to go to sleep with her beside him? To hold her throughout the night and know she’d be there in the morning. And waking up inside her…sweet heaven. Nothing had ever felt that right.

Part of him insisted he should feel guilty over what had happened, but he couldn’t. As much as he might have wanted to, he hadn’t seduced Anne-Marie. She had known what she wanted and had taken it.

Taken him.

Hell, if anything, she’d seduced him. A faint grin curved his lips but it faded as fast as it had come. He’d loved Anne-Marie his whole life. He’d loved women before. His mother and Sheri. He’d cared a lot about Sandy, might have even loved her a little. But it all paled compared to what he felt about Anne-Marie Kincaid. Letting her go was going to kill him. Jazz lowered himself onto the bottom step, rubbing the heel of his hand over his heart. How on earth could he let her go?

Why should you have to?

The voice whispering in his mind didn’t even seem like his own and he felt an even bigger fool when he jerked his head up, searching for somebody else in the house. Only Anne-Marie, padding around upstairs in one of his shirts, waiting for food and coffee.

But why in hell should he have to let her go?

He was breaking eggs open when he heard the shower kick on. Whistling under his breath, focused on the job of preparing breakfast, he was so preoccupied, he never heard the car drive up.

When the knock came, he frowned. He ran a hand over his bare chest then through his hair before he headed for the front door. They’d never gotten around to locking it, he noticed. Pulling it open, he squinted into the bright sunlight, staring in puzzlement at his cousin.

Hat in his hands, Tate was staring at the little red sports car with a frown on his lean face. Beside him stood Larry Muldoon. It ate at Tate that he’d had to bring Larry along, but being first on the scene…

“Hey, Tate. Little early for visiting, ain’t it?” Jazz asked, dismissing Larry with less than a glance.

“Well, Cousin, it seems we have a bit of a problem.”

“Is that so?” Looking from Tate to Larry and back again, he leaned in the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. “And exactly what is the problem?”

“Where were you last night?” Larry asked, his chest all puffed out with self-importance.

Sliding Larry a single look, Tate calmly said, “I will handle this, Deputy. If you don’t like that, then you know your way back to the station.” Turning his gaze back to Jazz, he studied the eyes so like his own and wished to God Jazz hadn’t come back home.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you your whereabouts for last night, Jazz,” Tate said, mouth grim, eyes shadowed and dark.

“What’s happened, Tate?”

“There was a shooting, attempted murder. And a witness placed you in the area.”

“That would be rather…difficult, considering he was in bed with me all night,” a soft, low voice said from the stairs.

Jazz turned, staring at Anne-Marie as she walked down the stairs, one hand trailing on the banister. Her hair was wet, slicked back from her face, leaving it unframed. The shirt draping her body covered her adequately, but there was nothing sexier than a woman wearing a man’s shirt. Slim, shapely legs were bared to the mid-thigh and the cuffs were turned back to reveal well-toned arms.

All in all, just the sight of her had him hard and ready. And jealous as hell. He didn’t want Tate or Muldoon seeing her that way. But he wasn’t so stupid to think he could tell her to go get dressed, either. So instead, he held out his hand to her, realizing how very right it felt to do just that. When her hand rested in his, he drew her closer, tucking her against his side.

“Dr. Kincaid.”

She nodded politely at Tate, glanced at Larry and away again. “Exactly what is the problem, Tate?”

“The problem is that there has been a shooting, an attempted murder. We had a call that Jazz was seen in the area at roughly three this morning.” When Muldoon opened his mouth, a steely glare from Tate silenced him once more.

“That would hardly be possible, Tate. Jazz is a talented man, but it would difficult, even for him, trying to commit murder at the same time he was on top of me,” she replied, silently aligning herself with him. “And that is pretty much how we spent the entire night.”

“You’d be willing to testify to that?” Tate asked evenly.

“Of course,” Anne-Marie replied, her voice level, her eyes clear and direct.

“Your daddy would be ashamed of you,” Larry snarled, poking a bony index finger her way. “Rolling in the sheets with trash like him.”

Anne-Marie turned bland eyes his way and smiled. “Oh, hello, deputy. I didn’t notice you standing there.” Running a languid hand through her damp curls, she aimed sultry, green eyes at him and drawled, “What’s the matter? You jealous?”

Witch, Jazz thought once more. Heaven and hell, this woman had been born a seductress.

“Anne-Marie. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Called the answering service and they said Jake Hart was on call. And I couldn’t reach you through your pager,” Tate said.

Tate’s words pulled Jazz’s attention away from Anne-Marie. Murder. Tate was here because somebody had accused him of trying to kill somebody. He remained silent, thinking, as Anne-Marie leaned back against him.

“I needed a night away from that thing,” Anne-Marie said, talking to Tate when all she really wanted to do was turn around and press her face to Jazz’s chest. The warmth of his flesh seeped through the shirt she had swiped from his closet. It smelled of him, soap and musk. She smelled of him, she realized with some satisfaction. “What did you need me for, Tate?”

When Larry opened his mouth, Tate turned to him and said in a lethal voice, “Say another word and I will have your badge, Deputy. I mean that.”

Something about the tension in Tate got through to her and she straightened. “Tate, what’s wrong? You really are serious? You think Jazz could have actually tried to kill somebody?” she asked quietly, unaware she had reached for Jazz’s hand, gripped it tightly.

“No,” Tate said honestly. Then he blew out a harsh breath. “But the fact of the matter is, we did receive an anonymous tip, just like I was telling Jazz when you…ah…joined us.”

She exploded, shoving away from Jazz and planting herself in front of Tate. “That’s nothing but a load of crap, Tate McNeil. Jazz isn’t a killer.”

“Now, Anne-Marie—”

“Don’t you now, Anne-Marie me,” she snarled, mimicking his coaxing tone. “I can’t believe—”

“Anne-Marie.”

Jazz spoke quietly, but nonetheless, it cut through her rage more effectively than anything Tate could have said or done. Slowly, she turned to look at him, scowling.

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Why don’t we see what Tate has to say before you try to gut him?” He slid his cousin a look and despite his easy tone, she saw the worry in his eyes.

“Thank you, Jazz,” Tate said softly. The sheriff looked back at Anne-Marie. “You say you were here all night, Anne-Marie? You and Jazz, you have some troubled history.”

She nodded slowly, responding, “Yes. I was here all night. I’m a big girl, Tate. I choose where I spend the night. I chose to spend it here. Our history together was Alex. And we both loved him.”

Sullen, Larry stood watching in silence as Sheriff McNeil questioned and reported the things that he should have been doing. Damn McNeils, nothing but a bunch of no good, low account bastards.

And that slut, Anne-Marie, with her witch’s eyes and witch’s hair tangled about her shoulders, standing there in nothing but a shirt. His eyes locked on the front of that shirt, where hardened nipples pressed against the cloth, licking his lips even as he damned her for being everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Wanting her and knowing she had spent the night with the likes of Jazz McNeil, it was enough to make him want to puke. Or slap her. Maybe both. He could see it, the red print of his hand on her face, her lying on the ground in that tangle of hair. He could jerk that shirt off of her and shove inside her and make her beg. Make her plead.

He’d like that. And maybe, just maybe, before he was done, he’d have it, too. That was almost as much fun to think about as it was going to be when Tate told her what happened.

The words passing around Larry barely registered as he sidled a little closer to the door, but as he edged closer, Anne-Marie backstepped and Jazz’s eyes focused on him. Deliberately, Jazz urged her a little farther inside and stepped in front of her, shielding her from Larry as he responded to Tate’s question.

“Well, this does make things a bit easier, Jazz. But you will have to come down to the station. We need to take a statement,” Tate finally said, tucking away the pad he had been doodling on as he jotted down notes.

“Mind if I ask who I supposedly tried to kill, cuz?” Jazz asked, his jaw clenched tight. A sick feeling was spreading through his gut, one that had to do with the odd, strained way Tate kept glancing at Anne-Marie, the way Larry’s jaw had dropped when she had come sauntering down the stairs.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for the both of you,” Tate said slowly. As Jazz wrapped a supporting arm around Anne-Marie’s waist, his cousin reported, “Sometime early this morning, at approximately three a.m., somebody broke into your father’s house, Anne-Marie. And he was shot. Whoever it was tried to kill him. And it would appear they are wanting to point a finger Jazz’s way.”

A swirling, black mass rose within Anne-Marie, darkening out everything for just a brief moment. When her eyes cleared, she was sitting cradled in Jazz’s lap on the stairs, shuddering wildly.

“That can’t be true, Tate,” she whispered. “There must have been a mistake. Daddy is home, working in the garden.”

“No, honey.” Kneeling down in front of her, reaching out, and taking her hand, Tate said gently, “Your daddy is in surgery in Lexington. He took a bullet in the chest.”

Surgery.

He took a bullet in the chest.

Somebody tried to kill him.

No. It couldn’t be real. Looking up at Tate, she shook her head and said, “No. That can’t be right.”

“I’m sorry, Annie. I really am,” Tate said, clenching his jaw when she continued to stare at him with those weeping, heartbroken eyes.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. Tears welled in her eyes and she turned her head to stare at Jazz. “I can’t lose him, Jazz. I can’t lose Daddy, too.”

Jazz wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled her against him, holding her close. “He’s strong, Annie. He’s healthy.” Trite words, meaningless, but he could think of nothing to say to her, no way to help her. “If anybody can make it through, it’s the doc.”

Himself, he was numb, too shocked to really feel anything just yet. “I’m going to Lexington with her, Tate. You can take that statement there, or you can get it some other time. But I am going with her to Lexington.”

Tate sighed, reaching up to rub at his neck. “I can take it tomorrow,” he finally said, clenching his eyes shut. “Ya’ll best get going. I’ll get a deputy to give you an escort.”

“Hey! He’s been reported at the scene of a crime. You have to take him in for questioning,” Larry snapped, jabbing a bony finger towards Jazz.

“He was reported through an anonymous phone call and he has a damned good alibi. I’ll take his statement when and where I choose, Muldoon. Now take yourself off to your cruiser,” Tate said quietly, a subtle threat in his voice. “I mean that.”

“But he—”

Anne-Marie shot up off Jazz’s lap, tears rolling down her cheeks. Face flushed, eyes shining, she moved in a whirl of motion and before they even realized her intent, Larry Muldoon was laying on his back, staring up at her, blood gushing from his nose. For a brief moment, all were quiet. And then Jazz started applauding, Tate was hiding a smirk behind his hand, and Muldoon was cursing viciously.

Hands steady as a rock, face once more composed, Anne turned to Tate and said, “I’ll turn myself in for striking an officer after Daddy is stabilized.” Then she held out a hand to Jazz. When he folded his hand around hers, she linked their fingers, raised his hand to her lips, and kissed it. “Let’s go. Daddy needs us.”