A Weaver Wedding Page 6

  His eyes seemed to turn even more golden. “Not talking about it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, darlin’.”

  She couldn’t possibly be more aware of that fact, all things considered. “That weekend was an…anomaly. Obviously. It’s not something that’s going to be repeated.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “As long as I’m your bodyguard.”

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely certain how to take that. All she knew was that there were butterflies whisking through her veins that she couldn’t attribute to her fear for Sloan no matter how badly she wanted to.

  She slid out from between Axel and the scarred butcher block countertop, moving far enough away so she could breathe again without danger of inhaling his oddly intoxicating scent. “Fine. I’ll do this for my brother. But that’s the only reason.”

  Axel’s head tilted slightly. “Fair enough.”

  Chapter Five

  He’d won a battle, but Axel knew that wasn’t exactly winning the war. Which is what Tara’s resistance pretty much felt like.

  Leaving her in the kitchen, he went out to his truck to bring in his gear. He dumped his duffel bag on the floor next to the couch and after exploring every room under her baleful and silent gaze, he went back outside, getting a lay of the land there, too.

  The neighboring houses with porch lights casting beams over snowy front yards. The few vehicles parked in snowcovered driveways. The dog barking about two doors down.

  Weaver was his hometown; as comfortable to him as his favorite pair of boots. It didn’t matter if he was gone for months or years at a time. When he came home, he still knew what—who—belonged. And didn’t belong.

  Satisfied that all was as it should be, he went back inside.

  “I don’t see why your truck has to be out here for all of God and country to see,” she complained the moment he shut the door behind him.

  “So that God and country can see it,” he reminded her. He pulled the enamel doorknob and locked the door. “You need deadbolts on your doors.” On his survey, he’d seen a door at the rear of the house in the kitchen, leading to an unfenced backyard. Hardly ideal circumstances—though he knew from experience that a fence would do little to keep out a determined person.

  Without comment, she headed through the living area and down the short hall, presumably to the one bedroom that was actually set up as a bedroom. The second room, he’d discovered, was outfitted with two modern work surfaces and a sizable shelving unit full of orderly plastic bins.

  When she returned, he was studying the magazines stacked in the center of her wrought-iron coffee table. “They’re all about jewelry making,” he said aloud, fanning the neat pile out like giant playing cards.

  “I have to get ideas from somewhere or the display cases at my shop would be pretty bare.”

  “You make the jewelry you sell in your shop?”

  “Most of it. And why are you surprised?” Her smile was humorless. “Aren’t you and your logbook keepers supposed to know everything there is to know about my life?”

  “I’m just surprised you didn’t tell me about it in Braden.”

  Her expression closed and she headed to the large picture window, reaching for the wand to adjust the plantation shutters closed across it.

  “It’s better to leave them closed.”

  Her hand hung in midair for a moment before she finally lowered it. She turned away from the window.

  He sighed at the sight of her increasingly drawn expression. “I’m sorry.”

  “But it’s the way it is, isn’t it?” She didn’t look at him as she leaned over and squared up the edges of the magazines that he’d un-squared. The silky strands of her hair slid forward, baring the tender nape of her neck for the briefest of moments.

  Plenty long enough, though, for his gut to tighten.

  He’d kissed that very spot of silky smooth, pale skin.

  And had been reliving the experience almost every night since in his dreams.

  He cleared his throat and looked away, only to get distracted by the bare ankles peeking out below the hem of her enveloping robe. “We didn’t stay long enough to have dinner at the dance. Are you hungry?”

  “No.” She didn’t look at him. “If you are, then I suppose I can fix something.”

  He felt starved, and not just for food. “I don’t expect you to cook meals for me.”

  “Good. And I expect you not to use up the hot water if you shower before I do in the morning.”

  His mind took an eager side trip down the lane paved with the memory of her and him and a shower. With an effort, he reeled it in.

  She went into the kitchen and he followed.

  Already, she was pulling pans out of a lower cupboard and was reaching for the refrigerator. She pulled a thick glass jar from the fridge and set it on the counter. “Pasta’s in the upper left cupboard.”

  He took the hint and opened the cupboard. The inside of her ancient cabinet was organized to the nth degree.

  He took down the tall spaghetti container. “I thought maybe you were exaggerating when you told me that you alphabetized your CDs and books and DVDs.” Judging by the cabinets, he realized she hadn’t been.

  “I like order.”

  She’d told him that, too, when he’d teased her about remaking the motel bed before pulling her back down onto it and unmaking it all over again. “What else can I do?” He’d try anything as long as it would distract his one-track mind. She was pulling fresh vegetables out of the refrigerator. “Wash? Chop?”

  She gave him a narrowed look. “Wash and chop what?” She held up a zucchini. “These?”

  “I do have a mother,” he reminded her drily, and plucked the squash out of her hand before she could protest. “She did her best to house-train me. Sliced or diced or what?”

  Her espresso-brown eyes were full of suspicion. “Sliced.”

  She had a fancy knife rack that his mother would envy and he selected a knife. “Cutting board?”

  She pulled out a wooden board fashioned in the shape of an enormous apple and put it on the counter near the deep, farm-style sink. She set several other vegetables on the counter next to it. “Wash them first.”

  He’d already turned on the tap. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, more than a little amused at the way she stood there, watching. As if to be certain that he knew what he was doing when it came to rinsing a few vegetables. “You want any of this stuff peeled?”

  “No. Just sliced.”

  She continued watching him. It was enough to make a guy all thumbs, but he managed to slice the zuke without slicing any fingers and he looked over at her. “I am capable of slicing a few vegetables without spilling blood.”

  She flushed a little. “I’ve never seen a man working in the kitchen before.” Her discomfort was palpable. “Aside from a restaurant chef or on the cooking channel.”

  “Never? Not your dad? Your brother?” Their families and their pasts were things they hadn’t talked about in detail when they’d secluded themselves with only each other, a chocolate cake, a box of condoms and pizza delivery.

  She stuck out her chin. “My father believed the kitchen was my mother’s domain. It seemed to be an idea that Sloan inherited. The only thing I ever saw him do for himself in the kitchen was toss a bag of popcorn in the microwave and hit the start button.”

  Axel picked up a fat red bell pepper and whacked it in half, cleaning out the seeds. “You’ve met my mother. You think she’d raise a son who couldn’t find his way around a kitchen?” He almost laughed at the idea of his accountant mother giving any child of hers some slack. “I probably spent more time in the kitchen with my mom than my sister, Leandra, did. She didn’t learn how to boil water until she went off to Europe to work on the production crew of some guy’s cooking show.”

  Tara had sidled closer and was leaning against the scarred butcher block counter. “Are you close?”

  He shrugged, all the while noticing the fascination in her expressio
n that she would probably deny if he pointed it out. “Yeah, I suppose so. All the Clays are pretty tight. Brothers. Sisters. Cousins.”

  At least they had been.

  He tamped down on the dark thought. “What about you?” He turned the question back on her. “What’s it like being a twin?”

  Her long, silky lashes immediately lowered, shielding her eyes from him. “I don’t know what it’s like not being a twin.” She turned and picked up the large pot she’d pulled from the cupboard and busied herself with filling it with water.

  She gave no further glimpses of fascination about the dynamics of his family—which seemed plainly different from her own. Not while they finished preparing the meal. Not as they sat at the small wrought-iron table situated in the bay window on the other side of the kitchen. Not even when they cleaned up afterward. He was pretty certain that seeing him with his hands plunged in soapy dishwater was just as unusual to her as had been his minimal deftness with the knife and chopping block.

  It was late by the time they were finished and she snapped off the light in the kitchen, shooing him to the living room. “My second bedroom is my workroom,” she said abruptly. “You’ll have to make do with the couch.” She waved toward it as if he couldn’t see, perfectly well, for himself.

  “I’ve made do with worse,” he commented.

  A furrow formed over the bridge of her sharply defined nose. She closed her arms around her waist and walked across the room. Clearly putting distance between them.

  “H-how often have you had to do this sort of thing?”

  He didn’t ask for clarification. “I’d have to sit down and count.”

  “That many?” She moistened her lips. “Have they all ended well?”

  “Not all,” he admitted and hoped that he wouldn’t have to elaborate.

  “How long have you had to spend on one—” she asked as she waved her hand. Again the long folds of her robe swayed just enough for Axel to glimpse her ankles.

  “—case?” he provided, dragging his gaze up to her face to see her nod. “Six months was the longest.”

  She paled and he lifted his hand. “I don’t think that’s what we’re looking at here,” he added quickly.

  She seemed only slightly relieved. But she wouldn’t have been even the least bit relieved if he’d told her why he thought what he did.

  That if they didn’t nail the person, or persons, out to get Sloan ASAP, her brother probably wouldn’t live to see the next six months.

  “I’m gonna check around the house again. Keep the door locked.”

  She gave him a questioning look. “Check for what?”

  “Anything out of place.” He grabbed up his jacket and went to the door, stepping out. “Lock it,” he told her through the door when he failed to hear the lock being set.

  After a moment, he heard the soft snick.

  Exhaling a cloud of vapor that glistened in the faint gleam of the porch light, he checked around the house. His footprints from earlier were the only ones in the snow, showing quite clearly how he’d paused at each window, each door.

  A slow-moving sedan was pulling close to the curb behind his truck, the driver’s mop of curly blond hair recognizable in the dim light even before Dee Crowder rolled down her window and waved at him. “You disappeared pretty quickly from the dance,” she called out to him. “Everything all right?”

  He headed toward her car. Nobody better than Dee to continue the gossip rolling around town that he was shacking up with the lovely, local shop lady.

  “Just fine.” He ducked down to see her through the window. “We weren’t really looking for a crowd.”

  Dee’s smile fizzled a little. “I didn’t realize you knew Tara that well.”

  He was vaguely sorry that her feelings might be dented, but there’d never been anything between him and the teacher. Never any suggestion that there would be.

  He glanced at Tara’s house, seeing the slight angle in the shutters at the window.

  Despite what he’d told her about keeping the shutters closed, she was watching from inside the house.

  “Knowing each other better is something we’re working on,” he said as he looked back at Dee with his typical Axel grin.

  “I see.” Dee drew her head away from the opened window. “Well, I’d better get home. It’s late.” Her voice was conscientiously chipper. “Nothing like a lot of dancing to wear a girl out. You and Tara have a good night.”

  “Thanks, Dee.” He ducked his head down a little more, looking in at her. “Drive carefully, okay?”

  “Oh, I’m always careful,” she said airily, and pulled away from the curb. He watched long enough to see her turn into a narrow driveway about four houses down, and returned to the house.

  Tara pulled open the door when he reached it. “How’d you explain all this to Dee?”

  He flipped the lock after him. “Not much explaining necessary when she sees me parked in front of your house at this hour.”

  She looked disbelieving. “Why didn’t you just tell her the truth? She’s your…friend, isn’t she?”

  “She’s my cousin’s coworker,” he corrected, shrugging out of his jacket again and tossing it over the arm of the couch for lack of someplace better.

  “Looked pretty friendly to me to be a coworker, cousinremoved.”

  He wiped the grin off his face before it had a chance to form. “Dee’s a friendly girl.”

  “She’s a flirt.”

  The grin was a little harder to keep contained. Tara was showing all the earmarks of being jealous, and enjoying that was not going to earn him points.

  Nor was it going to make his job here any easier, if he couldn’t keep his focus strictly on the task at hand.

  “Flirt or family friend, it doesn’t matter. We—” he said as he wagged his finger between his chest and her “—stick to the cover.”

  Her lips pursed softly, which only succeeded in drawing his attention to them. “You’d lie to your family?”

  “I’d lie to anyone if it meant keeping you safe.” He deliberately looked away and sat down on the deep couch upholstered in some smooth, brownish-colored stuff.

  It was a little short on length for his taste, but it was soft and comfortable, which was a bonus for him since most of her floors were covered in hardwood, save a few large area rugs beneath the furniture. He hadn’t been joking about being prepared to sleep on the floor, but a decent couch would be welcome.

  The wide four-poster bed of hers would be even better.

  He ignored the voice in his head and began pulling off his boots. “What’s going to draw the attention of someone more? The gossip that you and I are hitting the sheets, or the gossip that you need a bodyguard?”

  “Nobody in Weaver would ever need a bodyguard.”

  His boot came free and he dropped it on the floor. “Exactly. That kind of talk we definitely don’t want.”

  “But to lie to your family—” she said and just shook her head, looking thoroughly disapproving. “How will they forgive you when they find out?”

  They’d get over it where Tara was concerned, because they’d understand how his job worked. How could they not, when all he’d done was follow in his old man’s footsteps by joining the agency? If there was one thing the Clays understood, it was allegiance to the agency.

  It was the other lie that he was afraid they’d find unforgiveable. About Ryan. Allegiance to the family was an entirely different matter.

  He yanked off his other boot and dumped it beside the first. “They’ll adjust.”

  “Right.” Her voice was three shades too calm. “Because that’s what families have to do.” She headed for the hall. “I’ll get you a blanket and pillow.”

  Considering how delighted she was about his reason for being there, he was glad for the offer. Instead of blocking him every minute of the day while they were alone, at least she was making an effort to be cordial. Dinner. Some bedding.

  What more could a guy want?

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nbsp; She padded on her silent, stocking feet back into the living room, bearing a long pillow, a crisply folded sheet, and an ancient-looking quilt. She set it all on the coffee table and the lapel of her robe gaped enough to give him a glimpse of the hollow at the base of her throat.

  He could want a helluva lot more.

  “I know the quilt looks old, but it’s one of the warmest blankets I have.”

  “Looks like half the quilts my mom’s got on the beds at the farm. All put together by great-grandmothers or someone.”

  If she noticed the sudden hoarseness in his voice, she ignored it. “I bought that one at an estate sale a few years ago. If it was someone’s great-grandmother who stitched it, it wasn’t mine.” Unsmiling, she tugged at the sash around her waist again, tightening it. “Is there anything else you need?”

  Other than for her to look at him without loathing him for leaving her in Braden the way he had? “I’m good. Thanks. I’m not here as your guest. I don’t need entertaining. You can go to bed if you want.” He was running on too little sleep, himself, thanks to the time difference between Wyoming and Bangkok, where he’d failed at convincing Ryan to come with him.

  “All right.” She looked distinctly uncomfortable but was trying to hide it. “Good night, then.”

  “G’night, Tara.”

  After a hesitating step or two, she practically ran out of the room. A few seconds later, he heard the firm sound of her bedroom door closing.

  He exhaled and leaned back against the couch, raking his fingers through his hair and pressing the heels of his palms against his sleep-deprived eyes.

  He was tired enough to sleep for a week straight. Even with the tormenting image of Tara sliding into bed with only a few inches of plaster and paint between them.

  But instead of spreading out the bedding she’d provided him, he pushed it further to one side, dislodging the tidy magazines again. Then he pulled his laptop out of his duffel bag and set it on the coffee table, flipping it open and powering it up.

  In seconds, he was logged in to Hollins-Win word’s tightly secured site. He entered the day’s report, grimacing as Tara’s words about having her activities entered in someone’s logbook haunted his mind.