A Weaver Christmas Gift Page 6

  And she thought now, as she always did, that the farmhouse ought to have looked out of place—with its white clapboard siding, black shutters and steeply pitched roofs—situated there on the wide, tree-lined residential street rather than in the middle of a farm somewhere. But it didn’t. A person could have fit about a half-dozen dwellings the size of her condo on the grassy lot that surrounded the two-storied white house. The entire place looked timeless. And pristine.

  And it was just one more piece of the puzzle that was Casey Clay. The king of no commitment owned a house that looked made for family. Generations of them.

  She turned into the long stone-paved driveway running up to and alongside the house, where his truck was sitting in front of a large detached garage. She parked behind him, dropped her keys in the empty cup holder molded into her console and got out of her truck.

  Now that she was here, she was beset with nerves.

  What if he told her to leave?

  Yes, they’d always gone to her condo when they’d wanted to be alone together. She’d insisted on it, wanting to keep everything on her terms. And he’d never argued. He was no more interested in having their encounters dissected and discussed by the thriving Weaver grapevine than she.

  Now, though, she couldn’t help thinking that he’d been so agreeable to her terms because he actually hadn’t wanted her in his personal space.

  She nudged up her glasses, annoyed with herself, and firmly shut the truck door. Ignoring the rat-a-tat of her heart inside her chest and her goose bumps from the chilly night air, she strode around to the front of the house, her shoes snapping against the soles of her sockless feet. She darted up the wooden steps, which were warmly illuminated by two lights framing the black door, and lifted her hand to knock.

  But the mournful wail of a violin coming from inside the house stopped her knuckles from connecting with the door.

  The strain of music was pure and haunting.

  And it was the saddest sound she’d ever heard.

  Instead of knocking, she pressed her palm flat against the door and realized she was barely breathing as she listened with only the two old-fashioned rocking chairs that furnished the wooden porch for company.

  How much more was there about him that she didn’t know?

  Suddenly, the music cut off and a mighty crash vibrated through the door and her palm.

  Her heart shot into her throat and she instinctively turned the doorknob. It was unlocked, so she shoved open the door, rushing inside too quickly to appreciate the warm wood floor, the creamy white walls or the wide staircase opening onto the entry. “Casey?”

  Silence weighed through the house as soon as she called out his name.

  She dropped her wallet on a multidrawered chest sitting against the wall and headed farther into the house, passing a room on her left that was empty except for a single ladder-back chair and a small powder room on the right. “Casey?”

  He suddenly appeared in the hallway ahead of her. He was shirtless, wearing only the jeans that he’d had on earlier when he’d invaded her house. “What are you doing here, Jane?”

  Her mouth went a little dry. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the spectacular washboard abs that never failed to amaze her, the unfamiliar dark frown on his face or the fact that he’d just called her Jane—not Janie, not sport, not darlin’, not any of the dozens of nicknames he had for her.

  “I heard a noise,” she said, her voice oddly husky. “I was worried. Are you all right?”

  His lips were tight. Thin. The lines of his carved jaw sharper than ever. “Go home.”

  The words sliced through her. Painfully. More painfully than they should have, considering her choice to end things with him. And she very nearly turned around and left.

  Until she saw the line of blood trickling down his arm.

  She stiffened her spine and closed the gap between them. “No.”

  His gaze darkened as she reached him. She looked from the deep scratch on his forearm up to his face, then beyond his tall, broad form to the room behind him. Interior walls had obviously been removed at some point, because she was fairly certain that farmhouses such as his weren’t originally built to have great rooms. But that was what she was looking at. A huge open space dominated by tall windows and furnished with leather furniture, a long plank-top dining room table and a state-of-the-art kitchen.

  Not even her self-made ex-husband had a house like it, and Gage—a real estate developer—was loaded.

  She looked past all of that, though, and focused on the bookshelf that was toppled on its side, surrounded by scattered books and broken glass.

  The violin on top of that mess, though, was the worst. A mangled mess of strings and fractured wood.

  Casey was six and a half feet of unwelcoming hard muscle standing in her path, but she moved around him, walking over to the destruction. Glass crunched beneath her shoes as she reached down and carefully picked up the violin. The neck was broken in two. Only one string kept it tethered to the rest of the body.

  Cradling the wounded instrument in both hands, she looked at him. “Were you playing this?” When she’d heard the music, she’d assumed he was merely listening to it. Not creating it.

  He didn’t answer, though. “You’re going to cut yourself.”

  “Like you did?” She stepped out of the field of broken glass and gently set the violin on the granite island that stood between the bank of staggered kitchen cupboards and the eye-catching long table. She lifted one foot, then the other, looking to see if there was any glass stuck in the rubbery soles of her clogs. She didn’t see any and she went around the far side of the island, putting it between them.

  His dark frown had grown to a scowl and she wasn’t sure if he was about to physically march her right out the front door.

  “Where’s your first-aid stuff?”

  He just glared.

  “Okay. How about your broom?” He wasn’t any more forthcoming about that, so she started opening doors that might conceivably be hiding one. She found a walk-in pantry that was mostly empty except for several rolls of paper towels and a gigantic stack of paper plates. But no broom. She edged closer to him and opened another door. It revealed a staircase going down to a basement.

  “Jane.”

  She quickly opened the last tall cupboard and gratefully snatched out the long-handled broom stowed inside. Giving him a wide berth, she rounded the island again and started sweeping up the glass. “At least wash out that scratch.”

  “I don’t want you here.”

  She sucked down the sting. “Yup. I get that loud and clear.” Sweep, sweep, sweep. His wood floors were stained a gray ashy color that was spectacularly striking. “Wash it anyway.”

  Watching him from the corners of her eyes, she saw his wide shoulders move restlessly. He yanked out one of the stools sitting against the island and sat on it, facing away from her. Then he clawed his fingers through his hair.

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. Part of her wanted to go to him. Put her arms around him and press his head comfortingly against her breasts.

  But that wasn’t what they were about.

  Her palms turned moist around the broom handle as she slowly gathered the shards of glass into a small pile.

  His back was still toward her. He had a small scar over his right shoulder blade. She’d kissed her way over it dozens of times but had never asked what had caused it.

  Why hadn’t she asked?

  Because she wasn’t interested?

  Or because she was afraid he wouldn’t have told her?

  She slowly propped the broom handle against the wall, leaving the bristles resting protectively over the pile of glass, and walked over to him. Her hand wasn’t entirely steady when she placed it on his shoulder, but it was a lot steadier than her insides fe
lt.

  He stiffened at her touch and looked at her.

  The scratch on his arm was deep enough to bleed, but up close she could see it had already stopped.

  Her heart was thumping hard.

  She didn’t know what was tormenting him.

  And maybe comfort wasn’t their thing.

  But she did know what was.

  She leaned forward and slowly pressed her lips against his. She felt him inhale slightly. Resistance, almost.

  But not quite.

  She tilted her head a little and continued kissing him.

  And after a moment, he lifted his hand and sank his fingers into the ponytail at the back of her head as he kissed her in return.

  Suddenly, he tugged on her hair, pulling her head back until he could look into her face. She didn’t know what he saw there. She didn’t even know what she saw in his face, except the shadows behind those silvery-gray eyes. But he abruptly shifted and pulled her in front of him, lifting her onto the granite surface so fast that she didn’t have a chance to even gasp.

  He nudged her chin up with his thumb. His hooded gaze seemed to burn as he studied her. She swallowed hard when he slowly rubbed his thumb over her lower lip. She could hear her pulse pounding inside her head when his hand moved again, palm flattening as he ran it down her neck. Her chest. Fiery heat gathered along the path he took downward, her ancient T-shirt offering no protection whatsoever.

  He reached her belly and kept on going, until cotton knit gave way to worn fleece.

  Jane sucked in a sharp breath as his hand dragged down her abdomen. She had no resistance to offer when he slid his palm between her legs.

  “Take off your glasses.”

  She moistened her lips at his low, gruff voice and set aside her glasses.

  “Now your hair. Let it down.”

  She tugged the rubber band out of her hair and dropped it on the granite.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  Her nerves lurched inside her.

  She bunched the hem of her shirt in her damp fists and pulled it over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Hadn’t bothered to put one back on before she’d driven over. Her nipples were so tight they ached, and when he leaned forward—no hesitation, no apology—and grazed his teeth over one, then swirled his tongue around it, she shuddered, arching involuntarily against his hand.

  “Take off your sweats.”

  A soft sound she didn’t recognize rose in her throat. Her hands shook as she pushed down the elastic waistband. She had to lean back on her elbows to lift her hips enough to get them down. Her shoes had long since fallen off her feet and she let the sweatpants slide off her legs. But before she could push up from her elbows and sit up, his hand flattened again between her breasts, his splayed fingers stretching from one nipple to the other. “Stay put.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. She wanted to put her hands on him. To run her fingers over every familiar ridge and hollow. To sink down on him, feel him filling her, blotting out everything else in the world.

  But the protest didn’t come. Instead, she quivered, unreasonably aroused by following his command, and stayed put.

  His fingertips pressing into her, he slowly moved them down her belly again until they reached the elastic edge of her white bikini panties.

  She pressed her lips together, her heart thundering as he dipped beneath the elastic, followed it around her hip, slid beneath her to cup her bottom.

  “Lift.”

  She arched and he yanked the cotton down her thighs.

  She bit back the weird cry that climbed up her throat. “Casey—”

  “Don’t say one word, Jane.” His voice was little more than a rasp. “You started this.”

  She couldn’t stop trembling. She had started this. She’d kissed him.

  And now she was sprawled on display for him atop a cold granite expanse. He hadn’t even taken off his jeans, though she could tell he was just as turned on as she was.

  And she couldn’t have stopped now if her life depended on it.

  She exhaled audibly, and finally, his silvery gaze released hers, running down her body the same way that his hand had. Then, still sitting on the stool, he closed his hands over her hips and he dragged her closer and lowered his mouth onto her.

  Her head fell back and she groaned as heat blasted through her. She grabbed his shoulders. His hair. Anything to steady herself, anything to keep her from spinning mindlessly out of control as his tongue stroked, teased and tormented. But there was no defense against him, against the tension spreading like wildfire inside her. And he knew it, for he gripped her harder, closer, tasted deeper, even more deliberately, and suddenly, the pleasure was too much to contain. It exploded from her pores, arching her sharply against his tethering hold as she cried out his name.

  * * *

  Casey exhaled roughly, deliberately gentling his grip on her smooth, creamy thighs before he left bruises. Her hands had fallen weakly to her sides. Her hair was a mass of blond curls spread across his counter, her chest rising and falling in time to her panting breath. The need to bury himself inside her was overwhelming. But he hung on to the last shred of resistance he possessed like a drowning man until, millimeter by millimeter, he was able to pull himself away from the drug that was Janie Cohen.

  He pressed his mouth against the satiny flesh of her inner thigh and felt the shiver work through her. Then he pushed back, straightening painfully from the wooden bar stool.

  He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t, or he’d chuck his common sense entirely out the window and carry her up to his bedroom and keep her there for an eternity.

  He picked up the oversize faded blue T-shirt she’d been wearing and tossed it onto the counter next to the broken violin.

  She closed her hand over the shirt, then bunched it against her waist. Her coffee-colored gaze followed him.

  “Go home, Janie.”

  Her lips parted. Red came and went in her beautiful face. She pushed up on one elbow. Golden. Feminine. Naked. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

  Some corner of his mind thought that under other circumstances, that sentiment might have been funny coming from her.

  “If you won’t leave, then I will.”

  Her brow knit. She sat up all the way and yanked the shirt over her head, fumbled with her glasses, then jumped off the granite-topped island and pulled on the rest of her clothes with jerky motions. Her shoes clenched in one fist, she stopped in front of him.

  Stared up at him through those damned sexy glasses.

  “Clean out that scratch,” she said tightly. “You might still have glass in it.”

  Then she stomped past him toward the front of the house.

  A few seconds later, he heard the door slam behind her.

  He exhaled, looked up at the ceiling and squeezed the back of his neck between his hands.

  If he could strangle himself, he would.

  At least then he’d be out of his misery.

  * * *

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  Jane was still muttering the words under her breath the next morning as she stocked the bar in preparation for another Friday night.

  She didn’t know if she was accusing herself of stupidity or him.

  She knew it didn’t matter, as she muscled a fresh beer keg into place in her cooler and connected it. Because the word fit them both.

  To a capital-sized boldface T.

  She closed the door to the cooler and returned to the front of the bar. She was needlessly mopping the floor that Merilee had already mopped the night before when the air around her seemed to turn thin.

  She looked up to see Casey walking through from the restaurant.

  Her hands clenched around the mop handle, but that only rem
inded her of sweeping up the glass at his place the night before. And where that had ended.

  She propped the mop against the counter and folded her arms, giving him a cool stare. It wasn’t often that she saw him dressed in something other than jeans and crazy shirts. Unless he was undressed, that was.

  She shook off that annoying detail.

  “You look dressed for a funeral,” she greeted when he stopped on the other side of the bar. Black suit. White shirt and pale blue tie. Even his hair, usually too long, wavy and rumpled, was trimmed and brushed brutally back from his lean face.

  His lips twisted. He dropped her wallet on the bar between them. “You left that at my place.”

  She flushed. In her rush to escape the night before, she hadn’t even realized she’d forgotten it. She snatched it and shoved it inside a drawer full of Colbys drink coasters located on the shelves on the wall behind her.

  When she turned back around, he was already departing again.

  She stared after him until long after he was gone.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered again.

  Chapter Six

  “Did you tell her where you’re going?”

  Casey shook his head at Tristan’s question when he climbed into the SUV waiting in Colbys’s parking lot. “No point.”

  He was glad his uncle refrained from sharing whatever it was he thought about that. Instead, they just settled in for the drive to the private airstrip Tris maintained outside of town, where a jet emblazoned with Cee-Vid on the side was waiting. It took them straight to Phoenix, where an air-conditioned town car drove them out to the National Cemetery. There, in the shade of an overhead awning that protected them from the glare of a merciless October sun though not the heat of it, they stood respectfully behind the seated family members burying their beloved son, Jonathan, who’d been a decorated marine before he’d ever heard of Hollins-Winword.

  Cole, Casey knew, was attending another funeral, for Manny, on the other side of the country in Maine. He couldn’t be in both places, so Tristan—his second in command—got the task. Casey had threatened to go on his own until his uncle relented and said Casey could come with him.