Falling for the Enemy (Private Pleasures 3)

Hello, sane Ginny to crazy Ginny. Come in crazy Ginny. Did you not just swear this guy off at breakfast today?

Yes she had. But then he’d showed up at her salon and seduced her with fancy surveillance equipment. Not to mention the way he handled his tools. He was one of those guys who sank a screw with quick, efficient twists of his wrist. No fuss, no fumbling.

Plus, he hadn’t told Tom what she’d said about Justin.

Which meant her first instinct…well…second instinct, had been right. Somebody at the sheriff’s department fed Tom information. Predictable. He supported the department wholeheartedly, and Crocker was probably one of his cronies. She wasn’t the first citizen to suggest Bluelick might fare better with its own police department, but Tom always argued against it. Sheriff Butler appeared more than willing to return Tom’s loyalty.

A few blocks down Union, the historic brick townhomes separated into Colonials and Victorians with gracefully down-sloping front yards. The road angled up a hill, and the bigger homes transitioned to smaller houses from the 1930s and 1940s dotting the steeper hillside. A tidy, well-tended working class neighborhood rather than a fancy one, but it suited her fine.

She slowed as her broad, white garage came into view, and hit the clicker to raise the door. As she pulled in, she saw the Wrangler drive past. Her hero, once again coming to her rescue.

What are you going to do with this man?

All kinds of interesting ideas formed in her mind, but then a fit of paranoia gripped her. Would neighbors see him coming up to her house and draw conclusions? Ms. Van Hendler lived a few doors down, and despite the impression the octogenarian liked to give people, she didn’t miss much. Then again, the hard rain made it unlikely anyone would be taking an evening walk. And it wasn’t like he’d be there all night. Right?

She reached around and grabbed the large umbrella from her backseat, and then squeezed out her driver’s side door. A few side-steps took her around her car, and then she watched in dry-mouthed wonder as Shaun walked up her driveway, wet hair shoved back from his face, rain-drenched gray U.S. Navy T-shirt clinging to every hard line of his shoulders and chest. His eyes locked on her like a predator mesmerizing its prey.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she bla

med the involuntary reaction on the drop in temperature brought on by the storm. He stopped just inside the garage, blinked the raindrops off his eyelashes, and focused on her. “Lead the way.”

“Yes, um…okay.” She kicked her butt into gear and walked to the side door of her garage. She felt more than heard him behind her, and touched the button on the wall that lowered the automatic door. They stepped out of the garage, and she did her best to cover them both with her umbrella as they navigated the steep, carved-stone steps leading to her front door. Silly, considering he was already soaked to the skin, and their height difference made it far more likely she’d poke out his eye than shield him from the rain, but some deep-seated part of her felt compelled to offer him shelter, even if he didn’t seem to want it.

When they reached her covered porch, she propped the umbrella against the rail and searched through her purse for her keys. From the corner of her eye she saw him put his toolbox down and set the bag beside it.

“I can put the camera up here.” He pointed to the light hanging from the porch ceiling above them. “That will get film of anyone who comes near your door.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She unlocked her door and pushed it open, flipped on the outside light then looked back at him, surprised to see him heading down the steps.

“Where are you going?”

“To my car, to get the ladder.”

“No need. I have a step-stool. Come on in. I’ll grab it.”

He climbed the three steps back onto her porch and ran his hand through his hair, pushing wet strands off his forehead. Then he inspected the mud caked in the tread of his thick soled work boots. “I’ll wait out here.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t bother wasting her breath to argue her interior could stand up to a little mud. Instead she slipped out of her pink ballet flats and left them on her welcome mat to dry. Her bare feet slapped against the old pine floors as she hurried down the hall to the linen closet and grabbed a towel. She swung through her kitchen on the way back to get the fold-up stool she kept tucked in the gap between the fridge and the wall.

By the time she returned to the porch, he had a flashlight and his tools set out in a neat line on the rail and the camera unpackaged. Efficient. He reached out to take the step-stool from her, but she handed him the towel instead. “Here. Dry off first.”

He stared at the towel like it was a foreign object for a moment, during which time she realized she’d just offered him the Ariel beach towel her crazy aunt Jackie had sent her after taking a trip to Orlando, because…well…redhead. When she looked up at him, she caught the telltale twitch of his lip.

“It was a gift. My aunt thinks I look like The Little Mermaid.”

His eyes shifted from her to the cartoon on the towel, and then back at her. “Your aunt has a point. Thanks, Ariel.”

She meant to set up the step-stool while he dried off, but the sight of him roughing the towel over his hair, his face, and then dragging it down his chest and abs derailed her intentions. She imagined standing with him under the soft glow of the porch light, helping him pull the wet shirt over his head, and then running the towel all over his bare, damp skin. Her attention drifted to his rain-splattered jeans. In her mind’s eye she knelt before him and slowly undid the buttons at his fly, pushed his jeans down his long, powerful legs, and then…

A towel appeared in her line of vision, blocking out her fantasy. She blinked, took the towel, and raised her eyes to his.

“Thank you, sweet Virginia,” he said, but his not-so-innocent smile suggested he wasn’t thanking her for the towel so much as the impure thoughts. Heat seeped into her face and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

“No problem,” she muttered, and strode into the house, but after a few restless minutes puttering around in the kitchen, she gave up trying to distract herself and wandered back out to the porch. This time she made herself useful, running to the breaker box in the little utility room just inside her back door, and turning off the power to the porch light at his signal. Then she was back, sharing the step-stool with him, trying to ignore the heat coming off his body as she held the flashlight so he could see what he was doing.

He smelled like soap, and rain, and testosterone. His jaw flexed as he screwed the base of the camera to the wooden slats of her porch ceiling. A stray drop of water ran down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his shirt. Her tongue itched to follow the wet trail.

“Okay,” he said softly, and for a moment she thought he was giving her permission to run her tongue over his skin, but then he lowered his arms and added, “want to go flip the switch?”