suddenly felt like the oldest fool on the planet. What the hell was he doing drag-racing a stranger on the highway? Someone could get hurt. Killed.
He let off the accelerator.
The Jag passed him again.
Michael let it go, his attention snagged by the welcome to valentine, texas, romance capital of the usa sign. The sign that had been erected back in the 1950s after the oil had dried up and the town was desperate for revenue. Turning Valentine into a tourist destination had seemed foolhardy to many at the time, but it had been the brainchild of Kelvin Wentworth II and his scheme had unexpectedly saved the town.
But what socked Michael in the gut was the sight of those bright scarlet lips — they had dominated the Valentine landscape for his entire life — gone all dark and gothic black.
His mouth dangled open in shock. He slowed the Porsche to a crawl. What the hell? During his three-day absence in Houston, someone had vandalized the Valentine sign.
He hadn’t expected to feel personally insulted, but he did.
By the time he drove down Main Street, he’d almost forgotten about the Jag. Until he spied it parked at the Exxon pumps.
He pulled in next to it.
The Jag’s door opened and out stepped Vivian Cole, dressed all in black and looking like she’d walked off the pages of the glossy New York fashion magazine she edited. Still thin, still attractive, still hotter than a firecracker in July, even after twenty-seven years.
Blood pumping, engine running, radio blaring, Michael slung open his door, stood up, and looked over the hood of the Porsche at her.
Vivian slipped off her designer sunglasses and nailed him with a brilliant, seductive smile. “Hello, Michael.”
“V . . . V . . . Vivian,” he stammered. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“Why, didn’t I get a chance to tell you at Rachael’s wedding?” She smiled slyly and shifted her weight so that her breasts thrust out prominently. “The divorce is final. I’m moving back home to Valentine.”
Michael’s heart skipped three beats this time and his mouth went stone-cold dry as one last time Mick Jagger assured him emphatically that while he might not be able to get what he wanted, if he tried hard enough, he just might be able to get what he needed.
B RODY WATCHED R ACHAEL over the surveillance camera as she sat huddled on the cement bench, arms clasped to her chest. She looked so forlorn.
Stop feeling sorry for her. She got herself into this mess.
That’s what his head told him, but his heart said something else entirely. He knew all too well how losing the person you loved most could make you do crazy things. Hadn’t he volunteered to go to Fallujah for a second tour after he’d learned Belinda had left him? He closed his eyes briefly, remembering how that mistake had ended in a bloody battle where he’d lost his leg.
He shook his head. The past was over. He lived in the now.
It was almost six p.m. and he’d been on the job since six a.m. And because it was Sunday and Judge Pruitt was out of town, Rachael was stuck in jail overnight.
There was no way around it. He couldn’t leave her locked up here alone. He was going to have to spend the night in the jail.
Unless . . .
He took her home with him.
Right. And Kelvin would have his hide if she ran off in the middle of the night.
You could always handcuff her to your bed.
Unexpected erotic images bloomed in his mind. A freeze-frame montage of Rachael splayed out naked across his bed, her wrists cuffed to the headboard, her blonde hair fanned over his white sheets, her almond-shaped green eyes drilling him with a “come hither” gaze.
Ridiculously, Brody felt sweat bead his brow and his groin tightened.
Now this was just plain wrong.
It’s only because you haven’t had sex in going on three years. That’s all. Don’t read any more into it than that.
Maybe he shouldn’t, but the images were disturbing as hell and he couldn’t seem to shake them. It was as if he
He let off the accelerator.
The Jag passed him again.
Michael let it go, his attention snagged by the welcome to valentine, texas, romance capital of the usa sign. The sign that had been erected back in the 1950s after the oil had dried up and the town was desperate for revenue. Turning Valentine into a tourist destination had seemed foolhardy to many at the time, but it had been the brainchild of Kelvin Wentworth II and his scheme had unexpectedly saved the town.
But what socked Michael in the gut was the sight of those bright scarlet lips — they had dominated the Valentine landscape for his entire life — gone all dark and gothic black.
His mouth dangled open in shock. He slowed the Porsche to a crawl. What the hell? During his three-day absence in Houston, someone had vandalized the Valentine sign.
He hadn’t expected to feel personally insulted, but he did.
By the time he drove down Main Street, he’d almost forgotten about the Jag. Until he spied it parked at the Exxon pumps.
He pulled in next to it.
The Jag’s door opened and out stepped Vivian Cole, dressed all in black and looking like she’d walked off the pages of the glossy New York fashion magazine she edited. Still thin, still attractive, still hotter than a firecracker in July, even after twenty-seven years.
Blood pumping, engine running, radio blaring, Michael slung open his door, stood up, and looked over the hood of the Porsche at her.
Vivian slipped off her designer sunglasses and nailed him with a brilliant, seductive smile. “Hello, Michael.”
“V . . . V . . . Vivian,” he stammered. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“Why, didn’t I get a chance to tell you at Rachael’s wedding?” She smiled slyly and shifted her weight so that her breasts thrust out prominently. “The divorce is final. I’m moving back home to Valentine.”
Michael’s heart skipped three beats this time and his mouth went stone-cold dry as one last time Mick Jagger assured him emphatically that while he might not be able to get what he wanted, if he tried hard enough, he just might be able to get what he needed.
B RODY WATCHED R ACHAEL over the surveillance camera as she sat huddled on the cement bench, arms clasped to her chest. She looked so forlorn.
Stop feeling sorry for her. She got herself into this mess.
That’s what his head told him, but his heart said something else entirely. He knew all too well how losing the person you loved most could make you do crazy things. Hadn’t he volunteered to go to Fallujah for a second tour after he’d learned Belinda had left him? He closed his eyes briefly, remembering how that mistake had ended in a bloody battle where he’d lost his leg.
He shook his head. The past was over. He lived in the now.
It was almost six p.m. and he’d been on the job since six a.m. And because it was Sunday and Judge Pruitt was out of town, Rachael was stuck in jail overnight.
There was no way around it. He couldn’t leave her locked up here alone. He was going to have to spend the night in the jail.
Unless . . .
He took her home with him.
Right. And Kelvin would have his hide if she ran off in the middle of the night.
You could always handcuff her to your bed.
Unexpected erotic images bloomed in his mind. A freeze-frame montage of Rachael splayed out naked across his bed, her wrists cuffed to the headboard, her blonde hair fanned over his white sheets, her almond-shaped green eyes drilling him with a “come hither” gaze.
Ridiculously, Brody felt sweat bead his brow and his groin tightened.
Now this was just plain wrong.
It’s only because you haven’t had sex in going on three years. That’s all. Don’t read any more into it than that.
Maybe he shouldn’t, but the images were disturbing as hell and he couldn’t seem to shake them. It was as if he
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