Wild Revenge. Sandra Marton
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“You didn’t have to.”
“Addison. Honey. That’s not fair. I only meant—”
He frowned. Why was he explaining himself? They’d met, what, two days ago? One day ago? He was losing track. She had her own life, just as he had his.
Hell. Be honest, Wilde.
Plain and simple, he wanted to know if she was carrying the torch for a dead guy.
“I meant,” he said slowly, “did you love him?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? He was my friend. My God, you’re like all the rest, believing what you want to bel—”
Jake cursed, dragged Addison to her toes and kissed her.
Not gently.
Not tenderly.
His kiss was demanding and possessive, and yet so sweet it took her all of a heartbeat to respond to it. Her lips parted; her tongue slid against his. And when he took the kiss deeper, she put her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the feel of him against her.
“I’m sorry, Adoré,” he said. “I believe you. And even if you had loved him—”
“I did love him. Like a father. And he loved me like a daughter.”
Jake nodded. “Good,” he said thickly. “Because I don’t think I could handle his ghost haunting you and this godforsaken ranch.”
There was a silence. Then she gave a soft laugh.
“Jacob. That doesn’t even make sense.”
It made perfect sense to him. Or maybe not. Hadn’t he just told himself that he’d only met this woman a day ago? That he had no claim on her?
More to the point, he didn’t want a claim on her. On anybody.
Why would he, when he was moving on?
“Jake?”
“Yeah.” He expelled a long breath. Stick to the facts, he told himself. Facts were always safe. “So, what kind of guy was he?”
She smiled. “You’d have liked him. He was very down-to-earth.”
“Was he your boss?”
“A colleague, but a thousand times the lawyer I’ll ever be.”
“I’ll bet you’re Clarence Darrow in a skirt.”
She laughed.
“If I’m any good at all, it’s Charlie’s doing. He was my mentor.” She smiled. “I used to call him my hero.”
A muscled flickered in Jake’s temple.
“There are no such things as heroes,” he said, “except in fairy tales.”
Addison touched her hand to his face.
“You’re a hero,” she said softly.
“The hell I am. I did what I was trained to do.”
“Sometimes,” she said, even more softly, “doing what you’re trained to do is what heroism is all about.”
Jake snorted. “That’s media B.S.”
“No, it’s the truth.” She hesitated. “My father was a fireman.”
“Yeah, well, no question. Those guys are heroes.”
“He was trained to go into burning buildings. The last time he went into one, he died.”
“Hell, Adoré. How old were—”
“Six. And I still remember how I loved him, and how brave he was.”
“This isn’t the same.”
“It is. You saved lives.”
His jaw tightened. “You, of all people, should know better than to believe every story you hear.”
“Jacob—”
He moved past her, opened the refrigerator door.
“I thought we were going to get something to eat.”
Addison couldn’t see his face but she had a clear view of his scar, and of the rigidity of his shoulders, as if he’d been cast in stone.
She’d touched a nerve, and she—she cared for him too much to touch it again.
“Right,” she said briskly. She stepped in front of him and made a show of checking the shelves she’d checked five minutes before. “Let’s see. I have yogurt. Cottage cheese. Wheat bread. Tomatoes and lettuce and, oh, some tofu …”
Nothing. She could feel him standing behind her, something—anger, pain, despair—coming off him like waves of heat.
“Tofu, then,” she said brightly. “Mixed with granola. And toasted wheat bread topped with cottage—”
Jake reached past her and shut the door.
“The basic food groups,” he said, turning her toward him.
The darkness was gone. His posture had eased. There was even what might have been the beginning of a smile on his lips.
She smiled, too, and offered a silent thank-you to the gods for giving women the instinctive knowledge that the mention of fermented milk and soybeans could drag a man like Jacob back to reality.
“I’m going to buy you dinner.” There it was, a real smile, and it made her heart lift. “Or breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever meal this is supposed to be.”
“At midnight? In the middle of nowhere?”
“Get that look off your face, Adoré. Anybody would think you’re suggesting Wilde’s Crossing can’t hold its own with the gourmet dee-lites of the Big Apple.”
She snorted. Jake’s smile became a grin.
“How about a small wager?”
“Fifty cents. And, just so we have the ground rules straight, McDonald’s won’t do it.”
“Fifty cents,’ he scoffed. “You call that a bet?”
Addison cocked her head. “Suggest something.”
He put his arms around her, laced his hands together in the small of her back.
“How about if I win, we’ll replace that yogurt with whipped cream?”
A rosy pink glazed her cheeks. “Whipped cream and granola?” she said, batting her lashes in feigned innocence. “I don’t know.”
“Whipped cream and you,” Jake answered, his words low and gruff. “Your mouth. Your breasts. Your thighs.”
Addison rose on her toes and planted a quick kiss on his lips.
“Deal,” she whispered, “just as long as we save some of that whipped cream for me to use on you.”
He groaned. She laughed. And before he could push her back against the refrigerator door and show her that they didn’t need whipped cream at all, she slipped out of his encircling arms and headed out of the kitchen, her hips swaying with what he knew was deliberate, teasing provocation.
He laughed….
But then his laughter died.
In its place was a sensation he’d never felt before. He wanted to go after her, scoop her into his arms and make love to her, sure.
But he wanted more.
More than taking her to bed.
He wanted her in his heart, in his life….
You? a cold voice inside him said. Don’t be stupid, man.
“Come on,