Smooth Moves. Carrie Alexander
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lining the riverbank.
Already the homey, comforting tranquility of Quimby was sinking into Zack’s pores. The still of the night was broken only by a smattering of porch lights, the blare of a television set near an open window, the shush-swish of the water as he cut through it. A lone bird called from one of the trees. Loop-loop-de-loop.
One foot touched bottom. The other. Cold mud sucked at his ankles. He crashed through the reeds, rising from the water with the heavy denim of his jeans plastered to his thighs.
He splashed noisily as he charged out of the river, expelling the cold from his lungs with a bullish snort followed by an exuberant shout. After climbing the slippery bank, he stopped near the white iron lawn furniture to press water out of his jeans in a gush, and realized his mistake. His wallet and all of his keys were in the car, parked at the bridge. He’d have to walk back there, shirtless, barefoot, dripping wet.
He laughed out loud, his skin already shuddering into goose bumps. A fine welcome home.
But first the house.
Thank God it hadn’t sold during the months when he’d thought he’d never care to return to Quimby. The old place was comfortably the same. A two-story white frame structure, simple and pleasing in proportion, encircled by an open porch whose roof was supported by gracefully turned columns.
He left a wet trail through the freshly mown grass as he strode up the lawn to the low brick patio that extended the outdoor living space. Though there were none of his mother’s usual pots of flowers and herbs, the lilacs were still in bloom, drooping with purple cones of flowers that had begun to turn brown. The massive rhododendron bush that had consumed the narrow span of land between the Brody house and the Colton’s modest two-story cottage next door was bursting with pink buds.
He surveyed the lawn. No evidence of debris, weeds, scattered leaves or twigs. Julia had been as efficient as ever with the maintenance; no doubt she’d hired Reggie Lee Marvin, the town’s resident jack-of-all-trades, to do the yard work.
Zack crossed the patio, leaving more wet footprints on the redbrick. While his heart was warmed by his return home, the rest of him was slowly turning to ice. Shivering, he mounted the porch steps to check the back door. Locked, of course. Even in Quimby, Julia would not leave a house in her care unlocked.
As he walked around the porch, his gaze rose to the roof. The second-story bedroom windows might be open. Adam had been an expert at shinnying up the columns after a curfew-breaking night of escapades. Zack, the good son, had rarely found the need.
An echo of Adam’s boyish taunt seemed to float on the night air. Anything you can do, I can do better….
Zack’s features tightened. He deliberately tamped down the memory. The brothers’ good-natured rivalry had grown serious upon Laurel Barnard’s involvement. Tragically, as it had turned out.
If only he’d known. If only their confrontation had been straight and cool instead of a clash of mistaken pride and misleading accusations.
As for Laurel…
Her intentions remained indecipherable.
A breeze fingered through the foliage, carrying a faint whiff of the lilac’s sweet perfume. The smell brought up a sickening memory—the night he’d proposed to Laurel. Zack leaned against the smooth white column, his stomach lurching.
What the hell? he asked himself, swallowing the dry coppery taste in his mouth. His return to Quimby wasn’t supposed to go like this. Granted, he hadn’t expected the usual favorite-son-arriving-in-a-blaze-of-glory welcome. But a year had passed. By now, the misunderstandings—and outright lies—that had led to the ditched wedding were all water under the bridge, for lack of a better phrase. The brothers had forgiven each other, and Zack held no grudge against Laurel. Whatever her motive, she’d been desperate. And pregnant.
Perhaps.
He raked his hands through his wet hair, glancing up when a light went on next door. Were the Coltons home? They might still have his spare key. Allie, who lived outside of town with her own family now, had said her parents were loving California so much they’d instructed her to pack up their parkas and snow boots and take them to Goodwill. But that had been a while back.
Zack angled his head. A light was on in the master bedroom, painting the windowpanes a buttery gold through a pair of sheer curtains. Tenants, maybe.
A woman in a towel and nothing else walked past the lit window. An instantaneous heat blowtorched his groin.
Because the towel was on her head.
Leaving the rest of her…
Naked.
“Sweet Mary,” said Zack’s lips, all on their own.
The rest of him was pleading. Please come back.
He stared, no longer feeling the dampness or the cold. Oxygen was short in his lungs. He stood tall, crossing his arms on top of his head, sucking in the night air without noticing the lilac’s lingering scent.
His chest expanded.
His gaze fixed on the partly raised window.
Imagine that. The Coltons’ new tenant was either completely uninhibited or had lived in the house long enough to take the lack of neighbors for granted. Possibly she didn’t realize how clearly one could see through the flimsy curtains she’d drawn across the window. Particularly with the light on.
If that were the case, he should look away.
He meant to. Until she came back. And sat, presumably at the foot of the bed, although he couldn’t quite tell from his ground-level position.
After a moment of fiddling, she held out one arm and luxuriously stroked the opposite palm across it. Lotion, he thought, catching the glisten of pearly moisture on pale skin. Her palms rubbed together. Eyes closed, she threw back her turbanned head. Arched her throat. Slick fingers slithered across her exposed neck and delicate collarbone in a languid caress.
One palm slid to her nape. Her head lolled, turning her face toward the window. The curtains fluttered, giving Zack a glimpse of starkly lit detail. She was beautiful. Creamy skin, cheeks tinged with a pink warmth from the bath. Full, pursed lips. Thick lashes, dark brows, drawn like black ink against the cameo of her face.
Zack blinked. What was he doing—concentrating on her face? Sheesh. If he was going to be crude, might as well do it right.
His gaze lowered incrementally, in sync with her hands. She rubbed lotion over her upper chest, then slid both hands lower, cupping her left breast, lifting it slightly. His mouth watered, imagining the weight of it in his own palm, the flavor of it on his tongue. The breast was small, but full and round, centered by a pale brown areola.
The curtains billowed, giving him a clearer look. Hands clenching, eyes narrowing, he concentrated his vision down to a laser point as the woman’s nipple drew into a small tight bead.
Desire raced his pulse. She was incredible. A fantasy sprung to life.
The breeze died, dropping the sheer veil of fabric into place. Still, he couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wanted to. The woman was massaging a sheen of lotion into her breast, carelessly grazing her nails over the knotted nipple. He ached to give it more attention. Only when she reached again for the lotion, blocking his intimate view, did he remember where he was and what he was doing.
Ogling. Leering.
And in Quimby, too. Favored son or not, the chief of police would slam Zack into a jail cell for committing such a crime against common decency. Regardless of the rest of the world, the law-abiding local citizenry still claimed to believe in modesty and morality.
Zack backed toward the deep shadows beneath the porch. Slowly. Even though the woman was rubbing lotion into her other breast with a circular motion that made his blood run hot from his scalp all the way down to the numbed soles of his bare feet.
She reached forward, folding a leg up to her chest.