Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

Telling herself she was six kinds of a fool, she made her way through the coming blizzard to her Jeep, where, once inside, she paused.

Was she really going to do this?

Take up Dan Grayson on his offer?

With a stray cat locked in her apartment?

Keys poised over the lock, she closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Oh, hell,” she muttered. What was the worst that could happen? She’d embarrass herself? She’d find him alone with some other woman? He’d be home alone, not expecting anyone and surprised to find her outside his door?

Who knew?

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Or Nada aventurado, nada adquirido, as she used to say as a teen, an expression that made her grandmother shake her head at her.

Jabbing the key into the lock, she twisted on the ignition. Seconds later, she was driving out of the lot, through the falling snow, and wondering what the hell she would say to her boss once she landed on his doorstep.

“ We’ve been over this before.” In Santana’s large bed, with firelight flickering through the open doorway to the living area of the cabin, Pescoli levered up on one elbow. Sighing, exasperated with her own conflicted emotions, she stared down at the man she hated to admit she loved. God, she was a fool.

Especially for him.

The lingering scent of chili— turkey chili, he’d informed her — mingled with the smell of burning wood. Their Thanksgiving dinner had been less than traditional, and she loved him for it. Most of the hours together had been spent right here, in his massive bed, his dog, a husky named Nikita, curled on the floor near the door. Outside the windows, snow fell softly, and for a few peaceful hours it was as if they were totally alone in the world.

Santana, too, was naked, his skin tanned against the white sheets, his black hair mussed and falling over his forehead, his eyes still dark with passion, and she found him incredibly sexy. Still. After over a year of being together.

The bastard had the audacity to grin, his teeth a slash of white in the shadowy room. “And I have the feeling we’ll go over it again and again and again before you can face the fact that you need me.”

“ Need you?”

“Yep. That’s what it is. Deal with it.”

“I don’t need—”

“Anyone,” he finished for her. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard it enough.”

“So why are you pressuring me?” He’d asked her to move in with him. Again. A year ago, while she’d been recovering from the mental and physical wounds from dealing with a madman, she’d agreed that living together would be a good idea. It had sounded safe. Smart. Been so tempting. But now…

“Come on, Regan. Would it be so bad?” He was reaching up, his warm, calloused hands scaling her ribs. Her skin tingled where he touched her, her blood warming. “We could have a lot of fun.” He raised himself upward and touched the tip of one of her nipples with his tongue. His breath was warm against her wet skin. “Think about it. Making love every day, late at night, and in the morning. .”

She felt that familiar yearning deep within. As if he sensed her response, he reached lower and fanned his fingers between her legs, fingertips skimming the most sensitive of areas. “Think about it,” he whispered against her breast.

“You know, cowboy, you can be a real bastard when you want to be.”

“Years of practice.” Again with the tongue. A quick little flick that caused her insides to melt.

Her damned nipple tightened and she moaned.

She wanted him. Damn, but she wanted him. It was as if she couldn’t get enough of the man.

As if he could read her mind, Santana laughed, white teeth a slash of irreverent mirth.

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” Quick as a cat, he rolled atop her, pinning her to the mattress, his eyes gleaming a dark, intense fire. “We’ve talked about moving in together for a long time now.”

“I know, but I still have kids at home—”

“Who could use a strong father figure.”

“Oh. .,” she said, but just his weight, pressing against her in all the right places, was making it difficult to think straight. What the hell was wrong with her? All of a sudden, when she was pushing forty, she was as randy as a teenager. At least she was with damned Santana, and the worst thing was, the son of a bitch knew it!

“We have a good thing going just as it is,” she said.

“But it might be better.”

“Or worse,” she argued.

“Come on, Regan, take a chance.” His eyes were dark with the night. He captured her mouth with his, kissed her hard, then nipped at her lower lip.

“If you think you can convince me by. . oooh.” His hand was between her legs again, and she couldn’t help but arch upward, her blood racing, her heart beating a wild tattoo. Her fingers curled in the sheets, and finally, she let go, closed her eyes, and groaned as he entered her, feeling that familiar, yet exciting flush that started in the small of her back and worked its way upward as he moved, his breathing suddenly out of control, his skin dewy with sweat.

Would it be so bad to think of the future?

To spend the rest of her life with him?

Right now, she couldn’t think about it, didn’t want to try. For the moment, she would just let the night bring what it may.

Kacey glanced out the broad back windows of Rolling Hills and decided she was long past her pull date on this Thanksgiving meal with her mother. The snow was coming down, fluffy flakes being caught in the beams of outdoor lighting strategically placed around the grounds. A gazebo, decorated with strings of white lights, glowed in the distance, and one of the conifers had been decorated as well.

Several of the other patrons had finished their meals and, on their way out of the dining area, waved to Maribelle or stopped by to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving. Maribelle introduced them to Kacey and wished them all a wonderful holiday season.

Kacey was about to stand up when a tall, stately man with a shaved head, military bearing, and easy smile paused by their table.

“Is this your daughter?” he asked, and Maribelle quickly introduced Kacey to David Spencer, who pronounced that he was “charmed.” As if they were on the set of some movie out of the 1950s. “You’re as beautiful as your mother,” he said with a wink at Maribelle, who actually blushed. “Best bridge partner in the place, well, probably the whole damned town. Nice to meet you, Acacia.” Fondly he patted her mother’s shoulder before striding out the double doors to the grand foyer.

“See why I like it here?” her mother said, her gaze following Spencer’s stiff back.

“I do. And I see why you were so dead set that I come here. You wanted me to meet him, didn’t you?”

Her mother started to deny it, then shrugged. “You found me out.”

“Are you and he serious?”

“Oh, no!” Maribelle laughed then, a tinkling happy sound that Kacey hadn’t heard in years. “I call him the Commander,” she confided, almost giddy.

“But you’re in love?”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Mom. Don’t lie to me. I can see it plain as day. Why haven’t I heard a word about him before now?”

“There was really nothing to tell.” But the sparkle in her eyes belied her words. “What do you think?”

“About him? Or you?”

“About us.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Kacey heard herself saying, but beneath her good wishes there were questions, one of which was, why, in all the years she had been married, had her mother never once showed this youthful, giddily happy side to her daughter or husband? Why had Kacey felt the strain of her parents’ marriage for almost as long as she could remember? She’d come to think that her mother had never loved her father, that she’d thought she’d married beneath herself, becoming the wife of a laborer when she had an education, a career… and, probably, aspirations to something more, something she saw now in David Spencer.