Jenna Ryan - Raven's Cove

“Making her not the warm-and-fuzzy aunt people automatically love.” Thunder rumbled, but it was a distant sound. “I didn’t anticipate a return visit to hell, Rogan. I pictured all of us moving forward with our lives.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” he remarked.

“It will unless I take it in a more philosophical direction. I’ll work on it,” she promised when his lips twitched. “But don’t expect a miracle in two hours. My museum friends tend to be more pragmatic than the ones I had in San Diego. It rubs off.”

“I met some of your San Diego friends. You’re on a safer path in Salem.”

Probably true, she thought. Then she set her head on the leather rest and told herself not to question what his definition of safe might be.

The highway resembled a long, wet snake, complete with serpentine twists, shadowy dips and slippery rises. Rogan’s musical taste ranged from Clapton and Thorogood to remastered Louis Armstrong. As eclectic and unpredictable a mix as the man himself. Layer in the cloak of mystery he wore so well, and how could she have avoided tumbling into love? The question was, could she tumble back out? Because Rogan was absolutely not the kind of man who stuck around.

An hour ticked by. In that time, they traded the local highway for a two-lane back road and eventually a pitted sliver of asphalt barely wide enough to support a single vehicle.

“I’m told it improves,” Rogan said, reading her mind.

She pushed at her damp hair and peered into the murky nothing that stretched endlessly out in front of them. “So if the potholes shrink from the size of lakes to the size of ponds, we’ll know we’re on the right track. Uh…” She pointed, winced, then breathed out when he avoided a huge expanse of rippling water. She swiveled her head. “Did I see a sign floating in that puddle?”

“It said Welcome to Raven’s Cove. Population 976. Tortured souls and ravens not included.”

She shot him a dry look. “You’re a great help. Look, I know all men believe they have tracking systems built into their DNA, but do you actually know where we are?”

“Still in the continental United States isn’t good enough for you, huh?”

“Still on the continent will do for now.” She watched a large stand of pines bend almost in half. “Is this what they call a nor’easter? Because if it isn’t, I do not want to experience one.”

“Forget the weather. We need to find a cottage called the Bird’s Nest, and like Raven’s Cove, it’s not on the GPS.”

“Good luck to us then, because either there are no lights in this town or the power’s out from here to, well, wherever here leads.”

They were bouncing through a series of bone-jarring ruts when the headlights revealed a fork in the road. And a fence, Jasmine realized. A sagging, possibly white fence missing several pickets.

“There’s a sign on the gate.” She tipped her head and tried to read the wildly blowing plaque suspended from the gatepost by a chain. “It says something Nest. And there’s a huddled black building to my right.”

Rogan halted the truck, but snagged her wrist before she could move. “Daniel’s name is Leonard Grant. He goes by Lenny or Len. He teaches English at the local middle school. His hobbies are bird-watching and cooking. He does Sunday dinners for seniors. His ex-wife, Sally, lived in Tulsa until her death four years ago. Brain aneurysm. No kids, no pets. I’m a football buddy from Michigan State. You’re my wife of seven years.”

Torn between laughing and making him go through it all again just for the hell of it, Jasmine opted for boggier ground and offered a guileless smile. “Interesting.” Leaning in, she stroked a fingernail from his cheek to his mouth. “Tell me, are we happily married?”

His slow grin caused her pulse to jump. “Do you want us to be?”

“It would be a new experience.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “You’re playing with fire, love. I hope you know that.”

She was playing with dynamite, lighting matches and not ready to stop. Bringing her mouth temptingly closer, she lowered her lashes. “I’m pretty sure at least one of us will get burned no matter how this turns out. But remember, I’ve done the marriage thing for real. I know how to avoid the flames.”

His smile didn’t change; but the gleam in his eyes warned her she’d gone too far. In that split second of time, the hand on her wrist moved to her neck, and his mouth covered hers in a kiss that drained every thought from her head.

Because she knew this was something she’d asked for, she made no effort to pull free. Instead, she let a satisfied purr escape from her throat.

There was need and hunger on both sides. Jasmine also recognized and savored a punch of excitement. The taste of Rogan was one of pure sex. He wanted and he took, but so did she, with abandon.

While his lips explored, she ran her hands under his jacket, felt the heat and strength of his body, the warmth of his skin. Greed threatened to overtake her as his tongue dipped and rediscovered every part of her mouth. Her heart knocked against her ribs. But when he started to push the top of her dress aside, a red flag began to wave.

Tempted, highly tempted, to ignore it, she soldiered up and dragged her mouth free. She needed air and balance and a long moment for sanity to take root.

His half smile might have done her in if she hadn’t spied the arrogance behind it. Temper replaced hunger in a heartbeat, and she shoved him back.

“You set me up—”

He crushed his lips back onto hers, cutting her off swiftly. But only briefly, and with just enough heat to dissipate her anger.

He kept his fingers around her neck when he pulled away. “I wasn’t baiting you, Jasmine, or trying to take either of us where we know better than to go.”

She planted her hands on his chest, not trusting him or herself enough to let them drop. “You have a strange sense of direction. But then so do I sometimes.”

“Which explains why I’ll still be able to walk when we get out of this truck.”

“If you didn’t want me to use the moves, you shouldn’t have taught them to me.”

His fingers tightened, forcing her head up. “Did your eyes just give a witchy flash?”

She found she could smile. “You can let go. I’m not going to try to cripple you. I’m not even going to ask why you kissed me when I know very well I started it.”

His lips curved. “You make it hard for me to resist. And I have a high level of resistance.”

Frustration allayed, she gave his chest a precautionary pat and removed her hands. “Okay, we’re good then. And square. For the moment. As for our fake marriage—you said seven years, right?”

“Yes—to that, and to your loaded earlier question. We’re happy.”

She breathed out a shaky laugh. “That must have been some sensitive trigger I pulled.”

“Squeezed. And it was. FYI, Jasmine, you could seduce my cold-as-ice great-grandfather, and he’s been dead for fifteen years.”

Amused, she made a questioning motion with her hand. “Do we have fake identities to go with our happy marriage?”

“Your middle name’s Elizabeth, so we’ll go with that. We’re Elizabeth and Michael. McCabe.”

“You’re making this up as you go, aren’t you?”

With the shadows shifting, she heard rather than saw his wry smile. “Welcome to my life, love. We’re on a road trip. We come from…”

“Ork?” she inserted when he paused. “Krypton? Vulcan?”

“Somewhere closer to home would be better. You still good in the kitchen?”

“I can still whip up a mean chicken tetrazzini—if that was a literal question.”

She saw the smile this time. “I’ll leave the innuendo alone and say we own and operate a restaurant called Fontino’s in New Orleans.”